My editorial on the private life of public figures jolted the town. I came out strongly for full disclosure of all aspects of a candidate’s life including his or her sexual life, but my reasoning was not exactly what most people’s reasoning was, even if they came to the same decision. I said that politicians today were little more than another form of entertainer. Hell, they had face lifts, hair jobs, dye jobs, and makeup jobs, and of course blow jobs. They studied with media consultants, wardrobe consultants, and probably even psychic consultants. They were just another group of suntanned bullshitters, less concerned with serving their constituency than with landing a bit part on Dynasty. If politicians wanted to act like movie stars, then we, the public, had a right to treat them like movie stars. Their private lives were now fodder for the public they so desperately sought to dazzle. The presidential race evolved into a pretty-boy contest. I myself would rather see George Shultz as a candidate than one of the glamour boys. As for liberals, Alan Cranston was still in there fighting but he, too, was not another pretty face.
The phones jangled off the hook. Some Runnys laughed; some were furious; some agreed with me; others wanted to know why Charles would allow sexual innuendo in the paper. Innuendo. How polite of them. I laid it on the line.
Wasn’t it boiling down to sex anyway? Sex is used to sell cars, underarm deodorants, breakfast cereal, and now, politicians. And sex was destroying Gary Hart. We sat around the AP wire machine like kids under a Christmas tree. The lady’s name, Donna Rice, was revealed. No one even pretended that she was part of the campaign team. When Hart issued a statement saying he was wronged by the press, he sang in every key but the right one. If the man had had any guts he would have looked America squarely in the eye and said, “Yes, I slept with her and it was great.” If he had guts and was a gentleman he could have said, “I love her. I know this will cause distress for my family but I love her nonetheless.” Even wispy Edward VIII had courage at his Waterloo. But maybe Gary Hart was a cold, calculating man. Maybe he didn’t love her. Maybe he figured, as many people do, that he could eat his cake and have it too. He’d been married very young. I can’t imagine being married as many years as Senator Hart, but putting that difference aside, it’s better to come clean. Maybe the American public wouldn’t vote into office a man who admitted he loved a woman who was not his wife but I think they might respect him for admitting it.
My own feeling was that there probably wasn’t a representative or senator who has remained faithful to his wife unless someone’s been feeding him saltpeter. There’s something askew about a nation that expects its public servants to have better morals than the rest of us. Maybe the public doesn’t expect its elected officials to have better morals but merely to be more clever in the deception. Curious.
While the Gary Hart scandal bubbled over, the PTL mess sank to name-calling. By the time Jim Bakker’s enemies were finished with him, it sounded as though the guy went on one big fuckathon. I couldn’t tell if the other TV preachers were jealous or genuinely concerned about the state of his soul. It wouldn’t be his soul that I’d be concerned about.
Rarely has the AP wire provided me with so many belly laughs in a short space of time. Even Charles, grim and grave today, had to laugh at some of it.
Roger came over and told us a sick joke that was making the rounds of the Square. Nixon, Teddy Kennedy, and Hart were in a boat at sea. The boat began sinking and Nixon said, “This boat is going down. We’ve got to save the women and children.” Kennedy replied, “Fuck the women and children,” and Hart quipped, “Is there time?” Roger thought it was pretty funny. I can’t say that I did, but it was an object lesson in how swiftly people can savage the fallen.
Michelle asked me if I thought a gay person could run for President.
“We’ve had gay Presidents,” I said, “but they lied, and also it was a long time ago.”
“They say that J. Edgar Hoover was gay.”
“Who wants to claim him,” I shot back.
“I don’t see that sexual behavior affects a person’s ability to be President.”
“Doesn’t.”
“So, what’s the issue?”
“Were you a Girl Scout?”
“Yes.” A puzzled expression came over Michelle’s face.
“Do you remember the fire ceremony we’d have when we’d go on our campouts?”
She laughed. “I haven’t thought of that since I was a kid. Sure, I remember. There were four little fires and a big bonfire in the middle. We started out in darkness and then a Brownie would light the fire of friendship and each fire would be lit sequentially with lots of mumbo jumbo until the big fire was set off.” She stopped. “What’s that got to do with running for President?”
“As you got older, didn’t you think the fire ceremony was pretty corny?”
“Sure.”
