11/22/63

Whatever that is, I thought. But of course every high school has its secret signs and signals; it’s what makes kids feel like they’re on the inside.

Five miles up Highway 109, I came to the town of Jodie. POP. 1280, the sign said. WELCOME, STRANGER! Halfway up the wide, tree-lined Main Street I saw a little restaurant with a sign in the window reading BEST SHAKES, FRIES, AND BURGERS IN ALL OF TEXAS! It was called Al’s Diner.

Of course it was.

I parked in one of the slant spaces out front, went in, and ordered the Pronghorn Special, which turned out to be a double cheeseburger with barbecue sauce. It came with Mesquite Fries and a Rodeo Thickshake — your choice of vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry. A Pronghorn wasn’t quite as good as a Fatburger, but it wasn’t bad, and the fries were just the way I like them: crispy, salty, and a little overdone.

Al turned out to be Al Stevens, a skinny middle-aged guy who looked nothing like Al Templeton. He had a rockabilly hairdo, a gray-streaked bandido mustache, a thick Texas drawl, and a paper hat worn jauntily cocked over one eye. When I asked him if there was much to rent in the town of Jodie, he laughed and said, “Take your pick. But when it comes to jobs, this ain’t exactly a center of commerce. Ranchland, mostly, and you’ll pardon me sayin, but you don’t look like the cowboy type.”

“I’m not,” I said. “Actually, I’m more the book-writing type.”

“Get out! Anything I might have read?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I’m still trying. I’ve got about half of a novel written, and a couple of publishers have shown some interest. I’m looking for a quiet place to finish.”

“Well, Jodie’s quiet, all right.” Al rolled his eyes. “When it comes to quiet, I reckon we could take out a patent. Only gets noisy on Friday nights.”

“Football?”

“Yessir, whole town goes. Halftime comes, they all roar like lions, then give out with the Jim Yell. You can hear em two miles away. It’s pretty comical.”

“Who’s Jim?”

“LaDue, the quarterback. We’ve had us some good teams, but ain’t never been a QB like LaDue on a Denholm team. And he’s only a junior. People been talkin ’bout the state championship. That seems a tad optimistic to me, with those big Dallas schools just up the road, but a little hope never hurt anybody, that’s what I reckon.”

“Football aside, how’s the school?”

“It’s real fine. Lot of people were doubtful about this consolidation thing at first — I was one of em — but it’s turned out to be a good thing. They got over seven hunnerd this year. Some of em bus in an hour or more, but they don’t seem to mind. Probably saves em chores at home. Is your book about high school kids? Blackboard Jungle kind of thing? Because there ain’t no gangs or anything out here. Out here kids still mind their manners.”

“Nothing like that. I’ve got savings, but I wouldn’t mind stretching what I’ve got with some substitute work. I can’t teach full-time and still write.”

“Course not,” he said respectfully.

“My degree’s from Oklahoma, but…” I shrugged to show Oklahoma wasn’t in Texas’s league, but a man could hope.

“Well, you ought to talk to Deke Simmons. He’s the principal. Comes in for dinner most evenins. His wife died a couple of years back.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“We all were. He’s a nice man. Most people are in these parts, Mr. — ?”

“Amberson. George Amberson.”

“Well, George, we’re pretty sleepy, except on Friday nights, but you could do worse. Might could even learn to roar like a lion at halftime.”

“Maybe I could,” I said.

“You come on back around six. That’s usually the time Deke comes in.” He put his arms on the counter and leaned over them. “Want a tip?”

“Sure.”

“He’ll probably have his lady-friend with him. Miss Corcoran, the librarian up to the school. He’s kinda been sparkin her since last Christmas or so. I’ve heard that Mimi Corcoran’s the one who really runs Denholm Consolidated, because she runs him. If you impress her, I reckon you’re in like Flynn.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

15

Weeks of apartment-hunting in Dallas had netted me exactly one possible, which turned out to be owned by a man I didn’t want to rent from. It took me three hours in Jodie to find a place that looked fine. Not an apartment, but a tidy little five-room shotgun house. It was for sale, the real estate agent told me, but the couple who owned it would be willing to rent to the right party. There was an elm-shaded backyard, a garage for the Sunliner… and central air-conditioning. The rent was reasonable, given the amenities.

Freddy Quinlan was the agent’s name. He was curious about me — I think the Maine license plate on my car struck him as exotic — but not unduly so. Best of all, I felt I was out from under the shadow that had lain over me in Dallas, Derry, and Sunset Point, where my last long-term rental now lay in ashes.

“Well?” Quinlan asked. “What do you think?”

“I want it, but I can’t give you a yes or no this afternoon. I have to see a fellow first. I don’t suppose you’ll be open tomorrow, will you?”