Bingo (14 page)

“Actually, I can’t recall one time that you have ever been rude, even when you were a boy.”

“I must be doing something wrong.”

Since he was being honest with me, I thought I’d be honest with him. “You’ve always been under scrutiny, under pressure. Thank God you do have impeccable manners.”

“Got to make up for my bandit ancestors. You don’t know how lucky you are, Nickel, not knowing your people.”

“Yeah, you might be right.”

“Did it ever occur to you that we’re the two most misunderstood people in Runnymede?”

W
hat’d you say?” Mr. Pierre was breathless with anticipation.

“ ‘No. I never thought of that.’ That’s what I said.”

Having finished my story about Louise, Diz, and tennis, I grabbed another
crème caramel
. Tea with Mr. Pierre sent shivers of delight down my spine. Cooking was his third-favorite pastime, after gossip and decorating.

This Sunday afternoon, cozily protected from the drizzle, the two of us chatted. Lolly and Pewter slept at our feet. Usually tea meant the gang at the Curl ’n Twirl plus whomever else Mr. Pierre found amusing that week. He kept a hit list and a shit list. Once even I plummeted to his shit list, barred from tea for a month. I remember it well because I’d come home from my first semester at college and used “fucking” in every other sentence. The praise word was “far-fucking out.” Mr. Pierre steamed with indignation. Mother refused to talk to me but he tore into me. First he said it was plain rude. Second, he said it bespoke a paucity of imagination. The English language contains the largest word pool in the world. If a person can’t find the correct word, then that person is a dolt, lazy, and not fit for society. One should seek to be amusing in one’s speech and if one cannot be amusing—after all, not everyone is entertaining—then one can at least be accurate. Further, he blasted me about invoking a word for the sex act which cheapened the user
and
the sex act. By the time he was finished I agreed with him but I was eighteen and refused to give in. I defiantly stalked out. I soon altered my ridiculous posture.
Living without tea and Mr. Pierre was like being banished to Siberia.

We oohed and aahed about the jewelry sale wire story which I brought over. Mr. Pierre loved the AP printouts. At the auction, one ring of the Duchess of Windsor’s, a thirty-one carat diamond, was bought by a Japanese dealer for $3.15 million.

“I desperately wanted her flamingo pin,” he sighed. “Flamingoes are in this year.”

“Oh, God, don’t camp it up in front of Ed when we’re at bingo.”

“Louise can’t tell me what to do. I’m not her niece.
Jamais!
Never. And if he can’t tolerate an old queen, he’s not worth knowing. She’s getting potty about this so-called romance. I think that spending time with Ed Tutweiler W. is a form of sensory deprivation, that’s what I think.”

“He’s the strong silent type.”

“Puleeze. Why does being a man mean not communicating?”

“Maybe he’s shy. What would you do if you were caught between Julia and Louise?”

“Run!” He poured more tea.

The steam curled upward while the logs settled in his art deco fireplace. I felt happy in this house. Upon reflection I realize that I felt loved. He loved me for me, not for services rendered.

“But then, you’re between them every day.”

“Honey, I’m just one of the girls. They’re not going to snatch one another bald over me.”

“If they do, it will be a bad advertisement for the Curl ’n Twirl.”

“Why do you think I’m forever mediating their spats? My business depends upon it.” He laughed and picked out a wicked, tiny toffee cake, bitter chocolate over toffee over a grahamcracker crust. Biting into it, he moaned with pleasure. “Since Bob’s gone, my pleasures have been oral. I must go on a diet. Nickel, you heard it here first. Tomorrow.”

“Let tomorrow take care of itself.” I reached for one too.

“Darling, I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I haven’t had any time, that there’s a lady in town who finds you smashing. Yes, that’s the word—smashing.”

“Go on.”

“Don’t believe me?” “Is she under seventy?”

“Yes.”

“Who? Don’t make me guess.”

“It’s more fun if you do.”

“Come on.”

“Regina Frost.” A flicker played on his lips.

“I don’t believe it. She’s like my sister.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a beastly little shit, Nickel.” He said this without rancor.

“Why? What did I do now?”

He played with his teacup. “I wanted to hear what you’d say about Regina. I’m very fond of her. She’s a lovely girl, lovely, except for that glaring eye shadow, and she adores you. Absolutely adores you.”

“Not sexually.”

“No, but as I said, I wanted to hear your response to her.” “Why?” I thought this most peculiar. “Because you’re sleeping with her husband.” I’m a useless liar. No point even trying. “Does anyone else know?”

“What kind of answer is that? No, I’m the only one who knows. Let’s just say some nights I’ve worked late or taken a midnight stroll, and I put two and two together. You’re safe, for now.”

I exhaled audibly.

“It’s wrong,” he continued.

“I know.” The words rolled out of me. “I do know and I hate it but I … I don’t know. He makes me happy.”

“He’s the husband of your best friend.”

I astonished myself. I started to cry. Mr. Pierre got up out of his chair and sat next to me on the love seat. He put his arms around me.

“Oh, Mr. Pierre, I feel awful.”

“I know. You’re alone. You’ve been alone for a long time. But this is not right. This isn’t the way.”

“I’d die if Regina found out.”

“True. She might kill you.” He hugged me. “People make mistakes. I myself made such a mistake. That’s why I’m beseeching you to end the relationship before more harm is done. Everyone gets hurt in a situation like this.”

Once I collected myself I promised Mr. Pierre that I would make a clean break with Jackson. Driving home, I told myself it wouldn’t be so bad. Desire would become a memory. After all, I wasn’t going to be ruled by my hormones.

