Bingo (33 page)

Regina, Mr. Pierre, Mom, Wheezie, Orrie, Georgette BonBon, and Max, her boyfriend, huddled on the left side of the bleachers. Liz and Portia Rife, Bill Falkenroth, Kevin and George Spangler, Tinker Finster, Ursula Yost, and Frances Finster sat on the right side of the bleachers. David Wheeler and his wife wandered over after their game and sat in the middle. Sides were clearly drawn.

During the changeover at 5–4 we picked up a piece of the
exchange between Jackson and Diz. Their conversation did not run a charitable course.

Diz served and held. Frustration marked Jackson’s face. He was so accustomed to wiping the courts up with Diz that the equality of the struggle offended him. Jackson, powerful and smart, battled the slighter but quicker man. Diz used the whole court and he kept Jackson off balance by mixing up his shots. He’d slam a forehand topspin into the backcourt and then on Jackson’s return he’d take the pace off the ball. Nor was he averse to the lob, that most heartbreaking stroke in tennis if you’re on the receiving end of it.

When the fifth set heaved over into a tie-breaker, those of us in the stands collectively held our breath. This was tantamount to a palace revolution. None of us could believe how hard these men were fighting. This was more than a tennis match. No money would change hands at the conclusion. No trophy would be given. The results would not be printed in the
Clarion
despite the fact that one of the participants was soon to be the new owner. The end shocked everyone. The tie-breaker, a recent invention in tennis, must be won by two points. They’d blasted each other to 9–9, a comment in itself. Jackson turned over service to Diz. The next point, a long one, swung to Diz when he hit a backhand down the line that caught the chalk, spraying it upward in a fountain of white. On Diz’s next point he served an ace. Jackson could have lied and said “wide” because it was close and it’s pretty easy to cheat if you’re that kind of person. But Jack wasn’t. He stared at the spot, rooted to the court. Nobody said a word. Then he called, “Good.” Still he couldn’t move.

The stands erupted and Diz trotted to the net, happy in his victory. He leaned his racquet up against the net and waited. Jackson strode up to shake hands. That part was okay but Jack muttered something and Diz, Jack’s hand still in his, smacked him upside the head with his left hand. Jack dropped his racquet and in a flash they were pounding each other, the net between them
until Jack vaulted the net and the two of them fought and rolled in the grass like bad boys.

David Wheeler and Mr. Pierre rushed out to separate them but couldn’t do it. Eventually Max, Bill, Kevin, and George supplied their services and the two contestants were dragged apart. Jack yelled that Diz couldn’t be satisfied being the richest man in the county, he had to win at everything. Diz retorted that Jack was a bad loser and always had been and that Jack’s days of being Runnymede’s peacock were over.

Cooling down took about five minutes, and the men finally let Diz and Jack out of their respective grasps. Jackson stalked off, hopped in the car, and drove away. Diz retreated to the locker room.

“I’ll run you home,” I told Regina, since she’d been left high and dry.

“Tell you what”—she watched Jack drive off—“let’s play three sets of singles and then round up victims for two sets of doubles. I am not going home to that until sundown.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Our three sets supplied us both with chills and spills. Regina won the second set, so she started playing out of her head. I couldn’t let up for a minute in the third or she’d have snatched it from me.

“Now that was fun.” Regina toweled off.

I dropped into an Adirondack chair and bribed one of the court kids to bring me a Coke. Regina was sitting on a bench. Diz walked over to her.

“Regina, I hope you harbor no ill feelings toward me. I think emotions ran high out there and I want to apologize.”

She wiped her face again. “I know that.”

He turned to me. “I bought the paper.”

“I know.”

“Reconsider?”

“You going to stick to your plan?”

“Yes. The Bon Ton will be ready in about a week. The wiring is what takes the most time. There isn’t much else to do but put up partitions.”

“Even Nils Nordness can do that.” I shouldn’t have said that.

“I don’t think much of his construction firm either but this is a simple job and it’s good to patronize local business. What do you say?”

“Thank you—but no.”

“You’re still going to be my doubles partner, aren’t you? Remember our bargain.” He sounded disappointed that I wouldn’t be sticking with the
Clarion
.

“I don’t renege on promises—and I think we’ll make a good team.” I dug into my purse and gave him the twenty dollars I’d bet him weeks ago.

“Hardest money I ever earned.” He folded the bill and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Would you ladies like to give it a try now?” He jerked his head behind him. “I bet we can talk Bill Falkenroth into being Regina’s partner.”

Regina stood up and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Bill Falkenroth, this is your big chance.”

We had so much fun we played four sets and nobody wanted to give up until our legs got wobbly.

Driving Regina home, I chose the long way around town, and the keen gold of late afternoon light slanted across the macadam road. Before our eyes Nature rose up in her glory and her might: Most of the trees now bore their new bright-green leaves, the grass deepened to vibrating emerald, and bluebirds darted in between the swallowtails. This was the spring of springs, the apotheosis of spring.

Curious that in the depths of my sorrow over losing the
Clarion
—and it really hit me full-force today, because yesterday I’d concentrated on my hangover—I felt rejuvenated by spring: I felt young, strong, and invincible. So intoxicating is Nature that she can lure us away from the artifice of being human and remind us
that we are animals. The conquest of winter must be celebrated in the blood. It still remains our greatest victory.

Regina and I motored along in the happy silence of old friends. Whenever I entertain doubts about the existence of the Almighty, I remember that through my friends God has loved me.

B
eing a woman is a huge natural advantage for many reasons, one of the most important being that on the average we live longer than men. This advantage, for me, dwindles each year when I have a physical and endure the pelvic exam. I feel as though I’ve been in the stirrups more times than Princess Anne. At least Trixie Shellenberger warms up her speculum.

