Dear Diary, I'm In Love

by John A. Broussard

  When that morning finally arrived, Prince Owain, accompanied by Friar Gwion and Captain Talorg, entered the reception room where the royal family had gathered to greet him. Despite what they had heard, none of them were prepared for the appearance of their royal guest. Tall, slender, unbelievably handsome, with flashing dark eyes and with long black hair streaming down over his broad shoulders—the frank, open face of this smiling young man brought an answering smile even from Tandru, who momentarily set aside his rosary

  The King acknowledged the courteous greeting of the young Prince and observed his younger daughter carefully. Her face had turned a bright red, and the King could almost feel the sensual warmth suddenly radiating from her. He turned to the Queen to comment and was startled to see the color rising in the face of his consort. “Hmm,” he mused, “I may have found just the match for my daughter.”

  Glancing at the others in his family, he wasn't surprised to see Cafolydd's smile of greeting turn into a silly grin as his thoughts were undoubtedly straying back to the hawking fields. Gwenna showed no expression, her down-turned eyes fixed on the hands in her lap. Tandru had absent-mindedly returned to fingering his beads.

  To the King's surprise, Owain was as personable as his appearance, and the King felt a twinge of conscience at what he was planning for this fine and pleasant young man.

  The week passed quickly. The reports back to the King were mixed, at best. Yes, his daughter had been well guarded. No, there was no indication Owain was even aware of the increasingly restless Princess. But the guards had heeded the King's instructions. Even so, they reported that he showed more signs of interest in Friar Gwion's collection of books than he did in any of the ladies of the court who had blossomed like flowers in spring at his presence. All this augured ill, so far as the King was concerned. Perhaps, despite his looks, the young Prince might himself be a suitable guard for the Caliph's seraglio. The King shrugged, hoped for the best and expected the worst. When the last day approached, the Prince, as courtesy demanded, requested a lone audience with his Majesty.

  Prince Owain quickly moved to the matter which both knew was the real reason for his visit. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the kindness and hospitality you have shown me. I only hope you will grant me one last favor, which would make me the happiest man on earth.”

  The King felt a sudden pang as he saw what was coming and envisioned the dismal future facing this charming young man. For a moment he toyed with refusing the request he knew was coming, and then decided no man should be prevented from digging his own grave if he freely chose to do so. Without answering, the King merely raised an eyebrow.

  The Prince went on. “I wish to marry your daughter.”

  “Have you spoken to my younger daughter?” As though he needed to, thought the King.

  “Her?” the Prince blurted out, “She is nothing but an empty-headed jill-flirt.” The words were hardly spoken when his face flushed with embarrassment and he quickly added. “I am sorry, your Majesty. I spoke without thinking!”

  The King laughed. “Speaking the truth on impulse is no great sin. But, do I understand you correctly? You wish to marry Gwenna?”

  “Why, of course. We have spoken several times. I know I am not worthy of her, but the Princess Gwenna has agreed to be my bride—conditioned, of course, on your consent. I beg of you to grant it.”

  Even before answering, the King started down the list of prospects for the rejected girl. He was having difficulties deciding which one of the neighboring monarchs he liked the least. Then his face lit up. “Mad Uther Pendragon,” he thought. “Of course! That sword-rattling son of his is in the market for a wife. Yes. Yes! Dim-witted Arthur will think he has died and gone to heaven when he's offered the hand of Guinevere.”

  ____________________

  THE GREAT AMERICAN PASTIME

  If the girl standing in front of her desk hadn't identified herself as a student at Graybie Community College, the elder care nurse/receptionist would have been ready to believe the girl was barely into her teens. But what the visitor lacked in mature appearance, she made up for with a vocal, breathless and not entirely coherent enthusiasm.

  “My name's Bettinda McClain. Ms. Rooney… that's my journalism teacher… assigned the class to do a human-interest story. Each of us, that is. And I'm planning on being a newspaper reporter, so I wasn't going to do the usual thing of interviewing Mom or Dad. No. I decided there'd be someone here who'd be willing to tell me something about their life experience—stuff from way back in the past. Maybe how they got their first job or something like that.”

