The Bette Davis Club (13 page)

“You’re a phony,” Vera says, and I flinch, convinced that I’ve just been found out, that she knows I don’t belong at this particular party. “Everything in that shop is special.”

Oh, clothes. She’s still talking about clothes. I stare at the floor.

“Anyways, doesn’t matter,” she says. “My, they’ve decorated the place nice. What are we standing here for? Let’s go in.”

We enter the vast ballroom, which by now must have three or four hundred women in it. The band is playing a soulful “Night and Day.” The dance floor is full.

“I love this place,” Vera says, as she shepherds me through the crowd. “Built in 1950. The floor’s on springs, you know that? Floats when you dance on it.”

I follow Vera to a table at the edge of the dancers. “You can leave your purse here,” she says. “Ruby will keep an eye on it.”

“Ruby?” I say. “She’s here?” Sure enough, along with three other women bartenders, Ruby is behind the long ballroom bar, pouring drinks from a stainless-steel cocktail shaker. I catch her eye, and she gives me a thumbs-up.

“Doesn’t she ever get off work?” I say.

“She usually pulls the noon-to-six shift in the lounge,” Vera says. “But they told her to come back after dinner and help with the dance tonight. Just a couple hours, she gets off at eleven. What can you do? They’re shorthanded. Besides, we need the dinero; she owes a heap of cabbage on this dress.”

Vera pulls a chair out from the table and stands there expectantly, holding the back of it. Oh, what the hell. I sit down in the chair and she helps me scoot it up to the table.

“You want something to drink?” Vera says.

God, yes. “A martini, please. Gin, very dry.”

She cocks her thumb and index finger at me like she’s taking aim with a pistol. “Got it. Be right back.”

I sit alone at the table, watching the dancers. By now the band has moved on to “Taking a Chance on Love.” I bob my head to the music and try smiling at the room in general, as if there’s no place I’d rather be. I’d like a cigarette, but of course there’s no smoking.

Vera, who gets VIP service whenever Ruby’s behind the bar, returns shortly with our drinks. She deposits a glass in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t mention it,” Vera says. “My treat. Got ’em off Rube, but she says after this round we have to pay.”

“Lovely.”

Once again, I’m aware that my end of the conversation is foundering, but Vera doesn’t seem to notice. I sit in my chair, watching Vera salute what seems like half the women on the dance floor. She’s electrified by the music, the twinkling lights, and all the females she knows or hopes to know before evening’s end. Her eyes shine as she scans the room, taking everything in.

Two women swing dance past our table. One of them calls out Vera’s name, but for once Vera’s response is cool. She tilts her cocktail ever-so-slightly in greeting and says in a chilly tone, “Sally.”

Is it my imagination, or does Sally see me and then flash Vera a look? Is it . . . it couldn’t be. But it is. Sally’s jealous that I’m sitting with Vera. At least, I think that’s it. Sort of. Possibly. Whatever it is, the moment passes and Sally and her dance partner swirl away.

Vera ignores what did or did not just happen between her and Sally. “Good crowd tonight,” she says after a moment.

I make an agreeing “umm-hmm” sound.

“You know,” Vera says thoughtfully, “lots of twentysomethings, serious partygoers, come to Palm Springs for Dinah Shore Weekend. They drink cerveza, slam down tequila shooters, rock till they drop. Me, I’m more old-fashioned, which is how come I love this dance every year. First half of the evening, they play swing, waltz, whatever. Later, they have the Latin Dance Competition.”

She sips her whiskey sour. “Course, in professional competition, couples take turns on the floor while the judges score them. But tonight’s strictly amateur. All the contestants cram out there together, and the judges drift around tapping people on the shoulder to eliminate them. Last couple left is the winner.”

Did I hear her correctly? What did she say? That this is a lightweight event, that it’s not to be taken seriously? You’d think I’d be relieved, but I’m not. I’m annoyed. I didn’t want to participate in this contest to begin with and now that I’ve committed to doing so, Vera’s telling me it’s some sort of joke.

“Then why bother?” I say irritably. “If it’s nothing but amateurs, if it’s the equivalent of a high-school prom or senior-citizen social, why does this competition mean so much to you?”

“Why?” She leans forward in disbelief. “Because it’s the Dinah! Because it only comes once a year. It’s like Christmas, and when I dance it’s like . . . getting to open my presents! And if I win the contest, that’s the icing on the cake.” In the manner of an Italian mobster, Vera puts the fingertips of one hand to her lips, kisses them, and pops her fingers open like a flower. “Anyways, that’s how it feels to me.”

Sally and her dance partner again swing by our table. Gliding together in perfect unison, they execute some impressive triple stepping. They move like professionals, like they belong on
Dancing with the Stars
. I can’t take my eyes off them. Then they pause and sway there in front of us, like boats at anchor. “Hey!” Sally taunts Vera. “You dancing tonight?”

“Yup,” Vera says.

“Uh-huh. You going to samba?”

“What do you think?”

