by Joel N. Ross
Vee for Venus, a long and silly tale.
“That was not an evil chuckle,” Audrey said. “It was a girlish giggle.”
Imogene curled a lock of auburn hair around her finger. “I’ve already gone gray”—which was nonsense, as Imogene was nineteen, three years younger than Audrey, and she oozed youth, standing naked in front of their mirror, frowning at herself—“so your laughing can do no further harm.”
Audrey wriggled from her dress and shook out her hair. How her laugh had become a calling card was beyond her. She found things funny; that was all. Her laugh was just a laugh. Inch said it sounded like a cavalry charge thundering across a tin bridge, but she imagined he’d read that somewhere. He could read. He wasn’t half the ass he pretended.
Rodolfo stuck his head in the room and said, “Get yourself onstage, girls. Three minutes for slap and cossy.”
Neither she nor Imogene nor the Three Annes bothered covering, and none of them bothered rushing. Three minutes would be enough, given the costumes weren’t much more than heels.
Imogene said, a little lower so the Annes couldn’t hear, “Will you tell me, or must I bribe it from you with coconut ice?”
“Well, a man came in. . . .”
“Imagine that! A man, here.”
“For a moment—he looked like Earl.”
Imogene fluttered her eyelashes. “Incendiary Wall. He can drop a bomb on me any day.”
“But it wasn’t him.”
The man didn’t have Earl’s overfed flush of good health. He didn’t have the blunt physical presence that had—momentarily—attracted Audrey. And had more permanently attached the Annes, Peggy, and Winnie. He didn’t have the solid, heroic expression. Give him a helmet and a horse, and Earl would be Sir Galahad. But he was unable to make distinctions. About women at least. About women . . . well, he was subtle as an English country squire shouting “Yoicks” at the foxhounds.
She smiled, because that was what her mum would have said: “Subtle as shouting ‘Yoicks.’” Maybe she laughed.
“That laugh is frightful,” Annie sneered from the chair where she was unrolling her stockings. “Sounds like a Heinkel with engine trouble.”
But there was no time for a tiff—in two minutes, they’d be onstage, the lights shining brilliant and broiling behind them. They dropped their robes and grabbed the props, and their shadows loomed and danced over the heavy black curtain. Audrey lifted the pitcher onto her head—it was meant to be a water jug—and held it in place with one hand, the other on her hip.
Rodolfo clapped. “A seraglio, not a train depot. Imogene—recline, abandoned . . . there! Annabel, not so much . . . Good.” He squinted at their silhouettes. “The pose, Hester—ramrod-straight! Ser-a-gli-o! Chin up, Vee.”
“Ramrod-straight” meant “Stick out your backside,” and “Chin up” meant “Damn the torpedoes.” Still, it was harmless fun, wasn’t it? Audrey’s mum would have thought so. It was only Da’s staid values that still chafed, sometimes.
“Where has Winnie gone?” Rodolfo fretted, stepping offstage. “The screen, what has she done with the screen? . . .”
George, the piano player, had the loveliest bass voice, and it rolled over the stage: “From the Far East, beyond the mountains of Siam, past the rivers of the Middle Kingdom.” A flourish of keys. “‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree.’ The Waterfall Theatre presents a living tableau. . . .”
The curtain rose, and the audience clapped—one or two wolf whistles—and the girls were absolutely still. It always felt backward to Audrey. The lights were shining full at the audience; she saw them clearer than they saw her—the smooth men who didn’t glance at the stage more than once, the boys who couldn’t look away. The nervous men who joked and the solitary men who drank, the boorish men, the intriguing men . . .
Where was he? There, at the bar. His suit was well cut and ill-fitted. He moved like Earl; he sat and drank like him. But he didn’t have the gruff heartiness, the fair-haired assurance. His eyes were darker and deeper than Earl’s.
Audrey’s shoulder ached. Must be time for Winnie to cross the stage with the “screen”—a wooden panel on wheels. As she passed, each of the girls would assume a new pose, with no motion seen by the audience except perhaps a residual jiggle.