  Bettinda hadn't noticed the wheelchair or its occupant, who had rolled down the hall behind her. “Human interest story, huh? Why, I could tell you human interest stories by the hour.”

  The nurse was quick to pick up on the cue, relieved that the patient would have a captive afternoon audience other than her. “Right,” she said, suddenly more than matching Bettinda's enthusiasm. “Mamie will practically write it for you.”

  Bettinda wasn't too sure she wanted someone to “practically write it” for her but she was given little opportunity to make a decision on her own, as Mamie made a skillful pivot and said in a tone brooking no refusal, “Come along, young lady. We'll go to my room where we can be comfortable.”

  One thing Bettinda was sure of, the TV room they passed through would not have been conducive to any meaningful interviewing. Three elderly women were in various stages of napping as the television filled the room with the sounds of horrendous car chases, screaming rubber and crashes. Two old men sat at a table strewn with cards while arguing in loud voices about whose turn it was to play. By contrast, Mamie's room seemed preternaturally quiet.

  As she sat down in the wicker chair next to the bed, Bettinda inspected her surroundings. The walls were almost covered with framed photographs. The subjects were invariably what even Bettinda recognized as baseball players. A pair of shrewd grey eyes took in Bettinda's inspection. “Know anything about baseball?” Mamie asked.

  Bettinda shifted her gaze to focus on the woman, her first really good look at her interviewee. It was difficult for her to gauge Mamie's age… or anyone over thirty, for that matter. Old, yes. Eighties, maybe. Perhaps even older. Even so, there were indications of past beauty in the eyes, the delicate bone structure of the face, even in the fine head of hair now completely white.

  “Well?” Mamie was waiting for an answer.

  She did know something about baseball, but not much beyond the fact that the players wore knickers, and one side tried their best to hit a small ball with a bat, while the other side tried to prevent them from doing it. Graybie C.C.'s sports ran to volleyball and field hockey, and athletics had never been one of Bettinda's interests. She shook her head, and then the dreadful thought occurred to her that this could turn out to be an interview of an avid fan, and that the human interest would center on the ball field. She wasn't far wrong.

  “When I was your age,” Mamie paused, inspecting the interviewer. “Well, maybe a bit older. There were two baseball players who were head over heels in love with me. They were both Greens.” Bettinda had heard of them, thought they were called Greenlegs, but decided she must have been wrong. Before she could expand on her lack of knowledge about baseball and her reluctance to write a story focused on the sport, Mamie continued. “I'm getting ahead of my story. Do you have a notebook? I hope it's not one of those newfangled machines you write on.”

  There was no need for Mamie to be concerned. Ms. Rooney had insisted that the interview be conducted with paper and pencil. Had even specified the size and shape of the notebook. With an inner sigh of resignation, Bettinda fished into her woven purse and came out with the necessary items. Reassured, Mamie sat back in her wheelchair, fixed her eyes on the wall somewhere above Bettinda's head and began at what she considered to be the beginning.

  “My mother wasn't much of a baseball fan, but Father more than made up for her lac
k of interest. He had a season ticket to all of the Greens' games at Docker Stadium, and he and I never missed a game from the time I was twelve. Wonderful seats, too. Far enough along the first base line so you could watch every pitch, and even spot some of the catcher's signals. And, of course, you know that most of the action in a baseball game is right there along that first base line.” An unnoted headshake was her answer.

  “Well, by the time I was sixteen, I was completely caught up with the sport. Could tell you every player's batting average, how many strikeouts a pitcher had to his credit, the score of every one of the season's games—you name it. And I caught the eye of two players—Mario Tessera and Jimmy Cole—at just about that same time.

