Mother came over. “Are you going to write about it?”
“I’ll use David’s story. I guess that makes me corrupt but Aunt Wheezie’s right. Speaking of which, I was surprised when you said what you did about Oliver North.”
“He’s lying and people think he’s a hero.”
“Wait until he testifies.”
“What difference will it make?”
I said. “Maybe we’ll get the truth.”
“If Oliver North were your friend and told you to write a false story to protect him and you believed in what he was doing—would you?”
“No.”
“You’re doing it for David.” Mother knew how to get me.
“Oh, come on! That’s such a little thing and David would get dragged through the mud. We’re not talking about violating the Constitution or lying to the American people about foreign policy.”
“The principle is the same.”
Mr. Pierre was now standing next to Mom, having overheard the conversation. “Integrity is built on many small things.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“Don’t get peevish, Nickie,” Mother warned. “You’re always ready to point out to me, God, and everybody what’s right and what’s wrong. Now you get a taste of your own medicine.”
“I do not go about telling people how to live their lives.”
“You do in your column,” Mother said.
I certainly didn’t think my column was as proscriptive as she was making it out to be, and furthermore this grilling was unfair even if they were right—in principle. To make matters worse, Mr. Pierre kept treating me, nonverbally, of course, as though my life were a heterosexual extravaganza. When Jackson came over to join the argument—excuse me, discussion—I wanted the floor to open so I could drop through it.
“What’s going on over here?” Regina came up behind Jackson.
“These two are giving me rat week.”
Mother pounced. “I am not and neither is Mr. Pierre. I asked her about Oliver North—”
“Actually, I heard the whole thing.” Jackson saved her her breath.
“So?” Now Mom was on guard.
Regina came to my side. “Why are you getting on Nickel’s case? We’re all complicit in this, as I see it.”
“But she represents the press. If the press doesn’t tell us the truth, how can we make sound judgments about our community?” Mr. Pierre didn’t sound hostile to me but I still didn’t like being under attack.
“Well, I’m the mayor and I’m covering up. What about me?”
“Jackson, we expect our politicians to lie. We don’t expect it of the press.” Mother cut to the bone—mine and Jackson’s.
Jackson’s face went white. “Julia, do you think I lie to you?”
“Not you. But you’re the only politician I do have faith in and maybe it’s because I can watch you. I can’t watch those slick toads in Washington. I don’t know them.”
“Somebody knows them. Their families. Their communities,” Regina said.
“Yes, and if they got in Dutch, I bet their families and their communities would cover up for them.” Mr. Pierre was on a tack.
Nobody said anything for a minute. We didn’t know what to say.
I finally broke the silence. “You’re right. I am violating my own ethics as a reporter. But David’s my friend and I have to balance the story with its effect on his life. Nobody was hurt, thank God. David used poor judgment but who hasn’t at one time or another? Maybe I’m using poor judgment now but if the story comes out in the paper there will be repercussions all the way to Baltimore and to Harrisburg. Then we won’t have the opportunity to correct this ourselves. The state legislators could conceivably get in the act, since this problem involves two elected public servants. What purpose does that serve? And I get to watch the team from Eyewitless News make an ass of my friend, of us in general? I guess if I have to pick between a professional code of honor and my friend, I’m going to pick my friend, at least this time, and I’m going to try and solve this mess among ourselves.”
“If everyone does that, then we haven’t evolved beyond tribal behavior.” Mr. Pierre handed around another tray of goodies.
“We haven’t.” Regina smiled, easing the tension. “The United States is a culture but not a civilization. We’re still too new.”
“Well, that’s what Charles Falkenroth says, in a way. He says the United States is an unfinished democracy.” Jackson was enjoying the discussion.
“So, I guess we keep trying,” Mother replied.
It should be noted that my mother has never missed voting, whether in a local, state, or national election. Being born in 1905, she remembered when women couldn’t vote, and a hurricane couldn’t keep her out of the voting booth.
Maybe Jackson was enjoying the discussion but I wasn’t. I was shown up as an unevolved tribal person—an unevolved tribal person standing next to her best friend and her best friend’s husband, with whom she was having an affair. Surely tribal people are smarter.
20
NICKEL FIGHTS WITH JUTS
MONDAY … 13 APRIL
I don’t understand how you could be standing right there and not get the story.” Charles Falkenroth stood over me as I sat at my desk playing with my razor-point pen.
“First of all it was Palm Sunday and Aunt Wheezie had her palm frond in front of my face. Second, it was very confusing because it happened so fast.”
“Bullshit, Nickel.” Charles let me have it. “You’re a trained observer.”
“Tell me what Bucky Nordness said when he called you up.” I fudged for time. Surely I could come up with a better excuse.
“He said that David Wheeler, out of pure D meanness, fired a cannonball into the offices of Falkenroth, Spangler, and Finster but he is certain the ball was meant for him.”
“Sorry your cousin wasn’t working that Sunday.” A malicious flicker appeared in my eyes.
“Me too. That son of a bitch is off on another vacation.”
