“If I was footloose and fancy-free instead of tied down to a wife, three rugrats, and a mortgage, I might try a book myself,” Danny said. “I was in the war, you know.”
I knew. Everyone knew, usually within ten minutes of meeting him.
“Got enough to live on?”
“I’ll be okay.”
I had more than enough to take me through to next April, when I expected to conclude my business with Lee Oswald. I wouldn’t need to make any more expeditions to Faith Financial on Greenville Avenue. Going there even once had been incredibly stupid. If I wanted, I could try to tell myself that what had happened to my place in Florida had just been the result of a prank gone bad, but I’d also tried to tell myself that Sadie and I were doing fine, and look how that had turned out.
I tossed the wad of paperwork from my pigeonhole into the trash. .. and saw a small sealed envelope I had somehow missed. I knew who used envelopes like that. There was no salutation on the sheet of notepaper inside, and no signature except for the faint (perhaps even illusory) scent of her perfume. The message was brief. Thank you for showing me how good things can be. Please don’t say goodbye.
I held it for a minute, thinking, then stuck it in my back pocket and walked rapidly down to the library. I don’t know what I planned to do or what I meant to tell her, but none of it mattered because the library was dark and the chairs were up on the tables. I tried the knob anyway, but the door was locked.
The only two cars left at the faculty end of the parking lot were Danny Laverty’s Plymouth sedan and my Ford, the ragtop now looking rather raggedy. I could sympathize; I felt a bit raggedy myself.
“Mr. A! Wait up, Mr. A!”
It was Mike and Bobbi Jill, hurrying across the hot parking lot toward me. Mike was carrying a small wrapped present, which he held out to me. “Bobbi n me got you something.”
“Bobbi and I. And you shouldn’t have, Mike.”
“We had to, man.”
I was moved to see that Bobbi Jill was crying, and pleased to see that the thick coating of Max Factor had disappeared from her face. Now that she knew the disfiguring scar’s days were numbered, she had stopped trying to conceal it. She kissed me on the cheek.
“Thank you so, so, so much, Mr. Amberson. I’ll never forget you.” She looked at Mike. “ We’ll never forget you.”
And they probably wouldn’t. That was a good thing. It didn’t make up for the locked and dark library, but yes-it was a very good thing.
“Open it,” Mike said. “We hope you like it. It’s for your book.”
I opened the package. Inside was a wooden box about eight inches long and two inches wide. Inside the box, cradled in silk, was a Waterman fountain pen with the initials GA engraved on the clip.
“Oh, Mike,” I said. “This is too much.”
“It wouldn’t be enough if it was solid gold,” he said. “You changed my life.” He looked at Bobbi. “Both our lives.”
“Mike,” I said, “it was my pleasure.”
He hugged me, and in 1962, that is not a cheap gesture between men. I was glad to hug him back.
“You stay in touch,” Bobbi Jill said. “Dallas ain’t far.” She paused. “Isn’t.”
“I will,” I said, but I wouldn’t, and they probably wouldn’t, either. They were going off into their lives, and if they were lucky, their lives would shine.
They started away, then Bobbi turned back. “It’s a shame you two broke up. It makes me feel real bad.”
“It makes me feel bad, too,” I said, “but it’s probably for the best.”
I headed home to pack up my typewriter and my other belongings, which I reckoned were still few enough to fit into no more than a suitcase and a few cardboard boxes. At the one stoplight on Main Street, I opened the little box and looked at the pen. It was a beautiful thing, and I was very touched that they had given it to me. I was even more touched that they had waited to say goodbye. The light turned green. I snapped the lid of the box closed and drove on. There was a lump in my throat, but my eyes were dry.
Living on Mercedes Street was not an uplifting experience.
Days weren’t so bad. They resounded with the shouts of children recently released from school, all dressed in too-big hand-me-downs; housewives kvetching at mailboxes or backyard clotheslines; teenagers driving rusty beaters with glasspack mufflers and radios blaring K-Life. The hours between 2:00 and 6:00 A.M. weren’t so bad, either. Then a kind of stunned silence fell over the street as colicky babies finally slept in their cribs (or dresser drawers) and their daddies snored toward another day of hourly wages in the shops, factories, or outlying farms.
