“She’s not too old for anything. And you know as well as I do that no one on this earth can talk Julia Ellen Hunsenmeir into anything.”
“You always take her part!”
“She’s my mother. What do you expect?”
“She raised you. She’s not your mother.”
“She’s the only mother I’ve ever known.”
“Well, sometimes I wish we could find the real one so she could take you back! Now I don’t want you ruining my romance, you hear me?”
“I’m not saying anything about anything.”
She stood up to leave. “Don’t forget my column either. If you get the paper.”
“What did you want to call it?”
“Golden Memories. Silver Thoughts.”
“I thought you were going to write a column of social embarrassments called ‘Was My Face Red.’ ”
“I want to do something with class,” she replied.
“You?”
“You’re such a smartypants. Since you were tiny.” With that parting shot she walked over to her car, got in, and once again endangered the citizens of our fair town. Even mad she was a lady. She wouldn’t call me a smartass.
I sat there feeling as if my psychological carburetor needed repair. I didn’t notice Diz until he sat down on the bench next to me. He was wearing a Fila warm-up suit. In cold weather I played in gray sweatpants and sweatshirt. Those fancy suits like Fila and Ellesse cost two hundred to three hundred dollars. I can eat for a month on that.
Diz twirled his racquet.
“Nice warm-up,” I said.
“Thanks. Bought it in New York. Nice sweatsuit.” Diz smiled. “I think it’s the same one you wore in high school.”
“A descendant.” I laughed.
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” His voice lowered.
“Of my sweatsuit?”
“Of Louise, of Juts, of everyone reminding you—”
“Oh, that. Goes in one ear and out the other. Anyway, I remind myself that Moses was found in the bullrushes. I think I was just found in the bull.”
Diz laughed. “Don’t go on any mountaintops.”
“I promise. How’s your game?”
“Getting better. Yours?”
“Rusty.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing. I was in the next court. I hope you don’t think I’m rude,” he apologized, returning to our former subject.
“Actually, I can’t recall one time that you have ever been rude, even when you were a boy.”
“I must be doing something wrong.”
Since he was being honest with me, I thought I’d be honest with him. “You’ve always been under scrutiny, under pressure. Thank God you do have impeccable manners.”
“Got to make up for my bandit ancestors. You don’t know how lucky you are, Nickel, not knowing your people.”
“Yeah, you might be right.”
“Did it ever occur to you that we’re the two most misunderstood people in Runnymede?”
12
NICKEL MAKES A PROMISE TO MR. PIERRE
SUNDAY … 5 APRIL
What’d you say?” Mr. Pierre was breathless with anticipation.
“ ‘No. I never thought of that.’ That’s what I said.”
Having finished my story about Louise, Diz, and tennis, I grabbed another crème caramel. Tea with Mr. Pierre sent shivers of delight down my spine. Cooking was his third-favorite pastime, after gossip and decorating.
This Sunday afternoon, cozily protected from the drizzle, the two of us chatted. Lolly and Pewter slept at our feet. Usually tea meant the gang at the Curl ’n Twirl plus whomever else Mr. Pierre found amusing that week. He kept a hit list and a shit list. Once even I plummeted to his shit list, barred from tea for a month. I remember it well because I’d come home from my first semester at college and used “fucking” in every other sentence. The praise word was “far-fucking out.” Mr. Pierre steamed with indignation. Mother refused to talk to me but he tore into me. First he said it was plain rude. Second, he said it bespoke a paucity of imagination. The English language contains the largest word pool in the world. If a person can’t find the correct word, then that person is a dolt, lazy, and not fit for society. One should seek to be amusing in one’s speech and if one cannot be amusing—after all, not everyone is entertaining—then one can at least be accurate. Further, he blasted me about invoking a word for the sex act which cheapened the user and the sex act. By the time he was finished I agreed with him but I was eighteen and refused to give in. I defiantly stalked out. I soon altered my ridiculous posture. Living without tea and Mr. Pierre was like being banished to Siberia.
