THE COUNTRY IS MOST barbarously large and final. It is too much country — boondock country — alternately drab and dazzling, spectral and remote. It is so wrongfully muddled and various that it is difficult to conceive of it as all of a piece. Though it begins simply enough, as a part of the other.
It begins, very like the other, in an ancient backwash of old dead seas and lambent estuaries, around which rise cypress and cedar and pine thickets hung with spiked vines and the cheerless festoons of Spanish moss. Farther on, the earth firms: stagnant pools are stirred by the rumble of living river, and the mild ferment of bottomland dissolves as the country begins to reveal itself in the vast hallucination of salt dome and cotton row, tree farm and rice field and irrigated pasture and the flawed dream of the cities. And away and beyond, even farther, the land continues to rise, as on a counterbalance with the water tables, and then the first faint range of the West comes into view: a great serpentine escarpment, changing colors with the hours, with the seasons, hummocky and soft-shaped at one end, rude and wind-blasted at the other, blue and green, green and gray and dune-colored, a staggered faultline extending hundreds of miles north and south.
This range is not so high as it is sudden and aberrant, a disorder in the even westerly roll of the land. One could not call it mountain, but it is a considerable hill, or set of hills, and here again the country is transformed. The land rises steeply beyond the first escarpment and everything is changed: texture, configuration, blistered façade, all of it warped and ruptured and bruise-colored. The few rivers run deep, like old wounds, boiling round the fractures and revealing folds of slate and shell and glittering blue limestone, spilling back and across and out of the hills toward the lower country.
The city lies against and below two short spiny ribs of hill. One of the little rivers runs round and about, and from the hills it is possible to view the city overall and draw therefrom an impression of sweet curving streets and graceful sweeping lawns and the unequivocally happy sound of children always at play. Closer on, the feeling is only partly confirmed, though it should seem enough to have even a part. It is a pleasant city, clean and quiet, with wide rambling walks and elaborate public gardens and elegant old homes faintly ruined in the shadow of arching poplars. Occasionally through the trees, and always from a point of higher ground, one can see the college tower and the Capitol building. On brilliant mornings the white sandstone of the tower and the Capitol’s granite dome are joined for an instant, all pink and cream, catching the first light.
On a midsummer morning not very long ago the sun advanced on the city and lit the topmost spines of hill, painting the olive drab slopes in crazy new colors, like the drawing of a spangled veil. Then the light came closer, touching the tall buildings and the fresh-washed streets. The nearly full-blown heat came with it, quick and palpitant. It was close to being desert heat: sudden, emphatic, dissolving chill and outdistancing rain …
It was neither first light nor early heat that caused the two politicians to come struggling up from sleep at that hour, but an old truck carrying migratory cotton pickers.
The younger of the two politicians was named Roy Sherwood, and he lay twisted sideways in the front seat of an automobile that was parked out front of an all-night supermarket. Arthur Fenstemaker, the other one, the older one, floundered in his bedcovers a few blocks distant in the Governor’s mansion.
The old truck banged along the streets, past dazzling store fronts and the Juicy Pig Stand and the marble façades of small banks in which deposits were insured to ten thousand dollars. The dozen children in the back of the truck had been first to come awake. They pulled aside the canvas flaps and peered out at the city, talking excitedly, whooping and hee-hawing as the old truck rolled north, straining, toward the Capitol grounds and the Governor’s mansion, where Arthur Fenstemaker slept, and the supermarket where Roy Sherwood’s car was parked.
The truck came to a sudden stop and began, with a terrible moaning of gears and transmission, to back into a parking space next to Roy Sherwood’s car.
Roy heard the commotion and blinked his sore eyes in the early light. He struggled to untangle his long legs from between the steering wheel and seat cushion, and he was able, finally, to sit up and examine the truck. He unrolled a window and leaned his head out, taking deep breaths, blinking his eyes. The children in the truck watched him gravely for a moment and then began to giggle. Their laughter subsided abruptly when Roy called out to them: “Buena dia …”
There was silence and then a small voice answered back: “… dia …”
Roy smiled and opened the car door. He stood on the cool pavement for a moment, weaving slightly, trying to hold his balance. He was dizzy with fatigue and an hour’s poor sleep and possibly a hangover. “One hell of an awful dia,” he muttered under his breath. The children were laughing again, and fairly soon he began to feel better. The driver of the truck climbed down and came round to Roy’s side to stare at him. The fellow had a murderous look — a bandit’s look. He was wearing a wrinkled double-breasted suit coat over what appeared to be a polo shirt and uncommonly dirty and outsized denim slacks. He stared at Roy with his bandit’s eyes until Roy lifted his hand in a vague salute. Then the Mexican smiled, showing hilarious buck teeth, lifted his arm in the same indecisive gesture and almost immediately turned and walked toward the supermarket, flapping his feet in gray tennis shoes.
