“And Harold Lumpkin is the one to tell him that?”
“It will come out a lot more sincerely than from me, that’s for sure!”
“Hmm. I see what you mean.” Emory cast a glance over to Harold. He smiled. “You know, maybe you’re right. Harold’s a good egg. Why not?”
“Oh, you’re just the best, Emory Clarke!”
I couldn’t restrain myself.
I grabbed him and kissed him on the lips.
He responded for a brief instant, and for a moment I was back in his bedroom, in that timeless moment we kissed.
But then he pulled back.
“We really haven’t talked about this, have we?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No. My fault.” He smiled again. “We will talk. Not now though, huh?”
“No. That’s fine.”
Yes, I thought then, and it was fine. Fine because even now I could see his regard for me in his eyes. It was troubled regard, true, but I could not doubt then that he had some feeling for me, at least. And certainly, it would seem, his father approved and encouraged at least our friendship.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at eleven o’clock, right?” I said.
“Yes. Eleven o’clock.”
“Okay.”
He started to leave.
“And Emory,” I said.
“Yes?”
I realized that my hand was up at to my neck, holding the place where I’d seen the bite marks.
Now, the place throbbed a bit.
Emory turned around, and the smile was gone.
I swallowed back my doubt and fear.
“Thanks, Emory. I said. Thanks so much. And thank your father.”
He nodded and turned back and left me quickly.
I had to remember to start breathing again.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
WHEN I GOT back to the table Peter Harrigan was gone, and Harold’s nose was back in his book.
“Where did Peter go?” I asked Harold.
“There was a certain lack of ego stroking going on here, I guess,” said Harold. “He saw someone across the room he desperately needed to speak with and --whoosh! -- off he went.”
“That’s actually good,” I said.
Harold rolled his eyes. “Somebody finally gets what she wants and she doesn’t want it anymore.”
“Oh there will be plenty of time to talk to Peter later. Right now, I need to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“How do I deserve that honor?”
“You sound upset,” I said.“
I’m just trying to read.”
“Okay, okay, but I do believe you’re going to like this.”
“I won’t know till I find out, will I?” he said in a dull monotone.
Something was definitely wrong with Harold. He just kind of slouched there in a grump. I knew it had something to do with me huddled over in the corner with Emory, but I didn’t see any need to dwell on it. After all, with the news I had for Harold, all that would pass soon and we’d all be happy and thrilled again.
“Okay, so,” I said. “You know, we’ve been talking about the President coming to a that vocational wing dedication ceremony?”
“Yeah? So?” Not even looking at me.
“Well, it’s today!”
“What’s today other than Monday?”
“The day!” I leaned in closer and whispered. “That’s what Emory took me aside to tell me. Lyndon Johnson is coming to Crossland. Today.”
He turned at looked at me.
“No kidding.”
“Would I kid a kidder?”
He turned back to his book. “So what does that have to do with me?”
“Well, there’s a reception. Some students get to meet him. You know, shake the President’s hand and all that.”
“Thrilling.” Again, monotone. “Oh, I get it. Emory’s father being a Senator and all, he’s invited you to shake the Presidential hand.”
“Yes! And you too, Harold.”
Harold blinked.
He looked up from his book, then swiveled his head over to me.
“What? Me?”
“Yes! You get to sit with me to listen to the President when he makes his speech. And you get to go with me and meet him.”
He looked genuinely shocked.
“Wow!”
“Isn’t that great?”
“But..I’m not wearing a suit!”
“You’re a student. You’re just wearing normal student clothes. That’s fine!”
Harold directed a wary glance at me. “Did you know about this before? Is that why you got all dolled up today?”
“No! I swear! I knew nothing about it. I just felt like wearing this today!”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s awfully coincidental.”
“This is great though, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Yes it is. What do I have to do? I mean, when to go, where to do I go? What do I do?”
So I told him.
A TYPICAL HIGH school day at Crossland is a buzzing, busy affair, full of bells and slamming doors, and echoing feet tromping up and down halls and stairs, accompanied by the din of student chattering.
This day the din seemed even louder and more animated.
You could almost smell the excitement in the air.
Something unusual. Something different.
Public schools in the United States always reminded me of hospitals in the United States. Cold and angular and kind of inhuman. Necessary places, but places you don’t really want to stick around in for any long period of time. I guess prisons anywhere are like that too, and I guess there was that element today here today at Crossland. A new prison true, and a prison you checked in and out of every day. But a prison nonetheless, with cells and cafeteria and the cheap regulation cleaning supplies.
Cell blocks clanged open and cell blocks clanged closed and bells rang often.
Today, it seemed, the inmates of Crossland Senior High Prison seemed a bit animated and restless.
Or was that just my imagination?