We oohed and aahed about the jewelry sale wire story which I brought over. Mr. Pierre loved the AP printouts. At the auction, one ring of the Duchess of Windsor’s, a thirty-one carat diamond, was bought by a Japanese dealer for $3.15 million.
“I desperately wanted her flamingo pin,” he sighed. “Flamingoes are in this year.”
“Oh, God, don’t camp it up in front of Ed when we’re at bingo.”
“Louise can’t tell me what to do. I’m not her niece. Jamais! Never. And if he can’t tolerate an old queen, he’s not worth knowing. She’s getting potty about this so-called romance. I think that spending time with Ed Tutweiler W. is a form of sensory deprivation, that’s what I think.”
“He’s the strong silent type.”
“Puleeze. Why does being a man mean not communicating?”
“Maybe he’s shy. What would you do if you were caught between Julia and Louise?”
“Run!” He poured more tea.
The steam curled upward while the logs settled in his art deco fireplace. I felt happy in this house. Upon reflection I realize that I felt loved. He loved me for me, not for services rendered.
“But then, you’re between them every day.”
“Honey, I’m just one of the girls. They’re not going to snatch one another bald over me.”
“If they do, it will be a bad advertisement for the Curl ’n Twirl.”
“Why do you think I’m forever mediating their spats? My business depends upon it.” He laughed and picked out a wicked, tiny toffee cake, bitter chocolate over toffee over a grahamcracker crust. Biting into it, he moaned with pleasure. “Since Bob’s gone, my pleasures have been oral. I must go on a diet. Nickel, you heard it here first. Tomorrow.”
“Let tomorrow take care of itself.” I reached for one too.
“Darling, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I haven’t had any time, that there’s a lady in town who finds you smashing. Yes, that’s the word—smashing.”
“Go on.”
“Don’t believe me?” “Is she under seventy?”
“Yes.”
“Who? Don’t make me guess.”
“It’s more fun if you do.”
“Come on.”
“Regina Frost.” A flicker played on his lips.
“I don’t believe it. She’s like my sister.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a beastly little shit, Nickel.” He said this without rancor.
“Why? What did I do now?”
He played with his teacup. “I wanted to hear what you’d say about Regina. I’m very fond of her. She’s a lovely girl, lovely, except for that glaring eye shadow, and she adores you. Absolutely adores you.”
“Not sexually.”
“No, but as I said, I wanted to hear your response to her.” “Why?” I thought this most peculiar. “Because you’re sleeping with her husband.” I’m a useless liar. No point even trying. “Does anyone else know?”
“What kind of answer is that? No, I’m the only one who knows. Let’s just say some nights I’ve worked late or taken a midnight stroll, and I put two and two together. You’re safe, for now.”
I exhaled audibly.
“It’s wrong,” he continued.
“I know.” The words rolled out of me. “I do know and I hate it but I �
� I don’t know. He makes me happy.”
“He’s the husband of your best friend.”
I astonished myself. I started to cry. Mr. Pierre got up out of his chair and sat next to me on the love seat. He put his arms around me.
“Oh, Mr. Pierre, I feel awful.”
“I know. You’re alone. You’ve been alone for a long time. But this is not right. This isn’t the way.”
“I’d die if Regina found out.”
“True. She might kill you.” He hugged me. “People make mistakes. I myself made such a mistake. That’s why I’m beseeching you to end the relationship before more harm is done. Everyone gets hurt in a situation like this.”
Once I collected myself I promised Mr. Pierre that I would make a clean break with Jackson. Driving home, I told myself it wouldn’t be so bad. Desire would become a memory. After all, I wasn’t going to be ruled by my hormones.
13
HIGH FASHION COMES TO THE CLARION
MONDAY … 6 APRIL
Baseball season opened today. Roger Davis turned in a good piece about Jack Kemp declaring his candidacy for President on the Republican ticket, and Michelle was finishing a snappy follow-up piece on the closing of the Peach Bottom nuclear plant.
