At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (22 page)

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 too.”

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.”

“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

T
HE 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.