The Bette Davis Club

by Jane Lotter

  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.

  “Did you hear that?” Vera says, panic in her voice. “Samba first! Lordy, this is it. Ship going down!” She stares at the glass in her hand. “I should have told Rube to make ’em doubles.”

  I feel sorry for Vera. She looks so unhappy, and I know this contest means a great deal to her.

  Vera straightens her bare, well-developed shoulders and belts back her drink. “Moment of clarity!” she says, her eyes gone wild. “This possum ain’t playing dead! No sir, not tonight! We at least gotta try. Come on, I’ll show you some steps.”

  “No,” I say, even as she’s pulling me from the table and over to an alcove at one side of the room. “Vera, listen, we need to talk!”

  “Darlin’, you English girls are so chatty. But just do your best and try to follow.”

  “No!” I say again, but she’s not listening. We’re standing in the alcove, facing each other. She has my right hand in her left, a tight grip round my waist, and she’s barking directions at me. “Feet together! Weight on your right foot!”

  I cock my hip and shift my weight like she tells me, but only to buy a few minutes of time. The moment she calms down, I’m informing her I don’t think I can go through with this. It’s been too long since I danced with anyone, and it’s too difficult for me emotionally. Though I admit it’ll be hard getting a word in edgewise because Vera’s single-mindedly counting the beat aloud and saying things like, “Right foot back, one, left close to right, and, right foot stays in place, two.”

  I feel a headache coming on.

  Vera and I are still practicing in the alcove when the band returns from break, bringing along even more female musicians. Now there’s a large percussion section with all manner of Brazilian-style drums. Together with the horns, guitar, and piano they start in on something smooth and Latin-sounding. At the same time, the room lights dim and women ooh and ah as a galaxy of electric stars and planets appears on the ceiling. A glitter ball commences rotating above the dance floor.

  Davita Maroni’s back onstage. She grasps a cocktail in one hand and the microphone in her other. “Ladies,” she rasps into the mike, “this song is ‘So Danco Samba’—that’s Portuguese, baby, for ‘I Only Dance the Samba.’ Oh my, yes! It’s Carnival time! Let’s all go to Rio! Let the games begin, let the best couple win! We begin our Latin Dance Competition with the glorious, meritorious, notorious . . . SAMBA CONTEST!”

  Women flood onto the dance floor.

  My mind’s spinning faster than that glitter ball overhead. Now that the contest is starting, the energy and sexual excitement in the room ratchet up enormously. As if in proof, Sally, the woman who insulted me earlier, winks at me as she passes by on her way to the dance floor. But it’s not a playful wink. It’s a rude, sarcastic gesture. It’s a put-down.

  That does it. It’s Sally’s wink that tears it for me, that somehow puts me over the edge. So I haven’t danced in years, so I’ll never again dance with Finn. Vera’s a good person, and she deserves to have a shot at winning this contest. It’s not right that she could lose to the likes of Sally. And me? I need to get into Georgia’s room, I need to make fifty thousand dollars.

  Vera’s in the middle of showing me how to do a basic samba move. “Step sideways with your left foot, close right foot to left—”

  “Stop!” I say. “Vera, stop, I mean it!”

  She ceases moving. She stands there, holding me in her arms and giving me her full attention.

  “I’m a fake,” I say. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “Well, darlin’, who is?” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, good point,” I say. “But the truth is—” I hesitate. I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed that, on some level, I’ve been misrepresenting myself—my sexual orientation, my dance skills—to both Vera and Ruby from the moment I met them. Nevertheless, I try again. “What I told you before was untrue. I do know how to dance.”

  “You lied to me?” Vera says. It’s hard to tell if she’s offended or impressed.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why would you lie to me?”

  “Because,” I say, “I was confused, upset, ambivalent about things that happened in my past. Also, I was nervous. Nervous that, I don’t know, you might get angry if you found out I was . . . straight.”

