“That spat you two had was picked up in the local gossip column—”
The words were hardly out of Ray’s mouth when Grant grabbed the paper and started to read the first few paragraphs of Warren’s column.
With his voice rising, and with Barbara’s face reddening, Grant read, “Sausalito Police confirmed that the violent dispute led to Mr. Randolph’s arrest and Mrs. Randolph being rushed to Marin General Hospital over concern that she had suffered possibly life-threatening injuries during their altercation.”
Grant was annoyed by Ethel Landau’s suggestion, quoted in the following paragraph, that it might be time for the commission to "reconsider Mr. Randolph’s participation.”
“I’ll quit before they ever have the chance to ask me to step aside!” Grant said, as his face reddened in anger.
But what most angered both Grant and Barbara was Warren’s claim that at press time, neither of the Randolphs were available for comment.
“That’s complete bullshit!” Grant said as he slammed the paper down on the table.
Barbara grabbed it off the table and reread the story in silence. When she had finished, in a soft voice she said, “This is awful, just awful!”
After a few moments of silence, Ray, the only one of the three of them not intimidated by Grant’s anger, said, “I don’t like that little gnome any more than you do, Grant, but we all know what he wrote isn’t a total fabrication.”
“I don’t mean what he said about the fight. That was mostly true—although I think he deliberately over-dramatized Barbara’s condition. What ticks me off is this bullshit about neither of us being available for comment at press time,” Grant explained.
“In other words,” Ray said, “you think the SOB was avoiding you because he didn’t want your comments, knowing you’d at least try to explain what happened.”
“Exactly! He wanted to put our situation in the worst light possible, right down to his wisecrack, making it sound as if we just arrived here off the set of Gangs of New York.”
“I do not doubt that. With my having the last name of Sirica, Bradley would gladly imply that I’m a retired Chicago mobster! In truth, he’s lucky my dad was in the pajama game, and not in the Cosa Nostra. Otherwise, Warren would be on his way right now to the bottom of Richardson Bay in cement pajamas.”
With that, the four of them shared a much-needed laugh. Afterward, each imagined how much better a place their community would be if Warren Bradley was entombed in cement and deposited into the quiet waters between Sausalito and Tiburon.
Barbara tried to take this latest social setback in stride. “Between the hatchet job Bradley did on me for turning down the league’s invitation, and now our knock-down, drag-out fight, maybe I should get fitted for a burqa for when Debbie and I take one of our walks through town.” Barbara's suggestion broke the tension, to Ray and Debbie’s relief.
At that moment, the four close friends looked up as they heard the gate on the white picket fence open and shut. Oscar and Clarice Anderson were walking toward them. Clarice was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. After exchanging greetings and an introduction to Ray and Debbie, Oscar said, “Clarice and I just read what that awful man, Bradley, wrote about the two of you. We never read The Standard, and we didn’t even know about his column.”
“How’d you find out?” Ray asked.
“A friend called us to tell us that our names were in the paper!” Clarice explained. “So, we fished the paper out of the recycling bin. That’s what happens every week—it comes in the mail, we look at the front page to see if there’s any news that concerns us—street repairs, bond measures and such—then we put it in recycling.”
“Do you even know Warren Bradley?” Grant asked.
“Oh, sure. We’re on the library volunteer committee with him,” Oscar said.
“When he showed up at our house with a plate of brownies we, of course, invited him in,” Clarice explained. “We were both surprised to see him. He’s never done anything like that before.”
“When we saw his column today, we realized why he had been so nice,” Oscar added with a scowl.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” Clarice sobbed. “I’m even sorry that we called the police! But when we heard Barbara scream, we didn’t know what was happening.”
Barbara, tearing up, stood up and embraced Clarice. “Don’t cry, dear. This all started over a stupid misunderstanding; both of us had way too much to drink, and everything from that point on got out of control.”
Grant’s face reddened with feelings of both anger and embarrassment.
After hugs were exchanged, the Andersons left. Clarice was still dabbing away tears as they sauntered back toward the white picket fence.
As Ray and Debbie got up to leave, Grant declared, “If I ever see Bradley again at a meeting of the arts commission, I’m going to wring that wicked little man’s neck.”
“Don’t do anything to make things worse, pal,” Ray warned him. “This will all die down in a week or two. Until then, if you should run into Bradley, do yourself a favor and keep your hands in your pockets.”
Every Saturday evening in spring, The Sausalito Opera Society, SOS, holds an outdoor performance at Gabrielson Park, which is within steps of the ferry landing and the Sausalito Yacht Club.
The mild evening air and that evening’s performance, featuring selections from Verdi’s La Traviata, brought out what was likely the event’s biggest opening night crowd ever.
Almost all the town’s residents—especially those who served on various governmental and social committees—were in attendance: the five members of the city council, members of the city’s numerous commissions: planning, design review, historical, parks and recreation, and fine arts.
Also present were most of the Sausalito Women’s League members, several of whom served on the committee that arranged refreshments for the night.
Most notably Alma, and her Ladies of Liberty, who sat at one of the several tables reserved for distinguished guests and local officials.
Grant
