by Lee Hays
“You creep. You stinking little creep. You get your rocks off scaring girls on the phone. You’d probably run the other way if you met a real woman. What’s the matter, can’t you get it up!”
The silence at the other end held for a moment, then a quiet, low, sickening voice replied evenly, “I’m going to kill you.”
The girls looked to one another and then Barbara, in a mixture of fear and revulsion, said in a cold, vicious voice, “Why don’t you find a wall socket and stick your tongue in it. That’ll give you a charge, you creep!”
The line went dead in her hand and she looked at the other girls who stood shocked and stunned while she put the receiver back on the cradle.
“Super tongue,” Phyl said, referring to Barbara, “strikes again.”
Flippantly Barbara replied, “Fastest tongue in the west. In or out of wall sockets.”
“God, how disgusting,” Jess said. “That was really sick.”
“What I said. A real sicko. I’m going to have another drink.”
“I don’t think you should provoke somebody like that, Barb,” Clare said.
“Are you kidding? In the city I get about two of those a day. This guy’s a busher, strickly minor league. Christ, what does he know about fancy—”
Clare interrupted her. “All the same, a couple of weeks ago a girl in town was raped.”
“Clare. You can’t rape a townie.”
There was a pause before Clare said, “You really are too much.”
Defensively Barbara replied, “Listen, kid, this is a sorority house. Like I told dear old mom, it’s not a convent!”
Mildly annoyed but determined not to get into a further argument with Barbara who she could tell had had too much to drink too fast, Clare said, “I’ve got to pack. See you later.”
When she was gone Jess gave Barbara an angry look and followed Clare into the hall, stopping her at the foot of the stairs.
“Clare,” she called. “Don’t pay any attention to her. Come on, she didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know. It’s just Barb. Only sometimes I get tired of the needle, that’s all. But I’m not angry or hurt, really. It’s okay, honest. I just have to finish packing.”
Jessica watched her walk up the stairs before she moved back to the other room. Barbara was at the bar and Jess went to her saying, “Hasn’t she had enough trouble fitting in here without you getting at her all the time?”
“I know a professional virgin when I see one.”
“Professional?”
“Sure. She’s always advertising her wares. Something to sell—for marriage. That’s why she advertises. And speaking of professionals, not the virginal kind, however—here comes the Queen of Vaudeville. Circa eighteen sixty-one or thereabouts.” In a loud voice, trumpeting she said, “Ta-daaaaaaa.”
At Barbara’s announcement they all turned to watch Mrs. MacHenry, their house mother, come bustling into the room carrying an armload of packages. A woman in her late fifties, she dressed as though she was thirty. No doubt it was due to her theatrical upbringing, for it was her room in which the picture of the two girls sat, said picture being of her and her deceased sister. Myrtle and Maude McHenry had been a third-rate vaudeville act which had toured the country. Third-rate or not, they had found work for a number of years before motion pictures successfully retired them and in an alcoholic haze she saw those years as being far better, more glamorous and more prosperous than they had really been. So she lived in the past while at the same time playing sycophant to all of “her girls,” as she called them, as well as to the college authorities.
She always seemed to have a smile and good word, though under her breath but just loud enough to hear if the listener were not a threat she would comment disparagingly on all the world and all that took place in it. She was concerned with propriety and proper conduct, but it was a surface concern. She really could not have cared less what the girls under her charge did—as long as there were no scandals or repercussions. In other words, she got along with everyone in order not to jeopardize her comfortable existence.
She made, from time to time, a great fuss about the rules, but it was a game that the girls soon caught onto; mostly they played along with her. Smiling and fawning to one and all she secretly detested almost everyone in the college and all of the girls in the sorority house. Her words were often clever and biting but she was usually careful not to go too far. Her drinking was well-known by the girls and they took pleasure in trying to catch her at it. She was really ingenious at hiding her bottles of sherry and nipping at them when no one was looking.
“Looks like Santa’s here,” Barb said.
