At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

  “That’s it, and that’s all,” said Emory. “You have to remember that that you are meeting a professional politician and a professional politician not only has pressed a lot of flesh, but is merely flesh himself. And in this case, he’s a Texan politician, which means friendly, and hearty. I’m sure the President isn’t the enthusiastic hand-shaker he was when he was “Landslide Lyndon” but it won’t be that hard and it will be over in a jiffy.”

  “Landslide Lyndon? Because he beat Goldwater so badly?”

  “No, this goes way back to when he was a congressman and he was running in Texas for the Senate seat. The late forties, as a matter of fact. It was a tight race. Johnson campaigned hard. He took a helicopter and he’d get out at each stop and throw his hat to the crowd.”

  “He must have had to buy a lot of hats!”

  “No, Daddy says he had henchmen in the crowd planted to go and find it and bring it back to him. Pure Texas! “ Emory smiled again, a beautiful sight indeed. “But anyway, it was so close at the end, they thought there would have to be a recount. But then they “found” a bunch of ballots that had been lost, supposedly. And that just put Lyndon Johnson over. He got into the Senate and never looked back. But that’s why they called him “Landslide Lyndon.”

  “Pure Texas irony?” I said.

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “Are you suggesting,” I said. “That our president of these United States, the architect of the Great Society, the man who is being picketed for opposing Communism in SouthEast Asia with American troops -- indulged in shady dealings in the past?”

  Emory got an odd look on his face. “Well, Rebecca,” he said in his best Alabama accent. “Lordy me, he is a Texan, isn’t he?”

  “Well, I don’t want to get too much into that kind of politics!” I said.

  “If you are in the political life, Rebecca,” said Emory. “You really can’t avoid it.”

  I was about to suggest that maybe that was what was wrong with politics, even though I knew that this was all just a part of being human. How many things did I do, even though I didn’t entirely approve of doing them!

  But any chance of objection was interrupted by an important arrival.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  THE ARRIVAL WAS not of President Lyndon Johnson.

  However, this arrival silenced our section of the peanut gallery.

  The arrival was not that of the President of the United States of America, but rather the Principal of Crossland Senior High School.

  Namely Doctor Croydon Canthorpe.

  Principal Canthorpe stepped into the room as though he owned the place. He pushed a great big smile in front of him like armor, and his eyes sparkled.

  He was wearing a dark suit and a blue tie and they seemed to shine in the luminescent strip lighting from the ceiling. His watch and rings, gold and silver, seemed to glint. I remembered, oddly, his deep furry earthy smell as he entered. His was a commanding presence indeed, and now, on this day of days, a day he’d obviously planned for years, he absolutely dominated the room.

  “Now there,” said Harold, speaking up finally, “is a guy who should be a politician.”

  “Oh, he’s a politician all right,” said Emory. “But perhaps of a different nature than we’ve been speaking of.”

  Principal Canthorpe was immediately greeted by a teacher who was obviously in charge of the refreshments. She went to him and effusively welcomed him. He smiled and shook her hand and gestured approvingly at all the excellent preparations. As the murmurs in the room quieted, his deep voice carried over to us:

  “Oh yes, things look quite excellent, Miss Evans. And I’m happy to see everyone and everything is ready for --”

  His eyes swiveled around, examining, taking the expanse of it all, their dark and intelligent embrace touching on all the nicely dressed people in the lounge as they nervously clutched their coffee or tea or punch -- and then, they lighted on us.

  The smile turned into a frown. The forehead creased. The room darkened.

  I don’t know if I was the one who caused the reaction. It certainly seemed so at the time, and seeing as to our history, who could have blamed me? And after all, for any teenager, negative things tend to circulate around their center of despair. But after this pang of fear, though, this certainty that I had caused this change in that big face, I shrugged it off.

  Principal Canthorpe, after all was just a big fish in a small pond.

  Today we were about to meet a whale of the ocean.

  “Heck with him!” I muttered defiantly.

  “What?” said Harold.

  “Canthorpe,” I whispered. “I don’t think he likes me, and I know he doesn’t like me here.”

  “But you’re all dressed up,” said Harold. “You look like the prom queen. You’ve done just what he wanted.” Harold shook his head forlornly. “No, he’s glaring at me!”

  Someone spoke to him, and Canthorpe looked away, the frown flickering back to a professional smile.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, folks,” drawled Emory. “My guess is that ole Croydon would rather have ole Lyndon all to himself. I suppose he doesn’t mind a few students as representatives -- but not us!”

  “Yeah, that must be it,” said Harold. “His choice of students just aren’t here quite yet.”

  “And he’s not happy with the ones that are!”

  “Not going to be able to do much about it, since we’ve got the Senator’s special invite,” I said. “I for one am not going to let that rain on this particular parade.” I looked over to Emory. “But tell me, Emory. With your usual clothing penchant -- you must have had run ins with our good principal.”

  “Oh yes, yes indeed -- but Principal Canthorpe and I -- we have a truce. I think --”

  I was watching Principal Canthorpe.

  He was finishing up shaking a hand, smiling his professional smile.

