Vicky Banning (21 page)

Vicky suddenly seemed fascinated by the moldings around the edges of the ceiling, turning slowly in a circle, head raised, looking everywhere but at
Doris
.

“Read the card aloud,” someone called. “Who’s it from? What’s in the box?”

“My very best wishes for a delightful holiday season,”
Doris
read. “A change in plans has made it necessary for me to cancel my visit with you, I’m so sorry to say. And I was so looking forward to it, too. But I would like to wish you all the happiness and health of the season. Sincerely”—she paused—“Miss L.”

“How sweet,” someone called. “Wonderful lady.”

Vicky continued to turn.

“Well, what’s in the box? Open it up.”

Aided by a swarm of willing hands,
Doris
lifted the gift from the massive carton. It was a Christmas tree: dark green, with highlights of silver, gold, and red—made entirely of glossed peanuts!

* * * *

“Good, you’re early,” Vicky said to Roger and Steve when she and Doris met them at the door. “I want you to come to my room for a private little party before we go in for dinner. I have champagne on ice and a couple of little
gifties
for you.”

“You go on ahead,”
Doris
responded. “We have to make a stop in my room first.”

When the threesome arrived at Vicky’s room, each was laden with gaily decorated packages, bright with ribbons, bows, and glitter. When everyone was settled comfortably, champagne was poured and sipped after the first of many toasts, before the gift-swapping began.

A gold pen from Tiffany’s for “those mysterious nightly letters” was Vicky’s gift from Roger and Steve. A new pad with covers of mother-of-pearl and engraved with a curlicue VB was from
Doris
. Vicky was touched; they were such thoughtful gifts, not the bought-and-passed items decided on in a rush.

“First,” said Vicky, rising from her armchair. “For Steve, the man who has everything.” She paused, letting her friends interpret that as they liked. She handed him a small silver box, which he unwrapped hastily. It was a waterproof, anti-static, anti-shock, digital wrist-chronograph-calculator, stopwatch, lap counter. “It’ll tell you everything you never wanted to know, and wouldn’t dream of asking…except for the monthly cycle of the Maharani of
Ranchipur
…which will be in next year’s model.”

She bent over to accept a kiss on the cheek from Steve. “Next,” she said, “for my favorite gal-friend,” and handed
Doris
a manila envelope with a poinsettia sticker on the front.

Doris
withdrew dozens of brightly colored squares of material from the package, before looking up at Vicky with a confused, embarrassed smile. “They’re lovely,” she said, “but…what are they?”

“Swatches,” said Vicky. “Choose the ones you like, as many as you want, and I’ll have my
New York
couturier design dresses just for you.”

“O-o-oh!”
Doris
squealed. “How wonderful! Thank you. Thank you so much. What an exquisite gift!”

Vicky grinned. “Before you thank me,” she said. “You better read the card in the envelope.”

Delving into the batch of swatches,
Doris
removed and read the card, bursting into laughter. “Rat!” she said, frowning at Vicky, and then laughing again.

“What does it say?” asked Steve, sipping at his champagne.

Doris
read: “Monsieur René. Couturier. Then it gives the address and phone number.”

“What’s so funny about that?” Roger asked.

“That’s what’s written,”
Doris
answered. “But someone,”—she looked directly at Vicky—“and I can’t imagine who, wrote in ‘aka: ‘Omar the tent-maker’ next to his name.”

The foursome joined in laughter. Then Vicky leaned toward
Doris
. “You know that if I didn’t like the way you look, and I didn’t love you as much as I do, I’d never joke about it. If you took my kidding as serious, I’d be wrecked!”

“I know,”
Doris
said through a glint of tears. “And if I didn’t know that, I’d sit on you and flatten you out. That’d
larn
ya
.”

Vicky kissed her cheek and crossed to Roger. He was seated on the bed, at one end, beneath Mark Spitz. “Last,” she said, “for my special favorite love, I give my most prized possession…
me
!”

She flopped onto his lap, threw her arms around his neck and planted a noisy-wet kiss smack-dab on his lips. Roger’s arms flew up and flailed the air as his legs kicked outward in mock panic. Doris and Steve roared with laughter, until Vicky let go her hold.

Roger chuckled. Then, with earnest, he said, “I love you, too,” and wrapping his arms around her, returned her kiss.”

“I’m afraid, Roger, my sweet,” Vicky said, “that for you I have nothing—”

“That’s all right,” Roger said hastily. “Just having you as a friend—”

“Nothing tangible, that is,” Vicky continued. “I have only this.” She reached to the end table near them, lifted a white envelope and handed it to him.

Roger looked puzzled. “But it’s addressed to you.”

“That’s all right,” Vicky said. “Read it anyway, aloud.”

