I turned from the phone. “Lolly, Grandma forgives you.” Lolly couldn’t have cared less. “She knows.”
“Good. After all, the dog was only doing her duty. How’s Kenny?”
“Kenny’s fine.… Did you call Mutzi Elliott to apologize?”
“I called Mutzi but certainly not to apologize, since I didn’t start it. Anyway, I volunteered to come in an hour early next Friday to set up, and I volunteered you too.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“Well, you don’t have anything else to do—unless you’ve fallen in love.”
“Very funny.”
“I wish you’d meet a nice person. I hate to think of you alone—especially when I’m gone.”
“You’re going to live forever.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Mom sighed. “Honey, it took me a long time to understand this gay business but I do, kinda. I don’t see that it’s any different than what your father and I had, only you have it with a woman.”
It’s funny about Mother. She can be a self-centered bitch and then there are times when she’s so sweet. “You’re right but you can’t invent love, Mother. It’s a gift from God.”
“If you want to buy the Clarion, I want to help, but maybe you ought to get out of this rinky-dink town. Your chances of finding a mate are better if you go to a big city. Baltimore’s not so bad and they’ve got the Orioles. You love the Orioles.”
“What would you do without me?” My voice had a teasing tone.
“Find somebody new to play gin with.”
“Nobody will play with you anymore because you win all the time.”
She was silent on the line for a bit. “I hope you’re not staying here to take care of me. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m here because I love Runnymede—and I love you.”
“Don’t get mushy, Nicole. I can’t stand it when you get mushy.” She inhaled deeply and I knew she had a Chesterfield in her hand. After she swore she’d given up smoking too. “If you do find someone, go. No woman is going to come here to live with you. There aren’t enough jobs and the town’s tolerant but maybe they’re tolerant because they don’t have to face you having someone. Know what I mean? If you live with another woman, then it’s real. As long as you’re single it’s an idea. They can think of you as an eccentric—which you are.” She giggled.
“You really think our people are that petty?”
“Hell, yes! I’ve lived here since 1905 and we redefined the word petty.”
“I don’t know what to say. Anyway, it’s an academic discussion because I’m alone, but if I find someone, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Good. I’d die if Wheezie found out first.” She took another drag and I was about to yell at her but thought better of it. Her lungs had lasted this long. “Love is all there is. Don’t be one of those people who has to think about it. Go with your heart. Who cares if you look a fool? Better to make a fool of yourself than have someone else do it for you.”
“Mother, how come you’re on this love kick?”
“My mind inclined that way today. Well, I’ve got worms to turn and eggs to lay so I’m hanging up. Supper here tomorrow. What do you want?”
“Fried chicken and greens with fatback.”
“You got it, and don’t forget we go to bingo an hour early next Friday.”
“I won’t.”
“Bye-bye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up the phone and was engulfed in a wave of guilt. How was I going to explain Jackson Frost to her? If the Fates were kind, she’d never find out. Maybe the Fates were a grand excuse too. I didn’t need the Fates to destroy me or to make me. I could do it myself.
The afternoon sun died on the windowsill, leaving remains in Pewter’s dark gray fur. She stretched and came over for a scratch. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it at the time—I guess I was too wound up over the Clarion—but in looking back I realize why Mother was talking about love. She’d fallen in love at first sight with Ed Tutweiler Walters.
6
HAIR-DO CITY
MONDAY … 30 MARCH
The Curl ’n Twirl reposed on the northeastern side of the Square. It was next to the Masonic Lodge, which sat on the corner of Baltimore Street. On the other side of the Curl ’n Twirl was Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church. The whole north side of the Square was spiffy and bright except for the defunct Bon Ton Department Store abandoned on the valuable Hanover Street corner. Mr. Pierre grexed and groaned about Pennsylvania taxes, which were worse than Maryland taxes, although that’s not saying much. However, few buildings came up for rent on the Square, so when the old Lansburg Dress Shop folded in 1957, Mr. Pierre and Bob Howard, his lover and partner, were shrewd enough to grab it. We all wondered if Mr. Pierre would be able to carry on after Bob died, but he persevered and the hair salon flourished.
