Lyle, Lyle, I knew I’d find you! I knew I would, even if I had to go to the end of the earth.”
“Maria!” Lyle’s heart opened as he stood by the fountain, the way he usually paused, on his way into his apartment or on his way to his travels about the city from morning to night, when the world of daylight changed.
Lyle scooped her up in his arms, spun her around. Her dark hair swirled about her face as she laughed joyously. He kissed her over and over at every turn. She kissed him back, or tried to, her kisses landing all over his face and head because he was spinning her around so gleefully. He put her down, eased her away so he could look at her, and stared in wonder, and felt terrific that he had been entirely true to her, in his heart, where it mattered.
“I begged Clarita to tell me where you are, although at first she swore she wouldn’t, but I pleaded—”
“Maria, I wrote you, you have my address.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she seemed disappointed that it had been so easy to find him. Undissuaded, she extended her difficulties in reaching him. “You must never tell your mother, ever, that Clarita gave me your address because she’ll crucify her, I just know it; and, oh, Lyle, Lyle, Lyle, I ran away from my father. I don’t care that he’ll be furious—is that strange for a father to feel that way?—of course, he must have already discovered it—and, well, Lyle, here I am—isn’t it strange?—and I want to make love to you right away, this moment, because my heart has been breaking from being away from you.”
“Right away!” Lyle said, and put his arms around her, the finger of one hand already tugging at his belt. Walking backwards so that he could continue to see her, gaze at her in awe of her beauty and to assure himself that she was here, with him, he led her back to his apartment, pushing away a disturbing thought that gnawed at his mind.
In his apartment—“What a wonderful place you have, my beloved, although it’s somewhat small, that means we’ll have to be even closer!”—Maria pulled off her blouse, revealing her breasts, even fuller now, even more beautiful than he remembered. “I want you to make love to my body the way you did that first time, remember? And I want to make love to your body, the way I did that first time, remember?”
He remembered all right. And remembered—oh, no, not that! Not now! Maybe later he’d allow the thought that was nibbling at his mind.
They made love on the bed, both gloriously naked. He mounted her. (Whoa, cowboy, Rose refused to shut up and Lyle didn’t mind, you ram in like that and she won’t feel everything she should. Give her a chance to be on top, so you can see her breasts flaring out, and her legs—) He lay back and she got on top of him, hopping up and down, her fingers weaving through her hair. He eased her just slightly back (so both of you can see it all, that adds to what you’re feeling). Then they were head to toe, and he licked her glorious flesh, and she licked his—(isn’t this terrific?—wonder who discovered it)—their mouths and tongues exploring, darting—and then they returned, over and over, to kiss again. (Kissing can be the most intimate—and don’t shove your tongue in, let it slip in, and then coax hers.) Lips pressed against each other’s, Lyle straddled her, entered her. When she gasped and he knew she was coming—(nothing is better than doing it at the same time, cowboy, hold it, hold it, ah, ah, ah, now, cowboy, you too, ahhhh!)—he exploded in her. They both fell back—all three fell back? Lyle wondered—laughing with joy.
When she quickly fell asleep, the thought Lyle had managed to keep away, ambushed him: What if she is my sister! Of course, she wasn’t. No way was it possible, no way.
He managed to fall asleep, a fretful sleep.
He woke with a start. Twilight glistened in the room.
Maria opened her eyes and sat up. She was so beautiful he wanted to love her again, and reached for her.
“No,” she said. “Once is all I needed.”
“Needed?”
She sat up, adjusting her clothes, while he lay back in bed and looked at her, frowning, knowing that something very awful was about to be said.
“To remember you forever, Lyle, to remember the perfect lovemaking—to remember and cherish every bit of it—is that strange?—until I die, because I shall love you, forever, even after death.” She spoke the words with profound passion and conviction. “Remember that!”
“Remember?” he repeated. He must grasp this slowly, word for word, was already grasping, without knowing exactly what, something he heard in her voice as if for the first time—no, he was hearing only now what had always been there, from the time she had blurted out in Rio Escondido that she loved him.
He tried to laugh, tried to make it all be this: “You’re not going to tell me that we can’t be together because we might still be brother and sister?”
“Oh, that,” she shrugged. “Even if it’s true, it can’t be a sin if we’re not really sure. God would understand.”
Perfect logic.
