Cat In An Aqua Storm

Temple sat down and sized up her table partner: a grandmotherly sort, her hair tightly permed, wearing one of those plaid cotton dusters that don’t constrict the wearer and pass for street wear among the Golden Age set. Front buttons, decorative bias tape trim on the pockets and a Peter Pan collar kept it from qualifying as a muumuu, but just barely.

“Are you competing in the Over-Sexty division?” Temple asked politely, managing to not even stumble over the coy title.

The woman’s scandalized look quickly turned into a chuckle. “Heavens, no! I’m much too old and fat for that in any category. What are you thinking of, girl? These contests have some standards.”

“Sorry. I don’t know much about it. I’m doing public relations work and am trying to get oriented.”

“PR?” A gleam brightened the woman’s pale hazel eyes. “Well, then, you’ll want to know about my Kelly. Here she comes now.”

Temple turned to look in the direction that attracted her tablemate’s beaming maternal gaze.

A long-stemmed brunette was mincing between the crowded tables, carrying two glasses and two bottles of beer from the bar, and a small bowl of popcorn clenched doggy-style in her teeth.

The prodigally endowed daughter made a professional waitress dip at the table to disencumber herself of the food and drink, then glanced curiously at Temple through the black fringe of false eyelashes top and bottom.

Mama Kelly did the honors. “This here’s the competition PR lady, honey.”

“Oh, hi. Get us tons of publicity, hear? I’ve got a super act.”

Temple eyed Kelly’s blue-gingham pinafore and matching, supernaturally bright blue eyes. Molina’s eyes were arresting, but light enough a blue, however electric, to convince. This woman’s contact-lens-store teal clashed with her disingenuous air of Southern comfort.

“You’re mother and daughter?” Temple asked a bit uncertainly.

“I used to be darker and thinner,” the mother said wryly, chuckling again.

“I used to be shorter,” the daughter added with a wink.

Temple laughed. “And only Kelly goes onstage?”

Mama answered. “What do you think? I want to ruin her chances? Mildred Bartles is the name. How do you do?”

No one had said “How do you do” to Temple in a coon’s age. She found it charming.

“Temple Barr. I admit I’m astounded. I figured most mothers of strippers wouldn’t want to know what their darling daughters were doing.”

“Then they are dumb mothers,” Mildred answered genially. “Kids these days do what they want. You can either fight ’em, or join ’em.”

“But not onstage?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a backstage mother. I help her rehearse, I sew all the costumes. Travel around with her for company. Life on the road can get lonely.”

“Then strippers don’t date the men from the clubs.”

“Lordy, I should hope not!” The indignation came from the beauteous Kelly. Her cerulean eyes drilled into Temple’s. “No matter how it looks, stripping is a business and it pays pretty fair. All that happens between the customers and the strippers is what you see onstage or out front. A little tease, a little talk, and—hopefully—a lot of tips.”

“What if a man wants more?”

“Then I give him a freezing look and make clear he’s out of line. Some girls,” she added disdainfully, “are willing to be whores, but they don’t last. The clubs don’t want their dancers disappearing before pumpkin time, and the rest of us don’t want to ruin our reputations.”

By now, Temple didn’t find the notion of strippers preserving their reputations laughable. “But you must know the public is highly titillated by your occupation.”

“Titty-what, honey?” Kelly produced a dimple that proved she could tease offstage as well as on. “You got to ditch those big words. A lot of us didn’t go no further than high school.”

“People are curious,” Temple said, “about why you dance almost-naked for an audience of the opposite sex.”

“Oooh.” Kelly shook her long fingers to indicate a topic too hot to handle. “Well, if we were whores, like they thought, we’d wouldn’t waste our time and energy dancing first. We are performers,” she said matter-of-factly. “Some of us are terrific and some of us are stinko. We bust our butts giving a good show, and then we’re outa there. Listen, it beats waitressing, and I spent a lotta hours breaking my fingernails on trays loaded with forty pounds of restaurant ware. What’s the difference? You give service for a lousy wage and make your money in tips. Except the tips are a damn sight better for strippers.”

“Still, the club makes the real money in liquor sales.”

“So does the restaurant.”

Temple eyed the mother. “How did your daughter grow up to do this?”

Mildred Bartles accepted a full and nonfoamy glass of beer expertly poured by her daughter before musing on the past. “Since she was a tiny thing Kelly was a bolt-lightning of energy. Begged for dance lessons. It wasn’t easy. Her father had run off. I was waitressing and no spring chicken—where do you think I got these varicose veins?”