11/22/63

“Spoken like a man.” She sipped her iced coffee. “I had two objectives when I came here today. I’ve accomplished the first. Now I’ll move on to the second so you can get on with your day. Deke and I are going to be married on July twenty-first, which is a Friday. The ceremony will be a small private affair in his home — just us, the preacher, and a few family members. His parents — they’re quite vigorous for dinosaurs — are coming from Alabama and my sister from San Diego. The reception will be a lawn party at my house the following day. Two P.M. until drunk o’clock. We’re inviting almost everyone in town. There’s going to be a piñata and lemonade for the little kiddies, barbecue and kegs of beer for the big kiddies, and even a band from San-Antone. Unlike most bands from San-Antone, I believe they are able to play ‘Louie Louie’ as well as ‘La Paloma.’ If you don’t favor us with your presence—”

“You’ll be bereft?”

“Indeed I will. Will you save the date?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Deke and I will be leaving for Mexico on Sunday, by which time his hangover will have dissipated. We’re a little old for a honeymoon, but there are certain resources available south of the border that are not available in the Sixgun State. Certain experimental treatments. I doubt if they work, but Deke is hopeful. And hell, it’s worth a try. Life…” She gave a rueful sigh. “Life is too sweet to give up without a fight, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes. So one holds on.” She looked at me closely. “Are you going to cry, George?”

“No.”

“Good. Because that would embarrass me. I might even cry myself, and I don’t do it well. No one would ever write a poem about my tears. I croak.”

“How bad is it? May I ask?”

“Quite bad.” She said it offhandedly. “I might have eight months. Possibly a year. Assuming the herbal treatments or peach pits or whatever down Mexico way don’t effect a magical cure, that is.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you, George. Expressed to a nicety. Any more would be sloppy.”

I smiled.

“I have another reason for inviting you to our reception, although it goes without saying that your charming company and sparkling repartee would be enough. Phil Bateman isn’t the only one who’s retiring.”

“Mimi, don’t do that. Take a leave of absence if you have to, but—”

She shook her head decisively. “Sick or well, forty years is enough. It’s time for younger hands, younger eyes, and a younger mind. On my recommendation, Deke has hired a well-qualified young lady from Georgia. Her name is Sadie Clayton. She’ll be at the reception, she’ll know absolutely no one, and I expect you to be especially nice to her.”

“Mrs. Clayton?”

“I wouldn’t quite say that.” Mimi looked at me guilelessly. “I believe she intends to reclaim her maiden name at some point in the near future. Following certain legal formalities.”

“Mimi, are you matchmaking?”

“Not at all,” she said… then snickered. “Hardly at all. Although you will be the only teacher on the English faculty who’s currently unattached, and that makes you a natural to act as her mentor.”

I thought that a gigantic leap into illogic, especially for such an ordered mind, but I accompanied her to the door without saying so. What I said was, “If it’s as serious as you say, you should be seeking treatment now. And not from some quack doctor in Juaréz, either. You should be at the Cleveland Clinic.” I didn’t know if the Cleveland Clinc even existed yet, but just then I didn’t care.

“I think not. Given the choice between dying in a hospital room somewhere, stuck full of tubes and wires, and dying in a seaside Mexican hacienda… that is, as you like to say, a no-brainer. And there’s something else, as well.” She looked at me unflinchingly. “The pain isn’t too bad yet, but I’m told it will be. In Mexico, they are far less apt to strike moral poses about large doses of morphine. Or Nembutal, if it comes to that. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Based on what had happened to Al Templeton, I guessed that was true. I put my arms around her, this time hugging very gently. I kissed one leathery cheek.

She bore it with a smile, then slipped away. Her eyes searched my face. “I’d like to know your story, my friend.”

I shrugged. “I’m an open book, Miz Mimi.”

She laughed. “What a crock of shit. You say you’re from Wisconsin, but you showed up in Jodie with a New England drawl in your mouth and Florida plates on your auto. You say you’re commuting to Dallas for research purposes, and your manuscript purports to be about Dallas, but the people in it speak like New Englanders. In fact, there are a couple of places where characters actually say ayuh. You might want to change those.”

And I thought my rewrite had been so clever.

“Actually, Mimi, New Englanders say it a-yuh, not i-yuh.”