  “They couldn't have been more different, and I couldn't decide who I liked the most. Mario was dark-haired—beautiful set of teeth—six-foot tall, but he looked small out there on the field next to some of his taller teammates. He loved to laugh and joke and had more stories to tell. Five minutes around him and he had me in stitches.

  “Now Jimmy didn't look small out on the field. He wouldn't have looked small anywhere. He was all of six-foot-six, blonde as a Viking god and definitely not a talker. But, different as they were, they were the top batters in the league, the ones who got the Greens into the series that year.”

  Bettinda had resigned herself to practicing her own brand of shorthand and trying to decide where she would go after this interview to find a genuine human interest story. There wasn't much of interest here—that was for sure.

  There was no pause in the flow. “It was the series that decided my future. Mario and Jimmy were both after me to get married, and Dad was overwhelmed by the thought of having a famous baseball player as a son-in-law. The problem was, I just couldn't decide. Then I got a wild idea. I told my two suitors I would marry the one who hit the most home runs in the series.

  “To encourage them, I absolutely promised there would be a wedding before the beginning of the next season, that Daddy was already making plans for the big day, and that even Mama was looking forward to the marriage. Oh, my, but that spurred them on, and it was quite a series.

  “The Reds and Greens were evenly matched that year. Both of them had great batters, but their pitching staffs weren't outstanding, so the scores of each game were high, and the lead see-sawed back and forth, ending with that crucial last game and the teams tied three and three. Believe me, the fans at Docker Stadium were going wild by the bottom of the ninth with the Greens behind by one run. I guess you know I was getting pretty wild, too. Jimmy and Mario had already hit two home runs apiece in the series, and now Jimmy was up to bat, with Mario swinging two bats back and forth, just waiting his turn—if he was going to get one.

  “The Red's relief pitcher, by far their best, was looking tired, and he was tired after six series games with only one day off. We had two runners on base, second and third. He'd let one of them steal his way to second, something that would have never happened if he'd been fresh. And now, big Jimmy Cole was staring him in the eye. Ball one. High and outside.”

  In spite of herself, Bettinda began to react to the mounting excitement in Mamie's voice, shifting to the edge of her wicker chair. “The next one was a high and slow one. It was becoming more and more obvious that the pitcher just couldn't produce his usual fast ball, and Jimmy could have hit the one he threw—maybe a line drive that would have brought in the two winning runs, but I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for a low one he could scoop up and put over the wall. That would give him a home run and the prize he really wanted: me!

  “And I knew what he was thinking. If both runners came in because of an infield hit, that would end the game, and the home run derby would end with a tie, with maybe Mamie deciding on the basis of dark hair and nice teeth. On the other hand, if only one of the base runners crossed the plate, Mario would be the next one up to bat, and he might put one over the fence, winning the wonderful prize fair and square. Jimmy wasn't about to settle for anything less than a home run. Some of the fans were upset when he let that slow, high ball get past him. There was a scattering of boos at the called strike, and they weren't directed at the umpire.

  “The next ball was wild and the catcher barely caught it. Two balls, one strike. I know the catcher was calling for a fast ball, but the pitcher just couldn't deliver. Another ball, high—and Jimmy just stood there. More boos. Another, so slow it almost seemed to float. Outside. Three balls, one strike. Jimmy was a left-handed batter, so I couldn't see his face, but I knew he didn't want to walk. And, believe me, the pitcher didn't want him to, either. Filling the bases with Mario coming up was almost sure to spell disaster for the Reds. Already I was hoarse, and I think half the fans were too. The stadium was rocking. Another high, slow one—one the pitcher never intended. Jimmy reached out for it and purposely fouled to avoid a walk. Three balls, two strikes. The tension was almost more than I could bear.”

  Bettinda was feeling the tension, too. For the first time she thought to look at Mamie's left hand. A beautiful, ornate gold and diamond ring set adorned the third finger. It would have taken a good share of even a major league player's salary to pay for it. Had Jimmy put those rings on her finger, or had Mario? In a moment she would know.

