Test Pattern (27 page)

She scans the poster at the entrance to see who’s starring. Ethel Merman, Dan Dailey, Donald O’Connor, Marilyn Monroe, Mitzi Gaynor …

Mitzi Gaynor?

Lorena’s head spins with revelation. God
is
telling her something, throwing her this double whammy:
There’s No Business Like Show Business
and Mitzi Gaynor, too. It’s more than just coincidence that this movie is showing today at the Paramount, at the very moment she’s desperate for some sign. It’s Fate in the guise of Mitzi Gaynor, a validation of all her hopes and dreams.

She stumbles in exaltation down the aisle of the darkened theater. The show has just started. She takes a deep breath of Air Cooled air and a bite from her Hershey bar. She’s almost alone in the theater except for a couple of fellow loners and a clot of kids at front row center, feet propped up on the rail.

Ethel Merman bellows her love for the business of show business in the opening number, and Lorena almost weeps with longing. Ethel Merman should have been her mother, the Five Donahues her family—a singing, dancing, tappety-tapping family who hold hands and take their bows before a curtain sparkling with billions of tiny stars. They have it all: a happy family
and
fame.

Lorena gapes in openmouthed envy as, with a wink of an eye and the wrinkle of her upturned nose, Mitzi Gaynor bursts onscreen and whirls into a leg-flashing skirt-flouncing tap-dancing cancan. Lorena can hardly sit still. In her mind, she is Mitzi’s shadow. Her legs and arms twitch as she mentally mimics Mitzi’s moves, shimmies her shoulders, peels off a glove, balances those feathers on top of her head.

Oh, she could do that, she knows she could do that. It’s a gift as natural as breathing Air Cooled air. Why isn’t that me up there? she agonizes. And then it hits her: Why
isn’t
that me?

As if in answer, Marilyn Monroe, in her role as an aspiring singer, says in her breathless baby voice, “This show is my big chance. It’s make or break!” Lorena’s head clears as suddenly as the drain when she extricates a hairball, a gush that flushes all doubt and uncertainty. Of course, she thinks. My big chance—my
only
chance—is
Talent Scouts.
That
could
be me!

Her future dances before her in CinemaScope. Pinwheels spin and banners fly as the Five Donahues sing and dance down a star-studded stairway in a grand finale that ends with a choral command that they all go on with the show.

It’s a sign. It’s all a sign. Yes! She must go on with the show.

When the lights come up and the sparse audience straggles out, Lorena doesn’t move. She stares as the purple curtain, shabby and threadbare in the harsh light, draws majestically to a close across the screen still alive with afterglow.

The sun is high in the sky, the heat an unrelenting presence when Lorena finally leaves the theater, but she strides down the simmering street as cool as a penguin on ice. The chill air of the theater has left her with a glacial glow that frosts her walk with purpose.

She’s got to do what she’s got to do.

SHE WAITS FOR him at the corner. Watches as he makes his rounds at the next court before he heads for hers. A gray blur in the distance, the familiar stride, head down, shuffling through his bag for the next stack of mail. Getting closer. Still doesn’t see her, brim of his hat shading his eyes, the same hat she danced with, none the worse for wear.

“Hey,” says Lorena, blocking Binky’s path up the sidewalk as he approaches.

He blinks. Knows it’s her but she can tell he’s disoriented, theway he’s stopped in mid-stride, one dusty black shoe planted firmly on the ground, the other frozen, toe bent, heel lifted, on its way up.

“It’s me,” she says, knows he knows it’s she, knows she looks good because she planned it that way: white shorts, halter top pulled low, makeup just right—patch of blue over the eyes, heavy on the mascara, frosted tangerine mouth. Tan. She worked on that all week, lying out on the sticky webs of the lounge chair beneath a burning sky. Gradual, a little bit at a time so she wouldn’t peel, slathered on that baby oil and iodine until she looked like she was dipped in caramel.

And her hair. Mr. Ralph outdid Maybelle. Rhonda Fleming Red, he called it as he happily squished it through her hair—still pretty short, nothing to be done about that until it grew out—but curled and wild and red red red. That, if nothing else, should get Binky’s attention.

“Wow,” says Binky.

“It’s been a while,” says Lorena.

“Yuh.” He shifts his bag forward on his hip, clears his throat. “So. What ya been up to?”

