“Yes, I know that but I was thinking he might say that he just turned forty-seven.” That was laying it on a little thick.
“Bless you, Mrs. Smith, and please call me Ed.”
“And you’ll call me Juts, of course.”
“Give it a little time, Ed, and you’ll call her plenty else,” Louise dug.
“I hope so.” Mother glowed.
No matter how many times I watched my mother cast her net over a man she found attractive, it fascinated me. Sometimes I thought it was the mongoose and the cobra. Other times I thought it was her wacky humor. You never knew what Julia would do or say. I’d known her from the cradle and I still couldn’t tell you which way she’d cut. The hair, for instance. She fooled me with the magenta streaks.
Mr. Pierre was on my wavelength. He whispered to me: “There goes another one.”
“What’d you say?” Louise’s eyebrows came to a point over her nose.
“That I wished I were in Geneva tonight.” Mr. Pierre dabbed number seventeen, which Mutzi had called out. “Finally! I’ve been sitting here with a nude card.”
“What’s in Geneva?”Wheezie asked.
“They are auctioning off the Duchess of Windsor’s jewelry,” Mr. Pierre answered.
“Were you going to buy something for me?” Louise was the coquette.
“No, I thought I’d wear it myself. Just a simple tiara with diamond drop earrings.” Mr. Pierre’s eyes danced.
Ed started to laugh. A shadow of fear raced across Louise’s face. She was sitting opposite two queers. What would Ed think?
“We nourish our eccentrics. Sometime I must tell you about Celeste Chalfonte, who died on Nickel’s birthday, November twenty-eighth.” Mother dabbed a number.
“He doesn’t want to hear about Celeste.” Louise was close to an inside picture frame.
“Oh, I’d like to know everything about you two beautiful ladies and about Runnymede too,” Ed gallantly offered.
“We operate on the principle that boredom corrupts,” I piped up.
“Number twenty-three for thee-e and me-e-e.” Mutzi was singing again and smacking at Pewter, who was fishing in the glass cage because Mutzi took the top off.
I continued, “See, people think that drugs are the sorrow of America, or drink, or … well, take your pick.”
“Where do I start?” Ed smiled at me. I was beginning to like him.
“I think people get into trouble when they’re bored. The mind needs problems and puzzles and issues. If someone lets his mind go, he’ll get into trouble.” I noticed Mother’s bosoms seemed a bit large. I’d noticed that when I picked her up but then I thought it might be the cut of her dress. Now upon further study I decided it wasn’t just illusion. They were bigger.
“We are never bored in Runnymede.” Mr. Pierre picked up the conversation. “Although I’m not sure our stimulation, as Nickel would wish, is intellectual. Sometimes our stimulation is pure D spite.” He was skating close to the edge.
“We have our fair share of that in Birmingham.”
“Bingo!” Louise’s hand shot up.
The sullen Peepbean, Mutzi’s lieutenant, came over and counted Louise’s numbers. “A winner.” “Goody, goody. What do I get?”
“Twenty-five dollars.” Mutzi rang a big cowbell. “Nickel.”
“What?”
“Get Pewter.”
“How come you’ve got the top off the ball machine?” “Because the feed isn’t working right so I’ve got to reach in and get the balls.”
“All right.” I picked up Pewter, who grumbled furiously. “This’ll shut her up.” Verna brought out some baloney. Pewter accepted this.
Decca, the smallest BonBon, watched the cat eat the baloney and then tried to eat her own sandwich without hands. Verna gave her a light smack. “No fressen.”
In Runnymede, “fressen” meant to eat like an animal. Maybe it meant that in other parts of the country, too, but I’d never heard the word in my travels. Decca knew what it meant because she stopped. Georgette, next to her youngest sister, young enough to be her own child, wiped Decca’s mouth with a napkin.
Mother pulled out another bingo card. “Ed, one time when Nickel was a little girl she behaved very badly. She still behaves badly but I can’t do anything about it now. I told her she was a little animal and I put her food in the dog bowl and made her eat it on the floor just like a dog. She didn’t give me any trouble for a few weeks after that.”
