Deep Purple

by Parris Afton Bonds

  For Amanda the society columns provided something more, because occasionally she would read tidbits about the Godwins. Most of the new items dealt with Paul, president of the state's leading banking firm, and his wife. “Godwins Return East for the Summer” . . . “Arlene Godwin hosts ball at Cristo Rey for European War Effort.”

  Amanda thought Paul’s wife looked older than he, maybe fifty or so, but later columns whispered of her cancerous illness. And Amanda was sorry, for she thought the woman looked like someone she would have liked.

  Sometimes she saw Nick’s name in print. Though Paul occupied the Stronghold, it was Nick and his arrogance that somehow represented all that Cristo Rey was to her. Once she read that he had escorted one of Tucson’s debutantes to the Winter Ball and another time that he had graduated with the highest score on the Arizona bar exams.

  She was not surprised. She knew he was shrewd and ambitious, as indicated by the young women she sometimes saw him with on campus . . . young women with expensive wardrobes and, of course, those all-American features—blond, bright-blue eyes and sunny smiles.

  Once or twice she sensed he saw her also, though she could not be certain. It was only a feeling of sudden heat, like the hot flashes that swept over older women—and she would turn and find that he was near, usually walking in another direction with a couple of his friends. But with Nick off campus now, practicing law, she found it easier to concentrate on graduating and preparing for her LSAT exam. The day she received word of her acceptance into law school, she and her father quietly celebrated with a glass of sake.

  Then, as 1939 slipped into 1940, both the Godwin brothers made headlines the same week. Tucson was surprised to wake up one morning and read that Roosevelt had appointed one of her sons, Paul Godwin, as his economic adviser. With the article was a photo of a handsome middle-aged man and the announcement that Paul would be leaving shortly for Europe to accompany Prime Minister Chamberlain in his negotiations with Chancellor Adolf Hitler over the German claims on Czechoslovakia.

  Paul’s appointment shared the spotlight with the younger brother, Nick, whose engagement to one of the Boston line of Warrens, Danielle Stirling, was announced three days later. The paper carried a photo of the bride-to-be (a stunning sultry blonde) and what Amanda thought was a nauseating recital of how the handsome pair met—“The divine Danielle and her mother visited the Double U Dude Ranch this previous winter and were introduced to Tucson’s young lawyer through mutual friends. Mrs. Stirling informs us that her cousin, Arthur Sidney Warren, will give her daughter away at the wedding. We Tucsonians will have something to look forward to this fall.”

  Amanda felt she knew everything about Nick by the time she finished reading the various columns that appeared that summer detailing his courtship of “Warren’s Niece.” She swore she would not read another word about him, but it was as if he were an obsession with her, and so she would plow through another insipid column describing the novel “crazyjamas” Danielle Stirling wore to the Wild West Hayride Benefit for Crippled Children or the daring strapless gown she modeled at the Pioneers Ball—in order to linger over the sentences about Nick.

  Eventually the length and number of those sentences exceeded those written about Danielle, for late that fall, after their wedding (with a last-rose-of-summer theme), Nick announced his candidacy for mayor.

  “I will personally mount a campaign against him here in the Barrio,” Amanda told her father as she slowly wadded up the Daily's front page.

  Her father set the coal iron on the board with a thud. “My daughter, will you never learn to accept things you cannot change, or must you singe your wings against the flame like a foolish moth?”

  She scratched Trouble between the ears and with a shrug opened the hornbook she should have been studying. “Everyone must have a goal. And my education and triumph, however small it may be, over the Godwins are my goals. They are the only things that matter to me in life. And you, Father,” she added quickly, lovingly.

  “The first goal is commendable. The second is more than a waste of one’s time, which is more precious than jade. It is self-destroying. There is no room in a heart for both bitterness and love. Like oil and water, they will not mix.”

  She wanted to cry out that his proverbs could not apply in a modem world gone mad, but her respect for him held her tongue. She cast down her lashes in the age-old way of the Oriental woman.