“What I mean is that—” She paused, touching her eyes, where more tears had appeared. She allowed one to fall slowly, allowed another, another, traced the course of yet another, before she dabbed at them all. “See?” She held out her moistened fingers to Lyle. “Aren’t tears strange?” She adjusted the straps of her brassiere, straightened the edge of her panties. She arranged her hair so that it fell on her shoulders. She faced him, mournfully.
Preparing for what’s coming next, Lyle thought. What?
“If it should turn out that we are brother and sister, I won’t regret anything,” she said. “It would all seem, you know, even more tragic and strange. Didn’t it create more passion between us because God forbids it? Just now, when we were making love, I”—she giggled—“told myself that we are brother and sister and that our love was so great we would surmount even that, and it made everything even more exciting.” She added tears to her cheeks, then to her fingers. She touched Lyle’s cheeks with them. She frowned, disappointed not to find his own tears there. “Oh, Lyle,” she sighed, “have you been unfaithful to me?” She pouted.
He touched his heart. “No, never, not here.”
“Oh, but I bet you’ve slept with hundreds of women, haven’t you?”
“No,” he answered her truthfully.
She giggled, then became serious. “I forgive you, though.” She ran her fingers through her hair, allowing full waves. “Because throughout it all, you grew to love me even more, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it thrilling to forgive?”
“I guess—” Still, Lyle’s heart did not breathe. What was she preparing to tell him?
“I’ve proven my love for you, Lyle, in infinite ways, and now by having traveled miles to see you, risking my father’s wrath.” She looked around, as if detecting grave danger. “He might be here at any moment—he threatened to follow me. Don’t you think it’s unnatural for a father to pursue his daughter that way? Isn’t it wonderfully strange to love like this?”
“Maria!” He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, not hard. “What the hell are you babbling about?”
She twisted her head as if he had hurt her. She rubbed her shoulders as if he had bruised her. “Lyle, Lyle,” she cried, “don’t hurt me.”
“What?” Of course he wasn’t going to hurt her, he hadn’t hurt her.
“I have to marry him,” she said.
“Who?” He accepted it immediately, there was no doubt, this is what she had come to tell him, amid the most spectacular drama which she could conjure.
“He’s been in business with my father. He’s rich, has a political position, but—oh, Lyle, Lyle—he’s not handsome and he’s always so damn happy, oh, and he’s rich, very rich—and he may be running for senator, imagine. I’ll be a senator’s wife! But, oh, Lyle, when he calls me ‘babe,’ I want to kill him.”
“You’re going to marry someone else, and you came to make love to me?” Anger was threatening to push away the pain he was feeling. He had counted on marrying her, being only with her then, only her.
“It makes sense once I explain it.” She was fully dressed now, sitting down. He stood clumsily, naked, before her, trying to assess it all. “Oh, Lyle, put some clothes on or I won’t be able to tell you. You’re very distracting, you know, you’re the sexiest man, I guess, in the world.” She sounded genuinely wistful, “I wish he was just this bit as sexy as you.” She measured with two fingers, almost touching. Her voice was serious. “I wish he was sexy, period.”
Lyle wanted to tell her that she made no sense, that he did not accept what she was telling him. But it was much too outrageous not to be true, and he did grasp it. Finally, he understood her.
“That’s why I have to remember what it was like, with you. I’ll carry that memory with me, always, and every time he touches me, I’ll close my eyes and try to pretend it’s you, try to hear your passionate voice telling me what you’re doing … Oh, Lyle, I’ve changed my mind, let’s do it one more time, and then I’ll remember even better!”
He put on his clothes. He looked away from her.
“Lyle, you’re not mad, are you?” she asked. “You can’t be—because I’m so honest. Don’t you think I’m honest, terribly honest?”
He remained with his back to her.
She sighed, an enormous sigh, another one. She produced a loud sob, another. She said, “I’ll always love you. Only you!” she gasped. “But I have to marry that despicable man—”
“Because he’s rich and you’ll be a senator’s wife?”
“Oh, oh, my beloved, how can you be so cruel to me? How! No, no, not that reason but—”
“Maria!” This time he did shake her. “Tell me the truth!”
She brushed his hands away from her shoulders, rearranged her hair. “Well, it helps that he’s rich, since he’s not handsome, like you. Everybody’s got to have something, you know,” she said, composed. “Lyle, please look at me.”
