By the time I’d reached the Clarion, I’d half made up my mind to accept Mr. Pierre’s generous offer. My step faltered as I saw the sunlight slide over the picture window with THE RUNNYMEDE CLARION painted on it. How could this be the last day? I wanted my child to be a copy boy, to know the smell of lead and ink in the back room, the shake, rattle, and roll of the AP machine, the hustle-bustle of reporters and editors all yelling at once. Surely heaven was a newspaper and God was Editor in Chief.
The door opened. Charles, Ann at his side, was packing his office. He suddenly looked old to me, old and broken, but here he was a very rich man. He didn’t glance up when I pushed through the door. Michelle was coming in the opposite way, through the back door. Roger hadn’t arrived yet and John’s desk already had the air of a cold corpse.
The honor of the farewell editorial would go to Charles. It would run tomorrow. I was to write today’s editorial and I’d sat up last night, after my talk with Mom, and penned a silly one. Michelle gave it the headline, ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?, and it was about Washington’s annual survey of hospital emergency rooms and how people got there. Twenty-six thousand people landed in the ER because of dancing. Billiard injuries produce a steady stream of ravaged bodies, due less to the game than to the fights that ensue. Playing a musical instrument keeps the ambulance crews busy, as kids chip their teeth on trumpets, saxophones, and the occasional tuba. One child tried to stuff baby brother into the tuba. Moving pianos produces a variety of broken toes, crushed ribs, and other fractures. Large-scale fun, like amusement parks, provided a bumper crop of injuries, with roller coasters being the prime culprit, Ferris wheels following at a close second, bumper cars trailing at third. Over six thousand people fell off of barstools last year and had to be rushed to the hospital. Fortunately, most of them were so plastered the damage to their persons was not as bad as it could have been. Of all the forms of having fun the least dangerous was fish watching, although there was a case in Portland, Oregon, of a man being bitten by his pet piranha.
Reading that editorial produced the only flicker of a smile Charles allowed himself. When five o’clock arrived we stood together in the front room, deep afternoon shadows falling across the Square and the statues, and Charles bid us goodbye and good luck. Quietly we went our separate ways. I felt as though someone opened the end of a kaleidoscope and the colored bits flew out.
Michelle and I didn’t say goodbye, because she said she’d be seeing me at bingo tonight. I went over to Mojo’s with Pewter and Lolly. Verna was depressed about the end of the Clarion as we’d known it, as Runnymede had known it since 1710. She sat down in the booth with me and consumed chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, biscuits—really fabulous biscuits—broccoli, a salad with ranch dressing, and a stupendously large piece of cherry pie, her favorite. After this gargantuan repast she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said, “If only I could figure out a way to have a supper like this and not get fat.”
“That’s easy,” I replied. “Eat all you want—just don’t swallow it.”
For a minute there she believed me.
I helped her close up the restaurant, then we walked across the Square to Saint Rose’s. Her children would already be there.
“Vern, I’m not playing tonight. Tell Mom and Aunt Wheezie I went home. I feel so bad I’m not fit company.”
“Ah, honey, come on—make you feel better. You might even win the pot.”
“Not tonight. Anyway, I’m going to win next week, the big one.”
“Okay, I’ll tell them. You take care, hear?”
“Thanks.” I watched her bulk disappear down the little sidewalk along the edge of the church property. She turned the corner to go into the back entrance. Fat though she was, she was beautiful to me then. People who care for you inevitably become beautiful.
I drove over to the hospital. The dog and the cat crabbed about being stuck in the car. I left the windows down a bit and told them both to stay. Then I opened the door to the small hospital. The odor of disinfectant assailed my nostrils. I hate hospitals.
Jack, room 418, was reading a book.
“Hi.”
“Nickie!” He put his book down and held out his arms.
I hugged him. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. It wasn’t much of a heart attack. The doctors are making a bigger deal out of it than it has to be but you know, they’re like lawyers—they have to justify their existence.”