“Same difference. You want to laugh but if you do the others will get mad at you. A man who runs for President is like a Girl Scout going around the nation setting off these fires—with a solemn face, I might add. What would happen if one of them said, ‘This is horseshit’? Not only would the less imaginative campers get mad, so would the camp counselors who put together this incendiary theater for the kids. So every guy out there running has to pretend that he loves his wife, is faithful to her, loves his kids, and is just an all-around family guy with a golden retriever and a big mortgage. Family guys don’t run for President, but hey, why mess up the act?”
“You ever think about running for office?”
“I think about running from it.”
“You know everybody. You care about Runnymede. I think you’d be good.”
“Michelle, you’re a fountain of compliments and I appreciate it but we’re back to your question on the local level. Is this town going to elect the Good Gay Girl Scout to public office?”
She appeared thoughtful. “Ever think about why you’re gay?”
“I became a lesbian out of devout Christian charity. All those women out there are praying for a man and I gave them my share.”
Michelle’s jaw dropped to her chest.
“Got you that time, didn’t I?” I flashed a victory “V.” “And now, Brenda Starr, I’m off to the Curl ’n Twirl.” The summons from Mom had come.
Pewter, Lolly, and I started out of the building. Michelle called after me: “I’m onto you, Nickel. You deflect people with your humor but one of these days you’re actually going to talk to me—about you.”
As I closed the door I replied, “Only if you talk about you. To get you gotta give.”
Mr. Pierre greeted me with a conspiratorial air. Mother, Orrie, and Wheezie were loudly arguing the merits of my editorial, Gary Hart, and men in general. Men were taking a beating. I felt like importing three of them so there’d be a fair fight.
“You’ve got the town abuzz.” Orrie even had the paper in her hand.
“That’s my job.”
“I certainly think you could have done without mentioning … you know.” Wheezie was referring to the line about blow jobs.
“Yeah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” Mother said.
“There are less vulgar ways to do that,” Louise sniffed.
“Name one.” Mother put her on the spot.
“Juts, that’s not Wheezie’s expertise. Nickel’s the expertise stripper.” Mr. Pierre winked at me.
Georgette sang out, “Line one for you, Mr. Pierre.”
“Excuse me, darlings.” He picked up the phone and was soon immersed in ordering hair supplies.
Orrie shifted her weight on the chair. “A looker.”
Mother craned her head to get a better look at the Donna Rice picture in the paper. “Maybe she knows how to sail a yacht—better rename that boat the Titanic.”
“All tips and no icebergs.” Wheezie spoke knowingly about Miss Rice as she tossed Goodyear and Lolly tiny Milk-Bones. Mr. Pierre kept a bowl of them on the counter.
“Now, who’s focusing on sex?” Mother teased her.
“I wasn’t upset over the sex part. I don’t think Nickel should have used those—words.”
“I hope the girl can count.” Orrie folded up her paper.
“Why?” Mother asked.
“Because women who miscalculate are called mothers.”
That set the girls off. Mr. Pierre hung up the phone. “What did I miss?”
Orrie repeated her jibe, which received fresh laughter.
Mother glanced from Mr. Pierre to me and back to Mr. Pierre again. She felt it was now or never.
“Wheezie, I have something to tell you and I thought it would be nice to hear it among friends.”
“You sick, Juts?” Louise’s brow furrowed.
“No.” Mom stuck. Nothing issued from her mouth.
Orrie checked her wristwatch. “I’ve got to meet Ann Falkenroth at Mojo’s in five minutes.”
“I didn’t know you were having lunch with Ann.” Wheezie crossed her legs.
“Do I have to tell you everything?”
Louise’s answer was simple and direct. “Yes.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, tell you everything at once.” Mom did this in one breath. “Ed and I are going to live together.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Orrie’s laughter tinkled.
Mr. Pierre impressed upon her the gravity of the situation. “It’s true.”
Louise stood up. “I saw him first!”
“No, you talked to him first.”
Orrie, perceiving that Louise’s blood pressure was spiraling upward, said, “Now, now, that’s not—”
“Shut up.” Wheezie put her hand over Orrie’s mouth with a backhanded flick of her wrist. “You did this to spite me!” She spat the words at Juts.
“I did not. We get along and—”
“He gets along with me too—oh, little did I think you could stoop so low. Only now do I know.”