The children attempted to engage Roy in conversation. Roy came closer to the back of the truck, trying to understand some of it, cocking his head and listening carefully and interrupting now and then: “Que? … Cómo? … Despacio, for chrissake, despacio …” The children giggled hysterically; two or three adults in the front cab stared at him, looking uneasy, and finally Roy gave it up and waved goodbye and wandered into the supermarket.
The inside of the store was aglow with yellow light. Everything was gorgeous and brightly packaged. Only the people — the cashier and the Mexican gathering breakfast staples and Roy himself — seemed out of phase with the predominating illusion. Roy looked all around, examining the market with as much wonder and concentration as might have been demonstrated in viewing Indian cave mosaics or a thousand years old cathedral. He stared all around and then he uncapped a bottle of milk and tore open a bag of cinnamon buns. He wandered over the market eating and drinking, pausing occasionally to stare enraptured at a prime cut of beef or a phonograph album or a frozen pizza or a stack of small redwood picnic tables. There seemed no limit to what the market might conceivably have in stock. Roy decided the pussy willow cuttings were his favorite; they were a little fantastic: out of season, out of habitat … He wondered if the pussy willow had been shipped fresh-frozen from the East, like oysters or cheese blintzes. He moved on; he had something else in mind.
He located this other without difficulty — a tall pasteboard box containing twenty-four ice cream cones, maple flavored. The box of cones was part of it; the plastic scoop stapled to the outside of the box solved the next most immediate problem. He carried the cones and the scoop to the cashier and then went back to pick up two half-gallon cartons of ice cream.
Outside again, at the back end of the truck, the children and two or three of the older Mexicans crowded round to watch. Roy left off serving after a while, letting one of the older girls take his place. There were a few accented whoops of Ize-Cream … Aze Creeem, but the children were unusually quiet for the most part, sweetly, deliriously happy waiting in line to be served. Presently, he returned to his car and sat in the driver’s seat to watch. One hell of a crazy dia, he reminded himself. Not to mention the dia before and the night or the goddam noche in between.
He turned now and looked in the back seat. It was all there … All of it … All his art objects purchased during his twelve hours travel on the day before: the button-on shoes, the iron stewpot, the corset model, the portrait of President Coolidge, the Orange Crush dispenser with its rusted spigot, part of an old upright piano. Everything except … But he remembered now. The television set, one of the earliest models, big as a draft animal, with a seven-inch picture tube … He’d left it in knee-high johnson grass fifty miles outside town. He grunted to himself, thinking of the television set: it was a terrible loss; he’d been blinded by the wine on the day before and thoughtlessly left the television behind. He grunted again and re-examined his treasure in the back seat.
The Mexican children were finished with their ice cream, and he could hear their singsong voices rising in volume. The elder, the old bandit in gray tennis shoes, came out of the supermarket carrying his grocery sack. He moved past Roy, nodding, showing his wonderful teeth.
“You need a stewpot?” Roy said suddenly.
The Mexican was jerked back as if suspended by a coil spring. His face twitched, but he managed to smile and mumble an incomprehensible something in Spanish.
“Stew pot,” Roy repeated. “Fine piece of workmanship … You need one? For free … por nada … Tiene usted una stew pot-to?”
The old Mexican gasped in alarm, altogether mystified. Roy climbed out of the car and opened the back door, pointing to the soot-covered vessel. It was very much like the ones in which neighborhood washerwomen had boiled clothes during his childhood. He loved the stewpot. But now he knew he must make the gesture. It was part of being a public figure. He addressed the Mexican: “Here … You want it? Desire you the stew pot?”
