That as it turned out, was the toughest part. I did what I could,
trying to fix the horrible old witch up in an outfit from one of Aunt
Belle's old trunks and a few rather elementary cosmetics. The end
result was that, instead of looking like a plain old witch, she seemed
a scandalously depraved, probably drunken old witch. The Roma, in a
long history dating back to prohibition days, has seen all kinds and
conditions. But I don't doubt we were one of the damnedest looking
couples on record.
"This--uh--this is my Grandma," I told the few, nastily grinning
acquaintances I couldn't duck on our way into the joint. "Grandma is
just up on a little visit from Lower Dogpatch. Excuse us, would you?
Grandma needs a double shot quick."
That seemed unarguable. We finally settled at a small table off by the
swinging doors to the kitchen and sat there through one floor show.
"All right," said my old witch, as Venus closed the set with her final
frenzy in the blue spotlight, "I have the pattern. There are a number
of differences there from the picture in your mind. The age, the
chemicals applied."
Venus went off to vigorous applause. The club lights came up and the
M.C. stumbled out to favor us with his version of The Gent's Room
Joe Miller. I considered. The more beautiful-looking the doll, I
suppose, the greater the probable degree of illusion. "Where you find
discrepancies," I told my old witch, "be guided by my imagination.
Right?"
"All rightie," she remarked brightly, patting my hand on the table as
she favored me with what I would estimate as one of history's lewdest
winks. I noted a mutter of contempt from surrounding tables. "Shall I
go ahead? Perhaps you'd better close your eyes," she said, "I--"
"No, not here!" I grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet. Neighbor
tables gave us their full attention and the muttering took on an
ominous tone. "Come on. For pity's sake, let's get on home." I wasn't
exactly convinced this proposition was going to work out; but a crowded
nightclub was no place for her to try it.
"Graverobber!" was one of the indignant remarks that caught my ear as I
dragged the harridan out. She giggled. The female, species immaterial,
seems to have a sense of humor ranging from the Pollyanna-like to the
graveyard ghoulish--missing nearly every point between.
She was quiet and thoughtful on the ride back home. So was I, pondering
the doubtful status of my reputation around town and my sanity.
* * * * *
In the house, she was brisk and businesslike. She got me to help her
stack a bunch of canned goods and junk from the refrigerator on the
kitchen table--"Just for convenience." She remarked domestically, "It
would have saved your fuel and power if I had made the change at the
other place. I must draw heavily on the power that runs into this
house. I must, you understand, conserve my own supply."
"Perfectly all right. Be my guest." The whole thing had a sort of dream
quality to it by then. You know how it is in dreams sometimes? The
action and story lines are fantastic. You know the whole thing must be
nonsense. You could, by an effort of will, wake up and end it. And yet
you go along with the thing just to see how the foolishness will turn
out. That is the way I felt then.
"Oh yes, one more detail," said my witch. "What about the eyes? I found
nothing about the color of the eyes in your largely imaginary mental
picture of the cheap floozy in that second-rate saloon."
Already she was not only speaking the language but thinking the
thoughts like a native female. The eyes. Hmm. I guess my mental film
strips of Venus had kind of skipped past facial close-ups. "Why don't
you just keep the same eyes you have now?" I suggested.
"Good," she said. "They are my own design. Here goes. Close your eyes;
there may be some glare."
I closed my eyes. For a moment there was nothing. Then, for about a
second, say, there was an intense, flaring glare that shone reddish
through my closed lids. Then it was dark.
"All righty," said a sweet-soft voice, ending in a little,
half-breathless giggle. "Now you can look."