The man who wasn’t Earl lighted a cigarette. His face was lean. If he’d been better dressed, better groomed, he might have been Byronic. Instead, he looked broken, a broken Earl.
And Audrey’s disenchantment with Earl had always been with his soundness. He was so complete. It ruined him for women; he was untouchable in every important way. Ruined him for her at least. But the man who wasn’t Earl . . . he was naked, there, in his suit.
She almost laughed. If he was naked, what was she? She smiled toward him instead. She sometimes suspected that life was trying to teach her lessons, lessons of caution and circumspection. Life gave her a small gift, then snatched it away. Well, life could soak its head. She was her mum’s daughter.
The man who wasn’t Earl—there was something about him.
TOM WAS FINISHING his first drink when the curtain parted and light streamed forth on a faux-Oriental tableau with a dozen naked girls striking poses around a mound of fake Aubusson rugs. All he could see were silhouettes, but those girls looked good in outline. He gestured for the bartender and ordered another drink. “Featherlight done for the evening?”
“Featherlight, sir?”
“The torcher.” He didn’t give a cold damn about the singer. “Voice like heavy sugar. You worked here long?”
“Quite some time, sir.”
“You know Lieutenant Inch?”
The bartender nodded toward the dance floor. “Regular table.”
“Swell.” Tom stood and headed for the tables, but he wasn’t sure which was Inch’s. He paused to watch a girl in a see-through dress wheel a red screen across the stage, and a plummy Englishman’s voice called his name from the corner.
“Wall? Is that Wall? I say!” It was a dapper young man with bright eyes, sitting at a table with two other men. There was a crutch propped against his chair, and he had his elbow on the crosspiece. “If it ain’t the Earl of Wall, I’m an ape’s auntie.”
Tom raised his drink, approaching. “Tom Wall.”
“Tom? I say!” The man blinked in disbelief. “I am an ape’s auntie!”
“Earl’s my brother. So you’re half right, or—”
“Merely an aunt! Or merely an ape, what?” The man gestured to his companions, who were staring at the stage. “You know Jacko and Murch?”
“You’re Inch Rivere.”
“In the flesh. Won’t you sit? Tommy Wall, is it? The Earl never mentioned heirs or assigns, but of course you look entirely alike.”
Tom sat and said, “Well—”
“Under the weather, are you? Your hand, I mean to say. My foot is the same.” He wiggled the crutch under his elbow. “Bung us together, and what would result?”
Tom took a slug of martini, put the empty glass on the table.
“Well, either a single chap with two good hands and two good feet,” Inch said, “or a chap with one bad hand and one bad foot. Or possibly you’d have two chaps, one with—”
“Have you known Earl long?”
“Long? My happy boy, forever! Eight months.” Inch speared a carrot with his fork. “Call him the Earl, you know. Ought to stand for the House of Lords.”
“You expect him tonight?”
Before Inch could answer, a girl appeared and placed a fresh martini at Tom’s elbow. “Fancy more fags?” she asked, eyeing Tom’s crumpled pack.
“Got anything Virginian?”
“Passing Clouds,” she said. “And Fifth Avenue is toasted, American-style.”
“A pack of Airmen for the second Wall,” Inch told the girl. “And where is the wave-born e
cdysiast? Promised she’d stop for a chatter.”
The girl said Vee was onstage.
Inch peered at the tableau and nudged Tom. “There! Stage left, with the thingummy upon her prow.”
“Listen,” Tom said. “Is Earl—”
Inch gave a sudden start. “Did I say ‘prow’? Meant ‘brow.’ Venus Pritchett is her name.”
“You expect Earl tonight?”
“If he were coming, he’d be here already. Y’know why she’s called Vee? I refer to La Pritchett. Named her myself, so I take an interest—”
“When was Earl here last?”
“Earl? Am I your brother’s keeper? Reminds me of the story about the two Irishmen . . .”
It was impossible; he’d learn nothing until Inch ran out of steam. But that was one of the benefits of insomnia: He could wait all night. He finished his drink, the girl served him another, and Inch babbled on: “Have a friend who longed for a Duesenberg J. He said, ‘Inch.’ He said—”
“Why ‘Inch’?” The booze made Tom’s voice rough. “Why do they call you that?”
