The Bette Davis Club (8 page)

“Miniatures or something. Dollhouses. He’s writing a book about them.”

“I see. Well, it’s not that far from Los Angeles to Palm Springs. How long have you been in the car?”

“Days. We’re turning into the Donner Party. I’ll have to toss out my luggage as we cross the desert. We’ll end up drinking water out of the radiator or eating each other for lunch. And he’s so small, it’d be more like brunch.”

“Margo—”

“About two hours.”

“Then you’re nearly there. It’s a lovely town, have you ever been?”

“No, it’s terra incognita. I’m hoping a miracle happens and I don’t have to go.”

“It’s the epicenter of mid-century modern,” Dottie says. “All that 1950s and ’60s glamour and Rat Pack retro. It’s also the playground of movie stars: Dietrich, Gable, Harlow. Of course, those people are all dead. And some things have changed.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t want to harp on this topic. But it’s no secret that Palm Springs has one of the larger homosexual populations in the country.”

“Goodie,” I say. “I’ll drop Tully at the first leather bar we come to. They can stretch him on one of those racks.”

“Margo, be serious. Is he really that small?”

“No.” I poke a Ferragamo-clad toe in the sand and make circles with my foot. “He’s medium height, nice hair. He’s good-looking, actually. If you ignore the rest of him.”

“Uh-huh. Be careful.”

“About what?”

“
Je ne sais pas
. It’s an all-purpose alert.”

A short time later, Tully and I are back on the road. There’s an uneasy, unspoken truce between us as we head east on Highway 111.

The San Jacinto Mountains are not high, and the MG crosses them easily. On the other side of the mountains, the Coachella Valley opens up before us. The landscape once again becomes the scrubby flatland of the desert, dotted with cactuses, sagebrush, and yucca plants.

We soon reach the outskirts of Palm Springs. The first real building we pass is the city’s official tourist center, a 1960s space-age structure with a soaring triangular roof.

“I suppose we should find a hotel,” I say. These are the first words I’ve spoken to Tully since we had our spat at the side of the road.

Tully shakes his head. “Charlotte booked us into a place downtown. La Vida Loca.”

We cruise farther on, and then we see it: La Vida Loca Resort and Spa. It’s a large mid-century modern building, two stories tall, with a flat roof. Sunlight bounces off its white angular walls and striped awnings. Tully turns us onto a circular drive lined with palm trees. We pull up to the valet parking.

A young woman in a polo shirt and neatly pressed slacks rushes to open the car door for me. Another woman attends to our luggage. I thank them both. I step onto the carpet that leads into the resort. Tully comes round to my side and together we walk, rather like the honeymoon couple, into the main building.

The lobby glitters with starburst chandeliers, terrazzo floors, and candy-colored 1950s-style furniture. Off the lobby, through a wall of glass, there are well-tended grounds, tennis courts, a swimming pool.

It’s been three hours since we left Los Angeles. Now we’re in one of America’s most popular vacation spots, bathed by sun and luxury. But none of it has the slightest appeal to me.

I want only one thing: to find Georgia and get this business over with. After I do that, I will walk away with a large sum of money, walk away from Southern California, and walk away from Tully Benedict. That’s all the incentive I need.

CHAPTER FIVE

DREAMY MONKEYS

I
t is not true that misery loves company. What misery loves is a double martini. When Tully goes to the front desk to register, I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair. Then I walk across the lobby, headed for the hotel bar. My top priority—my number one goal—is to track down Georgia. But first I need a pick-me-up.

Like the rest of the hotel, the lounge dates from the 1950s, but it has an added dude ranch twist. Spurs and lucky horseshoes hang from the walls. A bowlegged cowboy in a large framed cartoon drawing waves out at the world saying, “Howdy, Pardner!”

The room is small and crowded. And when I say crowded, I mean it’s jam-packed with women, nothing
but
women. The air hums with the high-pitched buzzing of dozens of females all talking at once. It’s a sound that reminds me of meals in the dining hall at St. Verbian’s.

The only vacant seats are at the bar itself. That would be all right except the bar stools aren’t stools at all. They’re saddles. Western-style saddles, made of highly polished tooled leather. To get served, you have to swing one leg over and mount up. And now, because I very much want a drink, I do just that.

The bartender, a young man in jeans and a cowboy shirt, is down at the end of the bar, taking glasses out of the dishwasher. He turns and sees me and gives a little hi-howdy wave. But when he comes over to take my order, I realize he’s not a man at all. He—she—is a woman. A flat-chested, twentysomething woman with short hair.

“What can I get you for?” she says in a friendly drawl.

