Bingo (16 page)

I could feel the crimson on my cheeks. “Goddammit, I hate phrases like ‘in touch with my emotions,’ I hate the whole phony psychological claptrap of our times, and I really hate it from you. You have feelings. I’m glad. I have them myself but I have the good sense to keep them to myself.”

“You wouldn’t keep them to yourself if I were a woman. I thought about what you said last week. Remember? You twitted me about what if you woke up a male, what would I do? What if the metamorphosis worked on me? What if I woke up female? What would you do then?”

“It would be the same.”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’d take me seriously then.”

“I take you seriously now and I’m guilty as hell.”

“You don’t think I’m not? But I can’t help myself. I think about you all the time, Nickie. I want to be with you. Don’t you ever think about me?”

“I do.” I lowered my eyes. This wasn’t going as I had hoped.

“Well, what do you think? Why don’t you talk to me?” The little muscles around his jaw tightened.

“Does it make it any easier if I do? For me it only makes it harder. It’s difficult enough to feel something. Having to talk about it only makes it more painful. Maybe talking about emotions releases them for some people—most of them on talk shows, I might add—but it sure doesn’t do it for me. It makes them worse.”

Jack smiled. “So our relationship is that painful.” It was a sad smile.

“Yes.” I breathed deeply. “How many times have I kissed you since we were children? Social kisses. Hi and goodbye. Glad to see
you. Why was the kiss under the mistletoe at the hunt club Christmas party the kiss that did me in?”

“I felt it too.”

“Were you as surprised as I was?”

“Uh—probably not.” Jack’s smile was brighter. “I’d thought about you that way before. I don’t think you focus much on romance or sex. Actually, Nickie, sometimes I think you clean forget about sex.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but I’m your favorite info-maniac.”

“You never stop—maybe that’s why I love you.” He put his arms around me.

I hugged him in return. “You’re right. Everything you say about me is right. My eye is on the target. I really do forget about the mush stuff but—you made me remember. Someday years from now I’ll remember that Christmas party with fondness but right now, honey, it’s hard. I’m torn. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. I know what you mean.” He stroked my hair. “But I’m not sorry about what you call the mush stuff. I’ve complicated my life and I’ve complicated yours and I love my wife and—” he paused, “you make me feel wonderful. I’m not sorry.”

I did feel sorry and I intended to tell him. I meant to break it off but he was so defenseless, or that’s what I told myself. This wasn’t the night. He was on my team. He did care about me and what happened to me and he wanted me to get the
Clarion
as much as I did. I needed him. I guess I needed him far more than I knew.

T
he American Society of Newspaper Editors, meeting in San Francisco yesterday, elected its first woman president, Katherine Fanning, editor of
The Christian Science Monitor
. Happy though I was about this, I recalled that once, ten years ago, I’d written an editorial in which I indiscreetly made a reference to Mary Baker Eddy. I said she was responsible for more death than Hitler. I thought it was funny. Christian Scientists did not. Apart from the incensed letters to the
Clarion
received from our readership, I was subject to a stinging rebuke from the then editor of
The Christian Science Monitor
.

That taught me two things: The press does have power. Who would have thought a reporter on a tiny newspaper would reach into the inner counsels of one of the most powerful papers in America? And one of the best too. Second, I learned that while I believed nothing was sacred, most people did not share my irreverence. These sensitive beliefs are a little bit like the human ego: You think it’s hidden but it’s easily reached with an insult.

Charles appreciated the volume of mail even as he didn’t appreciate the tone of it. Charles took the middle course, which meant few feathers were ruffled. Being a proponent of free speech I utilized this precious amendment perhaps once too often in my youth but it stirred the readership. It began to stir Charles. Instead of reining me in, he gave me more latitude. He enjoyed the spectacle without having to face it emotionally. I was left to confront whatever hornet’s nests I stirred. But that’s as it should be. Charles
was my editor, not my protector. I was proving so successful in my ability to rough up the conservatives of our area that he lured John Hoffman to the
Clarion
. Now John could rile the liberals and me, too, on occasion. Attacking personalities was off-limits. We had to stick to issues and so we did. Our readership grew by 1,722 subscriptions over that period. Our rough readership statistics put us somewhere around 5,000. That doesn’t seem like much, but consider how small Runnymede is. I knew, in my heart, that if I could buy this paper I could double our readership. I was full of ideas, energy, and passion. As the owner I would have to be more circumspect than as a reporter or editor. After all, if businesses don’t place ads, we go broke.

We did lose an ad once and it wasn’t my fault. John came out guns ablazing against abortion. He so offended Trixie Shellenberger, M. D., over at the Medical Arts Center that they pulled their ads for three months. To Charles’s credit he made no excuses for John nor did he tell him to tone down.

To me befell the task of the rebuttal. As I couldn’t have an abortion myself but feel every woman has the right to make her own decision, my rebuttal was halfhearted. I think I offended almost as many people as John, because I wasn’t championing their cause. I didn’t get mad at John; I got mad at Charles for sticking me with the damned rebuttal. That was one of the few times I’ve lost my temper with him.

Blue pencil smeared all over the page in front of me. I gave up. This article was without salvation. I wondered how many blue pencils I’d used up in my lifetime. Would they girdle the globe or merely stretch to Des Moines, Iowa, and back?

“Roger.”

“Yo!”