“How long do you have to say in here?”
“Tomorrow. I could have gone home yesterday but those bloodsuckers are running every test known to man. Gene says this is what happens when you don’t get checkups. Apparently my cholesterol level is over the moon but the doctor said I’m in great shape. The exercise probably saved me—that and the fact that I’m not a smoker. So-o-o, no butter and no rich fats and yeck.” He made a face.
“How do you feel now?”
“I feel fine. In a way this is my first real vacation, because even when I’d go on vacation I’d call in to the office. I considered myself the indispensable man.”
“You are.”
He patted my hand. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thanks for the flowers. Thanks for everything. You and your mom were wonderful. She came by and brought me this.” He held up an electronic puzzle. “Damned hard too. She said you’d be by.”
“She did, did she?”
“We had a good long talk about you.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t have anyone to talk to about you, and I don’t know, Juts sat down and I started talking. God, I feel so much better. She’s very understanding and she loves you. We both love you.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“No.”
“How’s your heart feel right this minute?”
“It feels fine, Nickie. I’m fine.”
I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m going to have a baby.”
He wrapped his arms around me and held me next to him. He didn’t say anything. He rocked me back and forth, then whispered in my ear: “Are you happy? Because I am.”
“I am happy but I don’t know what I’m going to do next.” I moved a bit away from him so I could see his face. “I’m still in shock. That and the paper.”
“Yeah, I know. Loved your editorial.” He squeezed my hand. “Maybe Regina would divorce me so I could marry you. And you could come live at our house or I could become a Mormon and marry you both.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how she’d take it if she knew, but I think Winston and Randolph wouldn’t be thrilled. They’re at that difficult age.” I picked up Mom’s electronic puzzle. It made beeping tones. ”We can’t get married, Jack, because Mr. Pierre has consented to marry me.”
“Him!”
“It’s a great kindness on his part. The child will not be illegitimate.”
“The child will grow up with a father who wears more makeup than his mother.”
“So—she or he will learn early how the rules of society often violate the rules of the heart. I don’t think it’s so bad. Mr. Pierre is a warmhearted and responsible man.”
“He is that.” Jack chewed his lip. “You’re going to have the baby? You wouldn’t—”
“Never.”
“I’ll provide for the child. I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, especially now.”
“Unemployed and prospects dim.”
“Not dim—undisclosed, to be discovered. I’ll set up a trust fund. Does Mr. Pierre know I’m the father?”
“I’ll tell him.” What I didn’t say was that someday, when the time was right and I was strong enough, I’d tell Regina.
“Think you should?”
“The man is going to give my baby his name. He’s going to try and be as good a father as he can—and without the enjoyment of making the thing, I might add. He deserves to know, but then he knows anyway. He knew we were carrying on. Who else could it be but you? I haven’t formally told him, that’s all.�
��
“I’ll always be a part of you.”
I looked at him, my eyebrows coming together in concentration. “But you were always a part of me. We grew up together. We’ll grow old together. We belong here.”
“It’s different now. We made something, somebody special, I hope. Hey, she’s got you in her, she’s going to be special.”
“How do you know this baby’s a girl?”
“I have two boys. I want a girl.” He smiled. “I’m as close to you as I can get. We’re bound for life.” He held up his hand to stop me from speaking. “From us comes new life. Think of it as the ultimate heterosexual experience. Those are more your terms. You’ll see me in this baby every day of her life. And when I see her I’ll see you. I hope she’s got the best of us because if she does, she’s off to a hell of a good start.”
These sentiments, unknown to me, rested in my mind. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I heard him. Intellectually I understood him, but I didn’t feel it. Perhaps he was right. In the birth of the child and the raising of it, I would understand emotionally what he was trying to convey to me. “You sound as though you want to be a father and you can’t. That belongs to Mr. Pierre.”
“I’m going to be a very loving uncle.”
