11/22/63: A Novel (67 page)

When I woke to the first long light of dawn, the fly of my slacks was unzipped and a skillful hand was exploring inside my underwear. I turned to her. She was looking at me calmly. “The world is still here, George. And so are we. Come on. But be gentle. My head still aches.”

I was gentle, and I made it last.
We
made it last. At the end, she lifted her hips and dug into my shoulder blades. It was her
oh dear, oh my God, oh sugar
grip.

“Anything.” She was whispering, her breath in my ear making me shiver as I came. “You can be anything, do anything, just say you’ll stay. And that you still love me.”

“Sadie . . . I never stopped.”

We had breakfast in her kitchen before I went back to Dallas. I told her it really
was
Dallas now, and although I didn’t have a phone yet, I would give her the number as soon as I had one.

She nodded and picked at her eggs. “I meant what I said. I won’t ask any more questions about your business.”

“That’s best. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Just tell me again that you’re up to good rather than no good.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m one of the good guys.”

“Will you be able to tell me someday?”

“I hope so,” I said. “Sadie, those pictures he sent—”

“I tore them up this morning. I don’t want to talk about them.”

“We don’t have to. But I need you to tell me that’s
all
the contact you’ve had with him. That he hasn’t been around.”

“He hasn’t been. And the postmark on the envelope was Savannah.”

I’d noticed that. But I’d also noticed the postmark was almost two months old.

“He’s not big on personal confrontation. He’s brave enough in his mind, but I think he’s a physical coward.”

That struck me as a good assessment; sending the pictures was textbook passive-aggressive behavior. Still, she had been sure Clayton wouldn’t find out where she was now living and teaching, and she’d been wrong about that. “The behavior of mentally unstable people is hard to predict, honey. If you saw him, you’d call the police, right?”

“
Yes,
George.” With a touch of her old impatience. “I need to ask you one question, then we won’t talk about this anymore until you’re ready. If you ever are.”

“Okay.” I tried to prepare an answer to the question I was sure would be coming:
Are you from the future, George?

“It’s going to sound crazy.”

“It’s been a crazy night. Go ahead.”

“Are you . . .” She laughed, then started to gather the plates. She
went to the sink with them, and with her back turned, she asked: “Are you human? Like, from planet Earth?”

I went to her, reached around to cup her breasts, and kissed the back of her neck. “Totally human.”

She turned. Her eyes were grave. “Can I ask another?”

I sighed. “Shoot.”

“I’ve got at least forty minutes before I have to dress for school. Do you happen to have another condom? I think I’ve discovered the cure for headaches.”

So in the end it only took the threat of nuclear war to bring us back together—how romantic is that?

Okay, maybe not.

Deke Simmons, the sort of man who took an extra hankie to sad movies, approved heartily. Ellie Dockerty did not. Here is a strange thing I’ve noticed: women are better at keeping secrets, but men are more comfortable with them. A week or so after the Cuban Missile Crisis ended, Ellie called Sadie into her office and shut the door—not a good sign. She was typically blunt, asking Sadie if she knew any more about me than she had before.

“No,” Sadie said.

“But you’ve begun again.”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know where he lives?”

“No, but I have a telephone number.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, and who could blame her. “Has he told you anything at all about his past? Whether he’s been married before? Because I believe that he has been.”

Sadie stayed silent.

“Has he happened to mention if he’s left a dropped calf or two behind somewhere? Because sometimes men do that, and a man who’s done it once will not hesitate to—”

“Miz Ellie, may I go back to the library now? I’ve left a student
in charge, and while Helen’s very responsible, I don’t like to leave them too—”

“Go, go.” Ellie flapped a hand at the door.

“I thought you
liked
George,” Sadie said as she got up.

“I do,” Ellie replied—in a tone, Sadie told me later, that said
I did.
“I’d like him even better—and like him for
you
better—if I knew what his real name was, and what he’s up to.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Sadie said as she went to the door.

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“That I love him. That he saved my life. That all I have to give him in return is my trust, and I intend to give it.”

Miz Ellie was one of those women accustomed to getting the last word in most situations, but she didn’t get it that time.