Roy struggled with the pot; it was big as a washtub. The old man accepted it on faith, smiling as if vastly pleased. He bowed politely and turned toward the truck, carrying the stewpot with great dignity. The children in back greeted him with strident questions. Roy sat in the front seat of the car and watched, wondering if he ought to make a speech. They’d never understand a word, but he could make pleasant sounds. It was no matter. His Mexicans back home never understood anything, either. You just paid their poll taxes and showed them where to mark ballots when election time came round. He’d made a speech the night before. One of his best. Parked alongside a narrow river, he and the girl had lain on a picnic blanket and finished the last of the wine and the chicken. Then he had climbed a huge magnolia tree and plucked a great white bloom from the top, before descending to one of the lower limbs to make the presentation speech. He’d never been in better form. Though there had been some difficulty about addressing the girl. Using her name seemed to take all the fire out of the occasion. “Ladies …” he had said in the beginning, but it wasn’t quite right. Nor “Fellow ladies …” He’d made a number of attempts: “Dear Lady” and “Most High and Mighty Ouida, Bride of My Youth, My Rock, My Fortress, My Deliverance, Horn of My Salvation and My High Tower …” But that had been too excessive for what, basically, was meant to be a ceremony of some dignity and restraint. He’d finally called her “My Dear Miss Lady Love …”
He thought he might step outside the car and possibly stand on the Orange Crush dispenser, addressing the Mexican children briefly, but after a moment the truck started up with a great thrashing sound and began backing out of the driveway. Roy sat for a moment, rubbing his eyes, and then he got his own car started and proceeded slowly down the main street of the city behind the truck carrying the cotton pickers. After a block or so, he grew impatient with the business of waving at the children, and nodding, and blinking his lights, and waving again; and finally he raced the car’s engine and passed them by. A noisy, high-pitched cry came from the children; their flapping arms caught his vision briefly through the side windows. He grinned oafishly, studying his face in the mirror. “I have a way with crowds,” he said aloud to himself. “I have gifts of rare personal magnetism …” He listened to the dying cheers from in back, and he thought he detected a clanging in the midst of it, a series of bell tones, deep and dull and flattish, metal on metal. My old iron stewpot, he thought …
Arthur Fenstemaker heard the cheers and the children’s laughter and the groan of the truck’s motor blended with the blows struck on the stewpot. He lay in his bed on the second floor of the Governor’s mansion and listened thoughtfully. He was reminded for a moment of an old International he’d driven in the oil fields years before. The Mexicans were blocks away now, and he opened his eyes, still wondering over the sound from the street below. He reached for cigarettes and matches. After a moment he lay back in the bed, gasping for breath. He left the cigarette burning in a tray and pulled himself closer to Sweet Mama Fenstemaker. His right arm was pressed under his own huge weight, but he did not want to turn away just yet. Sweet Mama smelled goddam good; she nearly always perfumed herself at bedtime.
The Governor lay like that for several minutes, listening for sounds in the house or from the street, pressing his big nose against his wife’s skin, until the kitchen help began to arrive downstairs. Then he rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and smoked another cigarette; he swallowed pills and massaged his scalp and began to stalk about the second floor of the mansion. He looked in on his brother: Hoot Gibson Fenstemaker lay sleeping quietly, knotted in bedclothes. The Governor turned back to his dressing room and stared at himself in a full-length mirror, sucking in his stomach, shifting from side to side. He slipped on gartered hose and shoes and a robe, and again stood listening, leaning over a stairwell and cocking his head. Soon he could hear the limousine being eased into position on the concrete drive. Fenstemaker strode down to the end of the hall and opened a casement window. A highway patrolman circled the car, examining tires, polishing chrome. The Governor put his head through the window and yelled: “Hidy!”
The patrolman looked up, squinting against the sun, trying to smile.
“Hah’r yew, Mist’ Fenstemaker,” he said.
“Nice mornin’,” the Governor said, looking around.
“Hassah!” the patrolman said.
The patrolman stood on the concrete apron, gazing up at the Governor. He kicked a tire with the heel of his shoe; he patted a fender of the car. He stared at the Governor, and finally added, “… Sure nice one …”
Fenstemaker turned his head, looking over the city from the second-story window. The mansion was constructed along Georgian lines and was situated on a small rise that placed it nearly level with the Capitol dome and some of the office buildings downtown. Mist blurred the hilltops to the west, and occasionally, a mile or more away, lake water flashed in the sun. The smell of flowers, blooming in profusion in the backyard garden, was fused with the harsh bouquet of compost heaps and kitchen coffee. Fenstemaker pinched his big nose and took deep breaths. The patrolman continued to gawk at him.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere right off,” Fenstemaker said.
