Bingo (3 page)

Mr. Pierre always treated me with conspiratorial glee. We were the only two openly gay people in Runnymede. The other nonheterosexuals were straight in Runnymede and gay when they left it. Worse, their spouses never knew, and I thought that deception pretty rotten. Naturally, both Mr. Pierre and I suffered every excuse known to God and man when we’d run into our “friends of Bertha’s” as Mr. Pierre called other gay people. They “admired” our bravery but left us to it quite alone. At any rate, being gay in Runnymede was a fairly dismal prospect and I understood everyone’s circumspection or cowardice, and yet I still couldn’t understand how anyone could spend a lifetime lying for the good opinion of people who also had feet of clay. In that, Mr. Pierre was my ally. If he played the part of a queen, well, he was a man and he had grown up in a different time than I did, with different pressures. No matter when he was born he would have been a naturally flamboyant character, just as I would have been a naturally detached one. If I blended into the landscape and appeared just an average woman, Mr. Pierre glowed like neon. Together we were quite a team and we often found ourselves paired together at social functions, since we were both unmarried.

Marriage was like death in Runnymede. Everybody did it.

My boss at the paper, Charles Falkenroth, waved to me. I waved back.

“I’m surprised Louise still has this many people speaking to her.”

Mr. Pierre laughed. “Do they have any choice?”

“No, I guess not.”

By now Aunt Wheezie had dived into her presents. She was supposed to wait until the cake was delivered and everyone sang to her but the woman’s innate greed took over. As she was wildly unwrapping a lovely package, yellow paper with cerise ribbon to match her lipstick, Mother handed her a telegram.

“This just came.”

“If it just came, Julia, how come you have it?”

“Why shouldn’t I have it?” Mother would have preferred that this birthday fuss be for her, but then Mother wasn’t enjoying her eighty-sixth birthday. Louise was officially acknowledging this to be her eightieth birthday and no one knew for certain her exact age. If Mother knew, she kept the secret, although she was not above dropping judicious hints.

Mother made no secret of her own birthday, March 6, 1905, and it was amusing that each year Mother advanced in years while Louise fell behind. However, Aunt Wheezie would give herself away by saying things like, “You won’t have me around forever,” and “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.” It should be noted that she had initiated these laments when she hit fifty—or more precisely, when she admitted to being fifty.

I was convinced she’d never die because she’d be afraid she’d miss something.

Furiously, Louise opened the telegram, then squealed. “Orrie Tadia!” Orrie, her best friend, was wintering in Florida. Louise raised her voice, and the congregation, feeling the effects of at least one drink, slowly quieted. “Orrie was robbed in a parking lot of seventy-eight dollars and thirty-two cents by a man armed with a coconut!” She sighed. “Orrie gets all the fun. Nothing ever happens to me.” Then she looked up from the telegram, glanced around the room. “Except for tonight, of course. Thank you all for coming to my eightieth birthday party.”

Ursula Yost, my nemesis and president of the local Delta Delta Delta alumnae association, blabbed, “It’s your eighty-sixth birthday, dear.”

Ursie had a mouth like a manhole cover: It was large and steam came out of it.

Louise glared at her. “You have your version of reality and I have mine.”

“Surely at your age it can’t matter.” Ursie was determined to put her foot in it.

Regina Frost, my best friend and Master of Foxhounds for the Blue and Gray Hunt, gently put her hand under Ursula’s elbow and guided her away from the brewing explosion with Louise. Ursula, tottering under the weight of all her crystal foxhead jewelry, listened most times to Regina. Even Ursie had sense enough to know it’s not a smart idea to cross the M.F.H. in any community.

Just then Regina’s husband, Jackson Frost, the best-looking man in Runnymede, emerged from the kitchen with the cake. Winston and Randolph, his two teenaged sons, helped carry the huge confection. The room erupted into song. Louise cried. I believe half the room cried with her. There wasn’t one person there who could imagine life in Runnymede without Louise, for she had preceded all of us.

