Bingo

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Orrie likes her sunshine and I think she’s off Fort Lauderdale since the coconut robbery.”

  “Let me tell you what I want to do. I want you to run the paper.”

  “We don’t have the paper—”

  He held up his hand to quiet me. “I’ve bought back the building. Diz was good about that. Took an arm and a leg off me though.” He laughed. “He’s a businessman. He charged the bank valuation for the press—which is to say, nothing. So we have our old press. We have the building and we have the AP wire. This Falkenroth needs a Hunsenmeir.”

  I could have jumped out of my skin with excitement. “You mean it?”

  “I mean it, and I mean it fifty-fifty, which right now, kid, is fifty-fifty of nothing.”

  I heard a wild screech. A slam, two slams. Louise and Orrie tromped through the back door.

  “Where is she?” Wheezie demanded. “Oh, hello, Charles. What are you doing here at this hour? Say, are you the father of Nickel’s baby?”

  “Wheezie.” Orrie was appalled but titillated.

  “I beg your pardon.” Charles’s bow tie trembled.

  “That brat—not my blood, I remind you—is having a baby and she’s not married. Well, I lit a candle for her and a candle for the baby. Imagine having her for a mother.”

  I almost expected her to say a pregnant lesbian was a contradiction in terms.

  “Nickel?” Charles was incredulous.

  “It’s true. I am, however, to marry Mr. Pierre so my esteemed aunt’s objections will be handled properly. The baby won’t be illegitimate.”

  “How you got pregnant wasn’t proper,” she snapped.

  “Congratulations.” Charles leaned across the table and kissed me.

  “You newspaper people are all alike. Liberals,” Louise sniffed. “Where is she? Where’s my baby sister? I’m going to kill her for last night.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “She’s not home either,” Orrie informed us.

  “Did you try Mr. Pierre’s?”

  “You think I’m a dunce? That’s the first place I looked, and the Curl ’n Twirl too.” You could almost see the smoke creeping out of Louise’s ears.

  Another car pulled into the driveway. A door slammed. Yet another.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Mom cheerfully opened the back door, Ed in tow. She beheld Louise. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “I am not speaking to you—now or ever.”

  “That’s a relief.” Mother brightened. “Hi, Charles. Hi, Orrie.” Mother didn’t seem surprised that Charles was here at such an early hour. However, after last night we were bombproof. Nothing would seem bizarre.

  Ed came over and slapped Charles on the back. He was the most expansive I’ve ever seen him. “You missed a good show last night, buddy.”

  “I’m beginning to get that feeling.”

  “Look, everybody. I’ll make up more coffee and we’ll have an impromptu party—even though some of us are not speaking.”

  “That includes you, you—well, I can’t say it.” Louise flounced into a chair.

  “Charles and I are starting another paper. So let’s drink to it after I get the coffee made.”

  As I was measuring out coffee and Mom was rummaging under the cabinets for Cora’s old samovar, I called out to Charles: “Why don’t you ring up Arnie Dow and see if he’ll come back to work?”

  “What am I going to pay him with? I mean, Nickie, I’ll whip through what Rife gave me if I pay at the old rate, which wasn’t much to brag about anyway.”

  “Advertising will take care of that and we could profit-share, you know. Call him.”

  Charles did. “Said he’ll do it. Said he’ll come up the hill to celebrate. Asked if you’re okay. Told him he could see for himself, although you looked fine to me.”

  Within minutes Arnie was through the door. Hellos were exchanged.

  He threw his arms around me. “Are we crazy or what?”

  “We’re crazy.”

  “Would you have it any other way?” Mother found the samovar. “Orrie, will you tell my sister to mix up some biscuits.”

  “Louise, will you mix up some biscuits?”

  “Why?”

  “She wants to know why?” Orrie repeated.

  “Because Nickel can’t cook and because my beastly sister makes the best biscuits in town, second only to Verna.”

  “I resent that! Mine are better than Verna’s! And don’t get the mistaken impression I was talking to you because I was not. I was speaking to these lovely people here and Ed.” Louise reached for the spatterdash mixing bowls and went to work.

