Journey To A Woman. Ann Bannon

reader. They cut out all the good stuff anyway. I guess they figure we poor blind bastards will die of frustration if we hear the good parts.” She chuckled. “With me it’s all a matter of nostalgia, anyway,” she added. “How old are you, Beth, my dear?”

      “Thirty,” Beth said, taking her glass again from Vega.

      “On the nose? Any kids?”

      “Two,” Beth said. “Boy and girl.”

      “Ideal,” said Mrs. Purvis. “Just like the Purvis clan. You know,” she said, leaning toward Beth, “what a harmonious family we are.” There was a mischievous leer in her smile.

      “I’m sure you are,” Beth said politely.

      Mrs. Purvis roared amiably. “Everything we ever did was immoral, illegal, and habit forming,” she said. “Until Cleve turned straight and earned an honest living,” she added darkly.

      “God, Mother, you make us sound like a pack of criminals,” Vega protested.

      “We’re all characters. But not a queer one in the bunch.” Mrs. Purvis took a three ounce swallow of Seven-Up. “Too bad you never knew my husband,” she said to Beth. “A charmer.”

      “Daddy was a doctor,” Vega said, and Beth noticed, uncomfortably, that she was working on a second drink of straight whiskey.

      “Yes,” said Mrs. Purvis energetically. “Specialized in tonsils. Once a week he went down to his office—Monday mornings, usually—and sliced out eighteen or twenty pairs. That was all. Never did another thing and never lost a patient. Made a pile too, all on tonsils. Kept us quite comfortably for years. It’s a shame he wasn’t around to carve Vega up when the time came.”

      “My tonsils are the only things they didn’t cut out, Mother,” Vega reminded her.

      “Well, it was a good life,” Mrs. Purvis said. “Lots of leisure time, lots of money for booze and the rest of life’s necessities. Of course, I drink tamer stuff these days. How’s your Seven-Up, girls?”

      “Oh, it’s delicious,” Beth said quickly, but something in the old lady’s face told her that Vega’s silent boozing didn’t escape her mother. Whiskey didn’t sound any different from Seven-Up, but it smelled different.

      “I hope you split them up fairly, Vega,” Mrs. Purvis said. “There were only two.” She smiled inwardly at herself, slyly.

      “There were three, Mother. One in the back of the shelf. You missed it,” Vega lied promptly, with perfect ease.

      “Oh.” Her disappointment seemed to remind Mrs. Purvis that it was time for another of her incessant trips to the bathroom, and she heaved unsteadily to her feet.

      “Can I help you?” Beth exclaimed, half rising, but Mrs. Purvis waved her down.

      “Hell no, dear,” she said. “This is one thing I can still do by myself, thank God. When I can’t make it to the john anymore I’m going to lie down with the damn cats in the backyard and die.”

      “If they’ll have you,” Gramp murmured.

      “Besides, she needs the exercise,” Vega said. “It’s the only walking she does, really.”

      “I get more exercise than you, my dear daughter,” said her mother from the door. “You just sit around on your can all day and tell other people how to walk. You should try it some time. Every twenty minutes. Never gives the circulation time to get sluggish. There are many advantages to being old and diseased, as you will soon discover,” she said, chortling with expectation at Vega. “Not the least of them are virtue and exercise.”

      “All right, Hester, get the hell in the bathroom before you lose it,” Gramp snapped impatiently, and Beth saw Vega’s temper rising too. Beth didn’t know whether she was amused or repelled by the whole scene: the ugly crumbling old woman, the way Vega lived, the wise-cracking with the hint of violence under the humor. She didn’t understand why she said yes when Vega fixed her another drink, then another. And Vega drank two for her every one.

      Beth began to forget, or rather to get accustomed to, the hothouse atmosphere. She unbuttoned her blouse at the top and pushed the dark hair off her perspiring forehead, and talked and laughed with Vega and Mrs. Purvis. They were both a little daffy, she decided, but in a macabre sort of way they were fun. And Vega was so beautiful … so beautiful. Beth saw her now with slightly fuzzy outlines. Vega became animated in a careful sort of way, even laughing aloud, which was an effort for her. Every little while she would disappear with their empty glasses and come back with a couple of inches of liquor in them. Mrs. Purvis had long since finished her Seven-Up.

      “No, thanks,” Beth said finally, laughing in spite of herself when Vega offered her another. “I can’t, really, I’m driving.”

      Vega raised an alarmed finger to her lips, and Mrs. Purvis said, “That crap will kill you, dear. It’s the bubbles—they’re poison, I swear. Whiskey is much better for you, believe me.” And Beth thought her sagging old face looked crafty and pleased with itself—or was it just the effort of trying to figure the two young women out?

      Beth rose to go, throwing her coat over her shoulders.

      “Oh, wait!” Vega pleaded. “Wait a little while. I’ll make some dinner for us.” She put a hand on Beth’s arm and this time it didn’t bother Beth at all. Or rather, the bothersome sensation was welcome; it was all pleasure. They smiled at each other and Beth felt herself on the verge of giving in. She felt at the same time a warmth in Vega that she hadn’t suspected.

      “Stay and have some dinner with us, Beth,” Mrs. Purvis said genially. “Vega’s a lousy cook unless she has company to fix for. The damn pussies eat better than we do.”

      “They’re healthier, too,” Gramp interposed.

      Beth looked at her watch. It was past six o’clock, which struck her funny. “I can’t, thanks,” she said. “My kids, my husband—”

      “Can’t he cook?” exclaimed Mrs. Purvis. “Hell, I used to make the doctor sling his own hash three or four times a week. And we were sublimely happy.”

      But what happened? Beth wondered. Your family split up and went all to hell. Everyone but Cleve, and even Cleve drinks too much. Charlie gripes about it.

      “Charlie can boil water,” she said, “but that’s all. It’s past dinnertime now.” She adjusted her coat and headed for the door.

      Vega scooped up a couple of mewing cats from the couch and followed her, balancing her drink precariously at same time.

      “Tell her to stay for dinner, Gramp,” Mrs. Purvis said.

      “Canned cat food. The finest,” he offered with a grin.

      But Beth suddenly felt the need to escape, and Vega, seeing it, took her hand and led her outdoors. “That’s enough, you two,” she called back to her family. “Don’t scare her off!”

      Beth turned and looked at Vega one last time before she left. She felt giddy and silly and she was aware that there was a smile on her face, a smile that wouldn’t go away. “Thanks, Vega,” she said.

      “You know, you don’t need modeling lessons, Beth,” Vega said slowly, as if it were something they had a tacit understanding about. “I like the way you walk. It’s not quite right for modeling—too free swinging—but I wouldn’t change it for anything, even if I could. It would ruin you—the lovely effect you make.”

      Beth stammered at her, unable to answer coherently, only aware that she was deeply flattered.

      “Tell Charlie you had a first-rate lesson,” Vega went on. “Tell him you walked three miles back and forth in a straight line and you learned how to treat your hair with olive oil. Tell him anything, only come back on Friday.”

      Beth, smiling and mystified and pleased, said softly, “I