I laughed. “Mr. Walters, she was a witchy mother.”
“You turned out all right,” Ed complimented me.
“You don’t know the half of it.” Louise was really working on my mood.
Mutzi raised his hands. “Okay, we’re doing a regular game of bingo. Regular game. And I want you to know that if we keep doing as well as we’ve been doing, we can play blackout bingo in a couple of weeks.”
“This sounds like fun.” Mr. Pierre brought back drinks from the bar for everyone.
“Now pay attention. We’re putting up a sample on the board here. Peepbean!”
“Huh?” Peepbean hadn’t been paying attention.
Mutzi said in a nice voice, “Put up the blackout sheet.”
“Oh.”
The blackout sheet was a special four cards printed on one sheet of paper. You paid for four cards. A regular bingo card cost one or two dollars depending on the game but the blackout sheet was going to cost us eight dollars. The pot would depend on how many people showed up. The limit was one blackout sheet to a player per blackout game. This differed sharply from our regular games where you could play as many cards as you wanted. Verna built herself a little shelf to hold her cards upright so she could keep track of them and she could play up to ten at a time. Mutzi kept explaining to us that all twenty-five numbers on one of the cards had to be blacked out, or called. The pot was also determined by how many numbers it took to get the blackout. So if fewer than fifty-five numbers were called, the pot would be pretty big, a couple thousand dollars on a big weekend. If more than fifty-five numbers were called, the pot was reduced.
Half the proceeds of every pot went to Saint Rose of Lima. Without the income the church couldn’t have continued its Meals on Wheels for the shut-ins and elderly. And the church was in constant need of renovation. The first part of Saint Rose’s had been built in 1680. The only church older was Christ Lutheran Church on Emmitsburg Pike right off the Square. As the Germans came here first, they built a church before anyone else. The cornerstone was laid in 1662. Saint Paul’s Episcopal, catty-cornered from Saint Rose’s, wasn’t established until 1707. They made up for being Johnny-come-lately by being richer than the rest of us. The Chalfontes, Rifes, and Yosts endowed Saint Paul’s. Bingo endowed Saint Rose’s. Christ Lutheran missed the boat and kept mounting funding drives which exhausted its membership, of which I was one. We’d have been better off with gambling. I was in favor of craps myself, but the pastor frowned upon my idea. Actually, the pastor frowned upon me. I tried not to let it interfere with my sporadic attendance.
“Peepbean will pass out blackout sheets so you can study them at home and get the idea. We’ll have a dry run in a couple of weeks and see how we do.” Mutzi cranked up the Ping-Pong ball machine again.
“Do you get it?” Mr. Pierre inquired of me.
“Kind of.”
Louise was turning puce-faced as Mother wove her web around Ed. Bingo couldn’t end soon enough for me. I wanted no part of a fight tonight. I was exhausted. The Clarion sale preyed on my mind more than I realized. When Mutzi banged the cowbell to close the evening I could feel the tension ebb out between my shoulder blades. We’d made it. Mr. Pierre seemed relieved too.
Mother invited me in for a late-night snack. That meant a hot fudge sundae with pretzels. I can’t eat late at night or I have nightmares, but I came in anyway and watched her devour a monstrous sundae. I had a cup of Sleepytime tea while an ecstatic Goodyear played with Lolly. Pewter ignored the dogs.
“He’ll call me
before Wednesday. Want to bet on it?”
“I’m not betting with you, Mom.”
“Where’s your sporting blood?”
“Any woman who’s trying to buy a newspaper and makes twenty-four thousand dollars a year has sporting blood.”
“Mmm.” She licked the last heaping mound of fudge off her spoon. “Whenever I have religious doubts I remember the hot fudge sundae.” She leaned back in her chair. “There’s something I want to get off my chest.” She reached in her bra, pulled out her falsies, and threw them on the floor. She whooped with laughter. So did I.
“I thought you looked packed.”
“I want Ed Tutweiler Walters to ask me out. Better a girl has tits than brains, because boys see better than they think.”