He pulled his head back inside and rang for his coffee. He sat at a desk in his study and shuffled through papers. The butler arrived with a small coffeepot, dry toast, juice, and a half-dozen newspapers.
“You had your breakfast?” Fenstemaker said. “You had your coffee?”
“Yessir,” the butler said.
Fenstemaker sipped his coffee and shuffled papers.
“I hope it was better than this,” he said. “Siddown and have some more.”
The butler poured himself a cup and stood blowing on it, waiting.
“Siddown for Christ sake,” Fenstemaker said.
“Yes sir.”
“Goddam.”
“Sir?”
“I’m just goddammin’.”
“Yes sir.”
“Let’s get a new brand of coffee,” Fenstemaker said. He made a face.
“I’ll tell the cook.”
“Nothin’ tastes like it used to,” Fenstemaker said. “Not even vegetables.”
“Sweet potatoes especially,” the butler said.
“Not even goddam sweet potatoes,” Fenstemaker said.
The two of them sipped coffee. The Governor turned through the newspapers, talking but not looking up. “You think it’s gettin’ better?”
“What’s that?”
“Bein’ a colored man. You think it’s any better?”
The butler looked at him desperately. “I got a good job,” he said.
The Governor did not seem to pay attention. He went on talking and turning pages. “Maybe little better, I guess … Discussions goin’ on. … Least that’s not like it used to be. Hell! I remember old Pitchfork Ben Tillman — the things he said …” Fenstemaker broke off momentarily, peering at the newsprint, then went on: “Of course bein’ better still don’t make it very good. I was thinkin’ yesterday, signin’ my mail, how I’d feel if I wrote a public official about, you know, my rights? I was lookin’ over what I’d been sayin’. ‘Well now this sure is a problem, involvin’ grave emotional questions, and we can’t tolerate havin’ second-class citizens in this free country and I’m sure gonna do what I can … Try to make reasonable progress toward a solution … Sure keep your views in mind …’ Why God damn! Some cornpone Buddha say that to me, I’d set a bomb off under him.”
The butler grinned. “I think most colored people vote for you,” he said. “Even when you don’t say things exact …” He began gathering cups and saucers.
“I’m a damned good politician,” Fenstemaker said. “I know how good I am and I ain’t doin’ much, so what about the others not so good? Goddam and hell!”
“You want another pot?” the butler said.
“Yes,” the Governor said. “Switch to that ersatz stuff — I think it’s probably better than this … And some fruit. They got any watermelon down there?”
“I’ll see,” the butler said. “They don’t, we get you some.”
The Governor’s brother, Hoot Gibson Fenstemaker, appeared at the door. He rubbed his eyes and smiled, looking deranged. “You get me some coffee, Jimmy?” he said. The butler nodded, carrying the tray. Hoot Gibson stepped inside.
“Mornin’ Arthur.”
“You enjoy that party last night?” the Governor said.
“Sure did. I like parties here.”
“I think you danced with every lady.”
“I think I did,” Hoot Gibson said. “I liked that orchestra, too. It was like Wayne King.”
“I remember at college you had some Wayne King records,” the Governor said, looking up from the papers. “And Henry Busse. What in hell ever happened to Henry Busse?”
“He dead?” Hoot Gibson said. He thought a moment. “Hot Lips! I booked old Henry Busse once for the gymnasium. A dance. Made two hundred dollars promoting old Henry Busse …” Hoot Gibson’s eyes went cloudy, thinking about Henry Busse. He sipped from his brother’s coffee cup.
Fenstemaker looked up patiently. “Don’t make that noise,” he said. Hoot Gibson gripped the cup with both hands and stared at the coffee. The Governor read the papers. Hoot Gibson picked up one of the sheets and glanced over the headlines. “I think I got a hangover,” he said.
The Governor cleared his throat but did not comment.
“I might go back to bed awhile,” Hoot Gibson said.
“Take some aspirin and sleep another hour,” the Governor said.
Hoot Gibson stood and stretched and scratched himself. He loosened the drawstring on his pajamas and retied it. “I think I’ll do that,” he said. “… You got anything for me today?”