Countless reasons sprang to mind as to why Charles detested his cousin but one reason overshadowed the others. William Falkenroth had contested their grandmother’s will concerning the disposition of 720 acres of good land. This issue took five years to settle and cost Charles many thousands of dollars in legal fees. Through the Falkenroths as well as through Mother and Louise, I learned that a family is a bizarre combination of people with conflicting interests united by blood.
“Here.” I handed Charles the story I wrote Sunday concerning the cannon incident.
He grabbed it from me. “You’ll have this back in five minutes.” Charles walked into his office. Pewter followed. He let her in, then shut the door.
Michelle called out from her desk: “Is he going to run my Passover piece?”
“Yes.” I thought she was enjoying my discomfort the tiniest bit too much.
Roger was out of the bullpen, so I called back to her: “How was your date?”
“Okay.” She sounded noncommittal. “How long has your mother had purple hair?”
“It’s not purple, it’s magenta, and it’s only on the sides.”
“Are they always like that … your mother and her sister?”
“I told you about them and so has everyone else here.”
“But I’ve never seen them go at it.”
“That was nothing.”
“I guess I’ll have to get used to it if I stay in Runnymede. I think I’ll keep going to bingo at least until the blackout game.”
“Did you like it?”
She thought about that. “Yes.”
Charles emerged from his den, Pewter at his heels. He stopped by the AP wire. “Gary Hart declared his candidacy in a speech at Red Rocks Park above Denver. Another one.” He tore off the wire story and put it on Michelle’s desk. “How many have we got now?”
“Biden; Gore, except they haven’t formally announced; Jesse Jackson, who hasn’t stopped running since 1984; Dukakis; Babbitt; Gephardt; and
who knows who else on the Democratic side? Cuomo? We don’t know what’s cooking there, even though he said he isn’t going to run,” Michelle answered brightly. “Want the list of the Republicans?”
“No, it’s too depressing.” Charles came over to my desk and placed the story in front of me. “Well written, Nickel, but I don’t believe a word of it.”
My face burned. “That’s the best I can do.”
“You’d better do better or you’re not fit to own a newspaper.” He twirled and left me in my misery. “Michelle, any of those men got your vote?”
“Only Pat Schroeder would have my vote.”
I glanced at Michelle. That was a new note or maybe I never heard it before. I hadn’t expected her to support someone like Representative Schroeder. I figured Michelle for a misplaced Yuppie languishing in the backwaters of Runnymede, where you watch the population progress from fetus to fossil.
“The reason so many men are running for president is they want to make sure they have a job,” Charles said.
I roused myself. “You say that every four years.”
“Every four years it’s true.” Charles went back into his office and Pewter came over to console me. She also took Lolly’s rawhide chew away from her.
“What are you going to do about the story?” A note of sympathy crept into Michelle’s voice.
“Make the rounds. I’ll go over to their law offices, I’ll talk to Bucky, and I’ll talk to David. Better get on it.” The phone rang. Foster Adams’s clear voice snapped me to attention. Could I come over to the bank?
I hung up the phone. “Michelle, I’m on the trail. Will you answer my phone?”
“Sure.”
Foster’s walnut paneling surrounded him. Somehow the office seemed more imposing than Foster. I listened carefully to him, imposing or not.
“… so you see, Nickel, that press is two years older than God.” He smiled with that turn of phrase. “To say nothing of the other equipment—hopelessly outdated, all of it. I can’t put a value on it. Now the lot and the building, that’s different. Gone up handsomely. Same with your farm.”
“I certainly appreciate your thoroughness, Foster.”
“Thank you.” He swiveled in his chair, got up, and came over to the edge of the huge desk. He sat on it and beamed down at me. “The bottom line is, you’re short. I wanted to tell you before I took this down to Baltimore. Maybe you can come up with more assets, something you’ve overlooked, or maybe you can find a partner or investor. I want to present a strong application. I think you should get the Clarion.” He emphasized “should” which was sweet of him.
“I appreciate your support.” I swallowed hard. “How much am I shy?”
“Right about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He still beamed at me.
I guess to a banker $250,000 is chicken feed unless it’s owed to them and the creditor bellies-up.
I tried not to let my voice crack. “Let me see what I can do.”
“I’ll be going down to Baltimore April twenty-third. Talk to me before then.”
He ushered me out of his office. As I walked through the main part of the bank building with the huge brass swinging lamps overhead, the brass bars in front of the tellers, the polished marble floor over which my grandmother and my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother trod, the only sound inside my head was “two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”
My feet headed across the Square toward the Curl ’n Twirl. I wasn’t conscious of my direction. I managed to come back to earth by the time I passed the Confederate statue. I also managed to see my mother rapidly light a cigarette and swoop into the Curl ’n Twirl. She hadn’t even grabbed a magazine when I came through the door. The cigarette looked stapled to her lip. She and Georgette Bonneville were rehashing the events of yesterday.
“Mother, I wish you’d stop smoking.”
“It’s my duty to support the great states of Virginia and Maryland.” She twirled the cigarette between her fingers. “Now that you’ve been a dutiful daughter tell me what’s the matter.”
“Huh?”
“You can’t fool me. What’s cooking?”