He didn’t. “Good-bye, Maria.”
Her sobs resurged.
He did not turn until he heard her footsteps, echoing away with her sobs, the echo of her footsteps becoming louder in his mind.
The Hollywood Reporter
What’s the Buzz?
The Mystery Cowboy has still not been located, unseen since he saved Ms. Universal from a savage peacock at the Huey Mansion while assorted guests watched in amazement. Speculation continues. A man purporting to be his cousin called this desk to say that the Mystery Cowboy is actually the famous pilot who disappeared into the Atlantic Ocean during—
Pushing away memories of Maria—the old Maria making it difficult for him to forget the new Maria—Lyle stood at the newsstand on the corner of Franklin and Beachwood and read about his total disappearance:
The Los Angeles Times
Here and There
Another sighting of the Mystery Cowboy was reported by teenage surfers at Zuma Beach. “He strutted across the sand saying nothing,” one said, “and then he walked right into the ocean.” “On it,” said another.
Now Times Weekly
About LA
A maid who worked for one of the founding families in Los Angeles and who was fired recently reported that the august family is hiding the Mystery Cowboy for reasons known only to them. She reports having heard strange bootsteps pacing about the Hancock Park house late at night.
Who Says What from the Left?
Indications increase that the Mystery Cowboy is waiting to reveal himself at the proper time of fullest attention in order to clear the name of his grandfather, one of the Hollywood Ten.
Variety
Show Biz Down & Close
Producer Andy Kowansky is reported to be bartering with agents to film the Mystery Cowboy’s life—“when—if—he’s found.” Tom Selleck and Tom Hanks have expressed interest in playing his father, and Jennifer Lopez is being mentioned for a role not yet designated. Actors vying for the part of the Mystery Cowboy include newcomer—
Hollywood Insider
See All, Tell All
The mystery surrounding the identity of the so-called Mystery Cowboy has been compounded by the fact that regulars along Hollywood Boulevard report that an imposter is roaming the streets, claiming to be the Mystery Cowboy himself. “The fake’s easy to spot, though,” said one knowledgeable denizen, “because he doesn’t attempt to hide.”
“Hey, dude, I bet you’re that Mysterious Cowboy!” a young man with a baseball cap backwards, lowered almost to his nose, sidled right up to Lyle and said.
“Mystery Cowboy,” Lyle corrected.
“He’s the fake,” said a reedy girl to the young man with the backwards baseball cap.
“You the fake?” the young man asked Lyle indignantly.
“Yeah,” Lyle said, walking away.
The two followed. The girl said to Lyle, “Know how I know you’re the fake?—cause the real Mystery Cowboy would say he’s the real one so they’d think he’s the fake.”
“Cool,” said the young man to her.
Now exactly who am I supposed to be? Lyle wondered.
“Where the hell is she? I had a detective follow her, he followed her here. Where the hell is—? Oh, my God, it’s Mr. Cowboy!”
Everyone was converging in his apartment, and here was—
“Mr. Fielding!” Lyle recognized the man who had given him a ride to Las Vegas, and then to Los Angeles.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Cowboy. I knew I would—” Mr. Fielding held his hand out to Lyle.
Lyle took it.
Mr. Fielding’s other hand smacked him. “—but not with the woman I’m gonna marry,” he finished.
Lyle accepted the blow, even pretended it hurt by rubbing his cheek. More difficult to accept—but here he was in person again—was that his gambling partner was the man Maria intended to marry.
Mr. Fielding, apparently accepting it all as easily as he accepted everything else, just shook his head. “That goddamned woman!”
“Don’t you say anything bad about Maria.”
Mr. Fielding laughed. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“I love her,” Lyle said, but he wasn’t sure, not at all. He just felt he had to defend her.
“I thought I did, too. … Hell, I guess I’ll go ahead and marry her,” Mr. Fielding said. “I’m a gambler, so why not?—and, Mr. Cowboy, remember I told you I knew you’d bring me luck?”
“I remember, Mr. Fielding.”
“I was right, cause you gave me that beautiful little woman. Didn’t you? You do promise not to see her again, even if she returns, right?”
“Yes. Right,” Lyle promised, knowing his heart would never be hers, ever again.
Mr. Fielding brought out his wallet. “Here, Mr. Cowboy, I always reward those who bring me luck. … Now I’m off to meet her; she came ahead of me, and now I know why.”
