Runny03 - Loose Lips

by Rita Mae Brown

  “They’ll know you’re faking.” Nicky couldn’t believe these silly tricks would work.

  “Nope,” Juts said.

  “You’re too little right now,” Louise added. “The little boys don’t care, but once they get, oh, maybe sixteen—”

  Julia interrupted her. “Once their voices change, that’s the signal. Then let them have it.”

  Nicky solemnly considered her momma and her aunt. “Can’t I be me?”

  Louise laughed spontaneously, something she rarely did, a deep belly laugh. “Nicky, having a man love you isn’t the same as having a man know you. They don’t need to know you at all. In fact, they don’t know how.”

  Nicky couldn’t believe that people could live together for years and not know each other. She thought Wheezie was pulling her leg. “Momma, Daddy doesn’t know you?”

  Juts folded her arms across her chest. “Actually, I think he does, but then Louise and I disagree on the particulars of the subject of men. He might not know why I do something, but he can pretty well tell you what I will do in any given situation.”

  “Julia”—Louise’s voice dropped—“you don’t even know why you do some of the things you do.”

  “To get back at you.”

  “Now, that’s the God’s honest truth and I have a witness.” Louise pointed at Nicky.

  “Hey, how about we teach you how to flirt?” Juts was enjoying herself.

  “Momma, I don’t care about that stuff. I want to be in the Soap Box Derby.” Nicky pushed her pencils back, hopped out of the chair. “I’m going upstairs. May I be excused?”

  “Sure, Mike.” Juts used the old family expression.

  As she left, Juts turned to Louise. “I can’t figure her out.”

  A helpless look crossed Juts’s face, still youthful at forty-seven. “She doesn’t like clothes. I can’t get her interested in sewing or cooking. I have to drag her by her heels to get her to attend her friends’ parties. Did you ever see a kid that didn’t like parties?”

  “Not that I recall, but they aren’t just like us. Mary taught me that lesson fast enough and then Maizie really drove it home. I’m nervous about this Vaughn thing. He’s courting her hot and heavy.”

  “You should be happy, Louise, what do you want? She’s not setting the world on fire as a piano player—and she doesn’t have her teacher’s license—what’s she going to do?”

  Louise twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “I don’t know. She’ll have to take care of him all his life.”

  “He gets around good.” Juts punched her sister on the shoulder. “You’re always worried about money. He’ll take over the drugstore someday. She’ll be set for life.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You live to worry, you know that?”

  “You’ll worry plenty someday when Nicky gets serious about somebody. All it takes is one bad fella, just one.”

  “Maybe it only takes one for them, too, you know.” Juts turned on the faucet and stuck her cigarette under it to put it out. “Who knows what Nicky will do? She marches to her own tune. When I think that blood is thicker than water I remember Rillma as a kid. She wasn’t like Nickel at all.”

  “She sounds like you. She organizes like you,” Louise said in a mollifying tone.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think they’re like sponges. They absorb.”

  “Sometimes I feel like a cook, a maid, a washerwoman, a chauffeur—a nurse, even—but I don’t know if I feel like a mother.”

  “That’s what mothers feel like—and don’t expect any thanks for it, either.”

  81

  Despite her sister’s warning about knowing your place, Juts conspired with Nicky to build a soap-box car. Chessy listened to their arguments and thought, What the hell?

  They closed the garage doors and spent the next two and a half months building the car. Chester worked on the aerodynamics of it, creating a low, pointed nose and smooth, sleek sides. Nicky pulled the task of sanding, resanding, and sanding yet again until the surface of the wood shone like glass.

  Both Juts and Chessy worried about the steering system. A derby car, going fast, can be hard to hold. Juts had genuine mechanical ability. She crawled under the car, examined the tie-rods and how the wheels sat under the carriage. She drew up designs. Chester pored over them with her, as did Nicky.

  The three Smiths drew close together building the derby car. Nicky’s favorite time was when they were all in the garage, Buster and Yoyo there, too, and Juts was singing harmony, Chester bass, and Nicky the melody. She didn’t worry about Rillma Ryan when they worked together and Juts had been too busy to lose her temper at her.