  “Let’s call Verna and tell her about the paper.” That fast, Orrie was on the phone.

  Pretty shortly thereafter, Verna, Georgette, and Decca chugged up the hill, and Verna, bless her heart, brought more food.

  “Charles, what do you think about Michelle? I think she’s turning into a real reporter.”

  “Off to a slow start. I didn’t know if that one would make it but she is turning into something special. Why don’t I hire her—is that what you’re saying?”

  “You got it.” I passed out mugs and cups to everyone.

  Charles dialed Michelle. When he returned to the kitchen he was smiling. “She’s ecstatic. Says she’ll be here in a minute. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “The more the merrier,” Wheezie sang out as she beat the batter. “Except for some people, of course.”

  Mother chose a prudent silence for a change.

  Michelle breezed up the hill and knocked on the front door. Arnie got the door. They kissed and hugged, which was a surprise considering Michelle’s reserve, and then she kissed and hugged me. More surprises. Verna, counting out eggs for omelets, put Michelle to work before the woman even had time to sit down.

  Mr. Pierre flew through the front door. “Where is everybody? I’ve been all over town looking for you girls!” He bowed to the ladies and nodded curtly to the men. Mr. Pierre had a standing truce with men. At the sight of me he jubilantly said, “Mom cherie.”

  “I’m Mom cherie,” Mother said.

  “Now you are grand Mom cherie and Nickel can be petite Mom cherie.”

  “Speak English,” Louise said. “I’m tired of this French shit.”

  As my aunt had never uttered the word shit before, conversation came to a halt and then slowly, like a train on a hill, moved forward again.

  “I was saying”—Mr. Pierre dropped his voice to a lower register—“that Julia is Big Momma and Nickel is Little Momma.”

  “Cherie isn’t Momma,” Orrie said.

  “Don’t be a stickler, Orrie. It works on my nerves,” Verna requested.

  “All right, all right, but we’ve got a houseful of newspaper people here and they like to get their facts just so,” Orrie defended herself.

  “What are we going to call the paper?” Charles untied his bow tie and made himself comfortable by the table.

  “How about the Courier?” Ed spoke up. “We got a Courier at home.”

  “The Tribune.” Decca joined the conversation. “In olden times the tribune was the voice of the people. That’s what Uncle Sonny tells me ’cause he knows everything.”

  “Not a bad idea,” I said.

  “I’ve got the most marvelous idea.” Mr. Pierre had the phone in his hand. “Let’s call Diz Rife and ask him.”

  “You’re going to call Diz?” Michelle couldn’t believe it.

  “Why not? You all are going to be strange bedfellows. Think about it.” Mr. Pierre reached Diz on the phone and a spirited discussion developed which I couldn’t hear because Louise had the bad grace to call my mother a trollop and Mother replied that Louise was a tart. Then Louise said that she wasn’t speaking to Mother and Mother was becoming paranoid thinking everything was being said about her and everyone was talking about her—either she was paranoid or she had a big head. This was said distinctly and with vigor to Verna, who was noncommittal. Mother said that as long as we were on a psychological tack, some p
eople had persecution complexes: They persecuted other people, meaning herself.

  Diz Rife’s splendid Aston-MartinVolante circled the farm. He couldn’t find a place to park at the house and pulled over on the side of the road.

  Before he could knock on the door Mr. Pierre opened it and invited him in.

  “Diz, you like omelets?” Mother asked.

  “I like anything you make, Julia.”

  Mother, charmed, applied herself to the omelets with renewed energy. As she beat the eggs Verna tossed in cheese and whatever else she’d cut up on the butcher block.

  “Nickel, can Pewter eat raw egg?”

  “I don’t know why not. She eats everything else.”

  That got a laugh from the group. Diz was handed coffee by Louise, ushered to a chair by Ed, and immediately buttonholed by Decca, who wanted to know if he really was the richest man in the world.

  “Diz, we’re starting another paper.” Charles met the issue head-on.