He left several impressive bills for Lyle. As he walked out whistling, Lyle said:
“Good luck, Mr. Fielding.” He thought: I’m not so sure I brought you luck.
“Motherfucking trash!”
“Shit motherfucker!”
In front of the Chinese Theater, two gnarled-faced young men with shaved heads pummeled a crouching figure, whose arms, decorated with one glittering bracelet, flailed vainly to thwart the blows. Tourists milled, watched, some looked away and walked on hurriedly.
Lyle’s body moved to where the beating was occurring. The figure on the sidewalk looked up, a young woman in a lacy blue dress, ripped in the altercation. Lyle saw that only in a flash because his fists were already striking out at the attackers, swiftly. One jumped on him, hopping up because he was short. The other aimed at Lyle’s groin. Lyle dodged, thrusting the man off his back; his fist punched so hard his fingers throbbed. The crowd began to root for him. Two other young men emerged to help him. The two attackers sprawled on the concrete among movie star prints.
“Why the hell did you wanna hit on that lady?” Lyle asked the two attackers, softly although his fists were on their way toward them again.
“He ain’t no fuckin’ lady, he’s a fuckin’ queer, man!” one of the two shouted at Lyle.
“A fuckin’ faggot, motherfucker!” the second one shouted.
As they struggled to get up, they were shoved away along the street by the two who had joined Lyle.
Standing up, the man in drag wiped blood off his face. Lyle offered his handkerchief and helped him brush dirt from his dress.
“I’ll walk you to your car, ma’am,” Lyle said, with a tilt of his hat.
Holding his hand to his swollen cheek, the man in drag looked around in triumph. “There are still some brave men in the world,” he called back to the crowd. “Still some decency to be found.” He bent down, trying to disguise the rips in his dress.
“That’s a pretty blue dress,” Lyle consoled.
“Thank you, it’s della Robbia blue, my favorite,” the man said softly. He linked the arm Lyle extended. They made their way along the Boulevard.
“I’ll be fine now, thank you,” the man in drag said when they had reached a residential side street and were approaching his parked car.
They unlinked arms.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like a prince?”
“No, ma’am, no one, ever.”
“Well, you do,” the man said. “But whoever you are”—he kissed his own fingertips and extended the kiss gently to Lyle’s lips—“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.” He walked to his car with dignity, paused, turned. “My name is Blanche.”
He was returning to the Boulevard when a car screeched next to him. Two of the earlier attackers joined now by two more rushed out of the car. “We’re back, motherfucker!”
They wrestled him to the ground. A heavy man held him while the other three struck him with their fists, kicked him, laughing.
“Take his boots! Take his boots!”
One of them yanked at his boots, tossing one into the street, pulling at the other.
“Hey, man, look!” one of them had found the bills Lyle had stashed in one boot.
Police sirens screamed nearby!
The attackers jumped into their car, racing away.
Lyle lay on the sidewalk. He tried to stretch his legs, he could, but they hurt. He raised his arms, they ached. He touched his eyes—one was pulsing, maybe bleeding. He felt throbbing pain all over. He stood up. Okay, just a little wobbly, he told himself as his legs threatened to buckle. He stood, until he had steadied himself.
Barefoot, he began to walk to his apartment. Wait. The other boot, across the street. He couldn’t bear to leave it there. He hobbled across and retrieved it.
Stumbling along and holding on to his remaining boot, he thought, Damn, the world sure can be mean.
Three days after the violence—days during which he mostly slept and Mrs. Allworthy tended to him, soon bringing him food and eventually, as he recovered, filling him in on the latest gossip about the stars as if she had learned it by herself—Lyle was ready to go out again—still slightly sore, sure, maybe hurting in some places if he moved too fast—wearing another pair of boots. This time, he stuffed some of the travelers checks he’d kept in the apartment into his jeans’ front pocket.
He was back on Hollywood Boulevard. “Fell off your horse?” a fat tourist asked him, nudging his wife, who giggled.
Damn—and he’d thought all the bruising was gone.
He heard a deep, soulful voice humming, breaking into words: “—crucified—lynched—cause he was black!”
There she was, on Hollywood Boulevard—Sister Matilda of the Golden Voice, standing there with her Bible in her hand and a crowd—
Lyle’s joy dropped. There was no crowd, nobody had gathered to listen to her, everyone just walked on by, glancing and clucking at the woman in a flowing dress, wearing a crown.