  Nicky was figuring out that if she played with Juts, for she thought of it as play, Juts was happy. They had their riding lesson once a week and afterward Nicky began to accompany Juts on her window-shopping sprees. Bored though she was, she pretended to be interested in the clothes that Juts would bring to her attention.

  Now that she was a little older she spent Saturdays with Chessy at the store. Like her dad, she loved building things, but she was careful not to show too much enthusiasm around Juts, for Juts was jealous even of Chessy.

  At seven she’d learned caution in expressing her emotions. Possessed of boundless energy and physical courage, she played outside most of the time, did as she was told most of the time, and watched people much more than she listened to them. She’d learned one great and painful lesson about life already, which was that people might like her fine but she had to look out for herself; she couldn’t expect other people to do it. Chessy was the only exception to this rule.

  Juts didn’t care about what was going on inside Nicky. She cared only for the external result. Since she was that way about everybody and everything, there was comfort in her consistency.

  Chessy drew the outline of the number 22 on both sides of the car, now painted gleaming royal blue. Together they painted the 22 gold.

  Harry Mundis, head of Derby Day, ran his big empire himself, so slipping one by him wasn’t that hard. Nicky entered under Jackson Frost’s name, knowing that Jackson would be at the beach on July 4.

  The weather, cloudless and with blessedly low humidity, unusual for the season, promised a memorable Fourth.

  The square was set up for fireworks, both fire departments participating. Bunting draped the whole town and everybody placed a flag on their front porch or on the lawn.

  Quite a few people flew their Maryland or Pennsylvania flags, too, which added to the color.

  Men searched for their boaters and Panamas while the ladies fretted over whether they had to wear nylons in the heat. The braver and prettier ones opted for shorts and canvas sandals. Ever since Louise had accused Juts of having varicose veins, Juts refused to wear shorts.

  The houses lining the derby route filled with people. Tubs of ice held beer, sodas, lemonade, and for the lucky ones, limeade. Coolers packed with dry ice contained strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream.

  Louise, the lady of the manor, had a crowd at her house. Right across the street, the Wests hosted a huge crowd also. Louise and Pearlie would cross the street and chat, but because Senior Epstein and Trudy partied with the Wests, Juts wouldn’t go as long as they were there. If she could avoid socializing with the Epsteins, she would.

  The older ladies—Cora, Ramelle, and Fannie Jump, who was going deaf—sat on rockers on the porch. Extra Billy, Doak, and other young men horsed around on the front lawn, playing baseball with a Ping-Pong ball after they’d marched in the parade. Their girlfriends and wives pitched horseshoes. Vaughn was great at pitching horseshoes, beating them all from his wheelchair. The kids mostly screamed and chased one another with the invariable accusations of one pushing the other, one getting more ice cream than the other. The mothers ignored it.

  Pearlie stoked up the big brick barbecue he and Chessy had built years earlier. Everyone in Runnymede agreed he sizzled the best steaks in town. Juts and Louise worked together, bringing pla
tes of food to Cora, Ramelle, and Fannie Jump as well as refreshing drinks all around.

  The shock wave around town was the insurance company’s fingering O.B. Huffstetler as the arsonist hired by the Rifes. Ramelle refused to fire him until proof was positive. She wasn’t sure what to do if it turned out he was indeed the perpetrator.

  The bands, that morning, marched under cloudless skies. The veterans marched according to what war they’d fought in. Every politician from both counties was there in a convertible, and the county beauty queens waved to everyone. Local businesses provided floats to advertise their products, the plumber’s being a giant toilet, which excited comment.

  A long banner stretched taut and high over the Soap Box Derby finish line.

  Juts checked her watch and sneaked away, easy to do amid the commotion. Nickel, goggles in place, hair slicked back under a York White Roses baseball cap, hurried off with her. Since she was in the peewee races she’d roll down early.

  Juts left her at her car and whispered, “Head low.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t talk to anyone. Your voice will give you away. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Nicky had a stomach full of butterflies.