I handed him his article. “Are you trying to make this as illiterate as possible?”

“No, it comes naturally.” He grinned with good nature.

“How about another try? You don’t have to dazzle me with transitions. Just tell me the story.”

“Okay.”

I glanced out the window and beheld Mr. Pierre bearing down on the office. Before I had time to marvel at his haste or make my escape to the back, he was inside the door.

“
Bellissima!
” He kissed me. His voice lowered; his right eyebrow shot up conspiratorially. “Well?”

“Uh—I’m working up to it.”

“
Lâche!
” He evaporated as quickly as he had materialized.

I think he said that I chickened out in French.

Apart from my disappointing Mr. Pierre and myself, the day was tolerable. I stopped off at Darby’s Folly to groom Kenny and ride him for a too-brief half hour.

Then I went home and cooked spaghetti. I don’t like spaghetti but I like cooking even less. It was easy. Pewter stole half of it off my plate. That habit was my fault because I’d set a place for her and we’d eat together. As Pewter matured she decided my food was better than cat food. So I’d put some of my food on her plate. But she ate so much faster than I did she’d have her face in my food within minutes of being served.

Ursie breezed in as we were finishing. No one ever knocked in Runnymede. She didn’t say hello.

“You let that cat eat with you?” Her upper lip curled.

“Want some?”

“Certainly not.” She paused before sitting at the trestle table. “It’s unhygienic.”

“Oh, hell, Ursie, my cat is cleaner than most people—and better company too.” Dig. Dig.

“I missed you at the stable so I brought you this.” She dumped a gargantuan pile of file folders on the table. My china rattled.” Blue and Gray Hunt Club newsletter files. Everything’s there. I keep concise records and I hope you will too.”

“You’re a hard act to follow.”

This pleased her. “Thank you but I know you’ll do your best.” Ursie took in the kitchen. “Why don’t you let Mr. Pierre redecorate for you? Those people have such a flair. Remarkable, really.”

Fortunately, I am disciplined. I did not punch her out. “Just like blacks have rhythm.”

“I didn’t mean it like that at all. That’s the problem with you minorities. You’re too sensitive.”

Actually, I agreed with Ursie on that but I didn’t feel agreeable at that moment. “If you want to run for public office you’d best be aware of those sensitivities.”

Her perfectly coiffed hair shook for a second. Her eyes narrowed. “Me? Run for public office? Whatever or
whoever
gave you that idea?” A pause. “Has Harmony or Tiffany said anything?”

“Your daughters are blameless.”

“Well, where’d you get such a thought? Me. The very idea. How absurd.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” I shoved the plate away from me. “You’re highly intelligent, the kids are close to leaving home, and you’re getting bored, bored, bored with volunteer work.”

“I am not.” She shifted in her seat.

“Yes, you are. You didn’t run for president of the Garden Club this year and you also stepped aside so Carolyn Chapman would be elected vice-president of the Hunt Club.”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

Of course it was, but I wasn’t going to tell her of my conversation with Regina. It was too much fun to hook her and reel her in, the blowfish.

Ursie tapped her long (fake) fingernails on the dark wood. Her curiosity overwhelmed her denial of ambition. “Do you think I’d make a good, uh, public servant?”

“I do. I’ll vote for you.”

“You will? You don’t like me.”

Ursie, direct. Well, this was interesting.

“We’re the best of enemies then.” I smiled a Chessy Smith smile. Dad could charm a dog off a meat wagon. My charm was not so potent but at least I had some.

Ursie smiled back. “So we are. Who’s to say how it will all turn out?”

She left as she arrived, unescorted by me. Lolly Mabel saw her to the door. I snatched the phone off the hook the instant Ursie backed her new Volvo station wagon out the driveway. The license plates read
H. BEAR
for “Honey Bear.”

Regina picked up on the other end and I succumbed to the cheap thrill of gossip. I told her every syllable of my conversation with Ursie, every nuance, every pause.

We giggled and when I hung up, my heart knocked against my ribs. I loved Regina. Absolute, unqualified love. My tawdry, low-rent behavior, my damned affair, hurt me.

I saw my ideas tarnish in the corrosive air of the outside world, or maybe it was my ideals. Well, I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel but my nose was bloodied. Maybe after thirty everyone feels that way. Maybe, but Regina shouldn’t get her nose bloodied on my account.

The other event of the day was that Mother, Ed, Verna, Ricky, Georgette, Max, and Decca went to the movies. Max was not a BonBon but Georgette’s steady, although not steady enough to suit Verna.

After the show Mother invited everyone back to her house, where she concocted dripping banana splits and ice cream sundaes. Then she spoke aloud the magic “Louise” and Goodyear howled, rolled over, and played dead. This was a big hit with Ed.

The BonBons and Ed left at midnight. By 12:01 she called to give me a full report. When I mentioned that I was asleep she informed me that I needed more night life; I was turning into a grind. Ed, like everyone else, was sworn to secrecy about Goodyear, and I was sworn to secrecy too. I couldn’t tell Aunt Wheezie about Mother’s date. Mother reserved that form of enlightened sadism for herself.

Y
ou’re a flaming asshole.” David Wheeler threw his sheriff’s hat on the ground.

“You’re setting a bad example for young people.” Bucky Nordness pointed to a child pulled along by her mother. “Now get back on your side of the line. This is my jurisdiction, remember!”