Roger freed his arm from around her waist, opened the letter, and began to read:

Dear Vicky,

I couldn’t reach you by phone, so I decided to drop you a line.

Since we’re going to be staying around here for a while—thank the good Lord—I think your idea is fabulous. If your Roger Grant is as good as you say he is—and knowing your taste, I’m sure he must be—he should be just perfect. He can do the upstairs bedrooms first and, if we agree on colors and styles, he can do the rest of the place.

Have him contact me at our private number (you have it, I know), and we’ll arrange for an appointment.

See you on New Year’s Eve!

Fondly, Sue

“Hey, that’s
incredible!”
Roger blared out. “A commission! Fantastic, and boy do I need it. Business has been awful. Thank you, Vicky. This is just wonderful. Thank you very much.”

Vicky hugged him close to her. “My pleasure, my darling. You deserve the best…and, by the way, do know who ‘Sue’ is?”

“Who cares?” Roger laughed. “What does it matter? A commission is a
comm
—”

“Oh, but it does matter, sweetheart,” Vicky said with a sly grin. “It matters very much…for your career. Sue is Suzanne, the governor’s wife. Now that he has been re-elected, they’ve decided to re-do their living quarters. My darling, you’re going to decorate the governor’s
mansion
!”

* * * *

The wide-spreading peanut Christmas tree had been placed in the center of the dining room with tables arranged around it. The air was pungent with the smell of cinnamon and cloves, mingled with the scent of the burning Yule log. A hush filled the room after the crisp geese had been all but demolished; contentment grew deeper with each sip of spiced cider.

Doris
rose from her chair, announcing, “Before we all drift off to sleep, how about some Christmas carols?” Applause greeted her suggestion. “Good,” she said. “Vicky, would you like to lead the sing-along? And Mr. Andrews,”—she motioned to a man sitting at a corner table, who arose and hefted an accordion to his shoulders—“are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he called and wove his way toward her.

Vicky joined him, leading the way about the tree and singing
Silent Night
,
Deck the Halls
, and
The Twelve Days Of Christmas
. She then stopped by a front-row table. “Mr. Stone,” she said to a dignified old gentleman. “You’re not singing. Don’t you like Christmas carols?”

“I like them very much,” he said. “But I’m Jewish.”

“Well, Happy Chanukah!” Vicky cried. “Come, we’ll dance the
hora
.”

Mr. Stone looked totally surprised. “The
hora
? What would a nice gentile lady like you know about the
hora
?”

Vicky laughed. “This nice gentile lady has three boys who are Jewish,” she said, “and I made sure they went to school to remember their heritage. And they taught me lots of things, including the
hora
. Come now, on your feet. We’ll teach the others how to do it.”

She crossed to whisper to Mr. Andrews, who replied with an indignant posture. “Know it? Of
course
I know it, after all the bar mitzvahs I’ve played?”

The jaunty melody played on the accordion filled the room with a festive air. It took a bit of coaxing on Vicky’s part, but she managed to get most of the residents to their feet and, after a while, almost everyone had joined the circle.

Vicky was delighted. She figured it was probably the only home in
Pennsylvania
—or anywhere—where holiday celebrants had joined hands on Christmas night to dance the
hora
around a Christmas tree—singing
Hava
Nagila
—
Let Us Rejoice
.

“Just stunning, senator,” Vicky said to the handsome young man in black tie as they danced to a foxtrot. They were admiring the glittery crystal of the chandelier in the State House’s reception hall. “It’s as if it were made especially for a New Year’s celebration.”

The room was filled with elegantly dressed revelers: government officials, foreign dignitaries, even celebrities from show business—all bustling about beneath a cloud of silver and white balloons.

“What a marvelous party,” the senator said, his head swiveling from side-to-side, ogling the array of dancers-by.

Vicky smiled up at him. It was the first big soiree he’d been to since his election in November, he’d told her confidentially. She’d introduced herself to him, seeing that he appeared to be a trifle lost in the melee. “Are you one of the Kennedy’s,” she’d asked.

“Why, no,” he’d answered, a bit startled. His blue eyes widened as stared at her, as if wondering if she’d been joking, or just a little “touched.” “Why do you ask?”

Vicky stepped back, appraising him favorably. “You seem to have their charisma,” she said with a deciding nod. “And you’re just as handsome as they are. Not pretty-handsome, like some of the show-people here, but a strong, self-assured handsomeness.”

The senator was exclusively hers for the rest of the evening.

“Is there anyone in particular you’d like to meet?” she asked him as the orchestra ended their piece and the dancers stopped to applaud.

The senator laughed boyishly. “I don’t know,” he said. “There are so many people here, I don’t even know who most of them are. Why, do you know many of them?”