The door opened and The Baker’s Dozen, an a cappella singing group, burst through it in full voice.

“Who sent me this present! Who sent me this?” Louise clapped her hands like a happy child.

The lead singer, George Spangler, a lawyer in town, paused after “Silhouette” and said, “Diz Rife.”

A slight pause rippled across the room; then the conversation picked up until George and company launched into “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louise.”

Even Liz Rife made an appearance and apologized for Diz’s—her husband’s—absence. He was in New York on business. In honor of Louise, Liz wore her major jewelry. She was, however,
wise enough not to let Louise wear it, even though Louise badgered Liz whenever she saw her in her “Major Stones.” Back in the twenties, Aunt Louise had borrowed a Cartier necklace and earrings from Celeste Chalfonte, a great and rich lady now deceased. These same valuables were not returned until many weeks later because, Louise said, she lost them. Since Louise was so organized that even her dirty clothes were folded in the hamper, this seemed unlikely. From then on, no more loans to Louise from anyone.

Louise, cape now casually hanging off one shoulder, glittered in a gorgeous bugle-bead jacket. Mr. Pierre leaned over her for another kiss. He was tremendously tall.

He nodded in Liz’s direction. “Those diamonds cost her a thousand mistakes.”

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” Louise replied, “but they won’t keep you warm at night.”

Mother, at her sister’s elbow, whispered, “Keep your voice down.”

“Why should I? Everyone knows.” Louise’s voice boomed.

Other conversations quieted. “Everyone knows what?” people seemed to be asking themselves.

Louise noticed this. The last thing she wanted was to cross swords with the powerful Rife family. She spoke to the assemblage: “Did I ever tell you all about my twelfth birthday and Momma gave me a doll. Well, my hateful sister was so jealous she hung it as a Yankee spy.”

Everyone laughed, and Aunt Wheezie, happy in the spotlight, launched into one story after another—most of them at her sister’s expense. Mother must have decided to grin and bear it; either that or she was plotting an elaborate revenge. I never knew with those two.

“Nickel, you’re covering this, of course?” Charles Falkenroth beamed at me. He’d edged over during Louise’s story.

“You don’t think it’s conflict of interest?”

“Hell, everything in Runnymede is conflict of interest.”

Just then Louise emitted another piercing shriek because she opened her sister’s present. The card for a year’s subscription to
Playgirl
magazine was attached to a lovely framed photo of Louise’s heartthrob, Ronald Colman. “Julia, you pervert!”

“You get what you ask for,” Mother replied.

As 1987 unfolded, this was to be oddly prophetic, but at the time I was busy stuffing myself with devil’s-food birthday cake and wondering why Charles wanted to meet me for lunch tomorrow.

L
ittle ice bits snapped at my face like the teeth of the wind as I walked around the corner of the Square and Frederick Road. Spring was dragging her feet this year; it was the grayest, longest winter I could remember. Lolly padded on ahead, oblivious to the cold. Pewter, far the wiser, stayed back in the
Clarion
office, which commanded the southeastern corner of the Square. One of the joys of living in such a small town is that your animals accompany you everywhere and folks know the beasts about as well as they know you. Chances are they like the animals better.

Charles Falkenroth had a morning meeting at Brown, Moon & Frost, the law firm on the Maryland side of the Square. The Yankee law firm almost directly opposite on the Square was Falkenroth, Spangler & Finster, the Falkenroth being Charles’s cousin whom he detested. He promised he’d meet me at Mojo’s for lunch and I trudged on my way, wondering why he couldn’t talk to me in the office.

