but I knew she would eventually. I had steeled myself, or at least thought I had.
âYour mama and I talked about what youâd do when you left here. I had told her New York or someplace. I knew that if I ever asked after you Iâd hear good news.â
I didnât see Miss Vee before I left for California, and maybe Iâd been hiding from folks. No matter how I carried myself, it took a while to get loose of that Kilby feeling. People didnât 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 everybodyâs touch.
âIâm glad you left here, Nathaniel. Glad you came back, too.â
She was my motherâs 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.
âWhen she died I was out there, Miss Vee. I canât get past it,â I told her, and my voice didnât fail me. Tears stayed too low to spill over.
âNobody expects you to, son. Youâre not out there now.â
She left again then, and I was back in my quiet. It wasnât 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.
âEverythingâs set for when we get back to Chicago. New York on Thursday, then London Friday morning. Carlos had Nat booked through New Yearâs, but they sold every seat. Might add a few more shows. âTwelve Nights of Nat Coleâ or some such.â
âHeâll like some good news.â
âHe could sing about Christmas in July, and theyâd still pay good money. I wonder if he ever gets tired of that song. But a hit record is a hit record.â
âThatâs his money.â
âOurs, too.â
âMiss Vee left a plaque in my room. Theyâre naming the suite for him. Itâs not sellout show news, but itâll be good for him to know.â
âItâs 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 somebodyâs name on it.â
The windows faced High Street, and the Christmas displays had people stopped and looking. Grayâs 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.
âHowâs it feel, old man. Back in Montgomery?â
âIt looks small. This hotel. The houses. The sidewalks look too narrow. Leaving changes everything.â
âDidnât know what to think of this place when I came looking for you. When Nat sent me out here, that was the first time heâd ever told me about that show. Iâd heard all kind of stories, but never from him. He told me he wanted to do right by you.â
âHe already did. I made more money in a year out there than I would have in five here. Hell, maybe ten.â
âThatâs well and good, Weary. But still. His pride. With
The Cowboy's Surprise Bride