“An English saddle,” I say.

The bartender hesitates, as though considering whether I’ve requested some sort of cocktail. Then she takes my meaning. “Right,” she says. She grins. “Had a gal in here today who claimed she only rode bareback. Course, she drank so many dreamy monkeys, in the end she fell off her mount. Her
compadres
had to carry her to her room.”

I smile. “And what, may I ask, is a dreamy monkey?”

The bartender leans in, as though sharing a confidence. “It’s a dog’s breakfast,” she says thoughtfully. “You throw everything in the blender—vodka, crème de cacao, ice-cream, bananas, the whole
taquito
. A dreamy monkey is like a boozy milkshake for kids, for young folks who ain’t got the hang of liquor.”

Myself, I long ago got the hang of liquor.

“Pass on the milkshake,” I say. “But I have just crossed the desert, and I’d like a large martini.”

“You bet. Gin or vodka?”

I rather like this flat-chested bartender and her cowgirl ways. My leather saddle creaks underneath me as I settle in. “Gin,” I say. “Gordon’s, if you have it.”

Half an hour later, the bartender and I are pals. Her name is Ruby. She lives in a house out in the desert with her partner, Vera. Together, Ruby and Vera own a horse, a dog, and several cats.

Ruby is friendly and easy to talk to and (I’m beginning to realize) possibly thinks I’m gay. Well, why not? After all, I’m convinced she is. Not to mention I’m sitting in a bar that for some reason is chockablock with talkative females, every one of whom appears to be homosexual.

In less than a day, I’ve been mistaken first for a newlywed and now a lesbian. What other surprises await me, I can’t imagine.

“Is it always this busy?” I ask Ruby over the noise.

“Nope. We do a good business, but this”—with a sweep of her hand she indicates the packed room—“is because of the Dinah. That and, you know, the tournament.”

I don’t know. What Dinah? What tournament?

“Course, they changed the name a while back,” Ruby says. She mixes a pitcher of margaritas, draws several beers, and continues conversing with me, all without breaking her stride. “It used to be named for Dinah Shore. But anymore they call it the Kraft Nabisco Championship, or some such thing. You know about it, right?”

“Afraid not,” I say.

She looks at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. “It’s world famous,” she says. “It’s the Masters of women’s golf. You honestly never heard of it?”

“Sorry,” I say.

She narrows her eyebrows, like she still doesn’t believe me. “They hold it a few minutes from here, in Rancho Mirage. And every year, same time as the tournament, there’s Dinah Shore Weekend here in Palm Springs, and I
know
you’ve heard of that. The Dinah is the biggest get-together of dykes you ever saw, the biggest lesbian party in the world. Last year, fifteen thousand gals showed up.”

While I’m digesting this piece of news, Ruby leans toward me and says in a low voice, “Don’t tell nobody, but I’d work the Dinah for nothing.”

I laugh. Ruby continues filling me in. “Every gal who comes to Palm Springs during Dinah Shore Weekend loves golf or women. Or both.” She looks me up and down. “You golf?”

“Sorry, no.”

She gives a sly smile, and I realize I’ve just confirmed for her that I’m gay.

I decide to change the subject. I compliment Ruby on her cowboy shirt with the smile pockets. (You don’t often see those in New York, unless you’re watching the DVD of
Midnight Cowboy
.)

“Thanks,” she says. “Vera bought it for my birthday. It’s from one of the used clothing stores, quite a few of them in town.”

Ruby eyes my own outfit. “If you like clothes,” she says, “you might want to visit the shops. There’s one place, near here—Mommie Dearest. It’s the best of the bunch. They got gowns and dresses that belonged to movie stars, millionaires, celebrities. Everything in there is secondhand, but people spend thousands on it anyways. Not me and Vera so much, but you know—”

“People with money?” I say.

Ruby nods.

By now I’m on to my second martini. I ought to be looking for Georgia, but the gin has clouded my sense of urgency. Fact is, I’m enjoying listening to Ruby as she rattles on about the sights to see in Palm Springs: Liberace’s former home, Frank Sinatra’s former home, Bob Hope’s former home. Between the used celebrity clothing and the used celebrity homes, it would seem much of the tourist appeal of Palm Springs is in musing on what used to be.

Which is right up my alley. Reminiscence, regret, the tissue of memories that make up the ever-receding past—these I know well. And after the day I’ve had riding in the MG with Tully Benedict, I feel so relaxed sitting on a leather saddle in a busy lesbian bar I could almost imagine I’m not myself at all. I could almost imagine I’m somebody else, maybe a tourist here on vacation. Blimey, I could almost imagine I’m gay.

