Beebo Brinker Chronicles 4 - Journey To A Woman (6 page)

"You'll see what I'm going to look like in another ten or twelve years, according to Mother,” Vega said.

"The last thing she'd want is visitors,” Beth tried once more, but Vega shushed her with a laugh.

"Bull,” Gramp commented. “Hester's sick and proud of it She likes to show it off. She gave up appearances years ago. Actually takes pride in being a wreck. She's delightful. You'll love her. Even the cats enjoy her company."

And Beth, reluctant, bashful, but overwhelmed with curiosity to see what Vega would “look like in ten years,” followed them in.

"Don't mention liquor,” Vega hissed just before she pushed the front door open. “Remember."

Beth's first impression was that the house was stiflingly hot; and the second, jampacked with rickety furniture. Vega flitted around the room lighting lamps and dissipating the gloom, and Beth suddenly became aware of an old woman sitting in a corner who appeared to be broken into several pieces. She wore a gray, once-pink dressing gown; she had been listening to a speaking record until she heard Vega and Beth enter. Vega kissed her head briefly in salutation.

"Mother, this is Beth Ayers,” Vega said. “I told you about her. Mother's blind as a bat,” she said cheerfully to Beth, who advanced to take the old lady's outstretched hand. “I forgot to tell you that."

"But not much else, hey?” her mother said, holding out a hand. “How do you do, my dear?"

Beth murmured something to her, grasping her hot hand gingerly. And then Vega said, with a wink at Beth, “Let's all have a Coke. Mother, you game?"

"Are you kidding?” Mrs. Purvis said. “It'll have to be Seven-Up, though. Gramp busted the plumber one with the last Coke. There's still fizz all over the John.” And she cackled with pleasure. Gramp, unperturbed, was arranging himself in a harem of cats on the couch. Beth stared at Mrs. Purvis, repelled and fascinated and amused.

Vega in ten years? Utterly incredible! Never.

"What the hell did you do that for, Gramp?” Vega called from the kitchen. “The plumber hurt one of the cats?"

"No, they disagreed about the plunger,” her mother answered, cutting Gramp off. “Gramp said the head was German rubber and the plumber said they don't make rubber in Germany. So Gramp pickled him in fizz."

"He deserved it. He was wrong,” Gramp said mildly.

Beth smiled uneasily at them all, slipping out of her coat and feeling the sweat already trickling down her front. God, it must be a hundred degrees in here, she thought. How does Vega stand it?

Vega came out of the kitchen, apparently standing it very well, with some glasses on a tray and a bottle of Seven-Up. She poured it for her mother and handed Beth a glass with two inches of whiskey and an ice cube in the bottom. Gramp got the same and settled back into the cats with a conspiratorial sigh.

'Tell us what you did today, Mother,” Vega said, while Beth made signs to her that she wanted some water in her drink. Vega took the glass back to the kitchen while Mrs. Purvis answered.

"Listened to a book,” she said. “A good one?"

"Good book, but a lousy reader. They cut out all the good stuff anyway. I guess they figure we poor blind bastards will die of frustration if we hear the good parts.” She chuckled. “With me it's all a matter of nostalgia, anyway,” she added. “How old are you, Beth, my dear?"

"Thirty,” Beth said, taking her glass again from Vega. “On the nose? Any kids?” “Two,” Vega said. “Boy and girl."

"Ideal,” said Mrs. Purvis. “Just like the Purvis clan. You know,” she said, leaning toward Beth, “what a harmonious family we are.” There was a mischievous leer in her smile. “I'm sure you are,” Beth said politely. Mrs. Purvis roared amiably. “Everything we ever did was immoral, illegal, and habit forming,” she said. “Until Cleve turned straight and earned an honest living,” she added darkly.

"God, Mother, you make us sound like a pack of criminals,” Vega protested.

"We're all characters. But not a queer one in the bunch.” Mrs. Purvis took a three ounce swallow of Seven-Up. “Too bad you never knew my husband,” she said to Beth. “A charmer."

"Daddy was a doctor,” Vega said, and Beth noticed, uncomfortably, that she was working on a second drink of straight whiskey.

"Yes,” said Mrs. Purvis energetically. “Specialized in tonsils. Once a week he went down to his office—Monday mornings, usually—and sliced out eighteen or twenty pairs.

That was all. Never did another thing and never lost a patient. Made a pile too, all on tonsils. Kept us quite comfortably for years. It's a shame he wasn't around to carve Vega up when the time came."

