Vicky Banning (11 page)

The
Bradwells
’ entertainment was always a surprise. One year they’d invited jugglers and acrobats from the circus, another year gypsy dancers and singers. Last year, Vicky, after quickly downing four cups of deceptively mild-tasting eggnog, decided to join the group of ballet dancers—in the middle of their performance of
The Nutcracker Suite.
The only thing she remembered about it was joining the dancers, then looking up into the faces of three indignant
nouveaux
ladies, and apologizing profusely. She could only see their faces, which she thought rather odd at the time, until she discovered that she was lying flat out across their laps.

“Only one,” she promised her father and leaned back into the plush chair.

The furniture had been arranged in a semi-circle before the fireplace, and George
Bradwell
moved into its center, his eyes as bright as the diamond cufflinks peeking from beneath his tuxedo sleeves. He held his hands up for silence, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen…friends. We have what we hope will be a truly special treat for you this year. All the way from
England
! In keeping with the joy of this wonderful holiday season, I would like to introduce to you…the Elizabethan Madrigal Singers.” He turned sideward to the fire, and began to applaud, directing everyone’s eyes to the door at the end of the massive space.

A rousing ovation greeted the group of four men and two women as they entered. The men were dressed in short, brightly colored tunics, tights, pointed shoes, and Robin Hood hats with long pheasant feathers pointing to the rear.

The women, Maids Marian both, with long braids and dresses, led the way, singing an old English air. They strolled off through the room, gesticulating, each in his or her chosen direction, harmonies blending beautifully in the spice-scented air, until they rejoined before the fireplace.

The girls were young and pretty. Vicky wondered if their plaited hair were wigs. The two older men strummed lutes, but Vicky was particularly taken by one of the younger men, who appeared to be not much older than she. He was tall, slim, and uncomfortable in the somewhat revealing costume, stretching his tunic farther down over his tights, while trying not to be obvious about it, but clearly perplexed.

Vicky had to force herself to keep from giggling; he reminded her of a woman trying to loosen her corset.

The sextet sang a medley of madrigals, English folk tunes, hymns and carols. Then, as was traditional at the
Bradwells
, the performers were free to mingle with the guests. That was the part Vicky liked best. The entertainers were always interesting, glamorous—and she didn’t know everything about them, as she did all of the guests. She watched the young man sidle between groups of people, trying, as best he could, to appear invisible. Stopped frequently by one or more of the guests, he always managed to slip away shortly afterwards, his face remaining impassive.

Vicky waited until he had sequestered himself in a corner behind a vacant, overstuffed chair—to conceal himself from the waist down, she decided—before setting forth in pursuit. She crossed to the chair and knelt on it, facing him, her back to the rest of the room. He was fair-haired, with deep blue eyes and a cleft in his chin, at which she couldn’t help but stare. It was so deep that it might have been nicked out with a penknife.

“Hello, I’m Vicky Ashton,” she said. “And I think you have adorable knees. Why are you hiding them?”

The young man’s eyes and mouth flew open, the first expression of life Vicky had seen in them, and he seemed about to speak, but was unable.

“You also have a lovely voice,” she continued, leaning her arms on the back of the chair. “Tenors’ voices are so rich, so vibrant. Did you have to study long to be so good?”

“A few years,” he mumbled.

She could see that he was studying her, but she was becoming a bit frustrated by his limited response to her questions. Tilting her head to one side, she asked, “Don’t you ever smile?”

He looked quite shaken. “I’m British,” he said, attempting to sound a touch pompous. “Didn’t you know?”

Vicky was growing confused and not a little irritated. “Yes, I do know. But what has that to do with anything? Lots of British people smile…don’t they?”

“You don’t know about British customs then, do you?”

Vicky sat back on her heels, looking up at him as he leaned over the back of the chair. “I thought I did,” she said. “What customs are you talking about?”

“Well, first,” he said. “Oh, excuse me. My name is Gerald. Gerald Banning. My father is the entrepreneur who organized this group. This is my first time performing with them. Now, as to the customs…you’ve heard, of course, how the Chinese bind infant girls’ feet to keep them small?”

Vicky nodded. “Yes, it’s a terrible thing.”

“And how some African tribes stretch their girl-children’s necks with coils, and form their lips into saucer shapes?”

Again, Vicky nodded.