It hardly mattered. I had just been invited to a major event by a new, major person in my life. My thrill and excitement with the whole business allowed my spinning head to get some sense of direction and balance.
True, the hours before eleven o’clock dragged. There was a moment in English, as we talked about a Robert Browning poem, when I wondered if all this was really happening to me. The class was real, the poem before me was real, the teacher and the students were real. But was I really going to head out the door at bell-time and go down to the vocational wing to actually meet President Lyndon Johnson?
I have to admit, I hadn’t gotten into political things very much, but I knew that my soul was Democrat, and more a Kennedy Democrat than anything. But whatever Lyndon Johnson was, he was a celebrity. When a part of reality is seen through newspapers and television -- and then you actually get to meet an important individual in person. Interact with them. See a person who will for the first time see you -- something goes a bit odd in your head. An ordered world gets askew -- but somehow it’s a more exciting world because someone that is important imparts some importance to you!
Anyway, that’s the way it seemed.
And as much as I liked Robert Browning, it was hard to concentrate on that Victorian poet’s work that morning. I didn’t even participate much in the class discussion, something I usually excelled at. Instead my eyes kept finding their way over to the clock on the wall. And the hands on that clock kept moving but only glacially.
Finally, though, the bell rang at 10:50 AM. I grabbed my books up and raced out. After depositing my books in my locker and
getting my winter coat, I used the ladies room, where I combed my hair and check to make sure there weren’t any strange particles on my teeth, I popped a Cloret in my mouth.
I met Harold at the agreed upon place by the library.
He flashed a letter at me.
“Wow,” he said, wriggling the paper at me “I got it. I’m really going!”
“That’s great. Let’s go then!”
To get to the Vocational Wing involves a series of corridors and stairways. As soon as we got to the area with a glimpse of the courtyard, it was more than apparent that something was going on.
Teachers stood at the hall entrance, directing student traffic. Policemen and secret service officers stood at the doorways of the courtyard. Outside, in the courtyard itself, I could see that a podium had been set up with a stand. Also, microphones. There were television and camera and a few banks of chairs. Work people scurried and hurried about setting things up. The whole side of the courtyard that could open up to the parking lot area was open and filled with activity.
We showed our letters to a teacher and an official, and went through some sort of metal detector which delighted Harold because he said it looked so science fictional -- and then headed down to where the lounge for the vocational faculty lounge was supposed to be.
And there it was, as advertised. Again, official sorts hurried about. We showed our letters to a man in a suit wearing an earpiece. He was studying them carefully when a man in a black suit strode over, arms wide with a big smile on his face.
It was Senator Beauregarde Clarke. He wore a bright red tie that shone like a beacon. The room beyond had vases of flowers on some of its tables. Carnations, lilies, a whole array of flora. But that tie shown against the Senator’s suit like a single red rose in one large shiny black vase.
“My goodness me, if it isn’t the delightful Rebecca Williams!” he said. “Joe, this is the young lady I told you we were expecting. No need for all that scrutiny.”
“Yes sir,” said the agent. He snapped his fingers at Harold, demanding his letter.
“Oh, this is Harold Lumpkin,” I said. “My friend.”
“Yes, of course! We had a call from my boy about Harold. The lad with a cellar full of Miles Davis and Star Trek.” The Senator’s large hand reached out and enfolded Harold’s hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “He’s fine, Joe, he’s fine.”
“Just have to check to make sure, Senator,” said the security agent, scrutinizing the letter.
“Of course, of course. You boys do a fine job! A fine job!” The Senator beamed.
I looked over at Harold. He seemed a bit pale. He was looking at Senator Clarke and seemed as though he might start trembling at any minute. I immediately wondered if it had been a good idea to invite Harold. If he acted so sheepish around a U. S. Senator, one of a hundred in Congress , how would he act with the President of the United States?
But Harold bucked up immediately. He seemed to take a deep breath, getting a hold of himself. He pulled himself together and took hold of the Senator’s hand and rallied against this intimidating form in front of him.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Harold.
“Good, good. Okay now, Joe?”
“Okay, sir.” The agent handed the letter back to Harold.
“Come on in then, kids! We’ve got some dandy eats and treats over at that table yonder, if you care to partake.”
“Oh, I think we’re a bit too nervous to eat!” I said, figuring I was most certainly speaking for Harold as well.
“Oh, but there’s nothing better for nerves a party than gripping a cup of punch!” He winked at us.
“A party!” I laughed.
“My, my yes!” said the Senator. “It’s the Democratic Party, isn’t it, Joe?”
“Yes sir, it certainly is. Why don’t you folks step on in?”
“What a good idea indeed!” The Senator stepped back, bowed, and gestured us to enter.
“Is Emory here?” I asked.
“Any moment, I expect,” said the Senator. He pulled us over to the corner where a number of folding chairs had been set up. “Why don’t you youngsters have a seat here for a spell and I’ll herd him on over to you when he comes in.”
