by Janet Goss
The front door swung open, and Jolene’s husband tromped in with two duffel bags. He dropped them with a thud and pointed at the staircase. “Who’s movin’ into this place? Some fag?”
My potential stepdaughter dissolved into giggles as Hank introduced me to Gordon “Call Me Gordo” Butz.
“Well, I can hardly see how Hank’s responsible,” Elinor Ann said. “It’s not like he raised the girl. Didn’t his ex-wife get custody? And didn’t you tell me he only met this husband of hers at the wedding?”
“I did. And I know this isn’t his fault. But I just couldn’t stand to be in that house another second.”
We showed them through the corridor and into the kitchen, where I’d made tea. I opened the refrigerator and added a six-pack to the table, thinking it might come in handy.
“So. Mullica Hill, New Jersey,” I said. “I think I drove through it on my way to the shore once. What do you guys do down there?”
“I guess you could call us farmers.” Jolene pointed to her husband. “His family’s owned a complex of greenhouses for near about a hundred years. They grow herbs for the food industry.”
An herb farm. How bucolic. This was more like it.
“Won’t be much longer, though,” Gordo said, popping open a beer. “Developers have been putting up condos like crazy round there. We’re just holding out for a sweet price.” He let out a whoop. “Then it’s off to NASCAR Nation, baby!”
Surely there was some way to find common ground.
“So, now that you’re in town, what would you like to see?” I asked.
Jolene frowned. “I can’t think of anything.…”
“The Empire State Building? The Metropolitan Museum?” I prompted.
At last her face lit up. “I know! Trump Tower!”
Hank was avoiding eye contact with me. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He was obviously delighted to see his daughter, and what father wouldn’t be? It was only right, as was my intention to accommodate our guests with as much hospitality as I could muster. “Anybody hungry?” I said.
“You bet.” Gordo reached for a second beer.
“There’s a real good restaurant we like just around the corner,” Hank said.
“Restaurant?” Gordo’s tone made it clear he was opposed to the suggestion. Oh god, I thought. Please don’t expect me to cook.
Jolene smiled indulgently at her husband. “He just hates tipping them waitresses.”
“I don’t believe in gratuities. Besides, it’s Friday night. For me, that’s two Big Macs, large fries, and a hot apple pie. You got a McDonald’s round here?”
“I think there’s one over on Second Avenue,” I said.
Gordo got to his feet. “Let’s me and you go over there, Hank. This neighborhood’s no place for any wife of mine to be walking around.”
“This area seems kind of… ethnic,” Jolene explained. “He don’t believe in the mixing of the races.”
Oh no no no.
“I always say that’s why the track’s got two sides—a white one and a wrong one!” Gordo roared at his own joke, and I reached for my jacket.
“I’m terribly sorry I won’t be able to stay for dinner,” I said. “But I’m already late—I’m supposed to be out in Brooklyn at a crossword tournament.” Finally Hank met my gaze. He nodded, as if to say, Vaya con Dios.
Gordo let out a grunt. “Crosswords. Talk about a waste of time.”
“So the guy doesn’t solve crossword puzzles,” Elinor Ann said. “Not everyone does, you know.”
“I know.” I sighed. “Hank doesn’t.” And he used double modifiers, and his daughter had married a redneck, and Hank wasn’t even his real name, I thought, sinking into despair. All of a sudden I couldn’t fathom how we’d managed to get along for the past three months.
“Dana, calm down. I’m sure you guys can work this out.”
“I’m not. That meeting was a disaster—I hope I never have to see those two again as long as I live. And the last thing I want is for Hank to feel that he has to choose between his daughter and me.”
“Oh, Dana. I really, really wish you were on your way back to Ninth Street right now.”
I should have known Elinor Ann would try to talk me out of going to Brooklyn this evening, I thought after boarding a southbound train. And maybe she was right. Maybe this foray was a bad idea. But I couldn’t stay at Hank’s. Nor did I want to go home, where memories of that disastrous encounter would crowd out all other thoughts for the duration of the evening.