In part it flourished because Mr. Pierre treated every customer as an honored guest, and in part it flourished because he shrewdly made the place exciting. Every five years he suffered a spasm of redecoration. He consumed Architectural Digest, House and Garden, and design magazines from Italy and France. Last year he went all-out and revamped the place. Shining high-tech, it sported a thin band of purple neon which ran around the top of the wall where molding would be. The floors were sleek pearl-gray tiles and the walls were palest pink, very flattering to his clients’ complexions, some of which resembled a road map. Current music piped throughout the place, George Benson, Dave Sanborn, and Al Jarreau. The music was soothing and hip at the same time.
As you entered, you encountered a receptionist behind a curving, glossy counter. The enviable task of being at the center of Runnymede’s female nerve center fell to Verna’s oldest daughter, Georgette. When Georgette was young she used so much spray starch on her hair it looked like lasagna. People swore she would die of scalp infection. Mr. Pierre changed all that, and Georgette’s hair was worn soft and shoulder-length. Georgette, like her mother, was determined to live life as a blonde. A glorious floral arrangement commanded one corner of the counter despite the season. In the bowels of winter, Mr. Pierre could produce calla lillies. He swore he’d die before he revealed his source. It was Millard Huffstetler, Peepbean’s gay uncle and Saint Rose’s business manager, but possession of this secret was so important to Mr. Pierre and I guess to Millard that we let it lie.
I pushed through the door and was awash in the low buzz of neon. Goodyear, a saucy yellow bow on his collar, was flopped in the middle of the room.
“Ma cherie!” Pierre waved. “How’d the interview go at the bank?”
“God, Mom must have blabbed everything.”
“She’s in the back getting her hair washed.”
“Maybe you could hold her under just a tiny bit longer.”
“Quelle honte! Shame on you. Julia’s concerned that you get the paper and I, naturally, agree. You should own the Clarion.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Pierre.”
“I think so too.” Louise’s voice boomed out from the back.
I lowered my voice. “They’re back there at the same time—after Friday night?”
Sotto voce, he answered. “They’re being overpoweringly polite to each other.”
“I don’t like it,” I whispered.
“Neither do I. You remember what happened the last time they were this polite. How Julia talked Jackson Frost into letting her endorse his candidacy for mayor on television I will never, ever know.”
I smiled. “Jackson’s got resonance where his brains should be.”
That was a trifle nasty, because Jackson wasn’t really dumb but he couldn’t resist a woman’s entreaties. And Mother had never lost her ability to wrap men around her little finger. It wasn’t that she did not give a good endorsement, playing her part as an elderly person who would benefit by Jackson’s policies. It was that Louise ran into the midst of the show, loudly refuted her sister, and then wrecked the set. Well, they both wrecked the set. Jackson won in a lan
dslide, probably because he had provided the town with such delicious entertainment. The perversity was that Louise voted for Jackson anyway. Ideology did not motivate my honorable aunt. It was always personal gain or personal animosity and she seethed with animosity because Julia, not her, was chosen for the political endorsement.
Mother emerged from the washroom, her little silver curls hanging limply around her head. Sometimes when the humidity was high it looked as though she had popcorn balls stuck over her head. Louise was on Mom’s heels. Aunt Wheeze went in for the stately image. Her hair, snow-white, was long, and she’d piled it up on her head like a Gibson girl. Her hair was gorgeous and it nicely framed her face when she wore a bun on the top like that. Both sisters had lustrous gray eyes, astonishing eyes. Mother had a fuller mouth but Louise had a better chin. Of course, now she had many chins.
“What happened?” Mother clambered up on the chair.
Before I could answer she made Mr. Pierre raise and lower the chair. She enjoyed the ride. Louise, more gracefully, positioned herself in the chair next to Juts. The two eyed each other in the mirror.