“Regina will figure it out, you know.”
“People see what they want to see.” He took a breath. “But I’m going to talk to her. I don’t know when. But I am. I’m happy. I want her to share in that happiness even though according to convention she should be furious at me. Knowing you, I don’t know how she could be.”
Where was Miss Manners when I needed her? She’d have an answer to this. Confusing as the social aspect of my pregnancy was, conflicted as I was about Regina, I felt at peace, happy, excited. I didn’t understand how I could feel that way under the circumstances but I did. In a funny way my feelings reminded me of when I realized I could love a woman. I was fifteen. The world told me it was wrong, but for me I knew it was right, and I was content. I knew I couldn’t be a full person if I didn’t follow my instincts. My instincts were telling me to have this baby and let the chips fall where they may.
We caught up on gossip, but we’d interrupt our gossip to dream about the baby. Jack wanted to know what Mom said and I told him she was worried but essentially happy to be a grandmother.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” I got up to leave.
“Can’t come by?”
“It’s the annual Delta Delta Delta fund-raising horse show.”
“I’m fence crew—” He looked more disappointed than he really was. Jack didn’t like splinters in his hands any more than I did.
“Got a replacement.”
“Who?”
“Diz.”
A flicker of anger crossed his features. “Is he practicing the common touch?”
“No. I called him at his office to congratulate him on his acquisition of the paper and then I hit him with the fence crew. Being as how I was magnanimous in defeat, he graciously agreed to a day of manual labor.”
“I never will like that guy.”
“You’re both bulls with long horns, that’s why.” He started to purse his lips in a question but I continued. “You’re two very masculine men, lots of androgen in those bodies, and you both want to lead the herd. Even if you hadn’t been rivals as children you’d be rivals as adults. It’s chemical.” I closed with a flourish of my hand. I half believed what I’d said and I half didn’t, an interesting predicament.
“Smith’s endocrinic view of the universe.”
“You got a better one?”
“At the moment, no. If anything, my hormones are catching up with me.”
I kissed him on the cheek again. “They sure caught up with me.”
39
URSULA HUMBLED
SATURDAY … 2 MAY
May opened her luscious arms for the horse show. Azaleas blazed, the robins returned in squadrons, and the light shimmered and danced. Our annual show was held at the indoor ring of The Barracks, a high-powered show-jumping stable owned by Claiborne Bishop. Claiborne was an inactive Delta Delta Delta alumna but she made up for it by donating the ring, her expensive jumps, and the announcing system.
At The Barracks at the crack of dawn, the field crew trudged through the deep soft footing to set up the first course. Regina, designer of our course, directed us from the spectators’ platform, which ran the length of the huge indoor arena. Michelle, Mr. Pierre, Diz, and I sank up to our ankles in the brown loam as we hauled around rails, standards, brush, and potted plants. Even at that early hour, children and adults trotted and cantered in the schooling area off the main ring.
Kenny, shining and braided, lounged in his stall and so did Regina’s horse. It wasn’t enough that we worked this damned show, we had to ride in it too; Ursie wanted the classes jam-packed. She huffed and puffed that Tri-Deltas must be out in force to combat the Kappa Kappa Gammas, Kappa Alpha Thetas, Chi Omegas, Delta Gammas, Alpha Delta Phis, and whatever other sorority alumnae showed up to ride or to push their children into it. Ursie’s devotion to Delta Delta Delta, misplaced though it might be, was genuine. We would outshine those other “girls” no matter what.
Verna BonBon was our ringside announcer. Verna didn’t go to college but we’d made her an honorary Tri-Delta last year because she possessed the best voice in town. Also, Verna gave out a lot of free food to hungry people over the years and this was our chapter’s small way of thanking her for community service that we should have done ourselves.