  Once back at the finish line, Juts whispered to Chessy, who left the barbecue for a minute. Louise shepherded everyone to the curb or the porch, whatever was their preference.

  “Where’s Nicky?”

  “She’s around.”

  Louise fretted. “She never misses a race. Where is she?”

  “Probably on the other side of the street. Popeye’s over there. See him? Ugh.” She pointed out the reporter.

  Louise swept her eyes over the crowd across the street, then gave Juts her death-ray stare. “You didn’t.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I know you. I know you like a book!” Louise hopped up and down, she was so exercised.

  “Pipe down, Wheezie, it’s only a Soap Box Derby, for Chrissake. She’s not running for president.”

  The announcer called out, “And in Heat Three, Jackson Frost, Number Twenty-two, and Roger Davis, Number Sixty-one—and they’re off!”

  As Nicky thundered down the hill after a wonderful running start, Louise knew exactly who was in Car Twenty-two.

  “This is a disgrace,” Louise bellowed. “You stop her.”

  “I’m not stopping anything.”

  “It’s not fair to Roger Davis. It won’t be a legitimate heat.”

  “Goddammit, not letting Nicky compete isn’t fair to Nicky.”

  “That’s another bag of beans.”

  “The hell it is.” Juts craned to get a view of the cars, Nicky in the lead. “Come on, Twenty-two!”

  People were screaming all around them.

  “This is not right.” Louise bolted out onto the finish line. She held her arms up.

  Juts sprinted after her and pushed her out of the way. Chessy tore across the finish line to hold Louise. Of course, they were on the Wests’ side of the street, which meant Trudy cast Chester a deep look. Just to be on the safe side, Juts shoved her.

  Senior Epstein, horrified, said, “Juts, let bygones be bygones.”

  “Slut!”

  “Old bag.” Trudy hauled off and smacked her one. Juts doubled up her fist, slammed it into Trudy’s jaw to send her reeling.

  Nicky, in the vibrating car, used every muscle to hold it straight. She’d never gone this fast in her life. She peered up and saw her mother and father, Louise, Trudy, and Senior in a donnybrook that involved more people with every minute. She crossed the finish line ahead of Roger but veered to the right, since the fight was spilling into the street. The rumbling car leapt over the curb, rolling on two wheels, sending Extra Billy and others jumping out of the way. Thank God, Maizie had the presence of mind to roll Vaughn out of danger. People scattered like marbles from a shooter. The Smiths had built a damned good derby car. That sucker was still rolling and finally crashed into Louise’s wooden flagpole. Ripped up a good piece of land, too.

  While Chester and Senior pulled apart their wives, Louise wiggled free. She ran across the street, her sandals flapping with each step. She pushed through the crowd to yank a dizzy Nicky out of her winning car.

  “If your mother won’t teach you how to be a lady, I will!” She swatted her hand on Nicky’s bottom.

  “Mom!” Maizie grabbed her hand.

  “It’s Nicky. I’m telling you this isn’t Jackson Frost, it’s Nicky.” Louise grabbed Nicky’s goggles. The child jerked her head away, and the goggles snapped back on her face. “It is Nicky.” Maizie’s jaw dropped. Nicky removed her goggles. “I won!”

  Billy, Vaughn, Doak, and their friends laughed, and Billy put Nicky up on his shoulders.

  The announcer, apprised of the mess, droned, “We have a disqualification in the third heat. That winner is Roger Davis.”

  “I won!” Nicky screamed, now standing on Billy’s shoulders. “I won!”

  Juts, dragged across the road by Chester and Pearlie, was cussing a blue streak. At the sight of Nicky she clapped her hands. “I knew you could do it.”

  “They’ve taken the race from her.” Louise spat out the words.

  “I don’t care. She won and everyone saw her win. That’s what matters.”

  “You’re going to spoil that child. She can’t go about thinking she can do whatever she wants.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Trumbull.” Extra Billy always called his mother-in-law Mrs. Trumbull. “Give the kid credit for guts.”

  “And breaking the rules!” Louise’s face was mottled.