Hank understood. “I’m sorry,” he said after he’d walked me to the front door. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get out of here.”
I hugged him. “No, I’m sorry. But—”
“No need to be.” He laughed. “Wish I was going to Brooklyn with you.”
“Just enjoy your visit with Jolene. She seems very sweet. I’ll call you when I get home tonight.”
“Good luck—even though I think I’m gonna need it more than you.”
Twenty-five minutes later I walked into an alternate universe—one where most of the natives wore glasses and had scant concern for their personal appearance.
The hotel lobby was packed with animated geniuses. Some of them had helped themselves to puzzles stacked on a center table, then plopped down right there on the floor to begin the solving process.
Immediate panic set in. These people were driven. These people were hard-core. As I made my way toward a rear hallway with a sign reading REGISTRATION, I overheard snippets of conversation:
“It was gorgeous. Three rows of stacked fifteens at the top and bottom of the grid.”
“So after I bingoed, I played ‘azalea’ on a triple-word score—with the Z on a double letter.”
My people.
I joined the end of the line in front of a box labeled H THROUGH M. My fellow contestants seemed almost preternaturally friendly, smiling and chatting and patiently waiting their turn. After I’d reached the front, where I was handed a name tag and a yellow folder, I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Billy.
“There you are. Wasn’t sure you’d show tonight.”
“Neither was I.”
“Listen—all the judges have to help out with game night, but stick around. At least we could have a nightcap and share a cab home.” He smiled and trailed his fingers down my arm while I struggled to maintain my composure.
“We’ll see.” I joined the throng streaming toward the grand ballroom, but Billy called after me. “Dana?”
I turned and raised my eyebrows.
“You look really cute tonight.”
So much for composure, I thought, grinning like an idiot all the way to my destination.
Inside, hundreds of eager participants sat at mile-long tables running the length of the enormous room. I took a seat near the back and listened as a guy who bore a strong resemblance to Phil Rizzuto explained the rules.
“We’re going to be presenting a series of thirty word games.…”
Thirty?
Surely such a prolonged mental challenge would deplete brain cells best conserved for the actual competition. I slipped out a side door and headed directly to the bar.
It was nearly empty, except for a table full of boisterous drinkers who looked as though they were having way more fun than the crowd in the ballroom, and a gay couple seated at the corner of the square-shaped bar. I slid onto a stool perpendicular to theirs and discreetly observed the revelers, just as a girl wearing a purple coat with marabou trim around the collar erupted with a high-pitched peal of laughter.
“They call themselves the Brain Cell Killers,” the shorter, blonder of the two men said. “I don’t know how they manage to make it through Saturday.”
“Let alone Sunday,” the taller, balder one added.
I shot them a look of pure gratitude. “Thank you for talking to me and saving my life.”
The shorter one reached his arm across the corner of the bar. “I’m Kevin. He’s Patrick.
And don’t worry—we’ll look after you. We decided we adored you the minute you walked in.”
“Dana,” I said, shaking hands. “But what made you decide…?”
“You’re not wearing mom jeans,” Kevin said.
“Or gingham.” Patrick shuddered. “Where do these people shop, anyway?” He took a sip from his glass of red wine. “I take it you’re a rookie.”
“Well, I will be, if I can bring myself to come back here tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry—you’ll do fine. Just watch out for the Five,” Patrick said.
Kevin took note of my confusion. “The fifth puzzle,” he clarified. “It’s by far the hardest. Although the Three can trip you up, too.”
“But not like the Five.” Patrick took another sip. “God, remember last year’s? Worst puzzle I’ve seen in nine years of competing.”
“Some people were lucky to score twenty points on it, and that was only because they knew to put an S in any square where the clue implied a plural.” Kevin rolled his eyes. “Of course, the constructor was W. W. W. Moody.”