  “You’re straight?” Vera says. Her face is riveted on mine. “Lordy, little girl, you haven’t been listening. I don’t give a hoot if you’re straight, gay, bi. I just want you to stop being so damn frigid on the dance floor! Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling both relieved and excited. “I think I can now. My dance partner and I were . . . well, we were very good. He taught me everything. We even won a trophy. And I do know how to samba. Quite well, actually. I’m rusty, but I can do it.”

  “Samba whisk, traveling voltas?” Vera says, as if inquiring about Brazilian side dishes.

  “Yes.”

  “Botafogo? Shadow position?”

  “All of it,” I say. “I know all the moves.”

  Vera throws back her head and laughs. She has the most perfect set of upper molars I’ve ever seen in my life. “Darlin’!” she says. “You beautiful fraud!”

  She takes me by the wrist, even more forcefully than before, and pulls me away from the alcove, out among the dancers. Carving out space for the two of us in the middle of the floor, she stops, drops my hand, then turns round to face me.

  We stand there, looking at each other—she in her sparkling white dress, I in my classic black. Vera’s right hand rests on her hip. Her eyes are bright. She holds out her left hand to me. “Come on, Margo, show me. Show the whole damn room what you got.”

  Funny, but I’m ready to do exactly that. When I put my hand in Vera’s, I no longer feel conflicted. I feel like I’m about to do something right for a change.

  Vera raises our entwined hands to just below her own eye level. Her right hand reaches round and cleaves to my left shoulder blade. I rest my left hand on her right shoulder. In dance, this is called the closed position, but I don’t feel closed at all. I feel open. I feel like myself.

  For once, Vera and I are in sync. And when a sultry, long-haired woman in a floor-length gown moves to the microphone and begins crooning “One Note Samba,” Vera and I . . . well, that is to say—

  We dance.

  Except this is better than ordinary dancing. It’s more fun. That’s because the samba is all rhythm and joy. It’s a flirtatious, happy dance, with a sexually provocative hi
p movement. And as you might imagine, Vera has the hip thing down perfectly.

  For the first time all evening, I’m at ease. I’m comfortable now with Vera, who really is an incredible dancer.

  The vocalist is good. After “One Note Samba,” she sings “The Girl From Ipanema” and an assortment of other Latin standards.

  Davita passes by, clutching a cocktail. She and the rest of the judges move through the dancers, tapping couples on the shoulder and directing them off the floor. Occasionally, there’s a short scuffle when an inebriated twosome resists being eliminated.

  Dancers are weeded out. The floor becomes less crowded. The singer goes into a tune I recognize from my youth. It has a samba beat, but it’s called “When In Rome (I Do as the Romans Do).” Well, I think, that’s appropriate.

  The song is carefree and upbeat. A lively piano and bass come in. And horns. The spring-mounted dance floor quivers with the movement of the dancers.

  Vera’s wearing some sort of herbal scent—vetiver?—that drifts through the air. “You’re doing great,” she tells me. “And you look fabulous, darlin’. You are one gorgeous armful.”

  Of course, flattery is the oldest trick in the book of dance. The superior dancer always does everything possible to build up a weaker partner’s confidence. Nevertheless, Vera’s comments have their effect. I lift my head a touch higher.

  The singer is at the apex of her song, belting out the lyrics. Pumped up with gin, adrenaline, and the rhythm of the music, I throw myself into the dance. I’m determined to help Vera win her trophy. I also happen to look round at the other dancers. Most of them are dreadful. The word “clumsy” comes to mind. Also “inept,” “amateurish,” “drunken.”

  Everyone in the place has consumed vast quantities of alcohol, and there’s a great deal of aimless wiggling going on. Many couples have altogether given up attempting to samba and are simply grinding away at each other in an explicit hip-hop manner.

  Off to one side, Davita and a disgruntled contestant get into a fistfight. Bystanders pull them apart, but the mood of the contest has changed. It’s become more aggressive.