  The grey eyes seemed to reflect that ball field of decades before. “I'm not sure if the pitcher was too tired to do anything else, or if he was just trying to get it over with, but the next ball curved down right where Jimmy wanted it. I saw those massive shoulders bunch up, the bat go through a wide arc backwards, swing down and connect with a tremendous smash. The ball went up into the blue, sailing toward that deep center fence Docker Stadium was noted for. There was no question but that it was going over. The runner on third had already crossed the plate, the one on second was well on his way.

  “A solitary figure in a white and red uniform, Curly Hammersmith, playing deep, seemed so pathetic running toward the wall—so absurd when he jumped into the air, not even looking at the ball as it was sailing over his head. And then… and then he reached up and the ball settled into his glove as though by magic. The game was over. The Reds won.”

  Notebook forgotten, Bettinda had only one question, but Mamie gave her no opportunity to ask.

  “The mayor had planned a big victory celebration at the Civic Auditorium for the Greens. Well, as you can guess, there wasn't much to celebrate, but a bad storm came up right after the game, and the Reds had to cancel their flight home. So it was a goodwill gesture. He invited their team and ours, and all the players were there, along with all the season-ticket holders.”

  It was too much. Bettinda had to ask. “Who did you marry?”

  Mamie seemed to be startled out of her reverie. “Didn't nurse tell you my last name?”

  Bettinda shook her head, the look on her face repeating the question.

  A smile was her answer. Then, “Fifty-four years of a wonderful marriage. Curly Hammersmith was absolutely the best husband a woman could ask for.”

  ____________________

  SIREN SONG

  There was something about Alicia Hoening that was definitely different. At least men responded to her differently. I, for one, had never been able to see what made her so appealing to males.

  Slender, a nice figure, dark eyes and hair, regular features, a pleasant smile—attractive. Certainly no raving beauty, but with an agreeable personality to go along with the physical features. At first I thought the secret ingredient was her rather low and husky voice. I guess some would call it sexy. It may have been part of the explanation, but not all. Men seemed to drift to her part of the room even before she spoke a word.

  I wasn’t really jealous of her. She had gone through three husbands, though the partings had been amicable from what I could make out. Alex Hoening, the last in the line, held no rancor toward his former wife, since he still occasionally sent her flowers and took her to the theater.

  Well, maybe there was some jealousy on my part. Certainly there was envy. Early in our acquaintance
ship I’d looked in a mirror specifically to see what advantages she had over me. I’m sure that even that mythical, objective third party would have agreed that Paula Trentino was as nice looking as Alicia Hoening—perhaps even more so. Somehow, the men don’t quite see it that way, though. And here she’s in her middle thirties and I’m at least ten years younger.

  Her age seems unimportant to the men. Alex is over sixty, and completely smitten. The busboy at Brintley’s, where we generally go for lunch, is still in his teens and bends over backwards to pick up our empty plates, to pour Alicia her coffee and to just generally be around when she’s there.

  Fortunately, since I began working at Lorton and Miles, Publishers, and especially since becoming senior art editor, I haven't had much time to think about my relationships with men… or lack of same. Working closely with Alicia, who was a text editor, simply brought it to mind every so often.

  How aware she was of her remarkable qualities is hard to say. I never questioned her about them. In fact I really knew very little about her. Our association and conversation were pretty much confined to the publishing business. But I have to admit she was fun to be around. She had a great sense of humor, for one thing. For another, she was generous to a fault with her time and money. I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant person to work with.

  It was at a Friday lunch, where Rosa Sanborn had joined us, that Alicia gave us a brief glimpse of her family life. Rosa, incidentally, had run afoul of Alicia’s magic attractiveness when Rosa’s husband, slightly tipsy at an office party, began to show more interest in Alicia than Rosa thought seemly. A reconciliation must have been worked out between the two women, though Rosa never again risked bringing her husband to any party where Alicia was present. For my part, I thought how silly it was for Rosa to have responded to a harmless flirtation the way she had.