Bingo

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Oh, Gene.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’re such a romantic. My friends like me in spite of the fact that I’m gay, not because of it.”

  “You’re wrong. You are who and what you are because of everything that’s happened to you and everything you are inside. Loving a woman is part of that. It’s what has made you you and we love you.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I very much did not want to cry. “Thanks.”

  She hugged me back. “Anyway, why should you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders? Frances wasn’t worth it.” She referred to the one woman I had loved, so long ago I was in danger of forgetting.

  “Evolution is the hope of the immature. I’ll try and be more open. Might be in another life, though.”

  We laughed. We didn’t finish the newsletter until twelve-thirty that night but the time flew. I knew that someday I would tell Regina what I had done, because I couldn’t keep a secret from her. On the one hand I knew she should shoot me, and yet oddly enough, on the other hand, sleeping with Jack had made me much closer to her. I didn’t know if she would ever feel that way about me once she knew. What I did know was that Regina was worth ten of me.

  24

  RENEGADE BINGO

  FRIDAY … 17 APRIL

  Winter gave us a backhanded slap. A cutting wind under dull skies reminded me that we weren’t out of the woods yet. As it was Good Friday, the weather added to the dolorous nature of the day. I have never understood the Christian fascination with suffering and death. The crucifix makes me ill and I find it painful even to contemplate a mutilated man, much less worship one.

  Mother, devout in her off-center way, would be singed if I told her my thoughts. Aunt Louise would light so many candles for me she’d burn down Saint Rose’s. Silence on the issues that concerned me the most was becoming my modus operandi. Regina was right. I was reaching the point where I began to fear I couldn’t open myself up to anyone.

  This is not to say that I don’t love Jesus Christ or his message; I do. I don’t love what’s sprung up around him, and in the office we received rumblings of strange goings-on in the PTL Club. Roger and I dubbed it Pass the Loot, but the official name is Praise the Lord. If I made as much nontaxable income as those TV preachers, I’d be praising the Lord too. Since when does Jesus need a press agent? If God is so smart, you’d think he’d hire better help.

  Good Friday services start at two o’clock but I dashed into church for an early morning service, as I knew I’d be in the bullpen today. It was my turn to cover for everyone else when they went to service. Not much crackled on the AP wire.

  Mother called to tell me about her date. She and Ed drove over to Emmitsburg for a good dinner. She said he reminded her of Dad. He didn’t remind me of Dad. She said to be sure to come to her house tonight for renegade bingo. Saint Rose of Lima’s did not run the bingo game or any other form of festivity or fund-raising on Good Friday. Mother’s rationale was that as Jesus died at three in the afternoon, what we did at night was our own business. Also, she felt it her civic responsibility to keep people off the streets. I allowed as how I would come this evening, armed with dab-a-dots.

  After that conversation I began thinking about The Last Supper. I bet it was fettucine Alfredo.

  Mother’s house, luxurious in landscaping, displayed what real estate agents call curb appeal. The curbs were loaded tonight. I had to park two blocks away and I was glad I’d taken Lolly and Pewter home, because there’d be too many people in a small space.

  When I opened the door Mom shot right up to me. “Two dollars. Price of admission.”

  I dug into my jeans. “Here, but where is the money going?”

  “A charity of my choice.” She put the money in the apron she wore.

  I walked into the room and Mutzi was calling. The BonBons were out in full force, including Sonny and Sister, Verna’s twin brother and sister. These were the people to whom Louise was to have delivered the popcorn. Their real names were Cleota and Leota. Why Verna’s mother called a boy Cleota we will never know, but they circumvented this problem with the nicknames Sonny and Sister. Most of the gang was there, including Michelle and Roger—their second date.

  Aunt Wheeze, disapproving of a party on Good Friday, sat in the kitchen with Goodyear. She made up a batch of pickled eggs. One of the good things about my aunt was that she hated to be idle. She whizzed in and out of the kitchen with her eggs and other dishes. Finally she alighted next to Ed.

  “How are you doing?”

  He pressed his dab-a-dot on number nineteen. “Just fine. You work too hard. Why don’t you sit down here next to me? Let one of these other girls pass around the horse’s dubers.”