  And then he turned and, the smile a good deal more forced on his face, he started heading our way

  “Oh no,” I said, interrupting Emory. “He’s coming this way.”

  Emory raised his eyebrows. He turned and saw Principal Canthorpe loping over.

  He blinked.

  Emory didn’t frown. But he certainly didn’t smile either.

  No, some other expression crossed his face that I couldn’t quite read. Something like determination. Something like defiance. Maybe even something like a little bit of fear.

  “Good morning,” said Principal Canthorpe.

  “Good morning,” we sort of all muttered as a group.

  “How is it,” he said, “that you people are here without my approval? Oh yes. That would be Senator Clarke’s doing. Correct, Emory?”

  “Yes sir. That’s right,” said Emory. “I’m sorry this wasn’t run past you. We had no idea.”

  The wide nostrils flared somewhat. Some fire flared in the eyes as well, but the principal contained it.

  “Oh, I’m sure. I’m sure, Emory.” He surveyed us. “Well, you’re looking all right, I must say. Rebecca -- you look particularly nice. I’m glad our talk made an impression. I think you’ll find that dressing appropriately is a key to social and business advancement.” His eyes settled on Harold. I thought he was going to lay into my friend, and I was braced to defend him. “Nice turtleneck,” he said finally. “You look good in a turtleneck, young man.”

  “Uh -- thanks, sir.”

  Principal Canthorpe put his hands on his hips. “Well, there’s nothing for it, I suppose. Just remember that you’ll be representing our school to the President of the United States.”

  “Yes sir,” I said.

  “Yes sir,” said Harold.

  “Yes sir,” said Cheryl.

  “I think,” said Emory, drawling a bit more than usual. “That you’ll fi
nd us not lacking in performing our duties to our kind,”

  Principal Canthorpe grinned suddenly. “Very good, Emory. Very good indeed.” His eyes flashed, and then turned and was on to other business.

  “Wow,” I whispered when he was out of earshot. “I kind of forgot about Canthorpe.”

  “Just be yourselves,” said Emory. “Shake the President’s hand. Listen to his speech. And we’ll all do well, I think, in Principal Canthorpe’s eye.” He looked at me. “My daddy sees a lot of potential in you, Rebecca. I suggest you just relax and let whatever that is shine now.”

  “Well, she won’t have to turn on the English accent, anyway,” said Harold.

  I turned to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just saying that you can be just you -- which is great.”

  Just me. The thought was not appealing.

  Plain old Rebecca. Air force brat. Nothing much accomplished. Never been kiss-- Wait a minute! No, I had been kissed. And how!

  I was on some vast and mysterious adventure, right?

  And even though I knew in my heart of hearts I was still just me....

  I knew that although there was no reason to hide behind an accent, I could still just use plain old manners to get through this.

  I’d met a Senator before. I’d gotten through that, right?

  I could meet a President.

  We kept on talking nervously for a while. More people came in, including more students, who sat along with us. As they entered, I could see Principal Canthorpe beginning to smile again. These tended either to be honor society folk, or sports folk, or varsity folk. There were even, of course, representatives of the vocational school folk, but instead of their usual greaser attire, they wore suits. Oh, the guys hair still looked like Elvis Presley’s and the girls still had the girl group bouffant look -- but then, in the context of the suits and without cigarettes and sneers, you could actually see that this was grooming, and hyper grooming at that! These girls were going to either be home economists or hair dressers extraordinaire. They all try to look calm and extremely cool, but I could tell they were just as nervous about this as I was. They seemed suddenly not members of some social caste, but regular teenagers -- and very, very human.

  As more and more people entered the Vocational Teacher’s lounge, the noise levels of course grew. Not just the sounds of conversation and the scuffling of chairs and feet, but the clattering of coffee and tea cups, the clinks of silverware and the rustling of clothing. The vocational teachers were if anything even better dressed than the regular teaches. This, after all, was their special day.

  But suddenly, above all this, there was a whirring sound. It started as just another noise in the mix, and then slowly but surely, it got louder and louder.

  It had started as a faint whirring, and it grew into a loud whirring, until it was a telltale “whup whup whup” that first hovered over us, and then lowered.

  I’d heard that sound before, of course.

  I’d heard it overseas and I’d heard it here at Dad’s station -- Andrew Air Force Base.

  I turned to the others. My eyes met theirs.

  “It’s the President’s helicopter,” I said. “He’s here!

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  BEFORE, THE IDEA of the President of the United States coming to our School, coming to Crossland High School, was terrific, sure. But it was an abstract idea, just a concept.

  Now though here was the sound of the Air Force One helicopter, ending it’s journey from the White House at Crossland Senior High. Bearing the Leader of the Free World inside. The reality of the situation became much more concrete to us all.

  I looked at the others and saw a mirror of what must have been in my own face.

  Anticipation, and a kind of stunned disbelief.

  President Lyndon Johnson was here.

  The stunned disbelief was in everyone’s face but Emory’s.

  Emory’s face was just unreadable. Maybe thoughtful. Maybe determined. Maybe hopeful. Maybe, though, it had just a touch of dread.