“Very few,” Vicky answered. “But we can remedy that quickly enough. I never let that stand in my way.” She took his arm and led him from the dance floor. “The trick is to approach whoever you want to meet as if you’ve known them for years. By the time they realize that they’ve never met you before, they’re so delighted to meet you for the first time that they really don’t care. Most people won’t admit right up front that they don’t remember you—too embarrassing—and few would be rude enough to call your bluff, even when they did. As far as they know, you might be important to them for whatever reason, especially if they’re public figures.”

The senator laughed again. “You sound like a psychologist, or a public relations expert.”

Vicky smiled back. “Perhaps I’m both, in my own way. You can’t live as long as I have without learning something about people, and one thing I’ve learned is that the similarities greatly outnumber the differences.”

“Attention, everyone,” a voice announced over a loudspeaker. The room settled to a busy murmur, heads turning to face the podium. The governor was speaking. “It’s five minutes to the New Year, so whoever wants to watch the ball make its descent on
Times Square
, the television is set up at the far end of the room.” He pointed to a distant corner and some in the crowd began to move in that direction.

“Do you want to?” the senator asked Vicky.

“I’d love to, handsome,” said Vicky. “Your place or mine?”

The senator looked somewhat startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” laughed Vicky. “I’m just being silly. Let’s go watch.”

The crowd formed a semi-circle before the television. Fresh champagne was poured and tense excitement filled the air above the heads of the waiting throng. Everyone celebrated, in a state of elation, except for Vicky. She stood staring silently at the large screen. The lighted globe began its slow descent, while voices around Vicky began to drum another year out of existence:
“Five…four…three…two…one!”
Everyone shouted:
“Happy New Year!”

One hundred and five days,
Vicky thought to herself as the cheers and cries that heralded a new beginning filled the room—a new year, and the start of Vicky’s countdown.

She laughed, kissed and toasted one and all, but her mind kept repeating “
one hundred and five days,”
over and over. It was the same every year; she couldn’t oust the passage of time from her thoughts. The counting wasn’t conscious, she knew, but a reluctant compulsion. She ticked off each day from January first to the “ides of April,” as she called it—
her
new year—the day she was to leave her current life
for the one that was always awaiting her—in San Francisco—all that mattered most in her life.

Three-and-a-half months of eagerness mixed with anxiety, the fear that the time would never come, or come too soon and pass too quickly. The involuntary counting that made the days pass all the more slowly, interminably. She welcomed each New Year eagerly, but would miss terribly those she was to leave behind, and those she’d yet to meet, and leave.

A
party
! That’s what she needed to keep herself occupied. She’d throw a combination birthday-Valentine’s Day bash—but keep the birthday part a secret—and invite all her favorite people. Costumes! Yes, she adored costumes. No costume, no admittance.

The following days she racked her thoughts for a theme. A straight Valentine’s party would be sweet—
icky
sweet. The belief that love was all sweetness and light, that love was
all
, was fine for adolescents, but she knew better. Life was much more complicated for that. It was a lovely idea, though, but away from a movie screen things didn’t work out quite so well.

At last inspiration flared. Her invitations would read:

Come as your least favorite character

and make him or her loveable!

She decided to hold the party in a catering hall, letting the management handle the arrangements. There were two in Jamesville and Vicky made an appointment with the manager of the larger, a Mr. Rutherford of
Elite Occasions.

“The cost of the food, of course,” Mr. Rutherford said, “will of course depend on the menu you choose and the number of guests you wish us to provide for. As for this room”—his manicured fingers gestured outward to encompass the medium-sized hall that Vicky had chosen—“the flat rate is five-hundred dollars for the night.”

“Five hundred!” Vicky exclaimed. “Why, that’s very generous of you, Mr. Rutherford. The other caterers went only as high as four hundred. Will you deduct that from the bill, or pay me in cash later?”

The polished fingernails remained suspended as Mr. Rutherford’s lips parted, and stayed that way. “I…uh,” he muttered. “I don’t think you understand, Madam. The five hundred is what
we
charge
you
.”

Vicky laughed lightly. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I will pay for the bartenders and waiters, of course, but you’re going to get thousands of dollar worth of publicity out of this, so I have no intention of paying you for the room on top of that. Didn’t you see the newspapers a few months ago, after the Vegas night at the Sanctuary?”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Rutherford said cautiously. “What about them?” His thin face had lost its business-like smile; he looked somewhat pained.