“Full name’s Eggert Miles Rivere,” he said, as if that were an answer. “Mother disliked me. Ruined her girlish.”
“When did you see Earl last?”
Inch’s face moved into mystification. “When did I see her last what?”
“Earl. When did you see him?”
“Oh, the Earl! Yesterday, day before. Friday.”
“Friday?”
“No, Friday was Boneless Bateman’s orchestra. Wasn’t here Thursday. Wednesday.”
“You saw him Wednesday?”
“Not Wednesday. Think it was Tuesday.”
“You sure?”
“Been lathered since October, Tom. I’m sure of nothing.” Inch’s face fell into melancholy. “Days bleed together since I was grounded.”
“You expect him tonight? Tomorrow?”
“No expectations, that’s the family creed.” Inch downed the rest of his drink. “I was stuck with a Blenheim. Finally found a Jerry to shoot at, and met his Messy one-oh-nine head-on. Sheared my wing. Landed in a field with barely a bump, and they shove me in a training unit.”
“Did he mention—” Tom said between his teeth. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Back to Germany, one imagines. Mean to say, he was on fire and shot full of holes, but—”
“Jesus! Does Earl always sit with you?”
“Or upstairs, with company.” Inch considered for the space of an eye blink. “But the girls wouldn’t know. To the girls, Earl didn’t speak so much as he . . . spoke, don’t you know. Spoke spoke, not speak spoke.”
A girl’s voice from behind them, light with amusement: “Flight Lieutenant Rivere. If you’re finished declining spoke, perhaps you might introduce me?”
“What?” Inch tottered upright on his good leg. “Declining? Never decline you, Vee! I mean to say!”
The girl put her hand on the back of Inch’s chair and smiled at Tom.
She was the serving girl with the white gloves and the backward glance. She was the silhouette with the prow. She’d changed into a plain frock, a half ounce classier than cheap and the color of nothing. On her, it looked like sculpted velvet. Her black hair was wrapped in a scarf knotted at the top, and Tom figured she’d dressed down for some effect—the effect she got was of an oomph girl in a plain frock and a head scarf.
Tom rose and faced her. Her teeth were small and white, her lips wide and smiling. Her eyes were dark blue, wide-set and happy as her mouth. Something about her was naïve and exuberant, despite the chassis of a calendar girl.
“Any chap,” Inch continued, “who declined your company would be no chap who— Oh, indeed! Miss Venus Floryville, may I present Mr. Tommy Wall.”
“Audrey Pritchett,” the girl said. “I thought you were Earl for a moment. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re not.”
“I’m his brother. Do you . . . know Earl?”
She laughed—a rowdy child’s laugh. “I’m not one of his girls, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not for his lack of trying, what?” Inch said. “Vee’s captivating. Venus Flytrap. Ain’t how she came by the name, but—”
“Hush, Inch.” The girl put her slim hand over his mouth. “Let somebody else have a turn.”
“I’m looking for my brother,” Tom said. “I can’t—”
“Aren’t you curious?” she asked as she took a seat.
Curious about what? “As a dead cat,” he said.
She laughed again, uninhibited and overflowing. A man could get lost in her laughter. “I do wish Americans would speak English,” she said. “You’re meant to be curious as to why I’m glad you’re not Earl.”
“Why are you glad I’m not Earl?” he asked.
She took her lower lip between her teeth. “I shan’t tell. Not if you ask like that.”
“You want me to set it to music?”
“Flight Lieutenant Rivere,” she said, turning away. “How does this evening find you?”
“Better ask, old chap,” Inch told Tom. “Or she’ll pout all night. Well, an hour or two. Ah! Smiling already. Not a good pouter, our Vee. Has a temper, though. She hit one of the other girls once. Strong left jab. Nose bled for an hour.” He swiveled his drunken attention toward the stage. “Fine tableau, by the way, Vee. Not so keen on it as I was on Gymnosophists of the Maharaja, but—”
Tom said, “You socked one of the dancers?”
