SUDDENLY IT WAS SUNDAY, and I was back in a world I recognized. I didn’t admit to myself why I felt so lighthearted. I splashed my face with lilac water and clipped a fresh collar to my shirt, but it wasn’t until I was standing at the bright yellow door of Elizabeth Begley’s white mansion that I admitted what had made me so happy yet apprehensive: the prospect of seeing her again.
The door swung open even before I could knock. At a house so grand, I naturally expected to be greeted by a servant, but instead I found the door opened by its owner, Elizabeth’s husband, a short, bald man with an amiable smile. “You must be the famous Benjamin Corbett of Washington, attorney at law,” he said.
“I am,” I said. “And you must be the much more famous Richard Nottingham, senator and man of influence.”
He smiled. “You’ve got that just about right,” he said, grabbing my hand. That hand had not been shaken so vigorously since Roosevelt operated it at the White House. Maybe it was a habit of politicians to inflict pain on new acquaintances, as an aid to memory.
“Lizzie talks so much about you I feel like we already know each other.”
Lizzie. The familiarity of the nickname made me wince inwardly.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” I said. “She speaks fondly of you.”
“Oh, now, he’s making that up,” said Elizabeth, coming up behind her husband. “Don’t lie, Ben. Richard knows I haven’t spoken fondly of him in years!” She threw her husband a big stage wink. “At least, not in public.”
Nottingham laughed. “Isn’t she a delight?”
I agreed that she was, in a most unspecific murmur. Then I followed them into a small drawing room off the rear of the center hall.
“Ben, Richard and I are so happy you came. There may be a few people here you don’t know—”
This looked a lot like the gathering at L. J. Stringer’s mansion: the same aging stuffed shirts, the same overstuffed dresses, a faint smell of mothballs.
Elizabeth led me to a stout couple on the fringed velvet loveseat. “This is Senator Oscar Winkler and his dear wife, Livia.”
I noticed that state senators dropped the “state,” turning themselves into real senators. Senator Winkler clasped my hand. “Nice to see you again, Ben.”
I was surprised he remembered me. Many years ago, as political editor for the Eudora High School Bugler, I had interviewed Senator Winkler for a column entitled “Eudora Looks Forward.” He had been warm to me and wise in his comments. One thing he said I had never forgotten. He said it, then asked me not to print it: “The southern man who figures out a way to bridge this terrible divide between the black and the white will enjoy all the blessings our Lord can bestow.”
I shook the senator’s hand and kissed his wife’s. As I was straightening up I heard Elizabeth say, “And I do believe you already know this fellow.”
I turned. To my astonishment, I found myself smiling and extending my hand to one Judge Everett Corbett.
He shook it quite formally and made a little bow. “Ben, always a pleasure,” he said. “I hope your business down here is going well.”
Richard Nottingham clapped his hands. “Lizzie, I heard just a bit too much preaching this morning, and presently I’m about to starve to death.” Everything the man said had that odd quality of being humorously intended but not actually funny. “Could we please have our dinner?”