  And in a way she knew her father was right. But it made it no easier when six months later Nick Godwin was elected by a landslide margin. She told herself it was the combination of the Godwin-Warren names and not the sweeping reforms Nick had promised to carry out.

  His name appeared in print quite often after that. And there drifted rumors of the various fortunes he made wheeling and dealing with the bankers and businessmen who were always willing to back his ventures. In the Arizona Businessman he candidly and insouciantly admitted to losing a cool thousand every once and a while, but such was his gambler’s devil-may-care charm that Amanda felt he could have been one of Hitler’s cronies and the Arizona populace would still have supported him.

  She reminded herself she had priorities over following Nick’s charismatic career, and finishing law school and passing the bar exam were most important to her at that moment. Nick Godwin and Cristo Rey would keep. And there was the more pressing issue of finding some type of evening employment, for with only a year left for her LL.B., she was now forced to take the rest of her hours in day classes.

  She was only too glad to give up the janitorial job and was lucky enough to find within the week an ad for employment at the Casablanca Restaurant—-singing, no less. Since she had no vocal training, only a music-appreciation course in college, she was terribly nervous when she auditioned against two other girls for the final selection.

  One was a slinky honey-blonde with a pompadour hair style and the other was a vivacious redhead her own age who belted out ‘‘Tutti Frutti” with such enthusiasm that Amanda’s hopes sank to her toes.

  When her time came, she sang a husky rendition of “Deep Purple.” The crusty manager’s expression never altered; if anything he seemed to bite tighter on his stubby cigar, tilting its smoking tip up closer to his pug nose. The young man at the piano handed Amanda back her sheet music. “Great going!” he whispered with an encouraging wink.

  “But not great enough,” she said, watching the manager amble on bandy legs toward her. Sorry, but you're not the type we’re looking for—it would be the standard reply.

  “You got the job, doll,” he said without removing the cigar from between his nicotine-stained teeth. “Be here at six tomorrow evening—and with something that has a little more pizazz.” He waved the cigar now at her one suit, a blue twill that looked more suitable for church than a supper club.

  She could not believe her good luck. “Thank you, sir!”

  “Mike’s the name.” He turned to the other two girls, saying, “That’s it, kids. Sorry.”

  “Congratulations,” the young man said and rose from the piano, closing the lid. “How about celebrating over a cup of coffee at the campus cantina?”

  She knew she should catch the next bus back to the Barrio. Her father would be worried. But she did feel like celebrating. For so long it had been touch and go, doing without lunch, wearing shabby clothes. And now she had landed a good-paying job that would cover the expenses of the last leg of her education. “All right, I'd like that.”

  Over coffee in one of the cantina’s wooden booths she learned that Larry Willis was a senior majoring in economics. “I’m lucky enough to have a CPA firm ready to take me on as soon as I graduate,” he said. “How about you?”

  He was a nice-looking young man with sandy hair and warm hazel eyes that made her remember that she was attractive, something she had forgotten in the rush from mops to books to laundry in the evening. “I’m going for my Bachelor of Laws,” she told him.

  “Business or criminal?”

  “Neither—constitution
al.”

  Larry’s lips formed a soundless whistle. “You don't take the easy route, do you?”

  She smiled. “It's something I’ve been wanting to do for some time now.”

  “In your spare time,” he quipped. "If you aren’t careful, Mike'll talk you into singing more than four nights a week."

  She was caught up in the easy bantering; the time slipped away too quickly, and she had to leave. Larry walked her to the bus stop. In the dim light of the streetlamp, he took her hand, saying softly, "Goodnight. Amanda. See you tomorrow.”

  When she explained to her father that she had found a job, he was no longer so upset that she was three hours late. "You make me a proud father, Amanda. Do you see any of the other daughters of the Barrio’s families going to college? No, they get married and then have babies.”

  “Or have babies and then get married.” she teased, delighting in shocking him, although she knew she never really did despite his expressions of disapproval. After all, he and her mother had shared the same cabin without the benefit of marriage.