Ursie, staggering under the weight of her crystal foxhead jewelry, actually wore her Delta Delta Delta pin on her expensive Valentino dress. A crescent moon with a trident passing through it snagged holes in the silk pattern but Ursie was beyond caring. This was a small price to pay to be the center of attention. The audience area, decorated with silver, gold, and blue bunting, our sorority colors, must have taken Ursie and her daughters half a day’s work.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to our eleventh annual Delta Delta Delta horse show. A big round of applause, please, for Ursie Yost for her spectacular organizing. She vows this year’s show will run like clockwork. Take a bow, Ursie.” Verna’s rich alto crackled over the loudspeakers.
Ursie, in high heels, cheerfully plunged into the middle of the show ring. She took her bows at nine A.M. on the dot.
“If she bends over too far she isn’t going to get back up.” I smirked.
“You’re jealous of the jewelry,” Diz commented.
Our little ground crew stayed at the ring level behind a swinging door. The setup was a bit like what you see in the bull-ring. The clowns have a place where they can hide from the bulls. We were the clowns.
The first class of the first division was Small Pony Hunter, which meant the little kids would be up. We’d get the worst spills out of the way immediately. The low jumps discouraged bad accidents but little ones do get pitched over ponies’ heads, slide off the sides, or dismount in terror. As the tots popped over jumps I scanned the audience. The turnout was the best ever, helped by the good weather. Our Runnymede gang showed up: Mom accompanied by Ed, Louise sulking, Orrie, Mutzi, various BonBons, Muffin Barnes and Gloria Fennell from our stable, Elliwood Baxter, Shirley McConnell, and our entire hunt club. Hunt clubs from Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania showed up for the adult classes. Jill Summers, M.F.H. of Farmington Hunt, brought her kids and adults. Jake Carle II came in with Keswick, a wild and woolly bunch. The Maryland clubs like Goshen Hunt came splendidly appointed, along with Green Spring Valley, Iron Bridge. Mr. Hubbard’s Kent County Hounds were easy to spot: The men wore scarlet with an orchid collar. Apart from Farmington Hunt Club and Keswick, the other Virginia clubs that crowded into the area were Deep Run, Middleburg, Orange County, Warrenton, and Piedmont. From Pennsylvania we drew Rose Tree, Plum Run, Mr. Stewart’s Cheshire Foxhounds, Beaufort, and Radnor. We even had a visitor from Roaring Fork Hounds near Aspen. She wanted to observe how we did things to see if she could run a simi
lar event for the club back home in Colorado.
Ursie’s cleverness was in combining two upscale groups of people, fox-hunters and sorority alumnae, to garner funds. The turnout even stunned Ursie, by nature an optimist.
The morning clicked along right on schedule. Clockwork. Tiffany won a blue ribbon for Large Pony Hunter. Harmony came in a disappointing third in her division but as she was entered in some afternoon classes her hopes remained fresh.
Michelle, smudges on her face, big gloves on her hands, took a lunch break while Diz and Mr. Pierre and I kept working. We’d need to stagger our breaks. Lolly and Pewter sat with Mother and Goodyear. Mom made herself conspicuous by cheering when I’d drive the tractor. I waved my baseball hat at her.
“Amateur owner over thirty years. Next class. All aboard.” Verna’s voice rang out.
“Mr. Pierre, I’m in this one. Can you handle it?”
“Is Michelle coming back?” he sensibly asked.
I pointed to Michelle, eating on the run, already moving toward our holding pen.
“All right, darling, I’ll brave it without you.” He winked at Diz, who winked back.
Riding in a competition is my idea of hell. I become self-conscious and lose my rhythm. Fortunately, Kenny’s a pushbutton horse and he packs me around when I begin to falter. I put on my hunting coat, gray with the gold facings and the B & G hunt buttons. Our club was unusual in that you could wear a black coat or a dark blue one or a gray one. The club was formed by veterans of the War Between the States, and they kept their colors. The worn elbows on my coat shone like peach stones. My cap was nearly bald but if you didn’t peer too closely at me, I looked properly turned out.
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