“Another crazy,” sniffed a snotty woman walking by.
“No, she isn’t, ma’am.” Lyle followed the woman to tell her that.
“You get away from me or I’ll scream that you’re molesting me, I’ll sue you! Say aren’t you—? Oh, my God, it is the Mystery Cowboy, and he’s a stalker!” The woman ran away.
Lyle returned his attention to Sister Matilda. She looked different, everything the same but frayed, except her crown, which sparkled golden. No, it didn’t. He’d just wished it had sparkled. It was tarnished, yellowing with age.
He stood before her. She squinted, rubbed her eyes, shook her head. She continued her preaching: “Jesus was black, y’all hear me?—and he was lynched because of that.” She hummed, sang:
Were you there when they nailed him to a tree? …
Lyle joined her, aloud but very softly:
Were you there when they laid him down to rest? …
“Is it you, Lyle?” She squinted, hard.
“Yes!”
She moved toward him with difficulty, grasping her Bible.
“Sister Matilda!” He embraced her, tight.
She allowed the embrace, returned it. “There now, cowboy, don’t you go upsetting my crown,” she tried to disguise her delight.
Some people lingered to see the handsome cowboy and the black woman with the crown.
“Why are you staring at my crown?” she asked Lyle.
“Because it’s so beautiful,” he said.
“Hmmm. I thought maybe you were thinking it’s odd on the street. But you remember this, cowboy, Negro ladies never go out formal without wearing a hat.”
“I know,” Lyle said, and linked his arm through hers, noticing that she walked unfirmly now and that her hair was speckled with gray.
Lyle took Sister Matilda to Musso & Frank’s Grill on Hollywood Boulevard. The grand old restaurant attracted every ilk of people, those who, back on the Boulevard, were asked for autographs, and others who were just a part of the awesome old area. He had eaten there himself, and the waiters now greeted him like a friend, even gave him a booth when the place wasn’t too crowded, although he preferred the counter, where there would always be somebody interesting eating right next to him, once an ex-countess.
The attendant, a dapper gentleman, gave them a booth, to accommodate Sister Matilda’s girth.
Used to seeing exceptional people, those in the restaurant merely glanced at the extraordinary couple, the cowboy and the elegantly frayed black woman.
Quietly, she and Lyle studied the extensive menu, prepared by a “chef from Paris, France,” Juan Galán, his favorite waiter, informed Sister Matilda.
“Hmmm,” Sister Matilda clucked. “They’ve got chicken pie. Huh! My mamma baked the only chicken pie worth eating, but I’ll give it a try.”
“I’ll have the chicken pie, too,” Lyle told the waiter. He wanted to feel close to Sister Matilda. Of course, her girth made that possible; he didn’t have to move much to be close. Why was she so silent? Why was she looking at him so defiantly? Did she want to be asked what he hesitated to ask? “What happened, Sister Matilda?”
She said sternly, “Because I’m on the street preaching the word of God instead of singing and trembling before television cameras and fakes?”
That wasn’t what he had meant; he had meant to ask why she had left without saying anything to him. But he didn’t have a chance to clarify.
“Doin’ penance for being a part of that corruption,” she said. It was as if everything she spoke turned into a possible song, the deep sad, joyful sounds, the inflection on certain words so that they came out as a rhythm: “Doin’ PEN-ance for being a part of the cor-rup-SHUN.”
“But you broke away, and you warned me, and I didn’t listen,” Lyle defended her from herself. He didn’t add, You ran away without telling me, and I expected you to show up all along, and I stayed because you said “Stay put.” … No, that wasn’t the only reason I stayed, he knew. There was the money that Brother Bud and Sister Sis had offered him.
“When I saw they wanted to corrupt you—and figured, yes, the Lord knows I did—that they just might, you being so green and stuff—that’s when the Lord gave me a jolt, and I felt real harsh about my own contribution to them. All those years—yea, Lord, you saw it all—Amen to all the Lord sees!” she ordered.
“Amen,” Lyle smiled.
“Amen,” echoed a small man alone in the booth next to them, as he cut into his grilled pork chops.
“—all those years I stayed playing queen, being praised, getting paid,” Sister Matilda had continued. “I even left, for a short spell, and then came back.” She shook her head in dismay. “I sold them my golden voice. I did, and the Lord knew it.”
