11/22/63

“Noted.” She continued to search my face. It was a struggle not to drop my eyes, but I managed. “Sometimes I’ve actually caught myself wondering if you might not be a space alien, like Michael Rennie in The Day the Earth Stood Still. Here to analyze the natives and report back to Alpha Centauri on whether there’s still hope for us as a species or if we should be exploded by plasma rays before we can spread our germs to the rest of the galaxy.”

“That’s very fanciful,” I said, smiling.

“Good. I’d hate to think our whole planet was being judged by Texas.”

“If Jodie were used as a sample, I’m sure Earth would get a passing grade.”

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is George Amberson your real name?”

“No. I changed it for reasons that are important to me but wouldn’t be to anyone else. I’d prefer you kept that to yourself. For obvious reasons.”

She nodded. “I can do that. I’ll see you around, George. The diner, the library… and at the party, of course. You’ll be nice to Sadie Clayton, won’t you?”

“Nice as pie,” I said, giving it the Texas twist: pah. That made her laugh.

When she was gone, I sat in my living room for a long time, not reading, not watching TV. And working on either of my manuscripts was the farthest thing from my mind. I thought about the job I’d just agreed to: a year of teaching full-time English at Denholm Consolidated High School, home of the Lions. I decided I had no regrets. I could roar at halftime with the best of them.

Well, I did have one regret, but it wasn’t for me. When I thought about Mimi and her current situation, I had regrets aplenty.

6

On the subject of love at first sight, I’m with the Beatles: I believe that it happens all the time. But it didn’t happen that way for me and Sadie, although I held her the first time I met her, and with my right hand cupping her left breast. So I guess I’m also with Mickey and Sylvia, who said love is strange.

South-central Texas can be savagely hot in mid-July, but the Saturday of the post-wedding party was damned near perfect, with temperatures in the upper seventies and lots of fat white clouds hustling across a sky the color of faded overalls. Long shutters of sun and shadow slipped down Mimi’s backyard, which was on a mild slope ending at a muddy trickle of water she called Nameless Crick.

There were streamers of yellow and silver — Denholm High’s colors — strung from the trees, and there was indeed a piñata, hung temptingly low from the jutting branch of a sugar pine. No child passed near it without giving it a longing glance.

“After dinner, the kids’ll get sticks and beat away on it,” someone said from just behind my left shoulder. “Candy and toys for all the niños.”

I turned and beheld Mike Coslaw, resplendent (and a little hallucinatory) in tight black jeans and a white open-throated shirt. A sombrero on a tug-string hung down on his back, and he wore a multicolored sash around his waist. I saw a number of other football players, including Jim LaDue, dressed in the same semi-ridiculous manner, circulating with trays. Mike held his out with a slightly crooked smile. “Canapé, Señor Amberson?”

I took a baby shrimp on a toothpick, and dipped it in the sauce. “Nice getup. Kind of a Speedy Gonzales thing.”

“Don’t start. If you want to see a real getup, check Vince Knowles.” He pointed beyond the net to where a group of teachers was playing a clumsy but enthusiastic game of volleyball. I beheld Vince dressed up in tails and a top hat. He was surrounded by fascinated children who were watching him pull scarves out of thin air. It worked well, if you were still young enough to miss the one poking out of his sleeve. His shoe-polish mustache gleamed in the sun.

“On the whole, I prefer the Cisco Kid look,” Mike said.

“I’m sure you all make terrific waiters, but who in God’s name persuaded you to dress up? And does Coach know?”

“He ought to, he’s here.”

“Oh? I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s over by the barbecue pit, gettin hammered with the Boosters Club. As for the outfit… Miz Mimi can be pretty persuasive.”

I thought of the contract I’d signed. “I know.”

Mike lowered his voice. “We all know she’s sick. Besides… I think of this as acting.” He struck a bullfighter pose — not easy when you’re carrying a tray of canapés. “¡Arriba!”

“Not bad, but—”

“I know, I’m not really inside the part yet. Gotta submerge myself, right?”

“It works for Brando. How are you guys gonna be this fall, Mike?”

“Senior year? Jim in the pocket? Me, Hank Alvarez, Chip Wiggins, and Carl Crockett on the line? We’re going to State, and that gold ball’s going into the trophy case.”

“I like your attitude.”

“Are you going to do a play this fall, Mr. Amberson?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. Great. Save me a part… but with football, it’ll have to be a small one. Check out the band, they’re not bad.”