I walked between them and leaned against the counter so they’d have to focus on me, not on each other. Mr. Pierre skillfully began working on Mother’s head while Kim Spangler, of the poor branch of the Spangler clan, came out from the back. She did the washing and gave Louise a head massage. The entire town knew of Friday’s skirmish and everyone was humoring the Hunsenmeir girls.
“Charles came with me. I talked for about a half hour to Foster Adams and then I presented my financial statement.”
“Did he say anything?” Wheezie’s eyes were closed in pleasure.
“Bankers,” Mr. Pierre sighed.
“He was friendly—”
Mother interrupted. “Of course he’s friendly. He’s known you since you were born.”
“He’s going to review my statement. He knows Charles is behind me, although Charles is free to keep talking to the other companies. It’s a lot of money for him. Anyway, I’ll know soon.”
“I don’t think he has any real power,” Mother said.
Louise’s eyes opened wide. “He’s the president of the bank. That’s power.”
“That used to be power.” Mother was smug. “When Runnymede Bank and Trust was bought up by Chesapeake-Potomac Bank he became a cog in a big wheel.”
“He knows us better than some college-educated ass in Baltimore.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Mother replied, “but I don’t think he can approve a loan all by himself.”
“You might be right but he’s got some discretion.”
“When you get the paper, Nickel, I’ve been thinking about a column. You know, something with local color.” Wheezie’s eyes brightened. “I’ll call it ‘Was My Face Red’ and I’ll put in there all the gossip of the town. You know, a kind of Cholly Knickerbocker of Runnymede. I know everybody and I’ll get the truth. Or maybe I’ll write about Runnymede the way it used to be. The good old days.”
Mother turned her head to gaze directly at Louise, swooning in her literary rapture. “You can barely sign your name, much less write a column.”
“Don’t be nasty, Julia. I hate it when you’re nasty. You know perfectly well I made A’s in English and Miss Kunstler told Mother I was a star pupil.”
Juts swiveled in her chair without Mr. Pierre’s help. He stopped working on her. I caught a glimpse of the dreaded Chesterfield pack in her voluminous purse. So it wasn’t just a puff now and then; she was back on hot and heavy. I wondered when she’d break down and smoke one in front of me. I don’t smoke, drink, or take drugs, which makes me an oddity in Runnymede, possibly in America. I lashed Mother daily on the subject of tar, nicotine, and bad teeth until she gave in and stopped smoking. That was my Christmas present from her. That and a quilt, blue and white, that my great-grandmother had made way back in 1892. Mother’s curls were beginning to puff up. She looked like a silver poodle.
“Miss Kunstler was scared to death of you because you threw a fake epileptic fit when you didn’t know the difference between a noun and a verb.”
Louise smiled. Normally she’d tear off Mom’s head but her self-control was remarkable. “Who told you such a fib?”
“Orrie Tadia, your very best friend.” Mother emphasized “very best friend.”
“Julia, turn around. If your hair dries any more I won’t be able to do a thing with it,” Mr. Pierre fussed. Her vanity got the better of her anger and she obeyed.
“Orrie has imagination,” came the weak retort.
“Well, I do wish she’d get back from Fort Lauderdale. Why she goes there with all that riffraff I’ll never know. It’s not like it used to be.”
“Nothing is like it used to be.” Mr. Pierre’s hands wrapped the curls into perfect shape.
“Mom and Wheezie are the same.” I noticed in the mirror on the other side of the room that my hair could stand a trim too.
“Not the same. Older,” Mother said.
“If I had known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.” Louise gave a fake sigh.
“Darling, you look divine.” Mr. Pierre meant it.
“Yeah, not a day over one hundred.”
“Oh, Julia, you can be so childish sometimes.”
“Is that so? Well, if you’re so smart, tell me what is the difference between a noun and a verb?”
Louise paused. “Don’t you know?”
“I asked you.”