  “That’s what Mr. Pierre mentioned over the phone.”

  “What do you think?” I called over my shoulder. Louise had me cutting out biscuits.

  “I think competition is the life of trade,” he said. “You can’t use the name Clarion, though, and you can’t say founded in 1710.”

  “No, but we can say, ‘In the same two families since 1710,’ ” Charles parried.

  “Yeah, I guess you can. Can’t call it the Trumpet either, since the Trumpet was incorporated into the Clarion. What are you going to call it?” He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

  “Why not Mercury? He is the god of communication, is he not?” Mr. Pierre offered us the idea.

  “I like that!”Arnie was enthusiastic.

  Charles shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Okay by me,” I said.

  “Me too,” Michelle chimed in.

  Louise cast her vote. “It’s sacrilegious.”

  “Why?” Verna wanted to know.

  “Pagan stuff.” Louise’s lower lip jutted outward. She was wearing her cerise lipstick shade again which ran up the cracks of her upper lip. “All those naked statues.” She shook her head.

  “We’re talking about a newspaper, not sculpture.” Arnie laughed.

  “I had my say-so and that’s that.” Louise was really pouting now.

  “Mercury it is.” Charles was final.

  Before Wheezie could create a scene, I said, “You know, Aunt Wheezie knows everybody and everything. She ought to have some kind of social column in the Mercury.”

  Charles, blindsided by the suggestion, hemmed and hawed.

  Diz, teasingly, said, “Maybe the Clarion should have her.” He was enjoying the idea of having a rival.

  Wheezie fluttered, but before she could say anything else Mother whispered, “Exhale, blowfish.”

  Louise, batter bowl in hand, threatened: “I am not speaking to you. And you will never be mentioned in my column.”

  “Uh, Mrs. Trumbull”—a formal note in his voice, Charles held out the palm—“I think you belong at the Mercury. The Hunsenmeirs and the Falkenroths are a team, you know.”

  “Why—yes.” Louise was as happy as I have ever seen her.

  I knew in my heart that she would dictate that damned column to me, but I’d had worse assignments in my day.

  The breakfast party lasted the whole day. Verna, Mother, and Mr. Pierre ran down to Mutzi’s for more food for lunch and supper, and then Mutzi joined us too. We called David Wheeler and he showed up with his wife, who kindly brought a covered dish. Diz made a trip to the liquor store and that was a huge success. The whole Frost family came over and I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I would be about that. By nighttime, we gathered around Cora’s upright to sing. Mother suggested a game of Crap on Your Neighbor for those not interested in singing.

  I don’t know what came over me but I asked Diz if he would be my baby’s godfather. He said he would and that he was deeply sorry he wasn’t the baby’s father. I also asked Jack, for obvious reasons and for the not-so-obvious reason that it would force him and Diz to cooperate about one thing in their lives.

  Mr. Pierre, many martinis later, confessed he was nervous about marriage.

  Decca asked her mother: “Why do people get married?”

  Verna answered, “So they don’t have to eat alone.”

  Mr. Pierre cleared his throat. “This is as good a time as any. Nickel and I will be married tomorrow, high noon at Christ Lutheran.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Louise shrieked.” We thought it might upset you—this being a hasty courtship,” I fibbed.

  “Hasty? You’ve known him half your life. There’s no time to have a shower.”

  “I thought you were against this marriage?” Mother said.” I am but that’s no reason not to give a party and I am not speaking to you!”

  Michelle came up to me and whispered, “Are you going through with it?”

  I nodded and whispered, “It’ll be okay.” Louise thumped to one side of the room and Juts to the other, thereby creating two camps. I clapped my hands for silence. “Mother, Aunt Wheeze, in honor of my marriage, I want you two to make up now. I refuse to have you all spoil the wedding.”

  “Why’d you wait until the last minute to tell? I’m kept in the dark about everything.” Louise was close to tears.

  “Darling,” Mr. Pierre crooned, “it’s been so hectic and unexpected. We didn’t mean to slight you.”

  “When did Julia know?”