The Nuclear Regulatory Commission shut down the plant on March 31 because operators were found sleeping at the controls. Peach Bottom is in Delta, Pennsylvania, safely far away from the northern side of Runnymede. However, when Three Mile Island cooked, Runnymede found itself in the third zone of danger. Since then our readership has wanted to know everything about nuclear plants.
Tonight was the much-ballyhooed Hagler versus Leonard fight. Charles decided to do a column on that himself once he knew the outcome.
Hectic, harried, and hurried, this Monday ran true to form. David Wheeler, our sheriff, rolled in and wanted to know if Bucky Nordness was the biggest douche bag in Runnymede. I said I didn’t know about that but he was having a running fit about Mutzi and the .38. I suggested that David come to bingo on the blackout night. As yet we didn’t have a date but I promised to tell him the minute I knew.
Then I got a brainstorm and assigned the blackout bingo story to Michelle.
“Bingo? You want me to write a color piece on bingo?”
“Yes. I expect the blackout game will be a few weeks off, so you have plenty of time to learn the rules.”
“You give Roger an assignment on the Republican race, and me bingo. That’s sexist.” Her painted fingernails, misty mauve, drummed the corner of my desk.
“I also gave you the Peach Bottom job and that’s hard news.”
“I don’t want fluff pieces.”
“Goddammit, this is a small paper and you’ll take what I give you. Last summer I covered a brush fire near Emmitsburg. You’re no better than I am!” As I didn’t usually get edgy, heads turned.
“All right, all right, but I never heard of anything so low-rent and boring as bingo.”
“I happen to go every Friday night. Do you find me low-rent and boring?” This surprised her and she hesitated. I pressed on. “Taking the fifth? Fine, but I promise you this, blackout bingo isn’t going to be boring. It will be the fattest prize money anyone has ever seen here and”—I paused—“you might even enjoy it. Now get out of my face.”
Michelle, sensitive when it came to herself, withered away. I opened my desk drawer, picked up Isaac’s cherished cigar, had half a mind to smoke it, and put it back. Fate wasn’t with me. Portia Rife, breathing NewYork sophistication and flair, swung open the door. Under her arm rested her portfolio, her huge portfolio. She cheerily smashed it on my desk, making Pewter jump. I shrank under the glare of her fierce insincerity.
“Nicole, precious, it’s been eons.” Portia had the effrontery to kiss both my cheeks.
“How nice to see you,” I flatly fibbed. “How is life north of Forty-second Street?”
Portia’s childhood heroine was Marilyn Monroe. She spoke with a breathy quality that drove me bats. Maybe men like it. She also leaned over me, and as her bosoms were well developed, I was in danger of losing an eye. “What a joy to know someone in Runnymede who’s cosmopolitan.”
Ha. The last thing I was, was cosmopolitan. I was a Maryland small-town hick, albeit a well-educated one.
“You flatter me.”
Damn right she was flattering me. She wanted her photographs in the Lifestyle section. In the bad old days it was called the Women’s Pages. I like that term better. These days it was all style and no life.
Portia flipped open the black portfolio. An array of fuzzy photos greeted me. On some she had superimposed geometric drawings, triangles, trapezoids, in Day-Glo colors. This was high-fashion stuff. I considered giving her an assignment in Nicaragua. And here is a high-fashion corpse and over there is a darling machine gun. I kept my thoughts to myself as she breathed in my right ear. I was certain condensation was forming in there, and if not condensation, then condescension.
Charles hung up the phone and stood up in his office, imploring me with his eyes. The Rifes’ various industries were steady, fat advertisers.
In the middle of an aria about low bodices and high hemlines I capitulated. “Portia, might you leave me these?” I picked out four. “I think the others are very”—I searched—“outré and daring, but you know, sugar, Runnymede is pink and green and Pappagallo.”
Portia stuck her finger in her mouth and mimicked a gag. Michelle’s face registered her feelings. I’d forgotten that Michelle was the preppy queen of the Clarion. Even though she’d pissed me off, sniffing at bingo, I felt bad. Portia never noticed, but then, other people’s feelings were not high on Portia’s list of priorities.