“Where’ve you been, Mrs. Mac?” Jess asked.
“Shopping! Last minute shopping. Serves me right for waiting. Oh, my God, the people who are buyers for these shops must take tacky lessons. I’ve never seen such garbage in all my life. And the prices . . .” She raised her eyes to the heavens in a practised vaudeville gesture.
Jessica and Phyllis took the packages from her hands and put them on a nearby table. Barbara handed her a glass of eggnog and said, “Well, drink this down. We apologize, there’s a bit of alcohol in it. Not much, of course. Just to keep us warm. We know you can’t approve.”
“Well, just this once, since it’s Christmas, the season to be jolly and friendly and all of that.”
As Mrs. Mac gulped down the drink, Barbara said, “Speaking of that, we just had best wishes from old St. Nick himself and all his bloody reindeer.”
“Huh, what’s that, dear?”
“Oh, nothing important. Just our gentleman caller going ‘ho-ho-ho’ for the benefit of one and all. I invited him over but he said he had other stops to make first with little bits of happiness for all and sundry.”
“Oh, God, Barbara, will you stop!” Jessica pleaded.
“Okay, but what d’ya say? Shall we give Mrs. Mac her present?”
“I should get Clare.”
“She’s packing, remember. Come on, I want to see her face. And maybe she’ll wear it tonight, model it for us.”
So as Clare, upstairs, prepared to pack for her journey the next day, the party downstairs picked up, growing noisy enough so that she would not be heard when she most needed to be.
CHAPTER THREE
Clare, as she moved across her room toward the closet where her suitcase was sitting on the floor ready to be packed, noticed an object on her bed. She switched on the light and Claude, Mrs. Mac’s cat, looked up lazily, stretched his hind legs and rolled his shoulders suggestively.
“There you are, Claude. Mrs. Mac’s been looking all over for you. She thought you’d run away.”
She picked up the cat and was allowed by an indifferent Claude to cradle it in her arms for a moment before he leaped away and began to prowl the room. Clare shrugged and reached into the closet, dragging the suitcase to her bed where she lifted and opened it preparatory to putting in the clothes that were already stacked on the far end of the bed. Claude had been sleeping on them. Once the small things were packed she flipped the center divider and went to the closet to get out her dresses, opening the door wider. From downstairs she could hear the shrieks of the girls and Mrs. Mac, and she divined that they were giving her that absurd present, the one that she had been opposed to their buying.
The dresses were on hangers and she swept them all out, leaving a clear plastic bag, the kind that dry-cleaning establishments use to cover freshly laundered items, hanging empty and rather forlorn in the large closet.
Carefully she packed the dresses, folding them neatly on the hangers provided in the suitcase. Suddenly she stopped, straightened up, listening. There was a puzzled look on her face. She turned and looked at the closet. There was a low, moaning sound coming from inside it, a strange, disturbing noise that she could not quite fathom.
As she walked toward it she said, “Who’s that? Is that you, Claude? Now, I don’t want you to get locked in the closet or Mrs. Mac will never find you. Come ou
t of there.”
As she edged closer the sound grew. There was light in the room but the closet door cut it off. She reached up and turned on a single lamp on her dresser so that some of that light filtered into the recesses of the closet. As the moaning grew louder she peered in saying softly, “Claude. Come out of there. You’re bad.”
The moaning stopped and Clare leaned forward, not sure of what it was she thought she saw through the plastic bag. Pulling the bag to the side her face contorted in horror. Before she could scream a hand came forward and swept the bag across her face. Struggling, she tried to scream but the hand held her in a death-grip. For a moment she could hear the crinkling of the bag mixed with the sound of the girls downstairs who all seemed to be talking at once at the top of their voices.
There was a squeal from Mrs. Mac as she pulled the ribbon free and opened the fancy blue box, tore aside the tissue paper and held up the rather daring nightgown that was the box’s contents.