“And how Jewish families, when they have sons…no, skip that one.”

“What about it?” Vicky asked. “You’re not Chinese, or African, or…”

“They’re childhood rites,” Gerald explained. “Customs. In
Britain
we have rites, too, but only in the more prestigious families, of course. We use starch.”

Vicky was utterly confused, but fascinated, as much by his lilting accent as by his words. “Starch? What for?”

Gerald leaned closer to her, his eyes narrowing, as if incredulous that she wouldn’t know. “On the children’s upper gums, of course,” he said. “Haven’t you ever heard of that?”

“Starch on the gums?” Vicky blurted, her upper lip curling. “It sounds awful. What is it supposed to do?”

“Why, it’s tradition,” Gerald exclaimed, “a great English tradition. The starch permeates all the surrounding tissue, and hardens it. You must have heard of the
British stiff upper lip
, haven’t you? Have you ever tried smiling with just your lower lip? Frightfully difficult. I can’t do it at all, you see. That’s why you haven’t seen me smile.”

Vicky gaped up at him as her mouth slowly open. “Why, you…” She’d been
bamboozled
by him
,
led by the nose into his trap, innocently unaware until Gerald had effortlessly flicked it shut. A shrill whoop of laughter broke from her as she realized how gullible she’d been, how artfully she’d been manipulated. And she’d heard that the British had no sense of humor.

Gerald’s face broke into ripples of amusement, and he laughed with her, tenor and soprano streaking through the crowded room.

Vicky sank, convulsed into her chair, her back still to the other guests. The room had become suddenly quiet, and she was certain that everyone thought she’d been deep-dipping into the punch again—and she couldn’t have cared less.

“Yoo-hoo, Roger,” Vicky called, as she rode onto the grounds of the County Fair. “I’m over here.”

Roger and another man, whom Vicky supposed was his “special friend,” Steve, turned to look around them, each holding a half-eaten jelly apple, searching for the source of her voice.

“Over here,” she called again, waving briskly.

When Roger spotted her, he broke into rambunctious laughter, then nudged his friend and pointed in Vicky’s direction. He, too, laughed when he saw her.

Vicky feigned total bewilderment at the reason for their humor. What was so funny? Doesn’t everyone travel on
Frostee
Ice Cream
wagons, pedaled by white uniformed chauffeurs with coin-holders on their belts? She sat, primly perched on the front of the white, refrigerated box, her feet propped on the silver bumper, as the men rushed up to her. Then, with great dignity, she extended her hand to them. Roger’s friend looked perplexed as he reached for her hand, unsure whether to shake it, kiss it, or admire her rings.

“Thank you,” Vicky said, studying him with great interest as she permitted him to help her down from her mobile throne. He was a husky, burly man in jeans and a T-shirt that read
MINERS GO DEEPER
. His hands were large and hard, but his soft brown eyes, set deep beneath broad, black eyebrows, were the eyes of an innocent.

Vicky watched him carefully, trying to discern any sign that he was “one of the boys,” but could find none. She turned to Roger and winked. “Your extraordinary good taste runs to more than just decorating,” she said, turning to Steve. “He’d be an asset to any room—preferably mine.”

Roger grinned. “I’d like you to meet Steve,” he said. “Steve Manley.”

Manly is right
, Vicky thought, taking Steve’s hand again, then said, “Oh, isn’t that a coincidence. You have the same last name as
Doris
.”

Steve looked past her to Roger, seemingly surprised. When he turned back to her, his smile was awkward. “Not really,” he said, in a voice as deep as his chest. “
Doris
has
my
name. She used to be my wife. Didn’t she tell you?”

Vicky was genuinely shaken. “No,” she said. “She didn’t. I didn’t even know she’d ever been married. You two are divorced, then?”

Before Steve could reply, a male voice called, “Lady?” and they all turned. The ice cream peddler was waiting, his elbows propped on the white box before him. “All this is very interesting and all,” he said, “but I’m beginning to feel like an eavesdropper. Is this as far as you wanna go?”

Vicky laughed. “Yes,” she said, adding with elaborate haughtiness. “And thank you very much for the ride. You may take the rest of the day off. I won’t be needing you any more today.”

“Yes, madam. Thank you, madam,” the man responded, as haughty as Vicky had, taking on the role of a high-society chauffeur as quickly as Vicky had proffered it.
A natural actor
, Vicky thought with delight.
He’d be great as
Jeeves
in the P.G. Wodehouse play.

