Bingo (7 page)

I personalized my farm, but then, it was personal. Cora, my grandmother, was born and raised here, as were Mother and Louise. I inherited the farm through Mom. I had to pay off Louise. Her share’s value increased dangerously until Mother put her in her place. Still, I paid the going price in 1977. Louise shopped for bargains but never gave any.

Bumblebee Hill was the name of the farm and the hill on which it was built. The elevation, seven hundred feet, afforded me views of the land, and if I walked out on my front porch I could see Runnymede twinkling below me due east.

The house, built in 1834, although simple, was a good example of Federal architecture: four rooms off a center hall, upstairs and downstairs, each room with a fireplace. Electricity was added in the 1920s and indoor plumbing arrived in the late 1940s.

I put in new pipes—copper in, PVC out—in 1980, as well as rewiring. That was an expensive year. Apart from that, if Cora came back to life she’d recognize her home instantly.

The kitchen, with her butcher block in the middle of the room and a trestle table in the small nook, was as she left it. Only the appliances were new. I’d bought a red enamel stove. Why, I don’t know. I can’t cook but it sure was pretty.

Grandma’s furniture, sturdy country pieces, dotted the various rooms. Kenny took up whatever discretionary income I had, so I never bought furniture. I made do with Cora’s pieces and a few that Mother donated to the cause. I was, however, good with color and the living room was pale-peach with white trim. The
kitchen was red and white. The wainscoting in the dining room was a clear, deep cream. Above that, instead of using wallpaper, Grandma had hand-painted stencils of stylized birds, silver birds on a blue background. For my thirty-third birthday, Mother repainted them for me. Like Cora, Mom was artistic and good with her hands. I was neither but I was good with my head, so things evened out.

The phone rang. I sighed. It continued to ring. I gave up and answered it.

“Why didn’t you pick up your phone this weekend?” Mother went on the offensive.

“Slipped my mind.”

“Oh, balls. How am I supposed to know if you’re all right? I hate it when you go off into one of your moons. Anyway, I need you to do my books. End of the month.”

“I’m not moony. I just wanted to be quiet, which is a virtual impossibility around you.”

“You, of course, never open your mouth.” She inhaled. “Despite you being an ungrateful brat, I’ve been thinking about the
Clarion
.”

“Yes.” She had my attention.

“Well, what if you wrote a memoir of Runnymede and sold it? You know, in the town. Mojo’s would carry it and so would the bookstore. That money could go toward buying the paper. Maybe even a big publisher would want it.”

“Mother, that’s a wonderful idea but I don’t think I could write such a book and get it on the stands in time.”

“How long would it take?”

“At least a year. Think of the research it would take.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Just ask Louise—she’s two years older than God.”

“Goodyear must be out of the room.”

“He’s upstairs on his hooked rug with a chewy bone.” Her voice was light. “I have forgiven Lolly Mabel.”

I turned from the phone. “Lolly, Grandma forgives you.” Lolly couldn’t have cared less. “She knows.”

“Good. After all, the dog was only doing her duty. How’s Kenny?”

“Kenny’s fine.… Did you call Mutzi Elliott to apologize?”

“I called Mutzi but certainly not to apologize, since I didn’t start it. Anyway, I volunteered to come in an hour early next Friday to set up, and I volunteered you too.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

“Well, you don’t have anything else to do—unless you’ve fallen in love.”

“Very funny.”

“I wish you’d meet a nice person. I hate to think of you alone—especially when I’m gone.”

“You’re going to live forever.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Mom sighed. “Honey, it took me a long time to understand this gay business but I do, kinda. I don’t see that it’s any different than what your father and I had, only you have it with a woman.”

It’s funny about Mother. She can be a self-centered bitch and then there are times when she’s so sweet. “You’re right but you can’t invent love, Mother. It’s a gift from God.”

“If you want to buy the
Clarion
, I want to help, but maybe you ought to get out of this rinky-dink town. Your chances of finding a mate are better if you go to a big city. Baltimore’s not so bad and they’ve got the Orioles. You love the Orioles.”

“What would you do without me?” My voice had a teasing tone.

“Find somebody new to play gin with.”

“Nobody will play with you anymore because you win all the time.”

She was silent on the line for a bit. “I hope you’re not staying here to take care of me. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m here because I love Runnymede—and I love you.”

“Don’t get mushy, Nicole. I can’t stand it when you get mushy.” She inhaled deeply and I knew she had a Chesterfield in her hand. After she swore she’d given up smoking too. “If you do find someone, go. No woman is going to come here to live with you. There aren’t enough jobs and the town’s tolerant but maybe they’re tolerant because they don’t have to face you having someone. Know what I mean? If you live with another woman, then it’s real. As long as you’re single it’s an idea. They can think of you as an eccentric—which you are.” She giggled.

“You really think our people are that petty?”

“Hell, yes! I’ve lived here since 1905 and we redefined the word
petty.
”

“I don’t know what to say. Anyway, it’s an academic discussion because I’m alone, but if I find someone, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good. I’d die if Wheezie found out first.” She took another drag and I was about to yell at her but thought better of it. Her lungs had lasted this long. “Love is all there is. Don’t be one of those people who has to think about it. Go with your heart. Who cares if you look a fool? Better to make a fool of yourself than have someone else do it for you.”

“Mother, how come you’re on this love kick?”

“My mind inclined that way today. Well, I’ve got worms to turn and eggs to lay so I’m hanging up. Supper here tomorrow. What do you want?”

“Fried chicken and greens with fatback.”

“You got it, and don’t forget we go to bingo an hour early next Friday.”

“I won’t.”

“Bye-bye.”

“Bye.”

I hung up the phone and was engulfed in a wave of guilt. How was I going to explain Jackson Frost to her? If the Fates were kind, she’d never find out. Maybe the Fates were a grand excuse too. I didn’t need the Fates to destroy me or to make me. I could do it myself.

