Vicky Banning by Allen McGill

campaign hat, looked like an aging, pudgy Boy Scout, while his wife could be typecast as Nurse Ratched .
    The vicar, however, was charming. His black suit failed to dim the healthy, young glow of his face, or the genuine enjoyment he showed when meeting new people, visiting a new place. He was ebullient with enthusiasm, and his wife, a pert, vivacious young woman, reflected his joie de vivre perfectly.
    Vicky viewed them as current versions of what Gerald and she had been, oh, so long ago. I really should attend church more often , she thought. She was standing in the shade of the veranda with the other residents, watching the couples parade up the path to the Sanctuary. She held the towel-covered, framed needlepoint tightly under her arm. She’d struggled with the recalcitrant canvas for over an hour, stretching it one way, then the other, eventually having to pull out all the tacks and start over. Finally, she’d gotten it done, but was so exhausted from the physical stress that she’d almost decided not to show it at all. Then, braced by a cup of strong, hot tea, and titillated by the thoughts of what was to come, she revived in no time at all.
    Long, cafeteria-style tables had been arranged in a squared-off U shape on the patio flagstones, the sun bright overhead, illuminating the arts and crafts as if they were cakes at a church bazaar. The “artisans” sat behind their creations, facing the center area where the judges were on view, talking among themselves.
    Doris rose from their midst and introduced each judge in turn, to the response of polite applause. The viewing then began.
    Vicky had placed herself at the very end of the displays, wanting to be last, and wanting the sunlight to be directed onto her canvas from behind her so that the judges would be facing into it. Blueboy had to be evenly shaded, not glaring. More art and craftiness were needed to set something like this up, Vicky thought, than there were in all those homey displays combined. The judges had to get a good look at her creation.
    She watched them make their way slowly along each table, properly examining each painting, sculpture, needlework—and basket with admiration. Whether genuine or feigned, Vicky couldn’t tell, but their comments were all complimentary.
    Finally, they came to Vicky.
    “This is our newest resident,” Doris said, by way of introduction. “Ms. Vicky Banning.”
    Vicky smiled up at them and shook their hands. She noticed that quite a crowd had gathered around her work, curious, no doubt, since no one had been permitted to see what she was submitting to the show.
    “And what have you to show us, little lady?” Mayor Lambert asked.
    Vicky wanted to punch him in the nose. Hey, watch that ‘little lady’ stuff, Buster, she thought, but smiled sweetly at him. She had propped Blueboy’ s frame up from behind, with a pile of books taken from the shelves in the parlor, so it stood on its own. As she reached for the cloth covering the canvas, she also reached into her purse. Simultaneously, she flung off the covering with one hand and whipped out her camera with the other. The clicking of the camera, aimed at the judges, was the only sound to be heard in the sudden silence.
    There posed Blueboy in all his aristocratic foppishness, his prissy smile, delicate lace color, and silken blue jacket.
    But this Blueboy had his knickers down to his knees and what he was holding wasn’t a hat. He was apparently caught while preparing to pee!
    Shrieks of surprise from the ladies changed to high-pitched squeals of laughter, while the men just stood and gaped, as if they’d never seen anything like it before. Vicky found it interesting that although women had been displayed in the buff for centuries in art—and lately in film and in magazines—for men to ogle or ignore as they pleased, men’s bodies had rarely been viewed since ancient times. If male “components” were shown in “mixed,” or “polite” society, men reacted as