  “Who cares?” Juts, really happy that Nicky had won and satisfied that she had finally laid into that goddamned Trudy Epstein, felt expansive.

  “She’s made a fool of herself,” Louise said.

  “Better she do it than someone does it for her,” Juts replied.

  “This child has enough to contend with in life without you egging her on. You don’t have any more sense than God gave a goose.”

  A little wire snapped in Juts’s mind on that one. “As I recall, Louise, you are the last person who should be talking about geese.”

  Fear washed over Louise, who shouted, “Loose lips!” but Juts rolled on. “Hey, everyone, hey, remember the air raid? It was Canadian geese. Louise blew the siren on Canadian geese and swore me to secrecy. So how about that, Sister, for breaking the rules? You do it, too!”

  Louise’s goose was cooked.

  The riot after that disclosure exceeded the fracas at the finish line. Not only did the story make the Clarion, but so did a photo of the battling Hunsenmeirs. Popeye struck again!

  82

  Ever the drama queen, Louise wore a black veil for two weeks following the Fourth of July revelation. Everyone knew who she was.

  Caesura Frothingham, ancient now, declared the veil was a big improvement. Noe Mojo suggested Louise was in mourning.

  Juts, thinking at first that blame would bypass her, discovered it was so delicious a taste in the mouth that people were thrilled to give her some, too.

  Orrie Tadia Mojo shook her finger in Juts’s face and said she had betrayed her sister. Juts snapped right back at her that since Orrie was Louise’s best friend, she didn’t expect Orrie to give her a fair shake.

  Ev Most, back from yet another of her trips, stuck up for Juts although she told her husband that being Julia’s friend could be exhausting.

  Mother Smith wrote a letter to the editor of the Trumpet criticizing public officials who cry wolf. She cited the county commissioner for York County, on the Pennsylvania side, but all of Runnymede knew she meant Louise and Juts.

  This stung Cora, who dictated a letter written by Juts to the editor of the Clarion. She said, “Josephine Smith is full of shit.”

  Walter Falkenroth called Cora and suggested she reword her letter. Ramelle, with a cooler head, helped her so that the letter appeared the day following Josephine’s attack.

  It read, “Louise Trumbull and Julia Ellen Smith made a mistake
. We’re glad those weren’t German planes.”

  The next day a letter appeared from Juts in which she said, “Louise screwed up. I covered up. At least we had some excitement.”

  Louise then pitched a major hissy in print. The Maryland residents sent their responses to the Maryland paper, which bumped up circulation. Louise’s detailed reply had to be cut to two paragraphs. The last line read, “I would die for my country.”

  Wags at the barbershop commented she might have to.

  The Curl ‘n’ Twirl nearly combusted from the gossip concerning the sisters plus the latest on the arson: O.B. had denied setting fire to the warehouse and had hired expensive Edgar Frost to defend him. People figured the money came from old Julius Rife.

  Vaughn asked Maizie to marry him, but in the volcanic atmosphere they decided to wait before announcing it publicly. Even Louise didn’t know.

  Cora quietly told her children that if they didn’t hang together they would hang separately. So both sisters, tied at the ankles by Cora, sat down at her kitchen table and wrote yet another letter to the Clarion. This time they apologized for any inconvenience they might have caused the citizens of Runnymede.

  After they signed the document, Cora released them.

  Sullenly they sat at the table.

  “Girls, you try the patience of all the living saints.”

  “I would have gone to my grave with our secret.” Louise touched the small gold cross hanging around her neck.

  “By the time you get ready to die, Wheezie, you’ll be so old you’ll have forgotten everything. Only the good die young.”

  Louise entreated her mother, standing over both of them. “See, she’s so smart. Always a comeback. I hate her.”

  “You started it.”

  “I did not.”

  “Louise, you are fifty-one years old—”

  “Mother!” Louise wailed.

  “Julia, you’re forty-seven yourself now. This is no way to behave.”

  “I told her not to put Nicky in the Soap Box Derby. You try and talk to her. She won’t listen,” Louise wailed.