“There!” she said. “Now ask why I’m glad you’re not Earl, in precisely that tone!”
He smiled at the eagerness in her voice. “Why are you glad I’m not Earl?”
“Because I’d rather not have to accidentally break a table over your head.”
“Yeah? When’s the last time you saw Earl? You know where he is?”
She cocked her head. “Has Inch been afflicting you? He can be infuriating when not entirely sober. The last I saw Earl was—”
“I have not been afflicting the happy boy,” Inch said. “Told him already that I saw Earl on Friday—except Boneless Bateman was Friday, so must’ve been Wednesday or Tuesday, but—”
“Inch is in a mood,” she said as Inch rattled on.
“That what you call it?”
“Don’t be fooled. He’s terror in the skies. Completed his thirty missions in ten months, then a hundred sorties as a night fighter. Twenty-two confirmed kills. He crashed on number one oh two and is supposed to be instructing now. He can’t stand the soft duty.” She sneaked a bit of cheese from Inch’s plate. “So you’re looking for Earl?”
“Yes, Miss Pritchett, I—”
“Audrey.”
“Audrey—I need to find him.”
“You’re not the only one. I’ve been meaning to accidentally stick a fork in his eye. He’s not been home?” She nibbled the cheese as Tom shook his head. “Then Inch is the last person who saw him. Isn’t that right, Inch? You’re the last person to have seen Earl after he . . .”
“After he what?” Tom asked, seeing a blush color her cheeks.
The girl ignored him, and Inch said, “What? Didn’t see Earl. Heard him. Of course, accent thick as American mash, one can’t understand two words in ten. . . .”
“Inch hears no better than he waltzes, these days,” the girl told Tom, with a glance at the crutch. “All the machine-gun fire.”
“Said he was going to Hyde Park,” Inch said. “Heard that well enough. I was passing by—a trifle ossified—when the siren sounded ‘Raiders away.’ The Earl was speaking and the siren cut out and he bellowed on about Hyde Street Misfits.”
“Hyde Street Misfits?” Tom said. “What’s that? Is it nearby?”
“On Hyde Street, one imagines.” Inch shot the girl a triumphant look. “With his accent, and through the door, an el
ephant with an ear trumpet couldn’t do better.”
“‘Through the door’?” Tom asked. “What door?”
“Upstairs, I mean to say. Door to his room.”
Earl’s room? Tom stood. Harriet wouldn’t allow him to search the house, but Tom would do better. Earl had a room here.
The girl put her hand on his arm. He turned and her face was a foot from his. She was young and her skin was silk and she glowed like a warm candle in a warm, dark room. She had eyes so blue, they were black. Her lips were wide and red and looked soft and eager to laugh.
She said, “Come.”
AUDREY LED TOM upstairs. She was telling a story about Inch; he was thinking about Earl. Thinking about Crete and the farmhouse, about the warmth of her fingers on his arm.
She stopped on the landing and her face glowed in the light of the wall sconces. She smelled of jasmine, of a small white night-blooming flower. “You haven’t heard a word,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was . . . thinking.”
“Were you?”
“I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Nightmares?” she said. “Delirium tremens? Purple spiders on the ceiling?”
He looked at her.
“I can’t abide not asking,” she said, leading him toward the foyer. “But if you’d rather not say, tell me to shove in my clutch.”
“‘Shove in your clutch’?”
“Earl taught me how to speak Yank in three easy lessons.”
What else had Earl taught her? She was too open, too artless. The body of a showgirl and the manner of an ingenue. “You’re two lessons behind, dollface” he said, exaggerating his accent. “And so’s your old man.”
She laughed, and the stairway grew five shades brighter. “Your brother sat through two hours of comedy without a chuckle. Not even at Peter Sellers.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s just a kid—his parents do vaudeville. He did impressions and I split a seam, but not a smile from Earl.”
In the foyer, the girl got the key to the Pugilist Room from the doorman. She slipped it into the beaded bag at her elbow and led Tom upstairs.