Free The Bette Davis Club by Jane Lotter Page B

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