Bingo (8 page)

“I don’t think he has any real power,” Mother said.

Louise’s eyes opened wide. “He’s the president of the bank. That’s power.”

“That used to be power.” Mother was smug. “When Runnymede Bank and Trust was bought up by Chesapeake-Potomac Bank he became a cog in a big wheel.”

“He knows us better than some college-educated ass in Baltimore.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mother replied, “but I don’t think he can approve a loan all by himself.”

“You might be right but he’s got some discretion.”

“When you get the paper, Nickel, I’ve been thinking about a column. You know, something with local color.” Wheezie’s eyes brightened. “I’ll call it ‘Was My Face Red’ and I’ll put in there all the gossip of the town. You know, a kind of Cholly Knickerbocker of Runnymede. I know everybody and I’ll get the truth. Or maybe I’ll write about Runnymede the way it used to be. The good old days.”

Mother turned her head to gaze directly at Louise, swooning in her literary rapture. “You can barely sign your name, much less write a column.”

“Don’t be nasty, Julia. I hate it when you’re nasty. You know perfectly well I made A’s in English and Miss Kunstler told Mother I was a star pupil.”

Juts swiveled in her chair without Mr. Pierre’s help. He stopped working on her. I caught a glimpse of the dreaded Chesterfield pack in her voluminous purse. So it wasn’t just a puff now and then; she was back on hot and heavy. I wondered when she’d break down and smoke one in front of me. I don’t smoke, drink, or take drugs, which makes me an oddity in Runnymede, possibly in America. I lashed Mother daily on the subject of tar, nicotine, and bad teeth until she gave in and stopped smoking. That was my Christmas present from her. That and a quilt, blue and white, that my great-grandmother had made way back in 1892. Mother’s curls were beginning to puff up. She looked like a silver poodle.

“Miss Kunstler was scared to death of you because you threw a fake epileptic fit when you didn’t know the difference between a noun and a verb.”

Louise smiled. Normally she’d tear off Mom’s head but her self-control was remarkable. “Who told you such a fib?”

“Orrie Tadia, your very best friend.” Mother emphasized “very best friend.”

“Julia, turn around. If your hair dries any more I won’t be able to do a thing with it,” Mr. Pierre fussed. Her vanity got the better of her anger and she obeyed.

“Orrie has imagination,” came the weak retort.

“Well, I do wish she’d get back from Fort Lauderdale. Why she goes there with all that riffraff I’ll never know. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Nothing is like it used to be.” Mr. Pierre’s hands wrapped the curls into perfect shape.

“Mom and Wheezie are the same.” I noticed in the mirror on the other side of the room that my hair could stand a trim too.

“Not the same. Older,” Mother said.

“If I had known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.” Louise gave a fake sigh.

“Darling, you look divine.” Mr. Pierre meant it.

“Yeah, not a day over one hundred.”

“Oh, Julia, you can be so childish sometimes.”

“Is that so? Well, if you’re so smart, tell me what is the difference between a noun and a verb?”

Louise paused. “Don’t you know?”

“I asked you.”

Wheezie took a deep breath, Our Lady of the Significant Sighs, and shook her hair out. “Whenever you’re not the center of attention, Julia dear, you try and make me look stupid.”

Mother let fly. “That’s not hard.”

Louise smiled a superior smile. “I think it’s wonderful that you don’t act the way you dress.”

Mr. Pierre groaned. Georgette sat still, waiting. Kim discreetly took the scissors off the counter.

“I knew you didn’t know the difference. You still haven’t told me the difference between a verb and a noun.” Mother was smug again and determined to keep her temper.

“Then you tell me, Smartass—Dungdot—Aspirinface!”

“Girls!” Mr. Pierre chided.

“I’ll tell you.” I stepped in.

“I don’t want you to tell me and I don’t care. What I want is my own column and I
can
write. So there. It’s the least you can do for your beloved aunt.”

“Ha” was all Mother said.

“If I am able to purchase the paper, Aunt Wheezie, I’ll think about it. You do have the best sources of anyone I know.” I hastened to add, “You and Mother.”

“Julia is well connected.” Louise returned to icy politeness again.

I don’t know why it made me so uncomfortable. She must have been holding out on us.

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you all later.” I headed for the door.