  “Horse’s dubers” was another name for hors-d’oeuvres.

  “For a minute.” Louise nestled in.

  Mother noticed this and hurried behind her. She kept her hands in her apron, jingling the money.

  Louise, irritated, reached around and grasped Julia’s wrists. “I can’t hear the numbers.”

  “Who cares. You aren’t playing.”

  “Ed is.” Wheezie’s voice contained a reverential ring.

  “I think I’ll pass around the tidbits.” Mr. Pierre abandoned his card.

  I sat down and took it over. “I’ll split the winnings with you if this card is a goody.”

  He smoothed his hair. “I just love the way us girls stick together.”

  “Mr. Pierre!” Louise reprimanded.

  “Ah, the voice of the Virgin Mary. Or is it Divergent Mary?” Mr. Pierre winked at me.

  A martini preceded bingo for Mr. Pierre. Tonight I sensed he might have indulged ever so slightly and downed two in quick succession.

  “Don’t talk like that in front of Ed,” Wheezie scolded, the voice of propriety.

  “It’s better than hearing you blab.” Mother remained behind Ed and Louise.

  “I don’t mind.” Ed smiled at Mr. Pierre. “I wasn’t born yesterday. But can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything you want.” Mr. Pierre’s hand circled his head with a flourish.

  “Did you ever—uh—were you ever with a woman?”

  For a moment the people around our makeshift table became quiet.

  “When I was twenty-one I was violently in love with Theodora Weigle—we called her Teddy. One evening I knew it would be the evening. Naturally, I would have married Teddy, you understand. This was not a superficial attachment. When the time came to—came to—” He paused, collected himself. “When the time came to, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything as undignified as lie on top of her.”

  With that he skipped into the kitchen, leaving Ed to ponder this story. Wheezie was crimson. Mother smiled and jingled her money as she prowled behind other tables.

  “Bingo!” Millard Huffstetler shouted.

  Millard rarely attended bingo. I was glad to see him. You can spend too much time with your orchids, and Millard did. He’d brought corsages for Mom and Louise and a tasteful arrangement of hot coral tulips. Mother inclined to bright colors. Sometimes a little too bright. Her shoes, for example, were see-through jellies, pink, and she wore mint-green socks too. The colors were muted but then she threw on the vibrating pink apron, and with the magenta streaks in her hair I thought it was a bit much. Mother was Mother, though.

  Other than that short flurry between Mom and Louise, the evening unfolded pleasantly. I have often thought that if I live to be as old as my aunt Louise what I will remember is the laughter. When I was a kid, Daddy, Mom, and I would laugh at breakfast, lunch, and dinner as well as in between. Tonight was one of those nights when everyone was in a great mood; one joke followed another; one good crack was topped with another. The big surprise was when the game was over. Mother gave me the profit.

  “Mom, I can’t take this.”

  “Sure you can,” Mutzi yelled. “And David Wheeler says if he could have come tonight he’d have tossed in fifty bucks just for you.”

  “Why?”

  “We wa
nt you to get the Clarion.” Verna smiled.

  “How else will I write my column? Did you all know that Nickel is giving me my own column? Just like Cholly Knickerbocker and it’s going to be called ‘Looking Over My Shoulder,’ so you all better watch your P’s and Q’s around me.”

  Aunt Wheezie had changed the name of her column again. On the basis of this imaginary column she foresaw a great literary career.

  “That’s enough, Sis.” Mother cut her off at the pass because Louise had gulped another mouthful of air and would have continued in her journalistic fantasy.

  “You’re not a bad boss.” Roger folded up his bingo card.

  “I notice Michelle is conspicuously silent,” I teased.

  “Tough—you’re the meanest thing to adjectives I’ve ever seen—but you’re fair,” Michelle replied.

  “Thank you.” I turned to Mother. “Was this your idea?”

  She swept her hand across the room. “We came up with it together. Mr. Pierre and Wheezie and Georgette and Ed and I were over at Mojo’s for lunch and one thing led to another. Verna gave us the food for the party, and Millard, the flowers. Peepbean wouldn’t come but then what else is new? He never will like you but”—she beamed—”everyone else does. So you get that paper, honey.”

