year. Not just good-looking but smart too, going off to Iowa City or Des Moines or Cedar Rapids or Omaha to become nurses and bookkeepers and legal secretaries, many of them -bbt you and me-probably a lot smarter than the men they work for.
Old folks needing relief from the hot sun, little kids needing bathrooms, sweet-faced junior high school girls needing attention from boys-a whole wonderful mix of people on this soft warm Indian-summer afternoon wandered around looking at the Edsels. Nice, easygoing, decent folks.
I’ve got nothing against Chicago, but this is my home.
Car premieres are big deals in towns like ours. They’re like opening nights. The big semis loaded with new cars roll in, and half the people in town start driving past the dealership for a glimpse. The cars are always covered up so you can only guess at how cool they look. Some of the semis come in late at night like they’re carrying military cargo the Russians might try and hijack. The dealers are smart enough to stage the premieres so there’s never a conflict. Chevy usually goes first, then Ford, then Chrysler, then the lesser lines: American Motors and, lately, Volkswagen.
“Hello, Sam.”
I’d seen her walking toward me: Mrs.
Irene Keys. Hers was a kind of sadly biblical story. The rich girl with the plain face who was just naturally a target for girls and boys alike who wanted to bask in the rarefied air of that wealth. She learned early how to dress well. As she got older, her plain features had taken on a handsomeness not unlike a piece of Roman sculpture. There was great character in her face now. And she learned early to be friendly and seemingly open, though you sensed a ferocious intelligence she tried to hide. Wealth and superior intelligence would have been too much for most folks to handle. Even the Judge had remarked on how impressive having lunch was with Mrs. Keys. “She’s up on everything, McCain. You just don’t expect to find that in a hick town like this one.” Over the years, Mrs.
Keys had several times asked me to visit her book club for a discussion. I guess because of my age, she thought I’d be able to explain the allure of Kerouac and Ginsberg and Corso and Ferlinghetti to small-town matrons.
Today, she wore a tailored brown suit that nearly matched the hennaed rinse she’d had put in her hair. She carried a shopping bag with Keys Lincoln on its side.
“Enjoying yourself, Sam?”
“Very much.”
“Dick hasn’t slept well for nearly a month, he’s been so worried about the Edsel.”
I lied. “Well, from the things I hear, everybody sure seems to like it.”
“Really? When I see people, they give me very evasive answers.”
I grinned. “They probably don’t want to embarrass you with too much flattery.”
She laughed. “Always ready to turn a bad moment aside with a good line, Sam. That’s why it’s so much fun having you around. Any chance I could get you to come to the book club discussion we’re having next month?”
“Who’re you reading?”
“Henry Miller.”
I thought of all the words old Henry put in his books. “Really?”
“Yes. And a couple of us have found words we-we aren’t exactly sure what they mean. We think we know but we’re not sure.”
“The minister’s wife going to be there again?”
She smiled. “She’s the one who suggested it.”
“Well, why not? Just as long as Cliffie doesn’t bust us for possession of pornography.”
“I’ll make sure Dick puts the fix in. Isn’t that what they call it when you bribe a policeman? A fix?”
“That’s what you call it. And may I suggest, with Cliffie, that you bribe him with comics. He’s big on the Green Hornet.”
“I’ll remind you later,” she said. “About Henry Miller.” She was still smiling. “But calling the chief Cliffie isn’t very nice, Sam.”
The day made its appointed rounds. I watched the clouds for a time, remembering the Baudelaire poem, loosely translated as “The Wonderful Clouds.” So heartbreakingly beautiful. The day we studied it in class I was surrounded by people who absolutely didn’t give a damn about it, including the teaching assistant, who, after each poet we studied, always said, “I’ll still take Whitman.”
I sat and daydreamed. I wished I could paint. Or be a serious pianist. Or be taller. Or handsome. Or be better endowed in the groin department. Or be a great novelist. Or really and truly believe in God. Or figure out a way to get Pamela to marry me. Or stumble over a bag containing $300 million that nobody claimed. You know, the usual modest daydreams.
“I think I’ll buy one of these cars, McCain.”
The voice was unmistakable: Judge Esme Anne Whitney. She was approaching the park bench where I was lighting a Lucky. Smokes always taste better after food, even half-finished ice-cream cones.
“You’re kidding.”
“I dated one of the Ford boys.”
“So I heard.”
“Would you tell Henry that there’s a lady here who would like to sit down?”
“Henry, there’s a lady here who would like to sit down.”
Henry didn’t budge. He’s one of
God’s few creatures not intimidated by Judge Whitney.
I helped him down. He didn’t look happy. He glared at the Judge, his little sailor’s cap angled cutely on his little head and waddled away.
“I doubt he’s sanitary,” she said.
“He’s a lot cleaner than some of my clients,” I said.
“I’ve seen some of your clients,” she said, “and I agree.” She didn’t ask to sit down.
She just sat down. Which was all right with me. I wanted some company, even if it was my boss.
What you have to remember about Judge Whitney is that I don’t necessarily like her but then again I don’t necessarily not like her. And if that’s confusing for you, think how confusing it is for me.
The Judge is a damned good-looking sixty-year-old woman but, because she’s usually so cold and baronial, people don’t see that.
Fashion-model slender. Poised. Model-like too in the brazen jut of nose and the impudence of eyes and upper lip. Her gray hair is kept short but very feminine. And somehow her tortoiseshell eyeglasses are sexy. She’s also got a kid grin that shocks you the first couple of times you see it. She makes three pilgrimages a year to the Holy Land-the high-fashion stores of New York City-where she buys her clothes. You know, the French designers whose names you can’t pronounce at prices your entire block couldn’t afford if they pooled their money? Her choice in cigarettes runs to Gauloises and her choice in booze is brandy, which I could smell on her breath. Whatever you do, don’t mention Ayn Rand. Rand is her favorite author, and she can give you five extemporaneous hours on the topic. Her major was law but her minor was philosophy.
“Just because you dated one of the Ford boys doesn’t mean you have to buy one.”
“Well, if I don’t, who will?” she asked.
She was peering down into the gray suede of her tiny purse, the same gray suede that accented certain spots of her gray sharkskin suit. “It’s clear that the ordinary people out here can’t see what an important and forward-thinking design concept this is.”
She held a handful of four-color brochures, like a poker hand. Which is where that “important and forward- thinking design concept” came from.
“The one mistake the Ford boys made was marketing this beautiful car to the masses,” she said.
“It was clearly designed by and for the-well, more educated classes, shall we say.”
In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, Esme Anne Whitney is a snob. After several brandies, the word rabble frequently falls from her lips.
“Look what I found,” she said.
Her kid grin. Those baby teeth of hers.