The Governor looked up and said: “You remember that fellow talkin’ to me and Jay last night? Up here — out on the screen porch?”
“That new lobbyist?”
“That’s the one.”
“I know him. He’s workin’ the Capitol nearly every day now.”
“Well suppose you keep an eye on him,” the Governor said. “Follow him around. Or get someone to do it for you. Find out where he goes, who he’s seein’. Do that today and tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Don’t for God’s sake let him know he’s bein’ watched. Give me a report — and don’t come around tellin’ me about it. Write it up.”
Hoot Gibson looked vastly pleased. He vanished down the hall, humming to himself.
The Governor signed some papers. He looked at the clock — it was nearly seven; nearly nine in the East. He reached for the phone and got the long distance operator, making notes of persons he could call in the Eastern time zone. He talked with an economist in New York. They discussed investments; Fenstemaker asked questions about the stock market; he complained that none of the big investors seemed interested in municipal bonds. “I got some mayors in trouble,” he said. “They need help. You got any ideas?” He listened to the economist’s ideas. They complained to each other about the goddam Republican high interest rates.
Fenstemaker rang off and placed more calls; he talked with his two Senators, a union official in Philadelphia, a college professor in Boston. The professor was a nephew whom he’d put through college a half-dozen years before. “Listen,” the Governor said, “those are wonderful speeches you been sendin’ down — especially if I was runnin’ in Oyster Bay or Newport. But I’m not, happily. Try to remember I’m way the hell down here in coonass country … You forget your beginnin’s? You need a little trip home? Might do you good … I need some ideas … You got good ideas … But I want ’em in speeches that sound like Arthur Fenstemaker and not some New goddam England squire …”
He completed the calls and turned back to the papers on his desk. An assistant had left him a note attached to a hand-written letter: “This may interest you, though I advise against reading it when you’re trying to shake off a low mood. It is very sad.”
He read the letter attached:
Sirs:
We the people of the 9th grade Civics class at Hopkinsville feel that you the people of the Government should try to conquer the world here before you try to conquer outer space. We feel that there may be some kind of gas on the moon that is under the surface and if a rocket hit it, it may open the surface of the moon and these gases may escape and get into our own environment and kill us. So we feel that you should leave well-enough alone. We feel that if the Good Lord had wanted us to conquer outer space he would have put here on earth instruments instead of people. We would like to know what you think about this issue.
Sincerely,
THE 9TH GRADE CLASS
Fenstemaker rubbed the back of his neck and pulled on his nose and sat staring at the names of the 9th Grade Class at Hopkinsville. He put the letter down and reached for the phone.
“Jay …”
Jay McGown’s voice came to him feebly; then it got stronger. There was music being played on the radio in Jay’s room. The music ended and an announcer talked about a cure for piles.
“Sir?” Jay was saying. “… Sir?”
“What in hell’s goin’ on there?”
“Sir?”
“You think we got a chance on that school bill?”
“School bill? Sure we got a chance,” Jay said.
“I got your note and that letter,” the Governor said.
“Ah.”
“Let’s take a run with that bill this week,” Fenstemaker said.
“You think this week’s really the best time?” Jay said. “Old Hoffman’s still in the hospital. We’d need him. He wrote the damn thing. At least his name’s on it.”
“Who’s that? Who wrote it, then?”
“A lobbyist for the schoolteachers. A lawyer from the education agency.”
“Who else?”
“Me.”
“Well let’s take a run with it,” Fenstemaker said.
“Who’ll we get to floor-manage?”
“Who’s on the committee?” the Governor said.
“You know that committee better than I do,” Jay said.
“Name some,” Fenstemaker said. “I forget.”
“Who you want me to name?”
“Name some.”
Jay named some of the members.
“They don’t sound so good to me,” the Governor said.
“They aren’t,” Jay said. “We’d probably end up with half a bill. Old Hoffman’s not much, but he won’t lose us any votes. He knows how to manage a bill.”
“How ’bout Roy Sherwood?” Fenstemaker said.
“Roy’s a good friend of mine,” Jay said.
“So?”
“But he’s not exactly one of our boys.”
“Maybe he just never got invited in,” the Governor said.
“He’s pretty damned independent,” Jay said. “And lazy. That’s a bad combination.”