"My tonsils are the only things they didn't cut out, Mother,” Vega reminded her.

"Well, it was a good life,” Mrs. Purvis said. “Lots of leisure time, lots of money for booze and the rest of life's necessities. Of course, I drink tamer stuff these days. How's your Seven-Up, girls?"

"Oh, it's delicious,” Beth said quickly, but something in the old lady's face told her that Vega's silent boozing didn't escape her mother. Whiskey didn't sound any different from Seven-Up, but it smelled different.

"I hope you split them up fairly, Vega,” Mrs. Purvis said. “There were only two.” She smiled inwardly at herself, slyly.

"There were three, Mother. One in the back of the shelf. You missed it,” Vega lied promptly, with perfect ease.

"Oh.” Her disappointment seemed to remind Mrs. Purvis that it was time for another of her incessant trips to the bathroom, and she heaved unsteadily to her feet.

"Can I help you?” Beth exclaimed, half rising, but Mrs. Purvis waved her down.

"Hell no, dear,” she said. This is one thing I can still do by myself, thank God. When I can't make it to the John any more I'm going to lie down with the damn cats in the back yard and die."

"If they'll have you,” Cramp murmured.

"Besides, she needs the exercise,” Vega said. “It's the only walking she does, really."

"I get more exercise than you, my dear daughter,” said her mother from the door. “You just sit around on your can all day and tell other people how to walk. You should try it some time. Every twenty minutes. Never gives the circulation time to get sluggish. There are many advantages to being old and diseased, as you will soon discover,” she said, chortling with expectation at Vega. “Not the least of them are virtue and exercise."

"All right, Hester, get the hell in the bathroom before you lose it,” Gramp snapped impatiently, and Beth saw Vega's temper rising too. Beth didn't know whether she was amused or repelled by the whole scene: the ugly crumbling old woman, the way Vega lived, the wise-cracking with the hint of violence under the humor. She didn't understand why she said yes when Vega fixed her another drink, then another. And Vega drank two for her every one.

Beth began to forget, or rather to get accustomed to, the hothouse atmosphere. She unbuttoned her blouse at the top and pushed the dark hair off her perspiring forehead, and talked and laughed with Vega and Mrs. Purvis. They were both a little daffy, she decided, but in a macabre sort of way they were fun. And Vega was so beautiful ... so beautiful. Beth saw her now with slightly fuzzy outlines. Vega became animated in a careful sort of way, even laughing aloud, which was an effort for her. Every little while she would disappear with their empty glasses and come back with a couple of inches of liquor in them. Mrs. Purvis had long since finished her Seven-Up.

"No, thanks,” Beth said finally, laughing in spite of herself when Vega offered her another. “I can't, really, I'm driving."

Vega raised an alarmed finger to her lips, and Mrs. Purvis said, “That crap will kill you, dear. It's the bubbles—they're poison, I swear. Whiskey is much better for you, believe me.” And Beth thought her sagging old face looked crafty and pleased with itself—or was it just the effort of trying to figure the two young women out?

Beth rose to go, throwing her coat over her shoulders.

"Oh, wait!” Vega pleaded. “Wait a little while. I'll make some dinner for us.” She put a hand on Beth's arm and this time it didn't bother Beth at all. Or rather, the bothersome sensation was welcome; it was all pleasure. They smiled at each other and Beth felt herself on the verge of giving in. She felt at the same time a warmth in Vega that she hadn't suspected.

"Stay and have some dinner with us, Beth,” Mrs. Purvis said genially. “Vega's a lousy cook unless she has company to fix for. The damn pussies eat better than we do."

"They're healthier, too,” Gramp interposed.

Beth looked at her watch. It was past six o'clock, which struck her funny. “I can't, thanks,” she said. “My kids, my husband—"

"Can't he cook?” exclaimed Mrs. Purvis. “Hell, I used to make the doctor sling his own hash three or four times a week. And we were sublimely happy."

But what happened? Beth wondered. Your family split up and—went all to hell. Everyone but Cleve, and even Cleve drinks too much. Charlie gripes about it.

"Charlie can boil water,” she said, “but that's all. It's past dinnertime now.” She adjusted her coat and headed for the door.

Vega scooped up a couple of mewing cats from the couch and followed her, balancing her drink precariously at the same time.

"Tell her to stay for dinner, Cramp,” Mrs. Purvis said.

"Canned cat food. The finest,” he offered with a grin.