The afternoon sun died on the windowsill, leaving remains in Pewter’s dark gray fur. She stretched and came over for a scratch. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it at the time—I guess I was too wound up over the
Clarion
—but in looking back I realize why Mother was talking about love. She’d fallen in love at first sight with Ed Tutweiler Walters.

T
he Curl ’n Twirl reposed on the northeastern side of the Square. It was next to the Masonic Lodge, which sat on the corner of Baltimore Street. On the other side of the Curl ’n Twirl was Saint Paul’s Episcopal Church. The whole north side of the Square was spiffy and bright except for the defunct Bon Ton Department Store abandoned on the valuable Hanover Street corner. Mr. Pierre grexed and groaned about Pennsylvania taxes, which were worse than Maryland taxes, although that’s not saying much. However, few buildings came up for rent on the Square, so when the old Lansburg Dress Shop folded in 1957, Mr. Pierre and Bob Howard, his lover and partner, were shrewd enough to grab it. We all wondered if Mr. Pierre would be able to carry on after Bob died, but he persevered and the hair salon flourished.

In part it flourished because Mr. Pierre treated every customer as an honored guest, and in part it flourished because he shrewdly made the place exciting. Every five years he suffered a spasm of redecoration. He consumed
Architectural Digest, House and Garden
, and design magazines from Italy and France. Last year he went all-out and revamped the place. Shining high-tech, it sported a thin band of purple neon which ran around the top of the wall where molding would be. The floors were sleek pearl-gray tiles and the walls were palest pink, very flattering to his clients’ complexions, some of which resembled a road map. Current music piped throughout the place, George Benson, Dave
Sanborn, and Al Jarreau. The music was soothing and hip at the same time.

As you entered, you encountered a receptionist behind a curving, glossy counter. The enviable task of being at the center of Runnymede’s female nerve center fell to Verna’s oldest daughter, Georgette. When Georgette was young she used so much spray starch on her hair it looked like lasagna. People swore she would die of scalp infection. Mr. Pierre changed all that, and Georgette’s hair was worn soft and shoulder-length. Georgette, like her mother, was determined to live life as a blonde. A glorious floral arrangement commanded one corner of the counter despite the season. In the bowels of winter, Mr. Pierre could produce calla lillies. He swore he’d die before he revealed his source. It was Millard Huffstetler, Peepbean’s gay uncle and Saint Rose’s business manager, but possession of this secret was so important to Mr. Pierre and I guess to Millard that we let it lie.

I pushed through the door and was awash in the low buzz of neon. Goodyear, a saucy yellow bow on his collar, was flopped in the middle of the room.

“
Ma cherie!
” Pierre waved. “How’d the interview go at the bank?”

“God, Mom must have blabbed everything.”

“She’s in the back getting her hair washed.”

“Maybe you could hold her under just a tiny bit longer.”

“
Quelle honte!
Shame on you. Julia’s concerned that you get the paper and I, naturally, agree. You should own the
Clarion.
”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Pierre.”

“I think so too.” Louise’s voice boomed out from the back.

I lowered my voice. “They’re back there at the same time—after Friday night?”

Sotto voce, he answered. “They’re being overpoweringly polite to each other.”

“I don’t like it,” I whispered.

“Neither do I. You remember what happened the last time
they were this polite. How Julia talked Jackson Frost into letting her endorse his candidacy for mayor on television I will never, ever know.”

I smiled. “Jackson’s got resonance where his brains should be.”

That was a trifle nasty, because Jackson wasn’t really dumb but he couldn’t resist a woman’s entreaties. And Mother had never lost her ability to wrap men around her little finger. It wasn’t that she did not give a good endorsement, playing her part as an elderly person who would benefit by Jackson’s policies. It was that Louise ran into the midst of the show, loudly refuted her sister, and then wrecked the set. Well, they both wrecked the set. Jackson won in a landslide, probably because he had provided the town with such delicious entertainment. The perversity was that Louise voted for Jackson anyway. Ideology did not motivate my honorable aunt. It was always personal gain or personal animosity and she seethed with animosity because Julia, not her, was chosen for the political endorsement.

Mother emerged from the washroom, her little silver curls hanging limply around her head. Sometimes when the humidity was high it looked as though she had popcorn balls stuck over her head. Louise was on Mom’s heels. Aunt Wheeze went in for the stately image. Her hair, snow-white, was long, and she’d piled it up on her head like a Gibson girl. Her hair was gorgeous and it nicely framed her face when she wore a bun on the top like that. Both sisters had lustrous gray eyes, astonishing eyes. Mother had a fuller mouth but Louise had a better chin. Of course, now she had many chins.

“What happened?” Mother clambered up on the chair.

Before I could answer she made Mr. Pierre raise and lower the chair. She enjoyed the ride. Louise, more gracefully, positioned herself in the chair next to Juts. The two eyed each other in the mirror.

I walked between them and leaned against the counter so they’d have to focus on me, not on each other. Mr. Pierre skillfully
began working on Mother’s head while Kim Spangler, of the poor branch of the Spangler clan, came out from the back. She did the washing and gave Louise a head massage. The entire town knew of Friday’s skirmish and everyone was humoring the Hunsenmeir girls.

“Charles came with me. I talked for about a half hour to Foster Adams and then I presented my financial statement.”

“Did he say anything?” Wheezie’s eyes were closed in pleasure.

“Bankers,” Mr. Pierre sighed.

“He was friendly—”

Mother interrupted. “Of course he’s friendly. He’s known you since you were born.”

“He’s going to review my statement. He knows Charles is behind me, although Charles is free to keep talking to the other companies. It’s a lot of money for him. Anyway, I’ll know soon.”