I carefully slid out the least-offensive photographs. “I’ll send you tear sheets.”
“You’re terrific, Nick.” More kisses on the cheek and then she tactfully left us in a cloud of Giorgio, a perfume of suffocating intensity.
Charles sauntered over. He held up the photos. “Give this to Michelle?” he wondered.
“No, I just assigned her blackout bingo.”
Michelle pitched a verbal horseshoe at my head. “Yes, and I’ll wear pink and green and even my Pappagallos.”
“Oh, Michelle, can’t you take a joke?”
“You meant it.”
“Well …” I waffled, then took charge. “Charles, let me do the fashion piece. I’ll make the Rifes happy.”
“Whatever you say.” He returned to his office and shut the door.
Michelle glowered while Roger fought to keep from laughing. He put his feet on his desk, too, so we’d notice his shoes, very sensible ones with thick rubber soles—glamorous combat boots.
The phone rang. Mother. “Guess what?”
“Elizabeth the Second of England called to chew the rag.”
Mother’s voice deepened. “That kind of day?”
“Umm.”
“Get over it! Now listen to my news. Ed asked me out! You owe me a hot fudge sundae.”
“No, I don’t. I didn’t take the bet, remember? You were eating a hot fudge sundae when you wanted to make it.”
“Oh.” She sounded so disappointed.
“Hey, want to meet me at Mojo’s for a hot fudge sundae?”
“Whoopee.” She hung up the phone. She’d put on her lipstick. Throw on her coat. Within five minutes she’d be around the corner at Mojo’s.
“Michelle, hold the fort. I’m meeting my mother. Be at Mojo’s if you want me.”
“I don’t want you,” she half snarled.
“No, but we might need you.” Roger beamed.
“Come on, Pewter.” She jumped into my arms. “You too, Lolly.”
I left the Clarion for Mojo’s with my little family. I even remembered to bring Mother the Orioles’ schedule we’d printed up on heavy paper. Mom turned onto Frederick Road from the opposite direction. Lolly surged forward to greet her and Goodyear. I did too. My spirits were lifting.
I was happy that Mother got her date and I was happy to
see her. When the rest of the world faded to black-and-white, Julia remained in Technicolor.
14
NICKEL BREAKS HER PROMISE
TUESDAY … 7 APRIL
Ray Leonard won the middleweight fight. Charles swooned in his column.
Michelle showed up for work in black Reeboks and jeans. Wisely, I said nothing.
Mother called three times asking me what to wear for her date tomorrow. On the third try she hung up the phone saying,” Why am I asking you? You don’t know anything about clothes, anyway.” As I was scrambling for copy to match Portia’s photographs, I agreed with her. Why were rich women in New York and Los Angeles spending a fortune to look like migrant workers? Obviously, I was ignorant about fashion. From the evidence I wanted to keep it that way.
John Hoffman read the wire stories on the Iran-Contra affair. Conservative though he was, he did not believe in public officials’ violating the law. If you can’t obey the law, then resign your post and work from the outside to change it. I knew his editorial would be a zinger because he was pounding on his IBM like a concert pianist.
Roger leafed through magazines for tidbits. The Clarion would stick pieces of information and funny stories in the odd spaces. Our layout, old-fashioned but quite beautiful, would mark these off with a graceful device, a thin black line with a slender ellipse in the middle of it.
“We ought to run an article on breast-feeding.” Roger held up the article so I could see the photos.
“No,” I replied.
“Why not?” Michelle wanted to know.
“Because breast-feeding is greatly overrated unless you’re over twenty-one.” I couldn’t resist.
Roger whooped.
Michelle blushed crimson.
John stopped flailing away at his typewriter and smiled at me. “At least we have that in common.”
I laughed. John, like so many men, probably entertained lesbian fantasies. He shivered with delight on those occasions when I’d say something outrageous. I myself didn’t think it was a big deal, but then I’ve never thought sex was anything worth getting exercised about. Live and let live.
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