“Oh, where to begin?” She rolls her eyes prettily to the sky. “So much has happened,” she hurries on as he glances at his watch, “Pete had an accident and was laid up and then he had another, um, accident so he’s still at home and Cassie, well, Cassie …” She pauses. “Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and well, I wanted to talk to you about this—”

Binky looks acutely uncomfortable by now, no longer glancing but staring pointedly at his watch. “I’ve gotta keep on schedule, you know how it is with the post office.” He backs away but gazes appreciatively at the way her plunging top reveals her sharply delineated tan line, among other things. “But,” he adds, clearly torn, “you look great. Really. Just great.”

“Wait,” she says, a tiny note of panic in her voice at his hasty retreat. Not that she expected him to fall panting at her feet, at least not out here in public, but she didn’t expect the look of fear

that shared the loose-lipped look of lust on his face. “It’s not what you think.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” he says, shaking his head nervously. “It just all got too complicated.”

“You mean Cassie?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You think I meant for that to happen?”

“Well, no. But it did.”

She has no argument for that. She needs to make her point and make it fast before he gets to the Hutchinsons’ house, which he is rapidly approaching, albeit backward. “All I want is to ask you if I can meet your cousin.”

“Cousin?” He looks perplexed.

“Your cousin Wally you told me about.”

“Wally?”

“The talent scout? For Arthur Godfrey?”

Binky’s blank look melds into comprehension. “Oh.
Him.”

“Yeah. Remember? Remember you told me he’s always looking for new talent?”

Binky looks blank again. “Talent?”

“Well,” she says, exasperated, “I dance!”

Binky’s mouth opens but nothing emerges.

Lorena clenches her fists, resists the urge to reach over and give him a whack on the head. It’s one thing for Binky to reject her sexually. It’s another to reject her talent.

“Uh, I only saw you dance once.” He’s at the Hutchinsons’ door, looking not at Lorena but down at the bundle of mail he’s fumbling through. He feeds several letters, a
Saturday Evening Post
and a
Colliers
through the mail slot, shredding the edges of the magazines as he rams them in.

Lorena watches from the sidewalk, then follows him as he hurries to the next door. She wants to forget that particular dance, but of course she hasn’t, he hasn’t, it won’t go away. But, she realizes with a little jolt, of
course,
that
is
the only time he’s actually seen her dance. So even though the consequences of thatdance were so horrendous that the memory makes her wince, she still has to know: “What did you think?”

“About what?” He shuffles busily through his mailbag now, scattering letters and magazines at random, avoiding her eyes.

“About the dance,” she persists, scooting after him. “The dance itself, not … you know. After.”

He whirls, almost knocking her down with the mailbag. “You wanta know what I thought?” he rasps with sudden fervor, his eyes hooded and dark with remembered lust. “I thought about your tits. About how they were bouncing and jiggling all around. About how I wanted to squeeze ‘em. And about how I would throw you down on the bed until those stupid shoes were waving at the ceiling while I …”

This wasn’t what she expected to hear.

But it does make her think.

Now that she’s got his attention, she decides to grab it and run. She undulates her hips in their short white shorts, leans forward so the halter top reveals even more, lowers her eyelids, and pushes her lips out in a Marilyn Monroe pout. “I didn’t realize,” she says breathlessly, “my dancing had such an effect on you.”

He gawks at her, stupefied. “Well, that. And also you were buck naked.”

“I was not,” she huffs. “I still had my panties on. And my stockings. And my shoes.” Which reminds her. “That dance I did—you know, to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo'?—that was my routine.”

“Routine?”

“I’ve perfected it. It’s better now.”

“Better?”

“Well, you didn’t get to see the whole thing because … you know.” She doesn’t want to mention, even think about Cassie’s role in any of this. She’s excised that part, mentally lifted it out of the scenario. She’s thought about it too much already and it’s gotten her nowhere. It’s time to move on. “The rest of the routineis very difficult to perform, lots of complicated footwork before I get to the grand finale.”

“Grand finale?”

“I do a split.”

Overcome with enthusiasm, she demonstrates,
tappety tappety tap tap tap,
spin and a tap, spin and a tap, then, whooom, arms up, she collapses on the sidewalk with her legs splayed forward and back beneath her. “Ta-da-a-a-a!”

Binky takes several steps backward, looks around furtively. “Get up,” he pleads, and she does, struggling to her feet and dusting off the seat of her shorts.