  Still, Amanda found it difficult to believe that people then did not experience the same passionate love that young people now did. Obviously, from the stories about the Ghost Lady, her grandmother also knew of that all-consuming love. Maybe one day so would she, though she doubted it. Cristo Rey consumed her as if it were her lover.

  “Things aren’t all that great,” Amanda suddenly wailed, remembering Mike’s last instructions. "I’ve got to have a dressy costume by tomorrow. Father!"

  She had nothing appropriate—all sweaters or blouses and short skirts, something her father deplored until she would halt him, reminding him she had a newspaper clipping with a drawing of her mother in men’s pants and the caption “Female Bandit Masquerades as Male.”

  After Amanda rummaged through everything and was wringing her hands in despair, her father came from the front part of the house, holding something behind him. She tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “All right, Father, what are you hiding?”

  He drew forth a bright shimmering red satin dress. “Father!” she breathed. “Where did you get that?”

  A mystical smile flashed across his face. "It came like manna from heaven, as the Christians say, I believe.”

  Her hands went to her hips, but she could not help but smile. "All right, the truth."

  He feigned a sigh of regret. "From one of our patrons. She isn’t due to pick up her laundry until next week . . . but the Lord will provide something else by then.”

  Her father was neither a Buddhist nor a Shintoist, and she had never thought to hear him speaking or thinking in Judeo-Christian terms. She herself had been taught Christianity from the good ladies at the Fort Huachuca school.

  From whatever providence she received the dress, she was able to keep it, for the Chinese family never came back to pick it up.

  The dress was made for the smaller Chinese woman, and as it was styled to be loose-fitting, it instead hugged her high breasts and rounded hips closely, it was edged with black rickrack and had the high-neck mandarin collar with a split reaching halfway up her thigh. Contrasted with her blue-black hair and the shimmering stage lights of the dinner club, it created a sensational effect . . . sensational enough to catch the eye of Nick Godwin when he entered the Casablanca three weeks later.

  CHAPTER 47

  Amanda certainly never expected to see Nick Godwin in the Casablanca. It was not the stuffy sort of supper club the mayor of Tucson would patronize but rather a small, intimate restaurant that had become the “in” place for Tucson's younger set.

  The stage lights had not yet been turned on when Nick entered with his party, and she was leaning against the piano, talking with Larry, her back to the entrance. But she would have known that Nick was in the restaurant even if it were not for the sudden increase in muted conversation, whispers of recognition from the other patrons mixed with not a few low exclamations of admiration for the beautiful woman with him.

  The hair at Amanda’s nape prickled, the same as it had nearly three years earlier, when she had felt his presence in the Copper Queen dining room, and then again the myriad times on campus. She broke off in mid-conversation with Larry and slowly rotated to survey the room.

  There at the largest table she found him. The candlelight illuminated the tough lines of his face as he leaned across the table to light his wife's cigarette. For only a moment Amanda observed her. She had seen her in photos that did not do full justice to the woman's beauty. The shoulder-length hair was arranged in the new rage—a peekaboo effect—and her complexion was a creamy pale against the fire-engine-red lipstick. Amanda knew the dress with the daring padded shoulders had to be a designer’s creation. Everything about Danielle whispered of elegance, as everything about Nick thundered of power.

  Amanda's gaze was inexorably pulled back to Nick, who, head inclined, seemed to be listening to what the elderly debonair gentleman on his left was saying. It was not just the power so evident in Nick's brash features that demanded attention . . . it was everything about him. His very presence dominated a room. Perhaps it was his roguish gambler's charm that made him appear handsomer than he really was, but every woman's head seemed to be turned in his direction. His body movements, restrained by the superbly tailored dinner jacket, announced the man's self-assurance—a rugged, brawny body backed by an astute intelligence. Oh, how she longed to crush that insolent assurance!

  “Hey, Amanda, you're on,’’ Larry muttered above the soft piano music he was playing.