B
aseball season opened today. Roger Davis turned in a good piece about Jack Kemp declaring his candidacy for President on the Republican ticket, and Michelle was finishing a snappy follow-up piece on the closing of the Peach Bottom nuclear plant.

The Nuclear Regulatory Commission shut down the plant on March 31 because operators were found sleeping at the controls. Peach Bottom is in Delta, Pennsylvania, safely far away from the northern side of Runnymede. However, when Three Mile Island cooked, Runnymede found itself in the third zone of danger. Since then our readership has wanted to know everything about nuclear plants.

Tonight was the much-ballyhooed Hagler versus Leonard fight. Charles decided to do a column on that himself once he knew the outcome.

Hectic, harried, and hurried, this Monday ran true to form. David Wheeler, our sheriff, rolled in and wanted to know if Bucky Nordness was the biggest douche bag in Runnymede. I said I didn’t know about that but he was having a running fit about Mutzi and the .38. I suggested that David come to bingo on the blackout night. As yet we didn’t have a date but I promised to tell him the minute I knew.

Then I got a brainstorm and assigned the blackout bingo story to Michelle.

“Bingo? You want me to write a color piece on bingo?”

“Yes. I expect the blackout game will be a few weeks off, so you have plenty of time to learn the rules.”

“You give Roger an assignment on the Republican race, and me bingo. That’s sexist.” Her painted fingernails, misty mauve, drummed the corner of my desk.

“I also gave you the Peach Bottom job and that’s hard news.”

“I don’t want fluff pieces.”

“Goddammit, this is a small paper and you’ll take what I give you. Last summer I covered a brush fire near Emmitsburg. You’re no better than I am!” As I didn’t usually get edgy, heads turned.

“All right, all right, but I never heard of anything so low-rent and boring as bingo.”

“I happen to go every Friday night. Do you find me low-rent and boring?” This surprised her and she hesitated. I pressed on. “Taking the fifth? Fine, but I promise you this, blackout bingo isn’t going to be boring. It will be the fattest prize money anyone has ever seen here and”—I paused—“you might even enjoy it. Now get out of my face.”

Michelle, sensitive when it came to herself, withered away. I opened my desk drawer, picked up Isaac’s cherished cigar, had half a mind to smoke it, and put it back. Fate wasn’t with me. Portia Rife, breathing NewYork sophistication and flair, swung open the door. Under her arm rested her portfolio, her huge portfolio. She cheerily smashed it on my desk, making Pewter jump. I shrank under the glare of her fierce insincerity.

“Nicole, precious, it’s been eons.” Portia had the effrontery to kiss both my cheeks.

“How nice to see you,” I flatly fibbed. “How is life north of Forty-second Street?”

Portia’s childhood heroine was Marilyn Monroe. She spoke with a breathy quality that drove me bats. Maybe men like it. She also leaned over me, and as her bosoms were well developed, I was
in danger of losing an eye. “What a joy to know someone in Runnymede who’s cosmopolitan.”

Ha. The last thing I was, was cosmopolitan. I was a Maryland small-town hick, albeit a well-educated one.

“You flatter me.”

Damn right she was flattering me. She wanted her photographs in the Lifestyle section. In the bad old days it was called the Women’s Pages. I like that term better. These days it was all style and no life.

Portia flipped open the black portfolio. An array of fuzzy photos greeted me. On some she had superimposed geometric drawings, triangles, trapezoids, in Day-Glo colors. This was high-fashion stuff. I considered giving her an assignment in Nicaragua. And here is a high-fashion corpse and over there is a darling machine gun. I kept my thoughts to myself as she breathed in my right ear. I was certain condensation was forming in there, and if not condensation, then condescension.

Charles hung up the phone and stood up in his office, imploring me with his eyes. The Rifes’ various industries were steady, fat advertisers.

In the middle of an aria about low bodices and high hemlines I capitulated. “Portia, might you leave me these?” I picked out four. “I think the others are very”—I searched—“outré and daring, but you know, sugar, Runnymede is pink and green and Pappagallo.”

Portia stuck her finger in her mouth and mimicked a gag. Michelle’s face registered her feelings. I’d forgotten that Michelle was the preppy queen of the
Clarion.
Even though she’d pissed me off, sniffing at bingo, I felt bad. Portia never noticed, but then, other people’s feelings were not high on Portia’s list of priorities.

I carefully slid out the least-offensive photographs. “I’ll send you tear sheets.”

“You’re terrific, Nick.” More kisses on the cheek and then she tactfully left us in a cloud of Giorgio, a perfume of suffocating intensity.

Charles sauntered over. He held up the photos. “Give this to Michelle?” he wondered.

“No, I just assigned her blackout bingo.”

Michelle pitched a verbal horseshoe at my head. “Yes, and I’ll wear pink and green and even my Pappagallos.”

“Oh, Michelle, can’t you take a joke?”

“You meant it.”

“Well …” I waffled, then took charge. “Charles, let me do the fashion piece. I’ll make the Rifes happy.”

“Whatever you say.” He returned to his office and shut the door.

Michelle glowered while Roger fought to keep from laughing. He put his feet on his desk, too, so we’d notice his shoes, very sensible ones with thick rubber soles—glamorous combat boots.

The phone rang. Mother. “Guess what?”

“Elizabeth the Second of England called to chew the rag.”

Mother’s voice deepened. “That kind of day?”

“Umm.”

“Get over it! Now listen to my news. Ed asked me out! You owe me a hot fudge sundae.”