“That sounds good to me,” said Harold.
“Me too,” I said.
We allowed ourselves to get herded to the seats and promptly sat down. Tucked here into a corner I immediately felt a little better. The crowd and the bustling activity was over there and we were somewhere a bit less exposed. Somehow I felt less nervous and vulnerable. The Senator’s expansive warmth helped a lot.
“So,” said Senator Clarke. “Again, welcome, and I will visit with you again real soon now, you hear?” His eyes twinkled and he was off.
“What a nice man,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” said Harold. He had a strange expression on his face.
“Well, true, he’s a politician. He needs to be professionally nice. But he does have a kind of Southern charm, I think.”
“You’re getting to be quite the sucker for Southern charm, Rebecca.”
“I suppose I am,” I said.
I was continued the inane chat with Harold because it seemed to help my nerves. We got our drinks -- cans of soda, a Coke for Harold, an orange cream for me -- and sat down in the metal chairs. The Senator had been right. Sitting down and holding something helped a lot. I felt less like a participant and more like an observer and I could calm down a bit. Harold and I lapsed into silence and just sipped at our sodas, waiting to play whatever roles we had to play. Me, I was also waiting for Emory. Emory, I fancied, knew these sorts of affairs, and I intended to cling to him like a life preserver if necessary.
Still, as I watched all the important people and all the crisp uniforms and all the crackle of excitement as the event moved into place, I realized that I’d been preparing all my life for just this sort of thing. After all, I’d been around uniforms and ceremony and official business all my life. After all, I was an Air Force brat. I’d lived on or around military bases all my life.
“Just what,” said Harold. “Are we supposed to do?”
“I suppose Emory will be able to tell us that,” I said. “Uhm -- just look student-like, I guess.”
“Well, that’s easy for me,” said Harold. “But you -- you look like some collegiate goddess!”
“Oh, come on, Harold,” I said, taken aback.
“Really, you look great, Rebecca.” He looked at me sincerely. “I really mean that.”
“Well thanks, Harold. That means a lot to me.”
I felt awkward for a moment.
Harold looked away.
Some kind of strange pang bloomed in me for a moment as I looked a him.
The feeling vanished, though, as my name sounded from across the room.
“Rebecca!”
I looked up.
There he was, suit tie and all, smiling and looking very dashing. His posture was remarkably improved, and he had a remarkable energy surrounding him.
It was Emory.
“You’re here! That’s so marvelous! And Harold! Glad you could make it, sir! I hope that there were no problems getting in.”
He looked totally at home here in all the hustle and bustle. I realized then that he was just used to it, like me.
Along with him, hanging back a bit, was Cheryl. She too was out of her dark clothes, but was wearing a demure skirt and blouse and jacket, with her dark hair combed down straight. She looked like a student now at some private girl’s school. She, however, didn’t look particularly comfortable.
“Emory!” I said. “There you are! Wow! And hi, Cheryl.” I jump-started some cheeriness inside me. “You look really nice today.”
“Thanks,” Cheryl said. “You to
o.”
Cheryl was looking at me in an odd way. Not like she was at all jealous, though. I couldn’t quite figure out what kind of expression it was, though. But it wasn’t unfriendly, so that was good.
In any case, the electricty of the event was eclipsing all my other feelings, and I was just happy to see them both, Emory especially.
He and his father had invited me.
They both would help see me through this whole business, I figured. Shake LBJ’s hand. Listen to his speech about the importance of the Great Society and social progress in America. And then get on with Dracula, and the rest of my life, etc. etc.
Still, all that paled now against the importance of coming events. And behold, here now was my hero who was going to be my guide and protector through moments I would doubtless tell my grandchildren about.
I asked, “What next?”
“Simple, “ said Emory, “You had the right idea. We just sit down right here.”
“This is where your dad told us to sit.”
“I thought as much. This way, he’ll know exactly where we are when the time comes.” Emory took the seat to my left.
“Okay. That’s fine,” I said. “But what happens then.”
“You say howdy to a guy from Texas!” said Emory.
“That’s all? I mean, I don’t have to curtsey a certain way?” I said. “There’s no -- uhm --”
“Protocol?” said Harold.
“Oh yes,” I said. “That’s the word I’m looking for.”
“Cheryl,” said Emory. “What would you say to that? You’ve met dignitaries before.”
Cheryl nodded. “It’s pretty easy. You just go up and smile and shake their hand. Say something like “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” or “It’s an honor to meet you sir, or as the case may be, “ma’am”. The person will say a few things, maybe ask a question, and then nicely move on to the next person, and the heat is off you. You go sit back down -- or leave. Usually others will give you guidance.”
At the Twilight's Last Gleaming Page 16
