Bingo
Page 34
Jack and Regina visited the babies, if not once a day, then every other day. Jack melted at the sight of them and so did Diz, who found marvelous excuses to walk across the Square to the Mercury or to drop by the house.
Mr. Pierre—I should call him Pierre, because I dropped the “Mr.” after the wedding—transformed the interior of Bumblebee Hill. He ransacked the countryside for falling-down barns and houses. He brought home a truckload of old blue boards last week and neatly stacked them by the shed. When I asked him why, he said they’d make beautiful siding for the addition we’d build. When I said what addition, he said the children would need their own rooms when they got bigger and he had it planned to the last nail.
Pierre had changed. He’d become more aggressive with other men, more direct. He used to fight back with his “fairy act,” as we called it between ourselves, but now he dropped it. He remained the best-dressed man in town but his style changed. He wasn’t wearing shocking colors. He turned to designers like Alan Flusser. The faggot jokes ground to a standstill. Who knows what people say about him behind his back, but to his face men’s attitudes have changed. He is who he is. He isn’t pretending to be Mr. Butch, but in a way, the real Pierre is emerging. The children have transformed both of us.
And, as he promised, Pierre transformed my wardrobe. He finds me comfortable clothes that enhance whatever attractiveness I’ve got. He drags me into stores and fusses over me and I let him do it because he knows more than I do. I even like the way I look.
The biggest surprise is that Pierre is learning to ride and play tennis. He says that the best thing for a family is to enjoy a common activity. By the time the children are on horses he’ll be a good rider. He’s quite disciplined about it.
The other thing is that Pierre swears Michelle has a crush on me. He can be wicked that way because he knows he’ll make me self-conscious. I don’t think that she does, but if she does, I wouldn’t know what to do about it. I’ve banished romantic love from my mind. It seems like such an overrated emotion. If I had to choose between a great, overpowering passion and the love of good friends, I’d choose the love of good friends.
I glanced up at the wall clock, its brass pendulum swinging. It was time for Louise’s party up at our house. I called to the Mercury people. We hurried to finish up our jobs and then left.
Louise, still high from her morning’s television triumph, preened at her party. Her cake bore the usual thirty-nine candles, which she blew out in one try, provoking comments about being a windbag. Goodyear’s training had been reversed so that he no longer fell dead at the sound of her name. Pierre and Ed fixed people drinks and Verna and Mom organized the covered dishes, since everyone had to bring food. Ed didn’t talk any more than when I first met him but I’d become accustomed to his friendly silences. Pewter was making a pest of herself in the kitchen.
The children slept upstairs. They slept a lot but Mom told me to gird myself because once they start crawling around on the floor, they sleep less and so do you.
By the time the food was served, we were starved. I adore covered-dish parties because you get to sample everyone’s cooking. Verna brought macaroni and cheese as well as her biscuits. Jack and Regina cooked a perfect Virginia ham. Mother whipped up her usual baked beans with bubble gum. Salads, vegetables dripping with sauce, spoon bread, and a list of desserts that was sinful completed the menu. You can tell when you’re at a good party because the talking rolls like waves. Everyone was talking, laughing, congratulating Louise on her performance.
After dessert Mom and I took a breather. We walked outside in the deepening light. The early daffodils swayed in the sharp wind that cut down from the north.
She put her hand over her eyes as the sun began to set. “Good kite weather.”
Her red kite, which she’d been flying this windy March, was in the car. She took it out. An idea seized me. I reached in my jacket pocket and retrieved a small notebook. Then I wrote a note to Dad. I tied it on the kite tail.
“Mom, let me do something. I want to let this kite go as far as it will go. I’ll buy you another one.”
“I’ve had that kite for years.”
“Please, I want to do this.”
“If it’s so important to you—go ahead.”
I ran with the kite but I couldn’t get it aloft.
“Here, gimme that.”
Mother ran with the kite, expertly playing out the line, and a stiff gust of wind lifted it up.
“Let it go,” I told her as another blast of wind pushed the red kite farther upward. “Let it go to God.”
She turned to me, a quizzical look on her face, then smiled and let go the string. The kite soared until it became a red speck, and then we could see it no more.
The note read:
Dear Dad,
You’re a grandfather now.
I wish you were here. I hope you’re happy wherever you are.
Love,
Nickel
P.S. You were right. Life is too important to be serious.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RITA MAE BROWN is the bestselling author of several books. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and poet, she lives in Afton, Virginia. Her website is www.ritamaebrown.com.