11/22/63

She said, “Phil Bateman is no longer just threatening to retire, he’s done pulled the pin and tossed the grenade, as our delightful Coach Borman would say. Which means there’s a vacancy on the English faculty. Come and teach full-time at DCHS, George. The kids like you, and after the junior-senior play, the community thinks you’re the second coming of Alfred Hitchcock. Deke is just waiting to see your application — he told me so just last night. Please. Publish this under a pseudonym, if you have to, but come and teach. That’s what you were meant to do.”

I wanted badly to say yes, because she was right. My job wasn’t writing books, and it certainly wasn’t killing people, no matter how much they deserved killing. And there was Jodie. I’d come to it as a stranger who had been displaced from his home era as well as his hometown, and the first words spoken to me here — by Al Stevens, at the diner — had been friendly words. If you’ve ever been homesick, or felt exiled from all the things and people that once defined you, you’ll know how important welcoming words and friendly smiles can be. Jodie was the anti-Dallas, and now one of its leading citizens was asking me to be a resident instead of a visitor. But the watershed moment was approaching. Only it wasn’t here yet. Maybe…

“George? You have the most peculiar look on your face.”

“That’s called thinking. Will you let me do it, please?”

She put her hands to her cheeks and rounded her mouth in a comic O of apology. “Well braid my hair and call me Buckwheat.”

I paid no attention, because I was busy flicking through Al’s notes. I no longer had to look at them to do that. When the new school year started in September, Oswald was still going to be in Russia, although he had already started what would be a lengthy paperwork battle to get back to America with his wife and daughter, June, with whom Marina would be pregnant any day now. It was a battle Oswald would eventually win, playing one superpower bureaucracy off against the other with instinctive (if rudimentary) cleverness, but they wouldn’t step off the SS Maasdam and onto American soil until the middle of next year. And as for Texas…

“Meems, the school year usually ends the first week in June, doesn’t it?”

“Always. The kids who need summer jobs have to nail them down.”

… as for Texas, the Oswalds were going to arrive on the fourteenth of June, 1962.

“And any teaching contract I signed would be probationary, right? As in one year?”

“With an option to renew if all parties are satisfied, yes.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a probationary English teacher.”

She laughed, clapped her hands, got to her feet, and held her arms out. “Marvelous! Huggies for Miz Mimi!”

I hugged her, then released her quickly when I heard her gasp. “What the hell is wrong with you, ma’am?”

She went back to the couch, picked up her iced coffee, and sipped. “Let me give you two pieces of advice, George. The first is never call a Texas woman ma’am if you come from the northern climes. It sounds sarcastic. The second is never ask any woman what the hell is wrong with her. Try something slightly more delicate, like ‘Are you feeling quite all right?’”

“Are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m getting married.”

At first I couldn’t match this particular zig with a corresponding zag. Except the grave look in her eyes suggested she wasn’t zigging at all. She was circling something. Probably not a nice something, either.

“Say ‘Congratulations, Miz Mimi.’”

“Congratulations, Miz Mimi.”

“Deke first popped the question almost a year ago. I put him off, saying it was too soon after his wife died, and it would cause talk. As time passes, that has become less effective as an argument. I doubt if there would have been all that much talk, anyway, given our ages. People in small towns realize that folks like Deke and me can’t afford the luxury of decorum quite so much once we reach a certain, shall we say, plateau of maturity. Truth is, I liked things fine just the way they were. The old fella loves me quite a lot more than I love him, but I like him plenty, and — at the risk of embarrassing you — even ladies who’ve reached a certain plateau of maturity aren’t averse to a nice boink on a Saturday night. Am I embarrassing you?”

“No,” I said. “Actually, you’re delighting me.”

The dry smile. “Lovely. Because when I swing my feet out of bed in the morning, my first thought as they hit the floor is, ‘Might there be a way I can delight George Amberson today? And if so, how shall I go about it?’”

“Don’t exceed your brief, Miz Mimi.”