11
LOUISE MUSCLES NICKEL
SATURDAY … 4 APRIL
Bright but cool, the morning invigorated me. I was awake at six-thirty, fed the animals, and endured a fit of home improvement. I painted the kickboards on my stairwell white. Sometime during World War I the stairs themselves had been painted sky-blue by Cora. I kept them sky-blue. Then I really lost my head and painted the baseboards and quarter-rounds in the kitchen. By now it was nine A. M. and I figured I’d buzz by the Clarion before going to the stable. Roger Davis had weekend duty this week and I thought I’d pop in and see if he needed any help.
It turned out he didn’t but I did. When I got to the Clarion office Roger was embroiled in a huge discussion about the Homearama ad placed by one of our odious local developers. This commercial worthy paid for an Easter insert. The layout, color, and copy were terrific. What Nils Nordness wanted now were little Easter bunnies on the corners of the pages. I winked at Roger and he winked back.
Bucky Nordness, Nils’s brother, sauntered through the door. Bucky, North Runnymede’s chief of police, painted little cars on his fender—like notches on a gun. This was Bucky’s idea of humor. His other peculiarity was that he was much given to conspiracy theories.
“Just the woman I wanted to see.”
“Hello, Bucky. What can we do for you?”
“I’m investigating a weapons incident of March twenty-seventh. That’s Friday a week ago at Saint Rose of Lima’s.”
“Someone steal the collection plate?” I hadn’t heard about it.
“I have it from a reliable source that Mutzi Elliott threatened your mother and aunt with a thirty-eight.”
“Oh, that.” I’d completely forgotten. “Bucky, he didn’t really brandish the gun. He only displayed it.”
“I’ve warned him before about that thing.”
“Mutzi has a permit. He’s very responsible. Besides that, he was a marksman in the Korean War, so he knows what he’s doing.”
“He shouldn’t oughta have it.” Bucky shifted his weight. “I know he’s got a permit but the way you all carry on over there, someone’s liable to get hurt.”
“Have you talked to Mutzi?”
“Yes, I have. He was not cooperative.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Actually, I was thrilled to hear it. Mutzi probably wanted to wrap a string tie around Bucky’s neck and slide the clasp up until his eyes bugged out.
“The pots are getting larger and we’re going to have a giant one for blackout bingo. It’s not such a bad idea for Mutzi to be armed.”
This didn’t go down well with Bucky. After giving me a lecture on the use of firearms and what might happen if they fell into the wrong hands, he wanted to know about blackout bingo. I told him what I could. He allowed as how he’d better be there for that game and I, lying, said that was a wonderful idea. Why, he might even win. Then I tactfully suggested that he drop his inquiry lest Saint Rose of Lima’s suffer undue embarrassment. He grunted and went over to Nils. I left for the stables. Regina wasn’t there, so I drove over to the club.
The club’s proper name is South Runnymede Tennis and Racquet Club. There aren’t enough people here with money to pay for a golf course but we have a lively group of tennis, squash, and platform-tennis players. The real country club, Willow Bend, is north of town. They’ve got a beautiful eighteen-hole golf course, an Olympic-size pool, and composition tennis courts. However, we’ve got true red clay courts—twelve—and two grass courts, so people who care for the old game come to South Runnymede Tennis and Racquet. We’ve also got two outdoor and four indoor squash courts. Indoor squash and fox-hunting keep us sane in the winters, which seem to be getting worse or else I’m minding them more.
Each clay court is divided from every other court by lovely boxwoods. Every court is also fenced, and great tubs of geraniums and petunias blossom during the summer. The little clubhouse, a cottage really, contains bathrooms, a Coke machine, and a pro shop. Adirondack chairs with cushions dot the outside of the court areas and the grass courts have bleachers surrounding them. Court one, of the clay courts, also has bleachers. Because of the grass courts, fine players from Maryland and Pennsylvania make their way to South Runnymede T & R. During the peak of the season, competition can be fierce, with Jackson usually triumphant, especially on grass.