“Billy didn’t tell me he had a puzzle in last year’s tournament,” I said, causing both men to regard me with renewed fascination.
“You know him?” Kevin half rose in his seat. “Bartender—another drink for our new best friend here.”
“Both of us would kill to fuck him,” Patrick confided. “Would you happen to know if he’s…?”
“Sorry. Straight.”
They leaned forward in unison. “Would you mind telling us how you know that?”
“Yes. Yes, I would mind.”
Patrick nudged Kevin. “I love this girl.”
Their line of questioning had gone on long enough, I decided, changing the subject to the puzzles. “I get that the Five is the hardest one, but why should I fear the Three?”
“There’s invariably a word that seems right, but it’ll have a misleading clue that might make you enter a wrong letter—like ‘lie’ for ‘pie,’ or ‘scrabble’ for ‘scramble.’ ” Kevin waved his hand. “There goes your perfect-puzzle bonus.”
An hour or so flew by while I was schooled on the fine points of the A, B, and C rankings, the nerve-wracking digital-countdown clock that loomed in a corner of the ballroom, and other matters of no interest whatsoever to the vast majority of the population.
Finally Kevin turned and looked out the bar’s window to the lobby. “Oh god. Game night’s letting out. Hurry! Order another round before they swarm!”
I laid a twenty on the bar. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
And I was going to stay good, and get out of there before Billy Moody showed up. I’d had enough excitement for one night.
Besides, I had a feeling I needed all the sleep I could get before tomorrow.
“Come find us between puzzles,” Patrick called after me as I was walking out. “We’ll be outside—the ashtray on the right.”
I made my way to the Borough Hall subway station, where I boarded a Manhattan-bound 4 train and opened the yellow folder I’d been handed at registration. A welcoming letter, a schedule of events, and the rules I’d seen on the tournament Web site filled the right pocket, along with the word counts of each puzzle and a list of constructors—Billy among them. The names appeared in alphabetical order, so there was no way to tell who was responsible for which puzzle, but they read like a who’s who of crossword titans.
I reached into the left pocket, which contained a roster of all preregistered contestants, divided by geographical region. Wow, I thought, leafing through the pages. People had come all the way from Oslo and Winnipeg and Caracas for this event. Based on the number of names per sheet, I’d be competing against roughly six hundred others.
And what careers they had. There were slews of computer programmers, an army of teachers, attorneys galore; even a hip-hop impresario. I turned to the section for New York City, which ran nearly four pages long, and found my name. Billy had chosen to list my occupation as “Muse.”
It was official. I was doing this, no matter what the outcome.
I called Hank as soon as I got home. “I’m sorry for running out on you like that.”
“Heck, Dana, I’m glad you did. We shouldn’t both of us had to suffer.” He let out a sigh. “Guess you figured out why I didn’t invite you to that wedding, huh? I had a bad feeling about that guy. Turns out I was right.”
“I wish you’d said something earlier. I’d have understood. I mean, Gordo’s not your kid.”
“No, but he’s married to my kid. That’s plenty bad enough.”
“You know, maybe if you had a talk with Jolene—”
“Ain’t nothing I can say. She’s grown. She made her choice. All’s I can do now is hope that as time goes by, she gets a whole lot more smarter.”
More smarter, I silently repeated, slowly shaking my head.
We lapsed into silence. Apparently Hank didn’t want to tell me how the rest of the evening had gone any more than I wanted to hear about it.
“So… where are they now?” I asked.
“The back bedroom. Reckon they’re in there watching television.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“The couch in the front parlor.”
“Do you want to spend the night here instead?”
Finally he managed a laugh. “Scared to. Old Gordo might decide he’s doing me a favor and tear out your staircase while I’m gone.”
“I’m glad you called him,” Elinor Ann said as I made my way to the Union Square subway at a quarter to ten the next morning. “It was the right thing to do. Now, please do yourself a favor and keep up the good behavior.”