We fell into a pattern that fall and winter. I would drive down to Jodie on Friday afternoons. Sometimes on the way, I would buy flowers at the florist in Round Hill. Sometimes I’d get my hair cut at the Jodie Barber Shop, which was a great place to catch up on all the local chatter. Also, I’d gotten used to having it short. I could remember wearing it so long it flopped in my eyes, but not why I’d put up with the annoyance. Getting used to Jockey shorts over boxers was harder, but after awhile my balls no longer claimed to be strangling.

We’d usually eat at Al’s Diner on those evenings, then go to the football game. And when the football season ended, there was basketball. Sometimes Deke joined us, decked out in his school sweater with Brian the Fightin’ Denton Lion on the front.

Miz Ellie, never.

Her disapproval did not stop us from going to the Candlewood Bungalows after the Friday games. I usually stayed there alone on Saturday nights, and on Sundays I’d join Sadie for services at Jodie’s First Methodist Church. We shared a hymnal and sang many verses of “Bringing in the Sheaves.”
Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness
. . . the
melody and those well-meant sentiments still linger in my head.

After church we’d have the noon meal at her place, and after that I’d drive back to Dallas. Every time I made that drive, it seemed longer and I liked it less. Finally, on a chilly day in mid-December, my Ford threw a rod, as if expressing its own opinion that we were driving in the wrong direction. I wanted to get it fixed—that Sunliner convertible was the only car I ever truly loved—but the guy at Kileen Auto Repair told me it would take a whole new engine, and he just didn’t know where he could lay his paws on one.

I dug into my still-sturdy (well . . .
relatively
sturdy) cash reserve and bought a 1959 Chevy, the kind with the bodacious gull-wing tailfins. It was a good car, and Sadie said she absolutely adored it, but for me it was never quite the same.

We spent Christmas night together at the Candlewood. I put a sprig of holly on the dresser and gave her a cardigan. She gave me a pair of loafers that are on my feet now. Some things are meant to keep.

We had dinner at her house on Boxing Day, and while I was setting the table, Deke’s Ranch Wagon pulled into the driveway. That surprised me, because Sadie had said nothing about company. I was more surprised to see Miz Ellie on the passenger side. The way she stood with her arms folded, looking at my new car, told me I wasn’t the only one who’d been kept in the dark about the guest list. But—credit where credit is due—she greeted me with a fair imitation of warmth and kissed me on the cheek. She was wearing a knitted ski cap that made her look like an elderly child, and offered me a tight smile of thanks when I whisked it off her head.

“I didn’t get the memo, either,” I said.

Deke pumped my hand. “Merry Christmas, George. Glad to see you. Gosh, something smells good.”

He wandered off to the kitchen. A few moments later I heard Sadie laugh and say, “Get your fingers
out
of that, Deke, didn’t your mama raise you right?”

Ellie was slowly undoing the keg buttons of her coat, never taking her eyes from my face. “Is it wise, George?” she asked. “What you and Sadie are doing—is it wise?”

Before I could answer, Sadie swept in with the turkey she’d been fussing over ever since we’d gotten back from the Candlewood Bungalows. We sat down and linked hands. “Dear Lord, please bless this food to our bodies,” Sadie said, “and please bless our fellowship, one with the other, to our minds and our spirits.”

I started to let go, but she was still gripping my hand with her left and Ellie’s with her right. “And please bless George and Ellie with friendship. Help George remember her kindness, and help Ellie to remember that without George, there would be a girl from this town with a terribly scarred face. I love them both, and it’s sad to see mistrust in their eyes. For Jesus’s sake, amen.”

“Amen!” Deke said heartily. “Good prayer!” He winked at Ellie.

I think part of Ellie wanted to get up and leave. It might have been the reference to Bobbi Jill that stopped her. Or maybe it was how much she’d come to respect her new school librarian. Maybe it even had a little to do with me. I like to think so.

Sadie was looking at Miz Ellie with all her old anxiety.

“That turkey looks absolutely wonderful,” Ellie said, and handed me her plate. “Would you help me to a drumstick, George? And don’t spare the stuffing.”

Sadie could be vulnerable, and Sadie could be clumsy, but Sadie could also be very, very brave.