Our office wasn’t a trip down Memory Lane; it was a gallop. The overhead light fixtures had been converted from gas at the turn of the century and that was that. The desks were the same as at the time of the War Between the States, and the oak floor laid down immediately after the Revolutionary War and never tampered with shone like a mirror. The big plate-glass window had gold letters in a semicircle blaring THE RUNNYMEDE CLARION and underneath that in smaller letters and a straight line it read,
ESTABLISHED 1710
. The original
Clarion
office, on this same
site, was not much more than a log cabin. When we won the war, and the publisher, Amos Falkenroth, prospered, the current building was erected. Amos was the son of founder Reuben Falkenroth, so the
Clarion
stayed in the family and in my family too. The Hunsenmeirs came to Maryland from Swabia at the end of the seventeenth century but our branch of the family didn’t get to Runnymede until about 1740. They were printers and so a natural alliance was formed between Hunsenmeir and Falkenroth which lasted, more or less, down through the centuries. There were the interruptions of disease and death and sometimes we skipped a generation in our partnership but sooner or later we’d get back together at the
Clarion
. The worst time, of course, was the War Between the States, because Marble Falkenroth was a passionate Union man and he moved across the Square to found
The Runnymede Trumpet.
Tom Falkenroth, his younger brother, kept on with the
Clarion
, and they smashed at each other hammer and tongs until they both died in the 1890s, but the rupture in the family persisted and the Pennsylvania Falkenroths and the Maryland Falkenroths never did see eye to eye.

Up until the early 1960s, when I went away to college, our town enjoyed two violently opposed dailies. The
Trumpet
blasted you in the morning and the
Clarion
rang out in the late afternoon. Everyone read both papers and perhaps a story had four or five different sides but at least we got two. Then, as in so many other towns, the two papers merged to stay alive. Now Charles alternates editorials. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, John Hoffman writes the
Trumpet
point of view, which is to the right of Genghis Khan. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I write the
Clarion
opinion, which is moderate and reasonable. On Sundays we give it a rest.

I pushed open the door to Mojo’s and Lolly danced through it.

“Lolly Mabel, where have you been?” Verna Bonneville, the blond waitress, fussed. “Hello, Nick.”

“Hi, Verna.” The owner of Mojo’s was a suicide blonde, dyed
by her own hand. We called her Verna BonBon, which suited her, since Verna was as wide as she was tall.

Charles, sprawled in a booth, wreathed in smoke from his Macanudo cigar, was reading
The Wall Street Journal
. I slid into the booth and Lolly sat down next to it as Verna brought her a Milk-Bone.

“Nickel, I’m having a club sandwich and lunch is on me.” Charles put down the paper. His bow tie wiggled when he talked.

Verna called from behind the counter: “Navy bean soup today. Your favorite.”

“Okay,” I called back. “A big bowl.”

“Gotcha.”

Charles inhaled for a moment. “Oh, Jack Frost sends his regards. He said he had a wonderful time at Louise’s party last night. Said you looked wonderful, too.”

A twinge of guilt shot through me. “That was nice of him.”

Charles shoved a handwritten article under my nose. “Check it for accuracy.”

As I read, Verna slapped down the food. Lolly’s tail thumped on the tile floor. “Some party last night. Think we’ll make it that far?”

“You bet.” Charles smiled up at her. “But only if you give me a kiss on the cheek every time I come in here. Love keeps a man young.”

“Go on.” Verna pushed him on the shoulder and left.

“What is this way you have with women?” I glanced up from the article.

“Ann asks me the same thing.”

Ann was Charles’s wife of thirty-three years. It was a good marriage; Charles was one of the lucky ones.

“This is great.” I gave him back the article, which was about Louise’s birthday party. He decided to cut me a break after all. “Only one tiny, tiny change. Make her eighty, not eighty-six … or is it eighty-five?”

“Everyone in town knows she’s eighty-six if she’s a day.”

“Yeah, I know, but you’ll give Louise heart palpitations if you tell the truth. Besides which, since everyone knows it, then everyone will know why you’ve made her eighty and they’ll have a good laugh, courtesy of the
Clarion.
”

We chitchatted throughout his sandwich and my soup and when the coffee came Charles said, “Nickel, I want you to run the paper. I’m retiring.”