“Will you stop worrying?”
“I promise, just as soon as this tournament is over and I hear you’ve managed to stay away from Billy Moody.”
My new best friends weren’t at their designated ashtray when I approached the hotel, so I returned to the grand ballroom and took a seat at the end of a table toward the back. I consulted my watch: twenty-five minutes before Puzzle One was scheduled to begin. Maybe I’d make a quick trip to the ladies’ room to run cold water on my wrists. As I stood to leave, a man strolled by wearing a wedding dress, the fabric of which had been turned into a satin crossword puzzle with the aid of a felt-tipped pen.
I spotted Billy in the center of the lobby when I passed through. He was surrounded; a rock star among mortals.
Perfect, I thought. He’ll be far too busy with his groupies this weekend to have any time for me.
But when I exited the ladies’ room, I found him waiting outside the door.
“What happened to you last night?”
“I decided to be smart and get some sleep.”
“Good. Then I can keep you up late tonight.”
“Billy, can you just—give it a rest? I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“Don’t be. You’re going to do just fine.”
And I was fine, as soon as I flipped over Puzzle One a few minutes later. Kevin had assured me it would be easy—“like a Monday”—and when I finished in five minutes and looked up to discover row after row of heads still bent over their papers, my spirits rose. Maybe I won’t do so badly after all, I thought.
Until I entered the lobby and encountered a multitude of my fellow solvers, most of whose conversation consisted of phrases such as “Two minutes” and “Three minutes.”
Oh crap.
“Don’t panic,” Kevin said when I found him at the ashtray. The abbreviated length of his cigarette made it obvious he’d finished well ahead of me. “Those elite solvers can whip through a Sunday puzzle in the time it takes you to finish a Tuesday. You can’t let them psych you out.”
“I’ll try not to. Where’s Patrick?” I said, just before he burst out the door with an agonized “Fuck!”
“Jook. I can’t believe I wrote ‘jook’ instead of ‘jock.’ What the fuck is a jook?”
I quickly determined that the ashtray was an excellent spot for allaying—or confirming—one�
��s deepest fears. By the time I’d completed the Two puzzle with a twelve-minute time bonus, I rushed to the gathering and called out, “Alioto?” How was I supposed to know who the mayor of San Francisco had been in the 1970s?
“You got it—I lived in the Haight back then,” an elderly man wearing a crossword-patterned tie responded, setting off a smattering of groans among the contestants.
“You’re doing great,” Kevin said just before we went in to confront the hazardous Three. “Just don’t forget to cross-check your fill on this one.”
I was glad I’d heeded his advice when I walked out nineteen minutes later—and into the great J-bar kerfuffle.
“There’s no such thing as a J-bar,” Kevin was insisting as I approached.
Of course there is, I thought. It was a bar, shaped like the letter J, used to transport skiers up mountains. Granted, the T-bar was much more common, especially as a fill word, but…
“Then how do you justify ‘toke’ instead of ‘joke’ for ‘It might get a giggle’?” another smoker parried.
“You know.” Kevin held two fingers to his lips in the manner of potheads everywhere, setting off gales of laughter—and more than a few impassioned expletives.
“Nice try,” said a bespectacled man with salt-and-pepper hair and a judge’s yellow name tag around his neck.
I exhaled for the first time all morning.
I couldn’t eat during the lunch break, choosing instead to wander up and down nearby Fulton Street in a futile endeavor to clear my head. When I got back to the hotel, the smokers welcomed me as if they’d paid ransom for my safe return. By now we were family. I would have willingly donated a kidney—or, more appropriately, a lung—to any one of them.
Speculation began to brew as we gathered up our folders and went inside to begin the afternoon round.
“Scuttlebutt has it the Five’s a Moody.”
“That’s impossible. He did the Five last year.”
“Well, his name’s on the list of constructors.…”