Mother got flippant. “You’re just pissed because you didn’t ask him first.”
Louise stomped for the door, opened it, and hollered as she was framed in the doorway: “I’m tired of being the buttocks of your jokes!”
She slammed the door behind her. Mr. Pierre winced. Orrie, a trifle pale, again checked her watch. “I think I’d better be going.”
“You aren’t going after her to console her?” Mother asked, her voice rising.
“She’s your sister, not mine. She’ll huff and puff and blow the house down and then get over it. Besides, all is fair in love and war, Julia, and it looks like you win—this time.”
We watched Orrie leave. I sat in a chair and so did Mr. Pierre. Georgette called Verna to tell her the news.
Mother brazenly called out, “Tell her to put it on the blackboard. Julia Ellen Smith shacks up with Ed Tutweiler Walters.”
“Mom, don’t rub it in.”
“I’m not rubbing it in. If it’s going to be all over town by the end of lunch hour it might as well come from me.”
Mr. Pierre rubbed his chin. “Wish I knew what Wheezie is going to do. She won’t take this lying down.”
“What can she do aside from have a fit and fall in it?” Georgette asked, now that she’d hung up the phone with her mother.
“What’d Verna say?” Mother wanted to know.
“She says Ed is old enough to know what he’s doing and so are you.”
“That’s it?” Mother seemed disappointed.
“That’s it,” Georgette promptly replied.
“I think Aunt Wheezie really cares for Ed,” I said.
Mother did not appreciate my concern or my line of chat. “You stay out of this.”
“You wanted me here for moral support—or is it immoral support?” I didn’t like her tone of voice.
“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Mother’s eyes bored into me.
“Hey, Mom, I’ve graduated to being a part-time adult. When I want you to live my life for me, I’ll let you know.”
“Trees manage their affairs better than you do.”
That did it. I left. If she was upset over her sister, she could damn well take it out on someone other than me. I burned off energy walking around the Square and decided to go into the Medical Arts building to see if my tests had come in.
Trixie motioned me into her office as she emerged from an examining room. She didn’t keep me waiting.
“I was going to call and tell you to come over.”
“Am I healthy?”
“You are in splendid health and I’m glad of it”—she paused and came a bit closer to me—“because you’re pregnant. Since you were being cute and clever during the exam concerning your sex life, I shall assume a star is rising in the East.”
“Holy shit.”
Bet I drove over every back road in the county. The dog and cat fell asleep in the car. When I finally got home I called Mr. Pierre. He said he’d marry me and I shouldn’t give it a second thought. He also said that I should go straight to Mother with the news.
With reluctance I did as he advised.
Mother was experimenting with her new pillows on the sofa when I walked in.
“Are bygones bygones?” she asked, her version of an apology.
I lowered myself onto the sofa as she pulled a pillow out from behind my back. She tested it in the other corner.
“The last few days have been hectic. “This was a weak start.
“Never a dull moment.” She stepped back to study the color combinations.
“It’s not over yet.”
She looked sharply at me. “Oh.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant. Trixie Shellenberger told me after I left the Curl ’n Twirl.”
She gripped the other arm of the sofa and launched herself back on her pillows. “Oh, my God!”
“I’m going to have the baby.” I repeated myself. I didn’t know what to say.
“I should hope so—I want to be a grandmother, but what a mess. What a fine kettle of fish.” She rubbed her temples.
“Mr. Pierre offered his hand in marriage.”
“He did?”
“I don’t know if he meant it or not.”
“Well, if he does mean it take him up on it fast. It may be the only way to save our face—what’s left of it.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t exactly been conventional.” I could see she was torn between elation and despair. “Why’d you talk to Mr. Pierre before me?”
“I thought he’d be more objective than either you or I,” I said.
She murmured an agreeing noise and sank farther into the pillows.
“Mom, what are we going to tell Aunt Wheeze?”
“Nothing.”
“She’s bound to find out sometime.”
“She’s had one shock. Another one might put her under.” She rested her hands on her cheeks.
“Are you thinking?”
“You try thinking. I’ll try praying—that we get out of this one alive.”
“It’s not that bad—is it?”
“Have you thought about what your child is going to do when he or she grows up?” Her eyes were solemn. “She’s going to write a biography of you called Mommie Queerest.”