South Runnymede High practices at T & R. I was captain of the team my junior and senior years in high school, and occasionally when a coach cannot be found within the school, I am pressed into service. North Runnymede High, called The Other Runnymede High by us, practices at Willow Bend, which means they can’t do jack shit on clay. We contrive to play them at T & R but last year the heads of the athletic department put their empty heads together and decided to rotate the matches. Since The Other Runnymede High, colors blue and white, is in another state, these matches are off the books. We do it with football, baseball, basketball, every sport. It’s important to win state in your division but victory means we beat North Runnymede. When I was captain we not only beat them, we annihilated them. How could we lose? Regina and I were number one doubles, I was one singles, she was two. Ursie was three singles and she would have played one at any other school. So it went. Regina and I will occasionally wear our black letter sweaters with our orange “R” in the center to matches against Lodi Spangler and Frances Finster, the reigning queens over at Willow Bend and before that at North Runnymede.
Many times I would find myself lingering at the club or driving by at sunrise. Perhaps that was because it never changed, while we changed constantly even if we didn’t know it. Or maybe some of us changed and others stayed the same. I was never quite sure, because a person can change inside and if there is no external manifestation, how would I know? Perhaps it was enough that I was changing. I was beginning to measure my life, because now I knew there was an end point to it and I didn’t want to waste my time. As Charles Falkenroth was ready to retire (even though I still didn’t believe it), I was getting ready for more responsibility, for more power in my community. I liked the feeling.
Regina and I finished three sets. We were both terrible, as it was the first time we’d hit since November. As we walked back to the clubhouse I heard a familiar screech. Aunt Wheeze shot up the hill, caromed into the parking lot, and nearly sideswiped Diz Rife’s Aston-Martin Volante. He must have driven in while Regina and I were playing. Normally discreet when it came to his millions, Diz lost his restraint with cars. Louise slammed the door of her Chrysler and inspected the Volante.
“Aunt Wheeze, what are you doing here?”
Regina whispered in my ear: “I’m going in for a Coke. See you later.”
Louise continued to examine the car. “I like this. I could drive this and be happy.”
“For one hundred and forty thousand dollars you should be very happy.”
Her curiosity changed to reverence. “That’s worth more than my house!”
“Mine too.”
“I want to talk to you.”
We sat on a bench on one side of a clay court. Behind me I could hear hitting, grunting, and the familiar sound of tennis shoes sliding on clay.
Aunt Louise wasted no time. “I don’t want you saying anything to Ed Tutweiler Walters about your
carryings-on with women.”
If only I had someone to carry on with. If only I had done everything I was accused of doing!
“I’m not going to bring up the subject, Aunt Wheeze. But I’m sure one of the multitudinous BonBons has told him.”
“Verna wouldn’t talk about something like that.”
“Someone will.”
“Well, I don’t want it to be you.” Her voice rose. “This was a respectable family until you came into it.”
“You, of course, walk on water.” I knew she was an old lady but sometimes Wheezie could get my goat.
“That’s another thing. I overheard you making fun of the Pope’s bull about Mary. I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. You aren’t Catholic and you don’t know what Mary means.”
“I do know what Mary means. I read the encyclical when it came over the wire. John Paul referred to her as the ‘common mother,’ he reinforced the concept of the immaculate conception and the virgin birth, and he stated that when Mary died she was taken up into heaven so her body wouldn’t be committed to earth. I also know it was another way to keep women from being ordained.”
Louise cast a cold stare. “You’re sacrilegious.”
“Why? Just because I happen to think Jews invented guilt and Christians refined it?”
“Are you telling me you don’t believe in Jesus?” Her lips compressed.
“No. I never said that.”
“Good. These are craven times.”
“ Yeah, well, Americans want a Jesus who doesn’t suffer, much less die. He should have bright white teeth, smile a lot, and say, ‘Go for it.’ Also, he shouldn’t look Jewish.”
This stopped her for a moment. “You are sacrilegious.” She took a new tack. “And I don’t appreciate you talking my impressionable sister into that ridiculous hairdo. Purple hair!”
“Magenta.”
“Never heard of that color.”
“Like a deep, hot purple-pink.”
“Oh.” Wheeze crossed her legs. She was wearing support hose today. “I don’t care what you call it. You stop putting her up to things. She’s too old for that stuff.”
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