Jim Lewis - The King is Dead

It was four days further before he reached her; at last one evening she answered, and when she did he was so surprised that he didn’t know what to say. There was a bar of silence. May I speak to Nicole Lattimore, please? he asked. This is she, said Nicole, her voice giving nothing away, not surprise, delight, or suspicion. It was a certain reserve that she’d learned since she came to Memphis, no more than a polite and professional way to answer the telephone.

He reached up and touched the knot of his tie with his fingertips, to make sure it was straight. This is Walter Selby, he said softly. We met the other night, I guess it was about a week ago, at the ball game, in the parking lot afterward. I hope you don’t mind my calling.

Not at all, said Nicole, who just moments earlier had been measuring the century for solitude. She put her fingertips down on the edge of the table before her and listened while he made his way through an invitation, a date, dinner. The simple fact of his attention was gratifying to her, and so was his obvious nervousness. She hadn’t had much in the way of romance since she came to town; the boys in the car had been friends, that’s all; one of them worked in the advertising department at the station, the rest were his pals, and after a bit of jockeying they had settled for adopting her as a sort of mascot. It was just as well: she’d needed a few weeks to set up her little house, a few more to acclimate herself to her new job. The radio station was big and busy, and they needed her everywhere, all the time, answering phones, fending off salesmen, fetching reels of tape, cataloging 45s.

But Walter Selby was an important man, wasn’t he, and he was asking to take her out to dinner. She felt, for the first time in a very long time, an advantage on the world. She wasn’t frightened of him. She agreed to dinner; she saw just how it would go, on that night and the nights to come. They would talk, maybe they would laugh; they would date a little bit, now and again; perhaps she would touch his bare chest with her hand and burn away a little misery; and then one way or another it would end, and she would be six months older.

Later that week he came to her door in his Custom, carrying flowers and wearing a dry smile. He’d spent fifteen minutes at the florist’s, but now, as he rang the bell and waited, the flowers looked strange to him, like glass, and he could hardly remember what they were called or see their colors. Blue, light blue, red, bled. Nicole came to the door and he bore down for an instant, taking in her smile and scent and skin. She greeted him warmly and invited him in while she found a vase, but he came no more than a few feet over the threshold; the house was so small, he barely fit into it. She kept talking to him as she walked back to the kitchen: This is terribly sweet of you. I haven’t had flowers in here since I moved in. I know I have a vase, somewhere, I’ll have to rinse it out. You don’t mind waiting, I hope.—She trimmed an errant leaf off one of the stems. There, she said, and turned around to find him nowhere. She laughed and called, Walter?

I’m here, he said from the other room.

All right, make yourself comfortable, said Nicole. I’ll be with you in a moment. And thank you for these, they’re beautiful.—She could hear nothing from the next room, and she imagined him standing politely, just inside the door, patient, still, and willing to wait.

He took her out and took care of her. She didn’t have to think about anything except how to be winning and pretty, and that she could do. At the table he spoke some, playing with the cuff of his white shirt. He gave up a little bit of family history, a word or two about his time in the service, and how he’d come to Memphis afterward.

She was judging him gently as he spoke. He knew things and had a thousand secrets to tell or not to tell. His hands were clean and strong: they had been purified by war, whatever war had been. He was older, and he was lovely, in his way. Do you like him, your Governor? she asked.

She’d expected a simple affirmative, but Walter Selby paused a little, as if the question was entirely new to him; and he smiled to himself, thinking about words of praise and what they were worth. Like would be misleading, he said at last. No one likes anyone when anyone is governing. But he’s a brilliant man. His job is to make the state prosper, and he does well on that account.—Walter looked around the dining room and then leaned in, and Nicole leaned in to listen. But I’ll tell you how he does it, he said softly. Not too many people know this. Every night our Governor goes down into a dark room in his basement, lights a black candle, swishes some whiskey around in an ivory bowl, and waits for the Devil to come whisper in his ear. And the Devil tells him everything he needs to know for the next day.—He wagged his finger. Now, that’s a secret. That’s how it’s done.

He sat back and smiled, and Nicole smiled too, but more thinly. You’re joking, she said.

He’s a complicated man, said Walter.

She lowered her eyes and let her mouth go soft from relief. I suppose he would have to be, she said. The question is, what does the Devil want in return?

Oh, said Walter, Old Scratch won’t ever go wanting for a pleasure ground, as long as he’s got the State of Tennessee.

You’re a cynic, said Nicole.

I’m hopelessly in love with a slovenly queen, but she scorns my affections; when I try to dress her in suitable robes or better set her table she turns her haughty back. Sometimes I sulk to cover my shame. Then morning comes and I try her again.

That’s sweet, said Nicole, and she smiled as if she’d swallowed the sun.

The conversation wandered from there: back to his time on the campaign, forward to Memphis, back to Charleston and her schoolgirl days, her parents, Emily left behind. In the minutes the table vanished, the restaurant dissolved, the city pitched away all its pettiness. He asked her about the radio station; he’d met the owner once during the Governor’s campaign. Oh, it’s very interesting, really, she said. I don’t quite understand it all yet. I don’t know much about music, except for the Hit Parade; but something’s going on that’s got all the fellows at the station excited, and you wouldn’t believe the sorts of people who come through.

What are they like?

Wild men, she said, laughing. Just wild men. They come up out of the swamps, they come down from the trees, and they never say anything but they yell it at the top of their lungs. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. My job is to be very nice and friendly and try to make sure they don’t burn the place down. She reached for her wineglass, and a small silver bracelet slipped out from under the cuff of her sweater and glittered in the candlelight as it dangled from her white wrist. It’s like they’re fighting a war.—She grimaced.—I’m sorry. That must sound to you like a very silly thing to say.

No, said Walter.

You being a hero and all that, she said, and thought of the word’s possible meanings for the first time when she said it.

He frowned, on familiar ground. They gave me a medal. They could have given it to anyone.

That’s not true, I’m sure, said Nicole, though she wasn’t. You were in the Pacific?

He didn’t want to talk; he wanted to watch her, but she had turned the table back to him, and he felt obliged to take it. The Philippines, he said. Some of the South Sea Islands.

What was it like?

He lowered his eyes. What to tell? The islands were beautiful, he said. Everything was huge and green. I was very young.

Nicole nodded solemnly, because the hour had suddenly become solemn. She had intended no such seriousness, and neither had he; but there it was. Eddy was very impressed with you.