  The one overhead light brightened, and simultaneously Larry went into the opening number, a crescendo of “So Rare” before muting the last notes for sliding into Amanda’s introductory song. It was one Judy Garland had made famous a couple of years before in Broadway Melodies of 1938. Larry and Amanda had run over the number several times that afternoon to make certain they had it down.

  As she sang the words, "You made me love you. I didn’t want to do it. you made me want you, and all the time you knew it . . .” she could feel Nick’s bold gaze raking her. Beneath its intensity her knees grew cottony, and she was grateful for the support of the piano she leaned against.

  Of all the adversaries who could have been thrust on her, why the unconquerable Nick Godwin? Anger at her own weakness raged in her so that by the song's finale she delivered it in such a way that applause reverberated through the small restaurant on her last holding note.

  "Wow, Amanda, you sure know how to deliver when it's called for," Larry said.

  She knew he was surprised that she had outperformed their rehearsal. She was surprised also—by the audience's evident approval—and somewhat embarrassed because she did not really take singing seriously. For those few moments of audience adulation she almost forgot Nick was out there among the people.

  But as the applause subsided, the intensity that flowed between the two of them like magnetic needles on a compass regenerated itself, galvanizing her—causing her to tremble and leaving her breathless. It was all she could do to find the air deep in her diaphragm as she opened softly, slowly, beneath the muted lights with. “Kiss me once, kiss me twice . . . kiss me once again. It's been a long, long time . . ."

  It seemed like a long, long time before her act was finished for the evening. She retreated to the small cubicle that was the dressing room, anxious to change and leave. As she quickly applied a sheen of lipstick before the small mirror, she told herself she was running away. Yet she knew she could not afford to do battle with her nemesis unprepared. One day the time would come, the right time. She would choose her own battleground—and one day vanquish the Godwins.

  She did not understand why she chose Nick rather than his stepbrother, Paul, as the object of her antipathy. They were both Godwins, and it was truly Paul, and his wife, who lived at Cristo Rey when not in Washington. But Nick was more Amanda's age, and it was Nick she had associated with Cristo Rey since childhood.

  And then there was that indefinable chain th
at seemed to bind them—invisible, intangible, but nonetheless as unbreakable as links forged of steel. Only such a powerful emotion as her hatred could have forged such a chain.

  There came a knock at the dressing-room door, and Larry stuck his head inside. "Hey, guess who has invited us to his table?"

  "Let me guess." she said flippantly, pulling her hair to the side so that she could slide into the three-quarter-length jacket of white silk with black braided frogs. “FDR and Eleanor.”

  “You're close—the mayor of Tucson"

  She froze, never expecting Nick to go that far—to invite her to share the same table as his wife and friends. But then Nick would do that—flout convention. He was capable of anything. She looked at Larry's excited face in the mirror. “Give the mayor my apologies, but tell his honor I can’t make it.”

  “You gotta be kidding, Amanda! This isn’t an everyday occurrence.”

  She picked up her purse. “I've got moot court and a test over the Justinian Code tomorrow.”

  “Mike won’t like it if he hears about it,” Larry cautioned, still not quite believing she would turn down such an opportunity.

  She shrugged. “I’m not getting paid to mix with the customers, Larry.”

  In an expression of hopelessness, he raised his brows and spread his palms. “All right. Wait up till I get my jacket.”

  After their show Larry always made it a point to walk her to the bus stop, waiting with her for her bus before he walked back to his fraternity house, which was not far. That particular evening she was more grateful than ever for his companionship as they skirted the dining room's still-packed tables, edging their way along the walls. She did not feel so alone in her defiance of Tucson’s mayor.

  They reached the small lobby, and Larry was tossing a flippant goodbye to the cute young girl in the checkroom when Mike stormed through the swinging door. “What’s going on here, doll? You can’t keep a Godwin waiting!” Then he saw her purse clutched under her arm and her coat. His eyes bulged. “You ain’t thinking of leaving?”