  Yes. There was something like fear glinting in his eye.

  Before I could wonder why, though, the excitement of the moment caught me up. Everyone’s eyes turned to the bank of windows looking out onto the parking lot. The lined macadam hadn’t just been cleared of snow.It had been cleared of cars as well. Except for the cop cars. I hadn’t noticed before at all, but police cars had cordoned everything off, so that no vehicles could enter. The thrumming sound increased. It wasn’t necessary to move forward to see what was happening, because it happened right in front of our eyes.

  From the top of the windows at first the landing legs reached down. The settled down softly and skillfully, slowly and tentatively, and the hull of the helicopter hove into view. And then, suddenly, the body of the helicopter wobbled down and landed. We we could see the spinning blades of the big monster whooshing around. When they stopped, all kinds of police and military folk rushed out. There was such a visual commotion, I really couldn’t see much.

  “There he is!” said Harold.

  “Where?” I said.

  The door of the helicopter had slid open. A silvery head above a great big overcoat got out. It bobbed among the sea of people, and then disappeared along the side of the bank of windows.

  “Wow, that was fast!” said Harold.

  “I’m sure he won’t be here long either,” I said. “Probably a busy day back at the White House. He’s got a lot on his plate.”

  I was up to my eyeballs with anticipation.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was going to meet the President of the United States. He’d be sad and melancholy, and he’d shuffle into the room and shake some hands limply, and then shuffle on out, shoulders bent under the weight of his office. He’d get before the podium, say usual “My fellow Amurricans...” and then mutter out stuff about Great Society and our duties to our fellow men and --

  The doors opened.

  People hurried in.

  I looked over and saw Principal Canthorpe standing firm and tall awaiting the arrival. He had something under his arm now. Some kind of book? And there was an odd smile on his face. His eyes glinted.

  Then Harold said, “There he is!”

  I turned. In walked the man who would changed my life even more than my very own beautiful maybe-a-vampire had.

  IT’S FUNNY HOW we buy what we see on TV and read in newspapers. It’s like the media is around us so much with all it shows us that we mistake the sounds and images it provides as reality.

  I recognized Lyndon Johnson, of course. I’d seen pictures of him, right? You couldn’t miss them.

  But somehow, all those pictures had left a great deal out.

  “Well howdy, all!” boomed a deep, friendly baritone voice, rich as sorghum and honey on flapjacks. “I do declare, this is one hell of a school! Half the journey here from the White House was over your damned lawn!”

  He chuckled as though rejoicing over the purity of his profanity.

  For one thing, President Lyndon Johnson was tall. And I’m not talking just physically tall, basketball player tall. He stood up straight and he towered over us all. And though he wasn’t wearing his 10 gallon Stetson hat, he towered over every one in more ways than one. The first thing you noticed were the eyes. They weren’t blue as Texan skies as I’d imagined them being. No, they were dark and glittering and totally arresting beneath a large lined brow and a great big head of swept back silver hair. Now, above that grin, they were friendly eyes. But it was easy to see how they could change, and what they could change into.

  “My, my!” he cried, clapping big hands at the end of long arms together. “Looks like we’ve got some treats set out. I’m parched! I sure would like some of that punch over there, if it’s not too much trouble!”

  He w
inked at someone nearby the table.

  “You folks mind if I take off my coat and stay awhile?”

  Laughter greeted his words. He chuckled as well and took off his coat. It was a nice coat too, a camel hair thing with broad black lapels. Below it was a suit, and not just any suit. It was a large blue suit, expensive and shiny, and it was cut way too big, so the big shoulders looked even bigger and the pants hung down, way down over his shiny shoes.

  Shoes? I thought.

  I wasn’t so sure they were shoes.

  Maybe, I thought, they were boots!

  No, surely not!

  But before I had a chance to look closer they group closed in and I couldn’t see them. President Johnson, still grinning, started shaking hands. Pretty soon someone brought him a great big crystal cup of punch. He grabbed it up like he was at the end of a desert trek. He held it up and toasted us.

  “Well, I suspect I’d like something a big stronger, but this looks mighty good. Here’s to Crossland High School! Here’s to the Cavaliers!”

  He downed the red punch.

  “He’s done his homework!” said Harold. “He knows our name.”

  President Johnson surrendered the glass. He shook a few more hands and then his oversized head swiveled to take in the assembly.

  “Now I heard tell,” he said loudly, “That my old friend Senator Clarke of the great state of Alabama is in the building somewhere. And that his son Emory attends this here school. I should think that Emory’s in this very room, if I’m not far mistaken!”

  I looked over to Emory. He looked chagrined.

  I tugged at him.

  “Go ahead, Emory,” I urged. “You are here, aren’t you?”

  Reluctantly, Emory stood. “I’m over here, Mr. President.”

  Somehow, the beacon of light that was President Johnson’s grin grew even brighter.

  “Well, well, well! I think there’s time before this heavy speech gets dumped by this bombardier from Texas. Folk, if you’ll excuse me, I ain’t seen this boy in a peck o’ years!”