Louise called out in a voice so sweet it dripped. “I won’t see you for dinner tonight, Nickel. I’ve got a date with Ed Tutweiler Walters.”

I stopped, turned around, and said, “You work fast, don’t you?” I was smiling.

Mother was not.

What a relief to get out of the Curl ’n Twirl. After that bomb, and didn’t Louise know just when to drop it, there would be nuclear silence in there.

I bumped into Diz Rife.

“Why, hello.” His deep-brown eyes peered into mine.

“Diz, I thought you were in New York.”

“Just got back. I hear you’re trying to buy the
Clarion
too.”

“Don’t forget the Thurston Group.”

“Formidable opponents.” Diz’s coat was vicuña. It must have cost as much as a Volkswagen.

“I guess.”

“You headed back to the office?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Mind if I walk you there?”

“No.”

As it was only four doors away it wasn’t a long walk but Diz would take any opportunity to talk to me. He’d been that way since we were kids. The family sent him to public school up until ninth grade and then he was packed off to Exeter while his two sisters, Portia and Lucretia, were sentenced to Miss Porter’s. After Exeter, Diz attended Princeton and distinguished himself academically and athletically. He got his MBA from New York University.

The family had come a long way since the strong-arm days of Brutus Rife, Diz’s late unlamented great-grandfather. Mother and
Louise said that Disraeli was the spitting image of Brutus. Still, it’s hard to relax or trust someone who can buy and sell the whole town. It was true I didn’t hold Diz responsible for the phenomenal greed and illegal tactics of his forebears. But whatever the reason, he made me edgy.

“How’s Liz?”

Diz and Liz, the beautiful couple of Runnymede. They’d been married for eleven years. Liz had a vast jewelry collection given to her by various admirers and corporate presidents. She was not loath to show it off. Those two didn’t get married so much as they endured a merger. Liz’s family, the Van der Lindes, invested in Fulton’s steamship line. They’d been making money ever since. It was, as all the papers said at the time, “a brilliant match.” Diz spoke of his wife only in formulaic terms. He never hinted at any problem, but then why would he say it to me? Apparently he never said anything to anybody.

“Liz is fine. She’s chairman of the heart fund this year and throwing herself into it. What have you been doing—aside from trying to buy the paper?”

“Playing bingo.”

“Heard about Friday night’s game.”

“Oh—after my meeting with Foster Adams, I interviewed the manager and employees of your very own canning plant.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Two cans exploded.”

He laughed. “Vegetarian terrorists.”

“I don’t think the two cans were sealed properly but when you consider how many cans that place turns out it’s a wonder more don’t blow up. At any rate, you’ll feel the waves after tomorrow morning, and the health inspector will probably make a call on your manager.”

“Thanks for the news.” He stopped at the door to the
Clarion
. “Nickel, why do you want this paper?”

“In my blood. Why do you want it?”

“Mid-Atlantic wants to develop a communications division.
Oh, I know there isn’t that much money in the
Clarion
but when I heard it was available I thought, ‘Why not?’ I think we’ll wind up buying it too. It will be the cornerstone of the division.”

“Don’t you own enough?”

“I don’t personally own these things.”

“You do.”

“Just because a company is big doesn’t mean it’s bad. You’ve got to grow beyond your romantic concept of this paper in particular and business in general.”

“We don’t agree on this issue, Diz. Don’t patronize me.”

He smiled. “Maybe you’re right. I did sound a little pompous. You going to start up with tennis as soon as spring arrives—if it ever does?”

I nodded. “How about you?”

“Not only am I starting, I’ve been taking lessons in New York. I’m going to be the best player in Runnymede this year.”

“You’ll have to beat Jackson Frost.”

“If I do, will you be my doubles partner?”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No.” He beamed.

“How much you want to bet that you’ll beat Jackson?”

“Twenty dollars, and I’ll do the job before July fourth.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

We shook on it and Diz left, a lilt to his step. I pushed open the door to the
Clarion
, already spending the extra twenty dollars in my head.

Lolly and Pewter were glad to meet me. So was Roger Davis, who slapped his copy on my desk. He couldn’t find the right transitions. I think Roger would kill his mother for good transitions but then that’s true of most journalists.