Wheezie took a deep breath, Our Lady of the Significant Sighs, and shook her hair out. “Whenever you’re not the center of attention, Julia dear, you try and make me look stupid.”
Mother let fly. “That’s not hard.”
Louise smiled a superior smile. “I think it’s wonderful that you don’t act the way you dress.”
Mr. Pierre groaned. Georgette sat still, waiting. Kim discreetly took the scissors off the counter.
“I knew you didn’t know the difference. You still haven’t told me the difference between a verb and a noun.” Mother was smug again and determined to keep her temper.
“Then you tell me, Smartass—Dungdot—Aspirinface!”
“Girls!” Mr. Pierre chided.
“I’ll tell you.” I stepped in.
“I don’t want you to tell me and I don’t care. What I want is my own column and I can write. So there. It’s the least you can do for your beloved aunt.”
“Ha” was all Mother said.
“If I am able to purchase the paper, Aunt Wheezie, I’ll think about it. You do have the best sources of anyone I know.” I hastened to add, “You and Mother.”
“Julia is well connected.” Louise returned to icy politeness again.
I don’t know why it made me so uncomfortable. She must have been holding out on us.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you all later.” I headed for the door.
Louise called out in a voice so sweet it dripped. “I won’t see you for dinner tonight, Nickel. I’ve got a date with Ed Tutweiler Walters.”
I stopped, turned around, and said, “You work fast, don’t you?” I was smiling.
Mother was not.
What a relief to get out of the Curl ’n Twirl. After that bomb, and didn’t Louise know just when to drop it, there would be nuclear silence in there.
I bumped into Diz Rife.
“Why, hello.” His deep-brown eyes peered into mine.
“Diz, I thought you were in New York.”
“Just got back. I hear you’re trying to buy the Clarion too.”
“Don’t forget the Thurston Group.”
“Formidable opponents.” Diz’s coat was vicuña. It must have cost as much as a Volkswagen.
“I guess.”
“You headed back to the office?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I walk you there?”
“No.”
As it was only four doors away it wasn’t a long walk but Diz would take
any opportunity to talk to me. He’d been that way since we were kids. The family sent him to public school up until ninth grade and then he was packed off to Exeter while his two sisters, Portia and Lucretia, were sentenced to Miss Porter’s. After Exeter, Diz attended Princeton and distinguished himself academically and athletically. He got his MBA from New York University.
The family had come a long way since the strong-arm days of Brutus Rife, Diz’s late unlamented great-grandfather. Mother and Louise said that Disraeli was the spitting image of Brutus. Still, it’s hard to relax or trust someone who can buy and sell the whole town. It was true I didn’t hold Diz responsible for the phenomenal greed and illegal tactics of his forebears. But whatever the reason, he made me edgy.
“How’s Liz?”
Diz and Liz, the beautiful couple of Runnymede. They’d been married for eleven years. Liz had a vast jewelry collection given to her by various admirers and corporate presidents. She was not loath to show it off. Those two didn’t get married so much as they endured a merger. Liz’s family, the Van der Lindes, invested in Fulton’s steamship line. They’d been making money ever since. It was, as all the papers said at the time, “a brilliant match.” Diz spoke of his wife only in formulaic terms. He never hinted at any problem, but then why would he say it to me? Apparently he never said anything to anybody.
“Liz is fine. She’s chairman of the heart fund this year and throwing herself into it. What have you been doing—aside from trying to buy the paper?”
“Playing bingo.”
“Heard about Friday night’s game.”
“Oh—after my meeting with Foster Adams, I interviewed the manager and employees of your very own canning plant.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Two cans exploded.”
He laughed. “Vegetarian terrorists.”
“I don’t think the two cans were sealed properly but when you consider how many cans that place turns out it’s a wonder more don’t blow up. At any rate, you’ll feel the waves after tomorrow morning, and the health inspector will probably make a call on your manager.”
“Thanks for the news.” He stopped at the door to the Clarion. “Nickel, why do you want this paper?”
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