“All that publicity was my doing,” Vicky said. “And I just kept it local, since the Sanctuary is more or less a private residence. For this affair, I intend to spread the word to all the state-wide papers…including the
Philadelphia
Enquirer.
After all, the governor will be coming, and a few senators—”

“The governor?” Mr. Rutherford blurted. “Here? Are you—”

“Tell you what,” Vicky said. “I’ll pay for everything in advance and if I don’t get you at least five thousand dollars' worth of publicity, you get to keep all the money. But, if I do get the publicity, you refund me five hundred. Deal?”

Mr. Rutherford seemed to flush beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. “I…uh…don’t know,” he said with a near-whine to his voice.

“You don’t know?” Vicky asked. “You’re the manager, aren’t you?”
What does he have to do, check with his mommy?
“You have the room, so that doesn’t cost you anything. You’ll be taking in less cash, perhaps, but getting ten times that amount in exposure and future bookings. And think of the prestige, having the head of state as your guest. By the way, I’ll want the money back at the party, after you’ve seen how many reporters are here. If you try to welsh on the deal, I’ll make an announcement to all the invited journalists
not
to mention your
Elite Occasions
by name. Now, what do you say? Do I arrange for the invitations, or go to one of your competitors?”

* * * *

Mr. Rutherford stood by Vicky’s side as she greeted her guests. Vicky, dressed as Madame
Defarge
, wore a floppy white cap perched on her bedraggled hair, knitting needles clasped in her hand and every other tooth blacked out with licorice. Before her, on the carpet, sat a wicker-basket in which a red-stained, white napkin partially covered what appeared to be a head—appeared to be, since only an eye could be seen peering out from between the folds. A note was pinned to the basket, reading:

Win a Basket of Cheer!

$1.00 a Chance

All Proceeds to the Head Start Program

Strangely enough, she didn’t sell a single chance. Moreover, a number of faces blanched a most unbecoming shade of gray when they peered into the basket and found it peering back at them. They each looked away hurriedly away, as if afraid of finding out that was the head was as real as it appeared. The only prop missing was the guillotine.

A number of “Richard Nixon” mask look-alikes arrived, which Vicky felt was bit tiresome after all this time, until one showed up wearing a white periwig and knee britches, carrying a miniature cherry tree and a toy axe.

The governor and Sue showed up, each dressed as Satan, but with smiles painted on their faces and glinting halos hovering above their heads.

A “Joan Crawford” made her entrance, complete with ankle-strap shoes, padded shoulders, and a pompadour hairdo topped with flowers. Wrapped in her arms, she carried a little-girl doll to which she’d coo, “Christina, darling,” when anyone else was near.

Then
Doris
arrived, dressed in white and wearing a plastic blond wig. “I’m the Gabor Sisters,” she announced. “All of them.” On each of her fingers she sported a gold band, and sewn to the back of her “wedding dress,” on the outside, was a large label reading WASH and WEAR.

Everyone has really gotten into the mood of the party
, Vicky noted happily, as she moved into the crowd in time with the music. Joe and Clive, the musicians from Vegas Night, provided the tunes for dancing, and the party moved into full swing as they alternated between ballads and rock numbers. The dance floor was filled with gyrating costumes beneath the doily-framed, cut-out hearts that Vicky hadn’t noticed until it was too late to pluck them down. The bar was going full tilt, and the laughter flitted about the room as couples, hidden behind masks, revealed their identities to surprised friends.

Vicky was having a marvelous time, dancing, socializing, trying unsuccessfully to sell her “head start” chances, and watching Mr. Rutherford’s worried face as he tried to ingratiate himself with the lofty guests and the reporters.

Suddenly, after about an hour, the music stopped in the middle of a number and the mirthful din subsided to a questioning hush.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,”
Doris
announced from a raised stage, under the floodlights beside the piano. “Our hostess, Ms. Vicky
Banning
! She started to applaud and was joined by everyone in the room, leaving Vicky to gape at
Doris
in total surprise.

Joe and Clive began to play again, this time, to Vicky’s shock, they played "
The Old Gray Mare, she ain't what she used to be…
" and everyone sang along.

Vicky was speechless —well, almost. "How absolutely RUDE, if you ask me," she shouted, then cracked up laughing. She smirked up at
Doris
. “I’d forgotten about you. I'd told you how I hated that tired old birthday song, didn't I? And, I presume you checked my records for my birth date?”

Doris
just grinned.

“It’s my own fault, Vicky said. “I should have left that date blank, along with all the other things I ‘forgot’ to fill in.”

“…ain't what she used to be…”

the crowd blared, slowing the tempo down for the finale,

"…
maaaany
loooong
yeeeears
agooooo
."

Applause and cheers filled the room once again and Vicky bowed, pleased but embarrassed, to acknowledge the accolades. She waved the crowd to silence. "Just remember this, all you wonderful people. This old mare ain’t aging, she’s becoming more and more…polished, as time goes by." And all agreed.