Free arkansastraveler by Earlene Fowler Page A

Many of the people here were strangers to me, and I was feeling a little disoriented. I climbed the stairs and used one of the bathrooms, taking my time to primp and enjoy the relative quiet. When I was through, still not ready to face the roaring crowds, I headed down a long familiar corridor to the narrow stairway leading to the attic.
    The slant-roofed room was quiet and cool, the voices below transformed into a soft murmur that filtered through the open door. Nostalgia, sweet as honeysuckle, surrounded me as I picked my way around the trunks, satiny wingback chairs, and a dusty brocade love seat. I opened a trunk and picked up the scratchy lace wedding dress laying on top. The pungent scent of mothballs took me back to the longwarm summer afternoons Emory and I had spent up here, trying on clothes and discussing the mysteries of life in the profoundly comic way only ten- and eleven-year-olds can.
    “When do you think you’ll get married?” I’d asked him one time. It was the summer before his mother died. I was trying on this same wedding dress, ancient even then, pulling it on over my shorts and tank top. The strong musty smell coming off the layers of netting caused me to sneeze violently. Sun filtered through the lacy open curtains covering the round attic window.
    “I dunno,” he said, slipping on a double-breasted forties-style jacket and brandishing a wood-handled buck knife I was sure his daddy didn’t know was up here. “Maybe never. Girls stink up a place.”
    “We do not!” I said, putting my hands on my hips.
    He dropped his arm, letting the knife dangle at his side. I couldn’t see his hand in the long jacket sleeve, only the blade of the knife. It was spooky. A ray of light from the attic window caught the steel blade, causing it to glitter. With his free hand he pushed his perpetually sliding eyeglasses up his freckled nose. “I don’t mean you. You don’t wear that smelly stuff. I mean girls like Gwenette.”
    “Yeah, she does stink,” I agreed. “She’s always spraying something on herself. But there’s probably lots of girls besides me who don’t stink. You could always marry one of them. And Dove and your mama and Aunt Garnet stink, but in a good way.”
    He considered that for a moment, then said, “You’re probably right. Maybe when I’m fifty, then. Like after I go to college and stuff. After I go to New York and become a famous writer.”
    I nodded. “Fifty seems about right. That’s probably when I’ll get married, too. I’m going to marry a lion tamer and travel with the circus.”
    He put on a stained sailor cap, his thin, pale face thoughtful. “I can see that. Will you get me free tickets?”
    “Sure, front row. For you and all your famous writer friends.” I twirled around in the full-skirted dress until I collapsed on the floor in a dizzy heap.
    “Hey, sweetcakes, what’re you doing hidin’ up here?” Emory’s adult voice brought me back to the present.
    He stood in the doorway of the attic, his hands deep in his pants pockets, his straight, silky blond hair flopping across his forehead in that rakish way that had always driven women crazy with desire.
    “Just remembering old times,” I said, letting the dress fall out of my hands back into the trunk. “How’s the fundraiser going?”
    “Great, great.” He walked into the room and stood next to me, staring down at the open trunk. “Amen’s given her speech already, and I think even convinced a few people that votin’ for her wouldn’t be a bad idea. It’s an uphill battle, but she’s more than capable of climbing it.”
    “Duck told me about the threats. They scare me.”
    “Yeah, me, too. But she’s got lots of people watching out for her. Quinton’s staying with her and her son through the election. He’s got some of his college buddies travelin’ with her when he can’t. We try not to let her be alone, though she fights us like a wild cat on it.”
    “Amen in politics,” I said, shaking