“You were never corrupted, you extended, really extended.” Lyle thought of how much her voice meant to Sylvia. “People heard you and you stirred their hearts, Sister Matilda. You were never corrupted.”
“Never, never corrupted!” the small man in the booth said to himself.
“Don’t you tell me what I was and wasn’t!” Sister Matilda aimed her words at the man. Then she resumed with Lyle: “I knew years ago that those two were deceiving poor folks. Things like fake tumors, envelopes full of pennies they put there themselves to draw hundreds of dollars.”
“I saw all that, too,” Lyle said. He wanted to share in her guilt, to contribute his, lessen hers. “I thought you’d get in touch with me, to support what you said about them.” He couldn’t withhold that any more and quickly wished he had.
She sighed deeply. “Some of it went wrong. I signaled you with that note—and the jelly beans,” she chuckled. “I was going to get in touch with you right after they were arrested, but you had to go and volunteer that you were guilty of something or other and they took you to jail. Went there to get you out, but you were already out, thank God, and you’d left. I helped the Lord’s judgment on them, couldn’t wait for their penalty that was sure to come afterwards. I sat in that court chair and told how they robbed and stole and cheated the poor.”
“Still goes on,” the small next to them opined, “and that sure doesn’t deserve an Amen.”
This time Sister Matilda just waved her hand toward him, either dismissing him or extending him her blessing. “I had to do penance for my part in it all those years,” she said.
Penance. The word had a harsh sound, like a curse, Lyle thought.
The chicken pie arrived, an ample portion. Sister Matilda eyed it with suspicion. “It’s large enough.” She buried the fork into the crust. “Let’s see how many chicken chunks it has.” She speared a portion on her fork. “Now we’ll tell—”
Lyle waited for her verdict. She just ate, took another piece. To him, as he ate, it tasted great. “What were you doing with that peacock?”
What? Everyone had seen that picture! Lyle felt too happy to be embarrassed, and she apparently was willing to withdraw her question.
“Hmmm.” She tasted more pot pie, holding it in her mouth, testing it. “Yes, penance!” she resumed. “That’s why I’m out there on that corner—travel around to different places. As long as I can get around, I’ll say what I should have said then but didn’t on the television, about cruelty and meanness—”
“And about Jesus being black,” Lyle offered to her.
“Jesus wasn’t black,” the small man said. “He was Jewish.”
“He was black and Jewish,” Lyle told the man, quietly so Sister Matilda wouldn’t feel contradicted.
The man nodded.
“Somebody’s got to say the truth about the Lord.” She pondered another forkful of chicken pie. “Sometimes, cowboy,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes, “a life begins before it begins. The past has a lot of power. It’s there before you’re even born—and then without knowing it you’re doing penance for what happened to someone else. Like a curse passed on that you didn’t bring on.”
The odd, tangled words resounded in Lyle’s mind. Was she talking about him now? About Sylvia? But how? What kind of curse? … Doing penance for what happened to someone else, like a curse passed on? Was she just saying words? “Were you talking about me, Sister Matilda?” he ventured.
“Cowboy, I was talking about myself! Doing penance now for not bearing witness to what I saw done to my daddy, lynched, nailed to a tree.” Her mind drifted away to the horror of that time. She opened her mouth, a silent scream. She bowed her head. ‘Amazing grace’?—is that what you asked me?”
A long time ago, yes, and she had answered, but not too clearly, something about “hope” and “understanding another’s pain,” and about em-pa-thy—no, no, that was Clarita. It was as if, now, some memories spoke to her and she answered them aloud. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”
But Sister Matilda’s mind had moved into the present. “This chicken pie is good, eat up, eat up, cowboy, it is really good!”
When they were finished and Lyle had paid—and the small man paused at their booth and nodded, or bowed, before Sister Matilda, who smiled graciously—Lyle tried to give her money, but she refused it, placing the bills gently back into his hand, enclosing his fingers over them, holding her hand over his for long moments. She arranged her girth, preparing to leave. She stood, adjusting her crown. She looked up, up, her eyes fixed up, way up. She turned her gaze back on him and smiled.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You asked about grace? Can’t understand grace, Lyle, you feel it.”
She moved out of the restaurant, like an exiled but undefeated queen.