  My throat hurt. “Thank you all very much. I’ll try to live up to your confidence in me.” That was that. I couldn’t get out another word.

  “Okay, let’s play Crap on Your Neighbor!” Mother gleefully announced.

  The card decks were smacked on the table. Mr. Pierre cruised through with another round of food before the game. Crap on Your Neighbor is a card game whose rules defy explanation. Suffice it to say you can cheat; if you see someone’s card you can holler it out to everyone else; you can bribe your neighbor to get up and spy on other hands. Anything goes.

  As Jesus was sleeping in his tomb, half of Runnymede stayed up until one o’clock in the morning. That’s late for us. The shouting rattled the rooftop but since everyone on the block was also at the party, no one called David Wheeler to complain of noise.

  I didn’t get back to the farm until two because I stayed to help Mother clean up. Apart from anger or good humor, Julia disdained extravagant displays of emotion. I had thanked her and the others—that was enough. As far as she was concerned the thanks was in the work itself. I’d damn well better do a good job with the Clarion.

  Exhausted, I emptied pockets on the bird’s-eye maple dresser that was Grandma’s. The bingo pot was $372.49, a lot of money to everyone playing bingo and a lot of money to me. I took off my clothes, didn’t hang them up, and collapsed in bed. Before falling asleep I decided the first day I ran the Clarion under my own masthead, I’d run an ad thanking everyone who was at Mother’s tonight.

  25

  URSIE HAS THE BIT IN HER TEETH

  SATURDAY … 18 APRIL

  “… now we need a fence crew. You don’t have to be big and brawny, merely willing to get dirty.”

  Regina and I started whispering to each other and Ursula snapped, but in that polite make-you-want-to-gag tone: “Nickel, I don’t think you take our annual Delta Delta Delta horse show seriously because you haven’t any children.” Ursula’s tinted lenses, emerald-green, clouded over. “We do this every year for our scholarship and every year you obstruct the show.”

  There are dumber ways to raise money than a horse show but right at this moment I can’t think of any. Our alumnae chapter rents an indoor riding ring. The participants van their horses and ponies to the show, pay a stall fee if they come in the night before, and then spend the day combing, braiding the manes, and spiffing up their animals, only to have the beast roll in the dirt immediately before its class. Owners of light-colored horses especially suffer. Little girls flood horse shows along with their parents, a species devoted to their offspring and hostile to show judges. Given that Ursie organizes the show, she also determines what kind of classes we sponsor. Events are cleverly arranged so that Tiffany and Harmony win some kind of ribbon, even if it happens to be for the chug-a-Coke race. This race has the children lined up. They ride to the other end of the ring, dismount, chug a Coca-Cola, mount up, and ride back to the finish line.

  As long as Ursula Yost was president of our sorority alumnae association, we’d endure the horse shows.

  “You’re the strongest, Nickel. You can man the fence committee.” Ursula bared her fangs on the word man.

  She had tried to prevent me from joining the alumnae association on the basis of morals: mine. She cast upon me the dirtiest jobs, hoping to drive me out even after fifteen years of membership. Ursula believed one could not be a Tri-Delta and a lesbian. How wrong she was, but then Ursula never did have a sense of fun. Her heyday was the early 1960s, the years of Tuesday Weld and Sandra Dee. She was a woman who took Ralph Lauren seriously. She also insisted that women should wear derbies in the hunt field. What could be classier than a derby and what could offer less protection? Besides, what we wore was up to Regina as M.F.H., not Ursie. I wore a hunt cap. One more strike against me in Ursie’s book. And then, dear old Kenny was a paint, and Ursie turned her nose up at any animal not the “right color.” Perhaps tradition made her feel secure.

  “Okay, I’ll run the fence committee but only if you remember not to start the classes until I get out of the ring.” Last year she set out a child along the course, and I hit the dirt as 16.2 hands of animal bore down on me.