The three watched the vendor wheel off, head high, calling out “Ice cream” to the strolling groups.

“He’s the reason I’m late,” Vicky said. “He had to stop every few minutes to sell his wares.” She shrugged with resignation and said with a sigh, “It’s so hard to find good help nowadays.”

“How did you convince him to drive you?” Steve asked. He’d been watching the goings-on with amused interest.

Vicky looked up at him with a coquettish tilt to her head. “Well, first,” she began, “I threatened to throw myself under the wheels of his wagon—I called it a chariot, so much more picturesque, don’t you think?—and yell that I’d been poisoned. But he didn’t believe me, so I did the only thing a poor, helpless, old lady could do.”

“What was that?”

“I offered a bribe. Again no luck, so I swooned into faint—claiming the heat, you know.”

Roger chuckled. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but you are terrible. How could you pretend it was the heat? Today’s the first pleasant day we’ve had in ages.”

“Yes, I know, but apparently he hadn’t noticed that. It is lovely, isn’t it? The heat has been so horrendous that I haven’t been able to step outside the Sanctuary for days…and it’s been driving me bonkers. I was going to walk all the way here, but I pooped out halfway around the lake.” She hooked her arms through the men’s and began to amble toward the exhibits. “Let’s find the arts and crafts booth,” she said. “I want to see what they’ve put in place of my
Blueboy
.”

Stacks of fruit and vegetables were being sold by women in bonnets and long, white aprons. Smells of home-baked bread and pies wafted through the air, mingling with the luscious scents of hot, buttered corn and cotton candy. An enormous carousel spun to the strains of organ music, blending with the squeals of delighted children.

The trio stopped to watch the bounding, painted horses for a moment, Vicky remembering the countless others she’d watched with Gerald. Large or small, plain or elaborate, carousels were wonderful symbols of childhood everywhere.

“There’s the booth,” Roger said, motioning to one in the distance. They strolled toward it, Vicky’s eyes searching as they neared. When she found what she was looking for, she let out a squeal of laughter, pointing, directing the boy’s eyes to an empty picture frame. “Look!” she cried. “They actually did I what I told them to do.”

Arranged on long tables were the winning entries from the arts and crafts contest that had been held at the Sanctuary, each labeled with a category and the craftsperson’s name. Shawls, pottery, soap carvings, and paintings were aligned and, at the end of the table, was propped an empty frame to which a place card was pinned. In bold black print, it read:

MOST ORIGINAL

Won by

Ms. Vicky Banning

(On loan to the
Museum
of
Modern Art
, N.Y.C.)

“Some people will swallow anything,” Vicky said incredulously, “but I never expected anyone to believe
that
line of blarney.
Doris
had suggested that I hide
Blueboy
after the contest, which I did, so no one outside the Sanctuary ever saw it. I didn’t want to offend anyone…too much. Anyway, those prudish judges refused to describe it to the display committee, so not many were aware that I’d even made an entry.

“The newspaper sponsoring the photo contest I entered said that I couldn’t win a prize because the picture wasn’t of
Pennsylvania
. I didn’t know it had to be. But they wanted to publish it anyway, separately, with a shot of whatever it was that had caused the dramatic reaction of the people in the photo. Now, really, can you imagine my version of
Blueboy
being published in a local paper?”

Steve laughed, saying, “Roger told me about your…artwork. I wish I could have seen it.”

“Well, then, big boy,” Vicky responded, swiveling her hips in her best Mae West impression. “You’ll have to come up and see it some time. I’ve got it in my room, under the covers, if you know what I mean. ” To her amazement, Steve blushed.
Oh, I am going to like this lovely man
, she decided. How refreshing to find someone still capable of being embarrassed. Maybe that was what was wrong with the world; everyone was too liberal, nothing was sacred anymore. Perhaps people should learn to be more reserved, the way they used to be. Other people, that is, certainly not me.

“Oh, there’s an empty bench in the shade of that tree, over there.” She pointed and rushed toward it. “Let’s sit for a few minutes before we carry on, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“I’ll get us some lemonades,” Steve offered, heading away.