Chimes from the college signaled the half hour. The highway patrolman polished the limousine on the side drive. The butler came into the room with an enormous slice of watermelon. Fenstemaker broke off a piece with his hand and began to eat. There was a silence on the phone while the Governor ate watermelon. Then he said: “He help write that bill? He do anything at all?”
There was another silence before Jay began to answer: “That’s right. He helped a lot. Fact is, he was the only one on that lousy committee who gave a damn. With Hoffman gone.”
“Well old Hoff got it reported out for us before he went to the hospital,” Fenstemaker said.
“How’d you know about Roy?”
“It just sort of came to me in the night,” the Governor said.
“Well I thought you might disapprove. My getting him to help us. He’s a friend of mine, like I said, and we needed some help from someone on the committee. Desperately.”
“All right,” the Governor said. “That’s just fine. I’m delighted. You think he could carry it?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. He’s never worked a bill in three terms here. I’m not even sure he’d accept the job.”
“Well I’ll just ask him and see.”
“You think he could hold the votes we’ve got? He might scare some off.”
“See about that, too,” the Governor said. He paused, and then added: “He ain’t worn himself out on Earle Fielding’s wife, has he?”
There was a pause before Jay answered: “That piece of information just come to you in the night, too?”
“Everything does,” the Governor said, his voice warm with pleasure. “Borne on the wind. Like a cherub. It do fly … Listen … We’ll just see how old Roy reacts. Okay? Take a little run. Pull out all the stops and try to get this thing through. Maybe tomorrow. We can’t afford to wait much longer. They’ll be building up opposition soon’s it appears Hoffman’s well. We put off any time, we lose votes and we lose hard cash in that bill … You want some cash for Hopkinsville, don’t you? We’ll just have to get that goddam thing through in a hurry. Can’t afford to have any great debates …”
Jay was silent on the other end of the line while Fenstemaker talked. Then the Governor rang off without formality. He dialed another number on the phone and waited during the six or seven rings. He pressed the disconnect and dialed again. After another interval, Roy Sherwood answered.
“What’re you doin’?” Fenstemaker boomed.
“Sleeping,” Roy Sherwood said. “Real good, too.”
“Hell of a note,” Fenstemaker said. “World’s cavin’ in all round us; rocket ships blastin’ off to the moon; poisonous gas in our environment … Sinful goddam nation … laden with iniquity, offspring of evildoers. My princes are rebels and companions of thieves …”
“What?”
“… A horror and a hissing …”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Isaiah,” Fenstemaker said. “The Prophet Isaiah.”
“I’m going to hang up in just about three seconds,” Roy said, “but first I’d really like to know who the hell this is?”
“Arthur Goddam Fenstemaker. Hah yew?”
“I think it really is,” Roy said after a moment. “Governor? That you?”
“Come over the Mansion and see,” Fenstemaker said. “You like watermelon? I got some damn good watermelon. You come over here and we’ll break watermelon together.”
Roy’s response was plaintive but respectful: “It’s awful early in the morning for breakfast.”
“Nearly eight.”
“I know,” Roy said. “That gives me nearly three hours sleep.”
“Well, you’re a young man. I needed five.”
Roy was silent.
“You come over and talk to me about this bill?” Fenstemaker said.
“What bill’s that?”
“That school thing you did for Jay. Damn good job.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. But what do you want to talk about?”
“About when you’re gonna get off your ass and pass it for me.”
“Pass it. Hell, I’m just the ghost writer. Passin’ it is your —”
“I mean take charge in that madhouse.”
“Hah?”
“I mean floor-manage for me.”
“You sure you got the right man, Governor? I never in my life —”
“I got you, all right,” the Governor said. “Roy Emerson Sherwood. Non-practicin’ lawyer. Family’s got cattle, little cotton. Never struck no oil, though. Elected sixty-third Legislature. Re-elected without opposition to sixty-fourth, sixty-fifth. Never did goddam thing here till you wrote that bill the other day …”
“You got the right man, I guess,” Roy said.
“You help me with that bill on the floor?”
“When you plan to bring it up?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! Godalmighty —”
“Day after, maybe. Come on over here.”
“Governor, I couldn’t learn the number that bill, condition I’m in right now. Let me sleep a little. Just a little. Let me think about it.”
“Sinful goddam nation … Laden with iniquity … My princes are —”
“All right,” Roy said wearily.
“How you like your goddam eggs?” the Governor said.