“Yeah, but”—Sally tosses her head in my direction—“with that?” The two women snicker and float off.

I comprehend that I’ve just been insulted. That! She called me “that.” What cheek!

Vera finishes her drink. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s warm up.”

“This isn’t a samba,” I say. “You said the contest starts later, this is a—”

“Fox-trot,” Vera says. She seizes my hand, yanking me out of my chair and onto my feet. “Let’s cut a rug.”

Vera pulls me into the throng of dancers. The band is playing “Cheek to Cheek,” which makes me think of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and of Ginger’s rhinestone-encrusted shoes and Mommie Dearest and the value of . . . things.

We’re fox-trotting, and I have to say Vera is one smooth dancer.

I, on the other hand, can only be described as awkward. My rhythm’s off, I turn right when I should turn left, and my feet get tangled up, which means the two of us aren’t dancing together at all. That is, Vera’s dancing, and I’m stumbling along after her.

This goes on for many minutes, and I don’t get any better. Truth is, I can’t concentrate. My shoulders slump, my feet are leaden. After some time, the band takes a break, and Vera and I return to our table. As soon as we’re seated, Vera leans back in her chair, crosses her arms, and stares at me. I try to act like I don’t notice, but in fact it’s exceedingly uncomfortable being scrutinized in this way. Finally, Vera speaks: “What’s up?”

“Sorry?”

“Out there.” She jerks her thumb at the dance floor. “My grandma’s walker has better moves than you.”

“I told you,” I say. “I can’t dance. I don’t dance.”

“Bull. You’re a million miles away. Just wish I knew why.” Vera scoots her chair back and stands. “I’m gonna go get something cold for the both of us.”

She moves off to the bar.

If I felt self-conscious sitting alone at our table earlier, this time it’s worse. This time, I don’t bob my head to the recorded music that’s playing while the band is on break. I end up staring at my hands, unable to think of anything except Finn. Perhaps the best thing would be if I simply said good-night to Vera and went to bed. If I do that, the deal will be off, and I won’t get to snoop around inside Georgia’s room, but maybe that wasn’t such a fabulous plan anyway.

Vera returns with our drinks. She plonks them on the table. “I told Ruby you’re a mess,” she says. “I told her it’s an effing terpsichorean emergency.” She pulls out her chair and sits down. “Rube sends her sympathy, best wishes for a speedy recovery, and one more round for medicinal purposes. So drink up.”

I decide Vera’s correct about this being an emergency. For the last year, pretty much every day of my life has been an emergency. I sip my martini.

Vera gulps whiskey, then slams her glass down. “Darlin’, cards on the table,” she says, her eyes fixed on me. “I keep my bargains. I never welsh on a deal. You showed up tonight. We’re dancing—HA-HA—and after the samba contest, I’ll get you that key to your niece’s room. But, little girl, I won’t lie to you. You disappoint me. Can’t you loosen up out there? Can’t you relax? You’re like a pony gone lame.”

She’s right. I’m not exactly skipping round like a wood nymph. Dancing with me must be more akin to tripping the light fantastic with a well-dressed upright freezer.

“Vera,” I say, “I’d like to help you. I would. But I’m having a hard time at this event. I carry a lot of baggage, and—”

Just then, the recorded music stops playing. There’s a drumroll, and a spotlight hits the stage. Vera and I both turn to look.

Up on the bandstand a short, thickset woman in a white tuxedo steps to the microphone. “LADIES OF PALM SPRINGS,” she says. Her voice echoes over the sound system. “GOOD EVENING!”

She has the oddest, deepest, gravelliest voice I’ve ever heard come out of a woman’s mouth. It’s like a cross between Harvey Fierstein and Linda Blair in
The Exorcist
. She’s standing on tiptoe, struggling to reach the mike, which is adjusted too high for her.

“It’s my favorite time of year,” she growls. “Dinah Shore Weekend!” The room erupts in applause and shouts of approval. “In fifteen minutes, La Vida Loca presents its annual Latin Dance Competition. I’m one of the judges. My name is Davita Maroni.”

I’ve never heard of her, but obviously I don’t travel in the right circles, because when she says her name there’s a roar from the masses. She laughs and takes a bow and waggles her fingers at her numerous admirers around the room. Vera leans over and tells me, “Davita’s kind of an institution around here.”

“Management wants me to remind you all of the competition rules,” Davita says. She peers at a card in her hand. “And they are: No cheating, no shoving, no slapping, no switching partners in the middle of a tune.”

She shakes her index finger. “And ladies, remember that the decision of the judges, drunk or sober, is final. The other thing I’m supposed to tell you is that the Latin Dance Competition has three separate categories—samba, cha-cha, and rumba—with three separate prizes. You can enter one category or all three. Samba will be first. So pick a partner, pick up your feet, and let’s everybody head SOUTH OF THE BORDER!”

The recorded music starts playing again, only now it has a Latin beat. Amid more applause, Davita shimmies off the stage, as talk and laughter and excitement ripple through the room.