As I put my clothes back on she asked the usual questions. I gave the usual answers except that I admitted I was worried about my nervous stomach. She asked a few sex questions and I wouldn’t talk. I thought her attitude was strange. She’d been my doctor since she started practicing here in 1971. She knew better than to press me on such matters.

She said the blood work would take about a week but the other tests would be finished by the end of this week and she’d give me a ring.

I liked my doctor. I didn’t like it when she stuck that needle in my arm to get blood, but apart from that, I liked her. The fact that she was an early riser helped.

By eight-thirty I was out of her office at the Medical Arts Building across from the Bon Ton on Hanover Street. Lolly, Pewter, and I tacked on a diagonal over to the Curl ’n Twirl but no one was in yet. So I rounded the Square as opposed to squaring the circle and arrived at the steps of the
Clarion.
The morning sun spread over the west side of the building. I decided to go around to the back and watch the press. Arnie, in his white hat,
marched up and down the catwalk. Papers, in orderly fashion, rolled off the press. Hypnotized by the sound and the sight I must have been there for ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t notice Mother until Goodyear leapt up to greet me—and with dirty paws too. Pewter, full of catitude, refused to move aside for Goodyear. Goodyear thought better of running around my feet, where Pewter had stationed herself in defiance.

Mom came alongside me. “Remember when your daddy used to bring you down here?”

“Yep.”

“He’d sit you on his shoulder and tell you about the headlines and the news of the day. You thought the men inside were ice cream people because they were in white. Every time your dad would bring you here he’d have to take you over to Mojo’s for a hot fudge sundae because you couldn’t get it out of your head that the
Clarion
didn’t serve ice cream.”

“I’d forgotten about that.”

“Remember the time you started your own newspaper and wrote it in crayons?”

I did remember. “I must have been six.”

“I think you came out of the womb wanting to work on a newspaper.”

“I think I did too.” I sighed. How can a person love an inanimate thing so much? Yet I loved this newspaper. “Sometimes I wonder how it is with children. You see some kids and you know, without a doubt, that she’s going to grow up to be a fashion designer or he’s going to race cars or another one will be a veterinarian. And then there are other children, bright, too, who never quite find out what it is they’re supposed to do. Know what I mean?”

She nodded in agreement. “I think you’re one of the lucky ones.”

“Oh, Mother, I don’t feel very lucky right now.”

She put her arm around me. “Sometimes good things come out of bad.”

“This is pretty bad. I’m out of a job. The only thing I know
how to do or want to do is run a paper. I’m not a kid anymore. Hell, I don’t even have a car and the insurance company is trying to screw me out of paying for the Jeep.”

“Got your health.” This was all-important to Mom.

“You’re right there. I guess I should count my blessings.”

“The mortgage payment on the farm isn’t punishing. If you can’t get work, you can always knock around with something to make that payment and put food on the table. You’ve never been too proud to work at whatever you could find. You sanded floors in college.”

“I’ll get by.” I put my arm around Mother and walked her over to the Curl ’n Twirl.

I dropped her off for her morning ration of gossip, chatted with Mr. Pierre for a few moments about yesterday’s tennis match, and then returned to work. He offered hope about my future. At this point I no longer had hopes but I still had hunches.

I remembered working on the paper during my summer vacations when I was in college and working through the night on underground newspapers protesting the war and racism. I thought of myself as a rebel then. Now I was a rebel with a Mastercard and while I nursed no complaints against Mastercard, I didn’t think I could buy the
Clarion
with it.

The atmosphere inside was that of a tomb. Pink slips everywhere. Charles explained to the boys in the back that there would be generous severance salaries. Roger had been offered the job of running the new
Clarion
and had accepted, as he should have. Michelle, too, was offered a raise and a promotion and to my surprise she turned it down. She said she didn’t know what she was going to do next but she’d work out the week and start investigating her options.

John, half in the bag, was cleaning out his desk. Roger made a reference to John’s drinking and John replied with a lilt, “They talk of my drinking but never my thirst.” John left us before noon. I can’t say I ever liked John but he knew how to find a story. I wasn’t happy to see him go.

After lunch we revived a bit because a wire story came down about Senator Gary Hart’s alleged indiscretion with an unnamed lady. I assigned Roger a background article on Hart and I specifically instructed him to place this personal stuff in context with the man’s voting record and program for the future. To Michelle I assigned the more difficult task of checking sources on this story. I gave her the name of an old Florida friend and former newspaper woman, Connie Coyne. That would get her on the right track. For myself I reserved the job of writing an editorial about the private behavior of public servants, but I wanted to wait until more facts rolled in. They were not long in coming. This story was going to be a front-page smash for the next two or three weeks. It fairly took my breath away.

Before the day was out we’d had an editorial meeting with Charles and decided to go for broke and highlight every person running for President, both parties. Each day we would give background, public and private, on a candidate. Michelle, excited because this was a big hard news story, wanted us to shine the klieg lights on the sex stuff. We all agreed that was bound to sell newspapers but we at the
Clarion
had to formulate our own policy about just what is fair. Michelle had the green light to find whatever she could, but we were uncertain as to what we would use and how. We twisted and turned but arrived at no conclusion.

This was going to be our last week together but at least it would be a good one. We set another staff meeting for the next day at one. I suggested, for the first time in our history, that we include everyone on the newspaper. This issue of privacy in public life was so important that I wanted everyone’s ideas. The rest of the editorial staff agreed. That was a wonderful surprise in itself.