Sandra Scoppettone: Razzamatazz

© 1985

Writing as Jack Early

Thanks to the following people

who helped make this book possible:

Rev. Sara Campbell, Betty Dodson Tim Gould, Troy Gustavson, Maria Heney, Dave Horton, Kathy Richter, Chief Robert Walden, and John Williams.

At a regular meeting of the North Fork Clergy Association, a resolution was passed unanimously as follows: "The North Fork Clergy Association records its opposition on moral grounds to the adoption of the proposition legalizing bingo in the town of Seaville."

Carl Gildersleeve was a jackass. He was also the mayor of Seaville, New York. And on the Saturday before the Memorial Day weekend for the past ten years he'd gathered all his friends and acquaintances at a cocktail party where, at some point in the festivities, he'd drag everyone outside to toast the opening of his Olympic-size, vinyl-lined pool. It was a foolish occasion because the pool could not be used for at least three days. That was how long it took to refill what had been drained the previous September, and for the chemicals to become effective. Still, it was an annual event in Seaville-one that almost all the guests hated.

For Colin Maguire it was a first. Mark Griffing, his old friend and boss at the Seaville Gazette, had told him what to expect and explained that it was not something one could say no to.

"We go," Mark had said, "and we stand around making small talk with a lot of other people who wish they were somewhere else, too. We drink a few weak gin and tonics, eat a couple of chips with a godawful dip that Grace Gildersleeve got out of some ladies' magazine, and then after the asshole opens his pool we make our exit."

Colin had said, "Mind if I give the dip a pass?"

And now he was standing on the Gildersleeves' patterned brick patio sipping a plain tonic and smoking one Marlboro after another, idly tapping a loafered foot. He couldn't help thinking that it was strange being here, at the end of the North Fork of Long Island, an area he'd never even heard of until two years before, when Mark bought the paper. Curious the places life took you to if the circumstances were right-or wrong.

He imagined what Ryan, his old boss on the Chicago Tribune , would say if he could see him now.

"Jesus, kid, what are you doin' on a penny-ante paper, goin' to piss-ant parties?"

But Ryan wouldn't say that because he knew why. Anyway, he was lucky to have this job. Fate, coincidence, call it what you want; Mark had saved Colin's ass. So now he was managing editor of the Seaville Gazette, making a third of what he'd made as a crime reporter on the Tribune.

He shook his head as if to jog an image from his mind, then looked around, his gaze settling on an attractive woman talking to Mark and Sarah. He wondered who she was because he'd never seen her before. After six weeks he thought he'd seen or met everybody worth meeting. And according to Mark, the Gildersleeve guest list would reflect only the top echelon of Seaville society. So who was this woman who looked so confident and crisp in a blue striped blouse and white skirt? She was gesturing with long thin hands as she talked, and then she laughed, her eyes almost disappearing as they crinkled at the corners. It made Colin smile. He joined Mark's group, but before he could speak he was stopped by a loud metallic sound.

Grace Gildersleeve was holding a large brass gong, which she struck again, silencing her guests. Carl cleared his throat, ran a hand over his fleshy face, then straightened the knot on his red- and-blue striped tie. It was a cloudy day, but Carl's ever-present sunglasses sat firmly on his wide nose.

"Okay, folks," he said. "This is the moment of truth. We're about to open the summer social season of Seaville. Hey, how's that for onomatopoeia, huh?"

"Jesus," Colin said under his breath and exchanged an incredulous look with Mark.

"Boys," Carl called to the two hulks standing at each side of the pool, "are you ready?"

The men nodded, and one gave Gildersleeve a salute with a beefy hand.

"'Okay, then let's go." He turned to Grace. "Hit that thing, dammit."

Grace energetically slammed the gong again, and the men began to roll back the aqua pool cover. Simultaneously, from two speakers positioned at the far end of the pool, Frankie Laine belted out "I Go Where the Wild Goose Goes."

Colin almost choked on a slug of tonic. "You devil, you," he said to Mark, "keeping the best part a secret."

"I didn't want to spoil it for you, pal."

"Can you believe it?" Sarah asked, her hand covering her mouth.

Mark said, "Let me introduce you. Colin Maguire, Annie Winters."

The woman in the blue striped blouse offered her hand, and Colin started to say something when there was a sound like a huge intake of breath. In fact, he realized, it was an intake of breath: a collective gasp. People were staring at the pool.

The cover had been rolled back a quarter of the way, and sticking out from beneath it were two feet, wrinkled and purplish.

"Christ almighty," Mark said.

Gildersleeve's face had drained of color, his cheeks two quivering pouches.

The pool men, T-shirts drenched with sweat, were staring stupidly at the water-logged feet. The bigger of the two called to Gilder- sleeve.

"You want we should go on, Mayor?"

Gildersleeve bit at his lower lip, chewing the flesh as if it were gum. For a moment Colin thought the man might cry. But then he pulled himself together. "I think we should clear the area first, the women and children into the house."

"Not on your life," Sarah said quietly.

Annie Winters said nothing but she didn't move.

The mayor went on, "Grace, take them into the house. And fast."

Grace Gildersleeve's chin trembled as she fought tears and, like a dazed sheepdog, began herding women and children toward the sliding glass doors at the back of the house.

It took only a few minutes before the women, Sarah and Annie excepted, were banished to Grace's kitchen. Then Gildersleeve gave the pool men a signal with a quaking hand.

Everyone moved closer to the edges of the pool. Standing between Mark and Annie, Colin felt weak and silently prayed that he would get through this all right.

The men began to turn back the cover and with each roll exposed a little more of the ugly, swollen body: calves, knees, thighs, and then the groin. The woman's pubic hair looked white against the purplish-blue color of her skin. The exposure continued, revealing a distended belly, and waist, bloated breasts, arms at her sides, fingers curled. With a final wrench of the cover the woman's face appeared, distorted and inflated, the long hair floating behind her like a grotesque halo.

When Colin saw her eyes, open and staring, a look of horror burned into them forever, he dropped the glass from his hand and crumpled to the brick patio. It was Chicago all over again, and he was passing out.

A small boy who was unable to visit his mother, who was in the maternity ward at the Long Island Hospital in Seaville, found a novel way to get around the rules. The staff was greatly amused as the 12-year-old climbed a tree near the window of the room in which his mother was in bed, and sitting on a limb just outside the window, held a lengthy conversation with his mother.

When Colin came to he saw the face of the blond. Her blue eyes were open now, concerned and not smiling.

"Are you all right?" Annie asked.