But Beth suddenly felt the need to escape, and Vega, seeing it, took her hand and led her outdoors. “That's enough, you two,” she called back to her family. “Don't scare her off!"

Beth turned and looked at Vega one last time before she left She felt giddy and silly and she was aware that there was a smile on her face, a smile that wouldn't go away. “Thanks, Vega,” she said.

"You know, you don't need modeling lessons, Beth,” Vega said slowly, as if it were something they had a tacit understanding about. “I like the way you walk. It's not quite right for modeling—too free swinging—but I wouldn't change it for anything, even if I could. It would ruin you—the lovely effect you make."

Beth stammered at her, unable to answer coherently, only aware that she was deeply flattered.

"Tell Charlie you had a first-rate lesson,” Vega went on. ‘Tell him you walked three miles back and forth in a straight line and you learned how to treat your hair with olive oil. Tell him anything, only come back on Friday."

Beth, smiling and mystified and pleased, said softly, “I will."

SHE DROVE HOME like a punch-drunk novice, laughing at the panic she caused and feeling light, giddy, peculiarly happy in a way that almost seemed familiar. She was unable even to feel guilty when she got home and found that Charlie had had to feed the kids and was waiting with stubborn hungry impatience for her to feed him.

She did her chores with a smile. Everything seemed easy. Even the children. The bedtime routine charmed her, the way it would have if she had to go through it only once or twice a year. She put her arms around her children and cuddled them, to their surprise. And Charlie, who was ready to bite her head off when she came in, traded his wrath for astonished love two hours later.

It did something to Beth to be in the company of a desirable woman, a woman whose interest was obviously reciprocal, and the first thing it did was make her happy. Her kids reflected the lighter mood gratefully and innocently, but Charlie ... Charlie wondered where it came from and, knowing his wife, he worried.

Beth was surprised two days later when Cleve Purvis called her. She had been in a state of wonderful tickling anticipation all day, picking out a dress, pondering what to say when she got to the studio. And now, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Cleve called.

"I know this is goofy,” he admitted, “but could I talk to you?"

"Sure,” she said. “Go ahead."

"Not on the phone."

"Why not?” she said, surprised.

"Don't ask me, I feel like enough of an ass already. I'll pick you up in half an hour."

"But Cleve—"

"Thanks,” he said and hung up. So she got her clothes on and decided that whatever it was she'd make him drop her off at Vega's afterward.

Cleve took her to a small key club bar and sat her down at a table in the rear. They faced each other over the table. Strangers? Friends? Acquaintances? What were they exactly to each other? Cleve had left college before Beth met Charlie and they had only known each other fairly well since she had come to California. They had seen each other often, they had exchanged a few jokes, and now and then when Cleve was tight they danced together. But never alone. Never had they had a private talk. Charlie or Jean or the kids or somebody was always with them.

It made Beth feel odd, unsure, to be with him now in a private bar. Nobody knew about the meeting, apparently, and no one was there to see them but a few late lunchers and early imbibers. It gave the meeting something of the character of a secret tryst.

Cleve ordered a couple of Martinis. “I know this must seem funny to you,” he said, and covered his awkwardness with a gulp of gin.

"Does Charlie know you asked me here?” she said.

"Not unless you told him."

"No,” she said, and somehow the fact that both of them could have told him and neither of them had made her feel part of an illegal conspiracy.

"Well, don't, Beth,” he said. “Just keep it to yourself. I may not have any right to stick my nose in your affairs, but when your affairs get scrambled up with Vega's, somebody's got to tell you a few things."

Beth felt the hair on her scalp begin to tingle. “What things?” she said. Cleve finished his drink and ordered another. He drank like Vega—briskly and for a purpose. Beth looked hard at him, studying the face she thought she knew so well. It seemed different now, pensive under the thick dark blond hair. His mustache drooped and the deep cleft in his chin gave a droll twist to his frown. Cleve was not a handsome man, although Vega was a beautiful woman and they looked a good deal alike. It happens that way sometimes in a family. Two of the kids will resemble each other, yet the features that go so harmoniously in one face are awkward and out of proportion in the other. And still, Cleve's face was pleasant enough—not out-and-out ugly. Beth liked it. She liked the tired green eyes and the small wry grin he usually wore, and now and then, when she thought about it, she wondered why in hell such a man would marry a giggling good-natured idiot like Jean. Maybe her endless smile comforted him. Maybe it bucked him up through the dismal periods Charlie said he had, when he was more interested in booze than selling plastic toys.