“Oh, girls, it’s lovely.” She held it up in front of herself, pirouetting around the room as a high-fashion model might. When she reached the far corner, she said so that she couldn’t be heard, “I’ve got about as much use for this as I’ve got for a chastity belt.” Then she flounced back, swaying her hips and rolling her eyes.
They had heard her words but they pretended that they hadn’t, suppressing as best they could their laughter.
Barbara began to chant and the others quickly joined in, “Put it on! Put it on!”
“Well, that’s better than hearing ‘Take it off! Take it off!’ ” Mrs. Mac took off her hat and carefully slipped the gown on over her dress. Then she pranced around again, grotesquely mock-sexy.
Jess said, “Do the opening for us, Mrs. Mac.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t.”
“Oh, go ahead,” Barbara said, winking at the others. “It’s really a treat for us. After all, we’ve heard about vaudeville, but we’ve never seen it. Go on.”
The entreaties continued. Phyl said, “Come on, Mrs. Mac. You haven’t done it for months.”
It was clear that the old lady liked to be coaxed into doing the introduction to the act she and her sister Myrtle had presented so many years before. And the girls were used to doing the coaxing.
“No! No! No!” she said. “I’m too tired. I’m an old lady.”
“No you’re not, Mrs. Mac,” Jess said. “You’re only as old as you feel and act. Come on, do it for us.”
“Please,” Phyllis said.
“Yeah, please,” came from Barbara who was already mixing herself another drink.
Finally she consented and went to one of the windows where she half-hid herself behind one of the draperies. The girls, once she was out of sight, began to applaud, giving her a cue to make her entrance.
First a chubby leg came sliding out from behind the curtain and after it wriggled and received more applause, Mrs. Mac herself appeared, sasshaying in a ludicrous parody of what must have been something of a parody long before.
She broke into a soft-shoe routine as the girls clapped rhythmically until she finished with a flourish, her arm outstretched.
A little breathless she began the patter of the old routine.
Hi there, America. We’re here to give you the facts.
I’m Myrtle, I’m Maude. We’re known as the Macs.
We sing, we dance, we set a lovely pace;
A joke, a grind, an occasional funny face.
Barbara sprawled out on the couch. It was obvious that she was already quite drunk. Sotto voce, and to no one in particular she said, referring to Mrs. Mac, “Now I know what killed vaudeville.”
Jessica, who was standing near her and heard what she said, replied, “It must have died in agony.”
They tried once more to contain their laughter as Mrs. Mac continued with her performance, bumping and grinding across the room while upstairs, Clare’s body was bumping, too, as it was dragged across the bedroom floor toward the hall.
Oh, God, what have I done? They made me do it. No, I had to punish her for calling me bad. It isn’t so. I’m not bad, not nasty. She shouldn’t have said those things. They’re the ones who are bad. All of them. I’m going to be sick. Maybe if I can use the phone. Have to take her away first. Keep her with me up there. She’ll be all right. She’ll wake up and she’ll be all right and she’ll be sorry she said what she did. My name’s not Claude. Why did she call me that? Why did she call me bad. I can’t help it. But I didn’t do that. I didn’t!
“Get the hook,” Phyllis said as Mrs. Mac finished up her number. The girls whooped and hollered and began to applaud again.
“Are you kidding,” Barbara said woozily. “You need a bulldozer to get her off. And three strong men besides. Come to think of it, I could use three strong men myself.”
Finally the number was finished and the girls applauded extravagantly once more as Mrs. Mac took her bows and blustered about pretending that it didn’t matter to her, moving among the girls, patting them and wishing them a happy holiday.
At last she said, “Okay, party’s over. Let’s get this place cleaned up a little. If the dean saw this, I’d be back in vaudeville.”
Under her breath, Barbara said, “C’mon, Dean!”
“What was that, dear?”
“Uh, I said, ‘How is the dean?’ ”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine, dear. But I’m not sure . . . However, up we go. Time for beddy-bye for all of us.”