“Oh, Foster Adams called me into his office. He couldn’t have been nicer but he told me I’m two hundred and fifty thousand dollars short. I’ve got until April twenty-third to find the money or an investor.”
Mr. Pierre yelled out from the back room. “Piece of cake. Gâteau.”
Georgette offered an idea. “Maybe you’ll win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. Then you could buy the town along with the paper.”
What struck me was that Georgette was serious. “I’ll look for the envelope in the mail.” I sat down on a chair.
Mr. Pierre strode out from the back and hovered over me. “Trim, trim, trim.”
“Go ahead.” What the hell. I could go over to Bill Falkenroth and Company after a haircut.
The snip, snip of scissors accented Mother’s comments. She sat in the next chair. As she talked I noticed with mounting alarm the number of silver hairs mixed in with black. They piled up in my lap. Was he trimming me or giving me a crew cut?
“This isn’t your day, honey. Louise won’t let you use her third Chrysler, the perfect one.” She hit on “perfect.” “She’s sorry your Jeep is wrecked. She knows it will take some time to get the insurance money for it but she doesn’t want one scratch on her car.”
“How much?” Simon Legree Hunsenmeir, I thought.
“One hundred dollars a week.” Mother’s reply was swift.
“That old bandit.” Mr. Pierre cut away.
“It’s still cheaper than a rent-a-car.” I sighed. “Tell her seventy-five a week is my absolute top offer. Take it or leave it.”
My entire life was boiling down to my net worth. Why was money in sight but never in hand?
“I’ll tell her. You can pick up the car after work.” Mother switched gears. “Where are you going to get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Why can’t Charles hold a second? Like a second mortgage on a house,” Mr. Pierre suggested.
“He could but I don’t think he would. He and Ann want to take the money and run to Palm Springs. Can’t say that I blame them. Also, right now I wouldn’t ask him for a paper clip. He’s pissed at me because he knows I’m not telling the whole story about David Wheeler and the cannon.”
“Yeah, Mutzi rolled in today looking like death warmed over. Anyway, he wanted to make sure we’d keep our traps shut,” Georgette called out from behind the lilies on the counter.
“Poor Mutzi can’t afford the legal wrath of Bill, Kevin, and Tinker any more than David can.” Mr. Pierre critically appraised my face.
Bill, Kevin, and Tinker were Falkenroth, Spangler & Finster, respectively. There was also young George Spangler working in his father’s company.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Georgette said.
“How about some coral rouge? You need a pickup.” Without waiting for a reply Mr. Pierre was brushing my face.
“Reminds me of Nickel’s little paint box when she was a girl.” Mother played with Mr. Pierre’s tray of rouges and eye shadows.
Anger swirled up through me like lava. “You’re the last person I thought who would bring that up. You threw my paints away.”
A scarlet flash hit Mom’s cheeks. “They were used up.”
“The hell they were!” I was out of the chair.
Both Mr. Pierre and Georgette were astonished. Frankly, I was too.
“You’re soft as a grape.”
How typical of Mother to shrug this off.
“I am not. You threw the paint set out and you knew I loved to paint. More than anything I loved it. I wanted to grow up to be a painter.”
“You used colors wrong.”
“I was seven years old!”
“You’re too sensitive.” She emphatically shut Mr. Pierre’s makeup tray.
“One day I’m too sensit
ive and next day you tell me I’m too remote. Make up your mind. I know why you threw out my paints. Because my natural mother was a painter. Still is, for all I know!”
Mother’s voice became quiet, frighteningly quiet. “I didn’t want you to turn out like her.”
“Well, I didn’t!” I jumped out of the chair and stormed out of the Curl ’n Twirl. I was behaving like an adolescent and even though I knew it I couldn’t stop myself. I’d even forgotten to pay Mr. Pierre.
Kenny neighed when Lolly, Pewter, and I entered his stall. He was clean for a change, no rolling in the mud today, so grooming sped along. In the background I heard Harmony Yost command her mother to bring her a running martingale. Ursie said, “I’ll be right there, dear.” If a kid of mine ordered me about like that I’d smack her face into next week. Ursie puzzled me. The trivial nature of her ambition drove her constantly. She longed to be a social leader, and failing that, she would get around it by becoming a political leader. Her sublime lack of tact insured that she would singe nerve endings whenever she opened her mouth. She never understood this failing in herself. And how she loved to be in command, secure in the mantle of petty authority. She’d bark out orders like a D. I. on Parris Island, yet she’d let those status-conscious little horrors of hers push her around like a chambermaid. Mom used to say, “If you don’t discipline your children, someone else will do it for you.” Harmony and Tiffany Yost might coast through college but once out in the real world those two girls were in for a nasty surprise: People did not exist to kiss their ass. The only person they listened to was Muffin Barnes, perhaps because Muffin had what they wanted: riding knowledge.
A further uproar engulfed me as Tiffany discovered her saddle pad was dirty and her hoof pick was missing. Ursie’s head appeared over the stall’s Dutch door.
“Nickel, may I borrow your hoof pick?”
“Sure.” I handed her the instrument.
“Elliwood Baxter’s coming back from Palm Beach today.”
“Great. I’ll be glad to see her.”
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