Vicky watched him and, without turning to Roger, said, “I like a man with tight little buns, don’t you?” She pursed her lips to keep from smiling at the silence that followed, and waited. When no response came, she looked up him with angelic, questioning innocence, and howled with laughter at his single raised eyebrow, his lips drawn to a thin line in feigned prissy annoyance. She’d never seen him “camp” before and was titillated by the change.

“Forget his buns for the minute,” she said, looking in the direction Steve had gone. “I want to hear about this triangle you have going with Steve and Doris. What’s it all about? If she was married to Steve, how come she’s so friendly with his lover, but not with him?”

Roger looked warily at her, started to say something, but then turned away.

“And don’t tell me it’s none of my business,” Vicky said quickly. “You and Doris are my friends; at least I hope you are. And from what I’ve learned about Steve, I think that we’re going to be friends, too. So it
is
my business.”

Roger watched her for a long moment, and then shrugged. “It’s simple, really,” he said, then paused. “No, no it’s not simple. You see, Doris and I grew up in this town, on the same block. We were very close after my parents died, as if I were her little brother. When I went away to college one year, she met Steve, and they began going together. By the time I got home, they were engaged. I went to their wedding and Steve and I became good buddies. Eventually it became more than that.
Platonic
,” he quickly added. “And it would have stayed that way, possibly forever, except that Steve and Doris started having difficulties, arguments. During one of them, the whole mess came out.

“Doris was furious, not at finding out about Steve—he’d told her that he was bisexual before they became engaged—but that he, according to Doris, was corrupting a ‘clean, innocent child’…me.”

“What nonsense,” Vicky said. “No one can change someone else, not that way at least. So, what happened?”

Roger looked glum. “
Doris
filed for a divorce and Steve didn’t contest it. They haven’t spoken since, which is a pity. They could be such great friends. Steve still loves her in a very real way. It wasn’t as if
Doris
was shocked by the “revelation.” She seemed to accept the way Steve was, but for some reason felt that…”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. She thought that she could change him, right?”

Roger nodded.

“My God!” Vicky exclaimed. “When will women learn? Why is it that some think that a nice set of boobs and a comfortable nest is the answer to anything?”

“Nest?” Steve said as he approached, balancing a tray of soft drinks. “You guys talking birds?”

“In a way,” Vicky said, lifting a Styrofoam cup from the tray. “Isn’t this a lovely spot for a fair? The trees, open air, and not a house in sight.”

Roger frowned. “Unfortunately, this will probably be the last time it will be held here. It seems that
His Honor
, our wonderful mayor, has just about closed a deal to sell this entire park. Someone’s planning to build a private country club here.”

“
Private
?” Vicky asked. She scanned the droves of people enjoying the festivities. “That’s terrible. Can’t anything be done to stop it?”

“A number of committees have approached him on it,” Steve said, “but he doesn’t pay any attention to them. He just says he’ll ‘look into it,’ then it’s never heard about again.”

Vicky wasn’t really surprised. She remembered the mayor well, his artificial smile, the condescending attitude he adopted when speaking to anyone, and the black
Porsche
that he reportedly spent more time in than he did in his office. And that he had called her “little lady” hadn’t exactly endeared him to her. “What about the governor?” she asked. “He should have something to say about what goes on in this county.”

“Mayor Lambert says that he’s spoken to him about it,” Roger said. “But claims he says he’s too busy to get involved …but I don’t believe it. When Mayor
Carstairs
, Sarah’s husband, was alive, he fought to keep the park public, and the old governor backed him all the way. And this is an election year.”

“It seems to me that something should be done,” Vicky stated. “I think I’ll have a talk with Sarah when I get back to the Sanctuary.”

After finishing their drinks, the threesome strolled along the lanes lined with brightly colored tents, stopping to admire the livestock, polished produce, and the colorful flower displays vying for the attention of the judges. The midway was crowded with children, open-mouthed with awe at the noise and glare of the neon-trimmed rides.

“Look,” Vicky called, “they’ve got a Tunnel of Love. Let’s go for a ride.”

Roger eyed her skeptically and spoke across her to Steve. “Well, I don’t know. What do you think, Steve? This one’s got a pretty raunchy reputation. Do you think we can trust her?”

Steve struck a “
Thinker
” pose, but grinned. “I’m not really sure,” he said, “but since we obviously can’t go in without her, maybe we can take the chance that she’ll behave herself. You think?”