She reached down and helped Barbara to her feet, steered her toward the door that led to the hall. When she looked around she realized that Jess and Phyl had taken the glasses and dishes to the kitchen, leaving her temporarily alone in the living room. She watched Barbara weave down the hall toward the stairs and when she was sure the girl was out of sight she turned back, checked the door to the kitchen once more, then went quickly to the bookshelf, pulled out some books, reached behind some others and removed a half-finished bottle of sherry. She took a quick glug, then called out cheerily to the kitchen as she replaced the top and put the bottle and books back, “Oh, Jess, you girls are too good to me. It really is such a lovely present. You’re too good to me.”
Jess came back into the room and said, “Nonsense, Mrs. Mac. I’m glad you like it, that’s all. It’s you who have been good to us.”
The telephone rang and Jess paused expectantly. A long moment passed and it rang again. Phyllis walked into the room, looked at Jess, then hesitantly answered it.
“Hello?” she said, her voice quavering slightly.
“Hello. Is Jess there, please?”
Relieved, Phyllis answered. “Yes, she is, Peter.” She called into the parlor. “It’s for you, Jess. It’s Peter.”
Jess, too, was momentarily relieved. Even Mrs. Mac who had been watching the two girls, sensed that the tension she had felt before was gone.
Jessica went across the room and took the receiver from Phyl, thanking her. Then she went into the hall and said quietly, “Hello, Peter?”
“Hi. How was the party?”
“Okay. No, it was good. Sorry you couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah, so am I. But I had to practice. Four straight days is a little much but it will all be over soon.”
“I know. But I’ve got to see you. You’ve got to find some time so we can talk.”
Phyllis and Mrs. Mac moved past her and started up the stairs wishing her a good night. Mrs. Mac turned back and said, “Turn out the lights, dear.”
Jess nodded as she listened to Peter.
“You sound funny,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. I just . . . want to talk to you.”
“Well, you sound funny.”
“You said that. I don’t feel funny. I just feel tired.”
“Me too. Look, why don’t you tell me now?”
“Because I want to see you. I want to talk to you face to face. I hate telephones. They’re so damned impersonal.”
“Jess, honey, I haven’t been
to bed in three nights. I’m not in the mood to be playing guessing games.”
“Don’t guess. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Oh, Christ! All right. I’ll be in Room Thirty all day. Practicing. Come by whenever you can.”
“I can make it at two. Around then. After the party. That okay with you?”
“I said anytime, didn’t I?” He paused and then apologized. “Look, I didn’t mean to sound short. I guess I’m just sort of exhausted.”
“Yeah. All of us are. It’s the season to be exhausted. It’s okay.”
“Good. I love you.”
“I know you do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“That’s all?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, swell. Tomorrow. Good night.”
He banged down the receiver and she leaned back against the wall, a look of distress on her face.
Upstairs the house mother, Mrs. MacHenry was brushing her teeth. She still wore the Christmas present-nightgown and she had jammed her hat back on her head slightly askew. She stared mournfully into the mirror at her mouthful of toothpaste. For a moment the gleam from her mouth reminded her of the spotlights from so many years before, her days in the limelight.
Softly she repeated almost as a litany her favorite words.
“Hi, there, America,
We’re here to give you the facts.
I’m Myrtle. I’m Maude.
We’re known as the Macs.”
After looking at herself for a long moment, her rheumy eyes began to break out of the reverie. She made a face at herself, rinsed out her mouth, put the toothbrush away and reached into the medicine chest where another bottle of sherry was conveniently waiting. She tipped it up and washed away the taste of the toothpaste, rolling it around in her mouth before swallowing it. Then she put it back and stared down at the frilly, youthful-looking negligee.
“Jesus, I wouldn’t wear this to have my liver out. Ah, the hell with it.”
Her hand went back into the medicine chest and removed the sherry again. For good measure she took another quick drink, a “dividend” she told herself, a nightcap.