  Running the fence committee consists of browbeating your more muscular friends to help you actually pick up the bars, standard posts, logs, and cut brush and move them. The brush is put on the tops of some jumps to give them the appearance of what one might have to clear in the hunt field. The classes are divided between those outdoorsy obstacles and the show-jumping courses: painted rails, in-and-out jumps, and the like. Often pretty potted plants are placed in front of some of these jumps. Not only does the fence committee have to alter the course completely under the direction of the course designer, we must also rapidly raise the fences as each class becomes more difficult. If you forget to wear gloves, your hands get full of splinters and cuts. If your partner, in moving a log or coop—a triangular-shaped jump—drops his end before you drop yours, there goes your back.

  Any animal that strays into the ring is my responsibility to catch and remove. As everyone brings their Jack Russell terriers, I offer to the public the spectacle of myself being outwitted by a dog.

  The best part of being on the fence crew is driving the tractor. The soft loam in the ring needs to be raked between divisions. There are usually three classes to a division, and if a class is particularly popular—e. g., 180 entries—then I would rake even between the classes.

  Driving the tractor is très butch and I can’t resist playing into the stereotype. I always put on my Baltimore Orioles baseball hat and wave to the spectators. Of course, I wear my earrings and lipstick too.

  This year our illustrious Master of Foxhounds, Regina, was the course designer. We’d gone over the plans. She laid out a tough course. I had a feeling we’d have spills aplenty and I suspected Regina hoped Tiffany and Harmony might provide us with a few.

  “Last year we experienced regrettable delays due to slowness of the fence crew.” Ursie stared at me. “This year I want course changes to run like clockwork. Nickel, you bring your people out before the show for a dry run.”

  “Come on, Ursie, it’s hard enough to get there for the show,” I protested.

  “You have wonderful powers of persuasion.” She flashed a false smile. “Clockwork! Clockwork! Clockwork!”

  Regina piped up: “Don’t get crazed with this. Nickel doesn’t persuade people, she bribes them. You’ll bankrupt her.”

  The other alums laughed.

  Ursie did not. “I refuse to endure the number of complaints I did last year. Nick, a rehearsal. Don’t try to elude your responsibilities to our chapter. Remember Jonah and the whale.”

  “What’s a big fish got to do with it?” I wanted to know.<
br />
  Her voice was clipped. “Stop obstructing this meeting. I’ve said all I’ve got to say on the subject.”

  I shut up, not because I agreed but because I didn’t feel like a fight. I’d ridden an emotional roller coaster the last few days and I had no emotions left for Ursie.

  I fidgeted because I wanted the meeting to be over. I also couldn’t wait to tell Ursie that my friends who owned Kalarama Farms in Kentucky had offered to sell me a gelding by their great stud, Harlem Globetrotter. Harlem is a saddlebred. Hunter-jumper people call them shaky-tail horses but a saddlebred is a sturdy, multipurpose animal. If I worked with this boy I was hopeful I could turn him into a real hunting horse. They provided me with generous terms but I still didn’t know if I could do it, given my financial situation. Then, too, how was I going to board two horses? But I wanted that gelding. He exuded a dark glamour and a sweet disposition.

  “Is that it?” Regina demanded of Ursie. She wanted to play tennis even though it stayed cool.

  “Yes. Meeting adjourned.”

  The ladies, ranging in age from twenty-four to sixty-nine, romped for the buffet while Regina and I sped for the door. Driving over to the barn, I excitedly told her about the saddlebred and we schemed to come up with money.

  After our three sets of tennis we sat in the little cottage. Regina packed turkey sandwiches and Perrier.

  “Another year on the fence committee. Who are you going to press into service this time?”

  “Guess I’ll round up a crew at the last minute.”

  “If it weren’t for the last minute, nothing would get done.” Regina polished off her sandwich.

  “That’s what Wheezie says.”

  “That’s where I heard it.”

  My face must have registered how I felt because Regina said, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Gee, the sandwiches taste good to me.”

  “They’re delicious. Excuse me.” I went into the bathroom and threw up. As soon as I did I felt fine. I returned to Regina. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, Gene. Nerves. I’m trying not to let this Clarion sale rattle me but—well, I guess it is.”