  “Yesterday,” Mom replied, “so I haven’t known that long.” She lied, as we’d told her Wednesday morning.

  “Don’t rush me. I haven’t made up with you yet!”

  “Aunt Wheezie, come on.”

  Louise turned to Mr. Pierre. “And why are you marrying her? You don’t even know her bloodlines. What if she has hereditary insanity? You could have married me!”

  Eyes focused on Mr. Pierre. He gallantly walked over to her. “When I met you, you were married to Pearlie Trumbull. You were off-limits. Fascinating. Magical looking. Those bones.” He indicated her facial bones.” But off-limits. Then as years went on we became as sister and brother. How could we get married?”

  Louise was having none of it. “Easily enough! Julia trapped Ed and now Nickel trapped you with the oldest trick in the business.”

  “I was not trapped.” Ed spoke with such authority he startled everyone. “A person can’t explain these things. Julia’s the girl for me. It’s a feeling. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

  Louise would have preferred that Ed remain strong and silent—especially silent. She wailed, “No one’s going to marry me. No one’s going to love me.”

  Naturally, everyone except Mother crowded around Louise. At the edges of the gathering people racked their brains for a man, any man still breathing, who could be produced for Louise.

  Jack edged over to me. “Damn you! I don’t want to share the baby with Diz.”

  “You’re going to. I know what I’m doing—for all of us. You two have got to bury the hatchet.”

  “In my back. That’s where it will get buried.”

  “O ye of little faith.” I touched his shoulder but he remained mad.

  47

  HERE COMES THE BRIDE

  SUNDAY … 10 MAY

  As the eleven-o’clock-service worshippers filed out, the wedding party filed in. I thought this would be a tiny wedding with myself, Mr. Pierre, Mom, and Louise, but everyone from the paper came, the bingo gang, my stable and hunt club buddies, and many of Mr. Pierre’s customers.

  According to tradition I had not seen my groom since last night. Regina volunteered to be my matron of honor. We sat in one of the back rooms rehashing Louise’s extraordinary confession. We both felt sorry for her, even if she was being a pill.

  Decca BonBon stuck her head in the door and told us that Ursie Yost was in attendance. So were Pewter, Lolly Mabel, and Goodyear. They were as close to me as my human friends. The pastor balked but I won him over
. If God made all creatures, then those creatures should be welcome in his house of worship.

  Regina and I laughed over Mother leaving Goodyear on the Square the night of blackout bingo. I’d taken the dog home with me. It was an indication of Mom’s emotional state. She hadn’t been separated from her dog since the minute he was born.

  The longer we waited the more nervous I became. I thought I was doing the right thing but how do you know? All decisions are based on insufficient evidence.

  “Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy,” Regina said.

  “Was I pacing?”

  “Here, sit down next to me. There’s something about ceremonial moments in life that bring out the best in people. Do you remember my wedding?”

  “I was your maid of honor and I told you I was scared for you. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “You were honest. I was scared too. The social pressure around a wedding is enough to make anyone nuts. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life. I was glad to get it over with. My one regret is that I didn’t finish college, but I’ve never regretted marrying Jack. He’s not perfect but neither am I and neither are you. We muddle through somehow.” Her cheeks glowed. She could have been the bride. “Now is there anything you want to tell me?”

  A bolt of fear ripped into my side. “Like what? You know everything there is to know about me.”

  “Like who is the father of the baby. I’m not dumb, you know. It’s one of the two godfathers and I think it’s Jack. You have a logical mind. You would reason that the natural father would want to spend as much time with his baby as he could without arousing suspicion. If you named one man the godfather, that would be too obvious. Two will keep them guessing.” Her tone of voice was matter-of-fact.

  “You aren’t giving me any credit for trying to build a truce between them.”

  “Oh, yes, I give you credit for that but I don’t give you credit for not telling me the truth.”

  “How could I?!” I blurted out. She had me. Why try to back out of it?

  “You know, the funny thing, Nickie, is that I’m not really hurt by the fact that you slept with Jack. I’m hurt by the fact that you didn’t tell me.”