Bingo (17 page)

David walked across the Mason-Dixon Line to the Dixon side.

“Is it always like this?” Michelle asked me.

“Yes and no. It’s been like this since Bucky’s been police chief of North Runnymede.”

As we spoke Bucky fired his revolver in a loud salute, and his two deputies did likewise. A fife and drum corps, out of step, emerged from the Fire Station on the northwestern corner of the Square. Fortunately, their compass was shortened because they could only march on the northern side. To cross the line would have been foolhardy under the circumstances.

“I hate that wall-eyed son of a bitch.” David picked up his hat and brushed it off.

“So, fire our cannon April twelfth. If it was good enough for Fort Sumter, it ought to be good enough for South Runnymede.”

David regarded me with a bright eye. “By God, you’re right. I’ll load it with a cannister of paint and hit their goddamned city hall. Gray paint!”

This thought pleased him and he headed for Frederick Street.
As it was lunchtime, he’d go to Mojo’s and give everyone a detailed account of Bucky Nordness’s every shortcoming, real and imagined. Bucky was one of those men who doesn’t seem to realize that by following the letter of the law you can do almost as much damage as by breaking it.

As for his celebrating Lee’s surrender at Appomattox on April 9, 1865, it was in questionable taste.

“Why do people care?” Michelle mused as we walked to Mojo’s ourselves.

“Come on, Lolly, you can move faster than that.” Lolly found a Pekinese belonging to Mutzi alluring. Pewter thought its little face looked as though it had been flattened with a frying pan. On the whole, Pewter didn’t have much good to say about dogs. I returned to the question. “People care because it’s within memory. My mother’s grandfather fought in the war. When you consider, that’s close in time.”

“Seems silly.”

“I don’t set much store by it, Michelle, but it’s part of our culture. The trauma of that loss can never be overestimated. Why is it any sillier than Hopi Indian dances? That’s their culture. This is part of ours.”

She decided to let it drop. “I’m glad we’re having lunch.”

“Good.”

Folded under my arm was
The New York Times Book Review
. It took me a week to read every article. I would also read every article in
The New Yorker
.

When we were seated at Mojo’s, Michelle borrowed the
Book Review
. She scanned the best-seller lists. “Someday I’m going to write a book.”

Maybe I should have taken this seriously but I didn’t. Every newspaperman thinks he’s got a novel in him. Best that it stay there.

“Fiction or nonfiction?” I tried to sound interested.

“I’ll start with nonfiction because it’s closer to what I know and then I’ll work my way up to fiction.”

“Hey, I’ve got your first nonfiction hit.
Vaginal Care in the Nuclear Age.
”

“Don’t you ever take anything seriously?”A petulant shadow crossed her face.

“Not if I can help it.”

“You ought to.”

“Mizz Saunders, I buried my father. I took my lumps in the antiwar movement and the civil rights movement. Harder to bear was the treatment those same men, our ‘brothers,’ handed out to us when we started the women’s movement. As we say in Runnymede, I’ve been up the road and I’ve been down the road. I learned I’d rather laugh than cry. Whenever possible I’ll laugh. I also figure that other people have their fair share of pain, problems, and the heartbreak of psoriasis. If I have any compassion at all for them, I’ll try to make them laugh too.”

She simply stared at me as Verna carefully placed two huge bowls of navy bean soup in front of us. If there truly is a heaven, Verna’s navy bean soup will be served there too.

Michelle ate three spoonfuls before she answered my small but controlled outburst. “I never thought of it that way.”

“How do you like your soup?”

“It’s delicious. Nickel, how come you don’t bring up gay issues? Like at the paper?”

Was this going to be a deeply boring lunch? “Honey, everyone will bring it up for me. You’d think I was the only goddamned lesbian in America.”

“Other people are afraid.”

“So what! You either have guts or you don’t. You either tell the truth or lie. I’ve done about all I can do. I’m telling the truth as best I know it. Everyone else can hang on their own hook. Anyway, I’m tired of being used by people too afraid to do their own fighting.”

This must have hit her hard. Her eyes watered but it could have been the soup. She found her voice. “A lot of people have more to lose than you do.”

“What?”

“Well, you haven’t much money and you’re not going to inherit any.”

“Is money the absolute value?” I smiled. “Money is pictures of dead people. At least Canadians put the picture of a living person on their bills.” I smiled some more. She seemed so tense, but then Michelle probably didn’t relax in her sleep. “And since when do you measure your life in money? Are you that cheap?”

“No. Well, I guess I’m finding excuses for those people, aren’t I?”

Verna called, “More?”

“How about half a bowl? Really, Verna. Not another whole one. I’ll be fat as a tick.”

“Not the way you exercise.” A huge bowl appeared before me.

“May I have more too?”

“Why sure, sugar.” Verna brought another one for Michelle, who was again wearing her black Reeboks.

“I asked you to lunch because I want to know what the company policy is about seeing someone on the paper.” Finally, Michelle got to it.

“No policy. This is a small town. If you can find anyone still breathing who interests you, everyone understands.”

“Roger Davis asked me out. I’m a little uncomfortable.”

“Roger’s a good man.” I adored him.

“Oh, I know that. I don’t want to mislead him or get in too deep or—”

“Hey, it’s one date. You like it, you’ll have two.” I could tell this logic wasn’t convincing to her but she dropped the subject.

“I have another question.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’d like to do film reviews. I know you do them and I don’t want to impose upon your turf, so to speak, but I think I could learn.”

