Free Driving the King by Ravi Howard Page B

but I knew she would eventually. I had steeled myself, or at least thought I had.
    â€œYour mama and I talked about what you’d do when you left here. I had told her New York or someplace. I knew that if I ever asked after you I’d hear good news.”
    I didn’t see Miss Vee before I left for California, and maybe I’d been hiding from folks. No matter how I carried myself, it took a while to get loose of that Kilby feeling. People didn’t ask me how I was doing and where I had been, they just hugged my neck or shook my hand too hard. I felt the pity in everybody’s touch.
    â€œI’m glad you left here, Nathaniel. Glad you came back, too.”
    She was my mother’s friend, one of her best over so many years. She knew that I had to mourn my mother in prison, a place that hardly respected living, let alone death and grieving.
    â€œWhen she died I was out there, Miss Vee. I can’t get past it,” I told her, and my voice didn’t fail me. Tears stayed too low to spill over.
    â€œNobody expects you to, son. You’re not out there now.”
    She left again then, and I was back in my quiet. It wasn’t sound, but the place was plenty enough filled. Miss Vee and her people still sprinkled their mixture in the vacuum bag, a spoonful of nutmeg or chicory. Cinnamon. Satsuma and clementine peels when they were in season. All of that plus the baking soda they sprinkled on the carpets before they cleaned them. All of our steps across those floors stirred up something sweet. When I rubbed my feet on the carpet, I breathed it into my lungs. Holding in that good dust and trying to let go of all the rest.
    I stepped out my door, and Skip stood down the hall on the pay phone, shuffling through the nickels in his palm. Oncehe finished his call, he dropped the handful of change back into his pocket and waved me over.
    â€œEverything’s set for when we get back to Chicago. New York on Thursday, then London Friday morning. Carlos had Nat booked through New Year’s, but they sold every seat. Might add a few more shows. ‘Twelve Nights of Nat Cole’ or some such.”
    â€œHe’ll like some good news.”
    â€œHe could sing about Christmas in July, and they’d still pay good money. I wonder if he ever gets tired of that song. But a hit record is a hit record.”
    â€œThat’s his money.”
    â€œOurs, too.”
    â€œMiss Vee left a plaque in my room. They’re naming the suite for him. It’s not sellout show news, but it’ll be good for him to know.”
    â€œIt’s nice, I suspect, get your name on something. You see how they started busting up the sidewalk down on Hollywood Boulevard? Walk of fame, my ass. Got it looking like a cemetery with a bunch of headstones. Name on a room is different. People pay big money for a suite, so they might as well see somebody’s name on it.”
    The windows faced High Street, and the Christmas displays had people stopped and looking. Gray’s Electronics and Records had a display in the window, a fake fireplace with a flashing jukebox where the flames wouldhave been. On the record covers in the window, singers wore red and green, and album titles were spelled out in letters the color of the tinsel and ribbon wrapped around the streetlights up and down the block.
    â€œHow’s it feel, old man. Back in Montgomery?”
    â€œIt looks small. This hotel. The houses. The sidewalks look too narrow. Leaving changes everything.”
    â€œDidn’t know what to think of this place when I came looking for you. When Nat sent me out here, that was the first time he’d ever told me about that show. I’d heard all kind of stories, but never from him. He told me he wanted to do right by you.”
    â€œHe already did. I made more money in a year out there than I would have in five here. Hell, maybe ten.”
    â€œThat’s well and good, Weary. But still. His pride. With