“Well, you get the idea,” she says. “So what do you think?”

Binky is backing off again. “Uh. Very athletic.” He hoists his bag meaningfully. “I gotta get going.”

Oh, no. She’s losing him. Heels clip-clopping, she minces after him as he hurries up the sidewalk, yanks a fistful of mail from his pouch, then bends to stuff it into the mail slot at 1226. Desperate now, she comes up behind him, grinds her hips into his butt, reaches around to clutch at his fly. He straightens abruptly with a gasp and spins around.

Now she’s got him. Before he can protest, she pulls him behind the hydrangea bush and gives him a wet, openmouth kiss that makes them both sink with passion among the fat purple blooms.

“Oh, God,” he groans, raking at the halter top until it comes loose and falls to her waist. She nimbly yanks it back up and rolls out of his grasp.

“Not here,” she admonishes him, pointing to the window just above them. “Meet me somewhere.”

“Where?” he whimpers.

“Your place?”

“Um.” He hesitates. “I live with my mother.”

“Your
mother?”

He gives an embarrassed shrug. “Haven’t found my own place yet.”

Now what? Clearly she’s going to have to offer him more than just promises before she can bring up cousin Wally again. “Where’s your mail truck?”

“My truck?” He looks puzzled. Then, “My truck!” as it dawns on him. “Not my
truck.”

“You got any other ideas?” She sways above him, straddling him with her caramel legs, taunting him with her bare shoulders. She feels wicked. She likes that. She’s never felt wicked before. Plump purple blossoms spill all about them, shading them in lavender light. Surrounded by flowers, her knees on the earth, she could be Hedy Lamarr or Dorothy Lamour: exotic, tropical, wild, and forbidden. This is who she wants to be. This is the real Lorena.

So taken is she with the idea of seduction
al fresco
that she almost succumbs to his suggestion: “How about right here?” as he lunges again at her top before she gets it properly tied. But the thought of Cassie and Pete so close—Lorena can almost see their house from here—sobers her. She tugs the top primly back into place and shakes her head. “Where’s your truck?”

“Down the street.” He points south. “Two courts down.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she says, backing out of the bushes. “Hurry up.”

She spots the boxy, snub-nosed truck, looks around to make sure no one sees her, slides open the door to scramble inside. She crawls behind the driver’s seat and scrunches among the bags of mail. There is an animal odor to the truck, steamy and redolent with the aroma of cowhide. She leans back against an envelope-stuffed bag and imagines herself as the Farmer’s Daughter—no, better yet, a cowgirl. Dale Evans. Dale Evans and Roy Rogers. In bed. She pictures Dale, dressed only in boots, teasing Roy, dancing with his white cowboy hat. Does Dale dance? No. Dale sings. Oh, well.

She hears the clomp of footsteps. Binky leaps onto the stand-up seat and hastily starts the truck. “Where are we going?” Lorena asks, peering around the seat from her perch in the back.

“Couple of streets over. Dead end,” he mutters. “Not here.”

Okay with her. She hangs on as they careen down the street, invisible to her from the windowless back of the truck. She is thrown against the bags as the truck takes a corner and bumps crazily over what feels like rocks before coming to a sputtering stop. She sits up and looks through the windshield, which is veiled by a splay of branches and leaves. “Are we there?”

“Yeah.” He turns to her, takes off his hat, loosens his tie. “Boy. I’ll tell you, I never thought this would happen again. After before.”

“Me neither.” She struggles to arrange herself more seductively among the mailbags. He tumbles onto her from his seat and hovers just a moment before sinking his face into hers, almost suffocating her with a prolonged tongue-thrusting kiss. She feels his hand pawing at her top and lets it fall down this time, lifting her back to help it along. And then his mouth moves to her breasts, tastes one, then the other, back and forth, back and forth, as if he can’t make up his mind which one he likes best.

Lorena grabs his Vitalis-slick hair, moans, moves her hips, and opens her legs. She likes this, she really does, feels like forbidden fruit devoured by a starving man—juicy as a plum, tart as a persimmon, wicked and inviting as Eve’s red apple. She’s a red-hot flaming redhead, wild in a Rhonda Fleming kind of way, and she tosses her russet ringlets for emphasis as Binky nibbles down the path that she clears for him, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts, inching them down to her thighs.