Later that afternoon the clouds hung low, gunmetal gray. They looked ominous. When John Hoffman came back into the office he looked ominous too. He and I hadn’t had any time to talk since Charles informed us of his plans.

John put his hat with the furry earflaps on his desk. At forty-six, though his hairline had receded, he remained a pleasant-looking man—clear hazel eyes, light-brown hair, clean features. He drank, so his complexion betrayed him with little red spider webs. He ate junk food and his hands shook when he drank yet another cup of roped coffee, laced with Jack Daniel’s Black. Sterilized by rationality, John never cut a shine in his life or even entertained an illogical thought. We coexisted without much affection but with respect. Charles had given John increasing business and advertising responsibilities and John lived up to them. No wonder he was so good at those right-wing editorials. He was speaking directly to our advertisers, many of whom also believed that if you were poor you deserved it.

John fondled Pewter, who jumped on his desk for a kiss. He’d bring her furry catnip mice and chase her around the bullpen, as we called our quarters. I used to wonder, watching him with Pewter, if there was an entire part of his personality that got squashed when he was a kid and someone told him men don’t play, they don’t write poetry, they’re not silly. Pewter seemed to be the only one of us who could touch his submerged and probably half-forgotten self.

He made smacking kissy sounds. “Oh, Pewter Motor Scooter. Uncle John’s got a fishy for you.”

He pulled out a food treat in the shape of a fish. Lolly steamed. John never brought her anything and she hotly resented his favoritism to a mere cat. After all, if robbers burst through the door to snatch our depleted coffers it wouldn’t be Pewter that would save us; it would be Lolly.

John addressed me, finally. “Filthy day. Gonna snow.”

“I hope not. You’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to take your temperature about the great events around here.”

He scratched Pewter at the base of her tail. She rewarded him with thunderous purring. “Yeah, the Old Guard is changing.”

“Got any ideas—for yourself, I mean?”

“I could sure use a pay raise.” He leaned forward over his desk. “And I like living in Runnymede. My kids like it. My wife likes it. But I’ve got to keep my options open.”

“You’ve got them too. You’re good, even if George Will is your hero.”

The compliment got to him and I meant it.

“Truthfully, Nick, I’m kind of rocked by all this. How the hell do we know what our new owners will do once we get new owners? They’ll tell Charles whatever to get him to sign on the dotted line. Now, mind you, I’m not saying they’re going to be bad. In fact they might even introduce the twentieth century to this paper. Hell, we haven’t even got computers yet and our wire machine is on its last legs.”

The AP machine thumped and hummed as the white paper spread across the room like a crazed tapeworm. I liked the old, buggy thing but John was right. Technologically we were so far behind, we were lonesome. But when it came to solid newspaper sense, the
Clarion
was aces. A steady stream of fresh kids came to Charles Falkenroth with journalism degree and virtue intact. They left with the journalism degree. And they left real reporters. Our “graduates” worked at
The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal
, the
Kansas City Star
, both Chicago papers, both Detroit papers, the
San Jose Mercury
, the
Baltimore Sun, The Washington Post
, the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
, and my favorite, the
Louisville Courier-Journal
. People here left with bruises on their souls from Charles but they could write a story. If we’d lived in England, the Queen would have bestowed some honorary title upon Charles, but as we were Americans, what he got was the satisfaction of his work. Recognition was for rock stars or at least that’s how Charles would consider it.

“Nickel—you here?” John prodded me.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about Charles. I wonder if he can stay away from the paper even if he sells it.”

“He’s in his seventies.”

“Is he? I forget. He always looks the same to me.”

“My hunch is that Ann will get him to move to Palm Springs. The desert will help his arthritis. He earned his rest.”

“I can’t imagine this place without him.” I grabbed a blue pencil and began desecrating Michelle Saunders’s puff piece on the Jewish cemetery south of town. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the subject matter, it was just that Michelle had obviously spent her life in a WASP cocoon. She was also a graduate of Sarah Lawrence. Her skin was so thin she could bleed in a high wind, and Charles always stuck me with her copy because he couldn’t face her exhausting fits about English, her desire to be a female F. Scott Fitzgerald, her conviction that the
Clarion
staff were all trolls in the basement of literature. Well, I’d get an earful today. I scribbled in the column and spoke while editing. “Did Charles tell you I’m trying to buy the paper?”