“That’s my gal,” Ruby says.

I jump. Perhaps Ruby can read my thoughts. Perhaps she’s decided I’m just her style. Curbing a slight feeling of panic, I make up my mind to explain myself to her. You’ve got it wrong, I’ll say. I’m not homosexual. I’m just a heavy drinker.

But when I search Ruby’s face, I realize she’s looking past me. I turn to follow her gaze and see she’s tracking the progress of a tall, hawk-nosed woman who’s come into the lounge.

Ruby nods across the room at the hawk-nosed woman. “Speak of the devil,” she says, her face lighting up. “That’s my gal, my Vera.”

Vera moves smoothly through the crowded room. When she reaches the bar, she mounts the vacant saddle next to mine. She has the ease of one who has saddled up, whether on a horse or in this bar, many times.

Ruby introduces us.

“Pleased to meet you,” Vera says carelessly. She turns to Ruby. “Rube, honey,” she says in a deep drawl, “I’m having a helluva day. Make me a whiskey sour?” She smooches the air several times in Ruby’s direction.

“Now, Vera,” Ruby says. “’Member what I said?” She crosses her arms. “No freebies, no more. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“No freebies,” Vera repeats, as if learning the language phonetically. Ruby relaxes a bit. There’s a beat, then Vera brightens. “I know what, sugar,” she says, slapping both palms down on the bar. “Put it on my tab!” She looks over at me as though we’re both sharing a joke.

“You don’t have a tab,” Ruby says. “The whole town knows better than to lend you credit.”

Vera shrugs. “The whole town knows I’m alive and they’re half-dead.”

After several minutes of this sort of wheedling, Ruby yields and reluctantly sets a large whiskey sour on the bar. Vera picks up the glass and takes several swallows.

Thus fortified, Vera begins sharing her troubles with Ruby and, by virtue of proximity, me. It turns out Vera is upset because she’s signed on for tonight’s dance contest—to be held in the hotel ballroom—but her dance partner has taken sick. Alas, Ruby cannot partner Vera because, by mutual agreement, Ruby has no sense of rhythm.

“Get Sandy,” Ruby says.

“I could get her,” Vera says, “but who wants her? Two left feet and no conversational skills. I’d not only lose, I’d be bored to death.”

“You’ll find somebody,” Ruby says. “Lots of folks in town, maybe tonight you’ll find somebody new.”

“Maybe tonight the stars will turn into diamonds and fall down into our pockets,” Vera says. “But I reckon the odds are against it.”

She twists in her saddle and surveys the mob of women in the room. She gives a small groan, then turns back to her drink.

I’m idly swirling the olive round in my martini, missing New York and Dottie, when I become aware that someone is watching me. I turn my head to look. It’s Vera. She’s staring at me.

“You dance?” she says, in her deep drawl.

A jolt of surprise goes through me. For some reason, I feel like an imposter who’s about to be unmasked. But unmasked how? As a straight woman, I suppose. I’ve been in Palm Springs less than an hour, yet already my heterosexuality is in the closet. I feel I should announce to Ruby and Vera that I’m straight. Honest, I’ll say, they don’t come any straighter. But the idea of blurting this out seems presumptuous and silly. The words won’t come.

“Sorry, no,” I say self-consciously. “I don’t dance. Not really, not for years.”

“Pity,” Vera says, watching me closely. “You have the body for it. Not like some of the cows in here.” She waves her glass at the room.

“Vera,” cautions Ruby, “don’t go trashing the clientele, even in fun.”

“Don’t fret, sugar.” Vera downs the rest of her drink and dismounts her saddle. “I’m moving on now, anyways. Think I’ll head over to the Jewel Box and see if I can find a partner there for tonight.”

“That’s fine,” Ruby says. She places drinks on a tray for one of the waitresses. “As long as it’s for the dance contest.” She gives Vera a knowing look.

“Sugar, you are my one and only,” Vera says. She leans over the bar and kisses Ruby on the cheek. “Excepting on the dance floor.”

She strides off.

Ruby watches Vera walk away. “That gal’s gonna get me in trouble someday,” she says. “I just know it. But I love her to bits.”

After Vera leaves, Ruby makes me a third martini. Soon I’m experiencing the glow you sometimes get in the dentist’s chair, right before they put you under.

The thought occurs to me that, really, it’s been a long day. I know I should be looking for Georgia, but . . . I’ll worry about that later. I lift my drink to my lips.

Except I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the sober face of Tully Benedict. Gamely, he mounts the saddle vacated minutes before by Vera.