“Fine with me. We’ll divide up movies as they come to town. Want to divide up the revivals too?”

“Sure!”

We ate in happy silence for a few moments.

“Oh, Michelle, one thing.”

“What?”

“About film—it’s no accident it comes in a can.”

T
hirty-six, thirty-six. Have some fun. Play some tricks,” Mutzi sang.

Peepbean, attended by his relentlessly devoted fiancée, strolled around the large room. His engagement would be announced in next week’s
Clarion
. His fiancée couldn’t help being born ugly but she could have stayed home.

Ed Tutweiler Walters, sandwiched between Julia and Louise, flourished from their attentions. Louise became Chatty Cathy and Mom resorted to flashes of wit. Mr. Pierre, although disappointed in me, nestled next to me.

The Saint Rose regulars were there, as were Michelle and Roger. It’s doubtful that Michelle could get any further from her background even if she landed in Tunis. Bingo’s charms would conquer even her.

“Seventy-five, seventy-five, three cheers, you’re still alive.” Mutzi yanked another ball out of the hopper.

“Watch it!” Mom cupped her hands to her mouth. The room laughed.

“Julia, it’s unfeminine to yell,” Louise scolded.

“Hey, I won. Bingo!” Ed jumped up. “Bingo.”

“So, he isn’t Gary Cooper,” Mr. Pierre whispered.

Being straight versus being gay has little effect on a gentleman’s appreciation, even need, for being the center of female attention.

Mr. Pierre detested being displaced by a man he regarded as a
Birmingham ruffian. On the other hand, he wished for one of the sisters to have a mate again. Which one, and was Ed the right material?

Louise, mesmerized by her sister’s expanded bosom, toyed with a dab-a-dot. You could see the thought cross her mind. It didn’t cross—it trespassed.

“Aunt Wheeze.” I broke her concentration. “Are you ready for block of nine?”

“I’ve got every new way memorized. Block of nine is easy: You fill in a solid block of nine numbers, three, three, three. I like to think of it as a mini-blackout bingo.”

“Pretty smart.” I polished the apple.

“I was smart before you were born.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been in more laps than a napkin.”

“Juts, I wish you’d desist from this sexual banter. Never in the anals of history has it been proper for ladies of quality to resort to such innuendo.”

“
Annals
of history.” I covered up my smirk.

“That’s what I said,” Wheezie came back at me.

“Innuendo … is he related to impetigo?” Mother was getting wound up.

“Impetigo’s a disease.” Ed was joyfully folding the bingo money into his wallet.

“Think of it as light leprosy.” Mr. Pierre continued to take the cap off his dab-a-dot and then replace it.

Mutzi began calling the next game, the block of nine.

“Ed, have I ever told you the story about me and Chessy the first week we were married?”

“No, I don’t believe you have.” His pleasant voice soothed the nerves.

“Can it, Juts. We’ve heard that story since B.C.”

“I don’t spoil your stories.” Mother sounded calm. I doubted that she was.

“That’s because I don’t repeat them.” Louise smiled.

“Right, once was enough.”

“Mother.” I butted in. “Number eight. On your card.”

“Oh.” She dabbed a dot. “Well, Ed, Chessy and I had been married one week.”

Louise moaned.

“Shut up, Wheezie,” Mother commanded. “As I was saying, we were enjoying marital bliss. I cooked breakfast. We ate it. Chessy drank milk with his breakfast. He emptied his glass, put it back on the table, and pointed to it. I said, ‘What?’ My brand-new husband replied, ‘My momma always filled the glass when I lived at home.’ I stared at him. ‘What time is it?’ Chessy checked his watch. ‘Eight-fifteen.’ ‘Good,’ I said. ‘By eight twenty-five you can be back home. I don’t care one way or the other.’ Well, Ed, that closed his mouth and the marriage lasted for thirty-six years.”

“You shoulda filled his glass. Marabel Morgan would have.” Wheezie had half a block of nine.

“Marabel Morgan is a twit.” Julia bent over her card.

“Just what is a twit?” Louise appeared impassive.

“The present tense of twat.”

“How disgusting!”Aunt Wheeze threw down her dab-a-dot. “And in mixed company.”

“Girls! This is your first warning,” Mutzi boomed. He was too close to the microphone.

Michelle, only a table away, observed the sisters raising their voices. I could hear Roger tell her: “They’re always like that. That’s half the reason people come to bingo.” Michelle’s glance traveled from Mom to Wheeze to me. What was going through her head?

“I think it’s a funny story.” Ed put the lid on it and now Louise was frying.

Mr. Pierre and I spent the remainder of the evening so close to our bingo cards we may have fostered nearsightedness. We got the giggles every time we caught each other’s eye and that made Louise angrier. She beamed for Ed but to the rest of us—Lolly, Pewter, and Goodyear included—she glowered.

On the odd occasion Mother and Aunt Wheeze could do the
mature, responsible thing. That didn’t mean they wanted to. When it came to each other they refused to grow up. They’d compete over a cheese straw if it were the only thing in the room to fight about. I wanted to believe that people could change, and that included change the dynamic between them. Maybe some things or some people couldn’t change. I wasn’t so sure anymore. I wasn’t even sure if changing their relationship of constant bickering and outright war would even be good. Maybe it kept them young.

R
ain lashed at the windshield. In bad weather the Jeep gave me confidence. It must have given Louise confidence, too, because she wasn’t backseat driving. Creeping along the Emmitsburg Pike, I figured it would take us twice as long to get to the mall.