How I loved her.

Lee, Marina, and June went to the de Mohrenschildts’ to see in the new year. I was left to my own lonely devices, but when Sadie called and asked if I’d take her to the New Year’s Eve dance at Jodie’s Bountiful Grange, I hesitated.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “but this will be better than last year. We’ll
make
it better, George.”

So there we were at eight o’clock, once more dancing beneath sagging nets of balloons. This year’s band was called the Dominoes. They featured a four-man horn section instead of the Dick Dale–style surf guitars that had dominated the previous year’s dance, but they also knew how to lay it down. There were the same two bowls of pink lemonade and ginger ale, one soft and one spiked. There were the same smokers clustered beneath the fire escape in the chill air. But it
was
better than last year. There was a great sense of relief and happiness. The world had passed under a nuclear shadow in October . . . but then it had passed back out again. I heard several approving comments about how Kennedy had made the bad old Russian bear back down.

Around nine o’clock, during a slow dance, Sadie suddenly screamed and broke away from me. I was sure she’d spotted John Clayton, and my heart jumped into my throat. But that had been a scream of pure happiness, because the two newcomers she had spotted were Mike Coslaw—looking absurdly handsome in a tweed topcoat—and Bobbi Jill Allnut. Sadie ran to them . . . and tripped over someone’s foot. Mike caught her and swung her around. Bobbi Jill waved to me, a little shyly.

I shook Mike’s hand and kissed Bobbi Jill on the cheek. The disfiguring scar was now a faint pink line. “Doctor says it’ll be all gone by next summer,” she said. “He called me his fastest-healing patient. Thanks to you.”

“I got a part in
Death of a Salesman,
Mr. A.,” Mike said. “I’m playing Biff.”

“Type-casting,” I said. “Just watch out for flying pies.”

I saw him talking to the band’s lead singer during one of the breaks, and knew perfectly well what was coming. When they got back on the stand, the singer said: “I’ve got a special request. Do we have a George Amberson and Sadie Dunhill in the house? George and Sadie? Come on up here, George and Sadie, outta your seats and onto your feets.”

We walked toward the bandstand through a storm of applause. Sadie was laughing and blushing. She shook her fist at Mike. He grinned. The boy was leaving his face; the man was coming in. A little shyly, but coming. The singer counted off, and the brass section swung into that downbeat I still hear in my dreams.

Bah-dah-dah . . . bah-dah-da-dee-dum . . .

I held my hands out to her. She shook her head, but began to swing her hips a little just the same.

“Go get him, Miz Sadie!” Bobbi Jill shouted. “Do the thing!”

The crowd joined in.
“Go! Go! Go!”

She gave in and took my hands. We danced.

At midnight, the band played “Auld Lang Syne”—different arrangement from last year, same sweet song—and the balloons came drifting down. All around us, couples were kissing and embracing. We did the same.

“Happy New Year, G—” She pulled back from me, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

I’d had a sudden image of the Texas School Book Depository, an ugly brick square with windows like eyes. This was the year it would become an American icon.

It won’t. I’ll never let you get that far, Lee. You’ll never be in that sixth-floor window. That’s my promise.

“George?”

“Goose walked over my grave, I guess,” I said. “Happy New Year.”

I went to kiss her, but she held me back for a moment. “It’s almost here, isn’t it? What you came to do.”

“Yes,” I said. “But it’s not tonight. For tonight it’s just us. So kiss me, honey. And dance with me.”

I had two lives in late 1962 and early 1963. The good one was in Jodie, and at the Candlewood in Kileen. The other was in Dallas.

Lee and Marina got back together. Their first stop in Dallas was a dump just around the corner from West Neely. De Mohrenschildt helped them move in. George Bouhe wasn’t in evidence. Neither were any of the other Russian émigrés. Lee had driven them away.
They hated him,
Al had written in his notes, and below that:
He wanted them to.

The crumbling redbrick at 604 Elsbeth Street had been divided into four or five apartments bursting with poor folks who worked hard, drank hard, and produced hordes of snot-nosed yelling kids. The place actually made the Oswalds’ Fort Worth domicile look good.