Read Online Pretty Girl Gone by David Housewright - Free Book Online
Authors: David Housewright
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“Allow me to introduce Governor Barrett. Governor, this is Rushmore McKenzie.”
“I’ve heard that name,” Barrett said. “You’re an old friend of Lindsey’s.”
“I am.”
“There’s a story she told me about your name.” He turned toward Nina as if for confirmation. “He was conceived at a motel in the shadow of the Rushmore Monument when his parents took a vacation through the Badlands.”
She said, “But it could have been worse.”
“It could have been Deadwood,” they both said in unison.
“I definitely need new material,” I told them.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Rushmore.”
“Thank you.”
“Just call him McKenzie,” Nina said. “He doesn’t like Rushmore.”
“Who can blame him?”
Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time at my expense.
“It
is
good to meet you,” Barrett said. “Lindsey said you were one of her most trusted friends from the neighborhood.” He took my hand and gazed directly into my eyes, and in that instant I felt as though John Allen Barrett had attended this ridiculous, self-indulgent ball for the sole purpose of meeting me. I couldn’t explain it. Or why I felt a pang of jealousy when he released my hand and directed his attention to Nina.
“What you played reminded me of the blues you’d hear in Chicago,” Barrett said, as if he was continuing a conversation already in progress.
“Some of it was,” Nina said. “Otis Spann and Meade Lux Lewis were from Chicago. Lewis used to play boogie-woogie piano at rent parties when he was a kid and Spann probably did, too. The first bluesman I played, though—Jay McShann—he came out of Kansas City in the thirties. Charlie Parker used to be one of his sidemen.”
“I didn’t know that.” Barrett spoke in a way that made me believe that freely admitting ignorance didn’t faze him a bit. It was a small thing, yet filled with courage, and suddenly Barrett seemed less wealthy, less intimidating, less like the improbable icon I had been researching all afternoon.
“I presume you play professionally,” Barrett told Nina.
“Goodness no,” said Nina.
“Yes,” said I.
“I used to play a bit when I was a kid,” Nina added. “Not so much anymore.”
“What do you do now?” asked Barrett.
“I have my own club.”
“Really? Where?”
“Rickie’s on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul.”
“I’ve been there,” Barrett insisted. “It has two levels, a kind of lounge on the first floor and a restaurant on the second.”
“That’s right,” said Nina. “You should come again. We’ll take good care of you.”
“I have an idea. I have a radio program for an hour on WCCO Friday mornings. I’m going to give you a call—not this week, but the next. We’ll talk about your club on the air.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Barrett smiled at Nina like a doting father praising his child. I watched him smile. His unexpected interest in Nina reminded me of something—a sentence, a phrase, a fragment of words that I had heard or read when I was younger. Except it stayed tantalizingly out of reach and I gave up the struggle for it, and then there it was, a line of Wordsworth from a long-ago English Lit class:
That best portion of a good man’s life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love . . .
“Jack,” said Lindsey.
She had appeared behind Nina and crossed in front of her to reach Barrett. She wore the regal and slightly forced smile of a homecoming queen and if she felt any anxiety over seeing her husband conversing with Nina and me, there was no sign of it that I could detect.
Barrett’s eyelids pricked up like an animal’s ears when he heard his wife’s voice, and he reached for her the way a child might reach for a butterfly. He took her hand, nodded toward me, and announced, “Look who I found.”
“McKenzie,” Lindsey said and kissed my cheek. “But I saw him first. We danced together earlier.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Barrett said.
“I’ve heard that name,” Barrett said. “You’re an old friend of Lindsey’s.”
“I am.”
“There’s a story she told me about your name.” He turned toward Nina as if for confirmation. “He was conceived at a motel in the shadow of the Rushmore Monument when his parents took a vacation through the Badlands.”
She said, “But it could have been worse.”
“It could have been Deadwood,” they both said in unison.
“I definitely need new material,” I told them.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Rushmore.”
“Thank you.”
“Just call him McKenzie,” Nina said. “He doesn’t like Rushmore.”
“Who can blame him?”
Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time at my expense.
“It
is
good to meet you,” Barrett said. “Lindsey said you were one of her most trusted friends from the neighborhood.” He took my hand and gazed directly into my eyes, and in that instant I felt as though John Allen Barrett had attended this ridiculous, self-indulgent ball for the sole purpose of meeting me. I couldn’t explain it. Or why I felt a pang of jealousy when he released my hand and directed his attention to Nina.
“What you played reminded me of the blues you’d hear in Chicago,” Barrett said, as if he was continuing a conversation already in progress.
“Some of it was,” Nina said. “Otis Spann and Meade Lux Lewis were from Chicago. Lewis used to play boogie-woogie piano at rent parties when he was a kid and Spann probably did, too. The first bluesman I played, though—Jay McShann—he came out of Kansas City in the thirties. Charlie Parker used to be one of his sidemen.”
“I didn’t know that.” Barrett spoke in a way that made me believe that freely admitting ignorance didn’t faze him a bit. It was a small thing, yet filled with courage, and suddenly Barrett seemed less wealthy, less intimidating, less like the improbable icon I had been researching all afternoon.
“I presume you play professionally,” Barrett told Nina.
“Goodness no,” said Nina.
“Yes,” said I.
“I used to play a bit when I was a kid,” Nina added. “Not so much anymore.”
“What do you do now?” asked Barrett.
“I have my own club.”
“Really? Where?”
“Rickie’s on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul.”
“I’ve been there,” Barrett insisted. “It has two levels, a kind of lounge on the first floor and a restaurant on the second.”
“That’s right,” said Nina. “You should come again. We’ll take good care of you.”
“I have an idea. I have a radio program for an hour on WCCO Friday mornings. I’m going to give you a call—not this week, but the next. We’ll talk about your club on the air.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Barrett smiled at Nina like a doting father praising his child. I watched him smile. His unexpected interest in Nina reminded me of something—a sentence, a phrase, a fragment of words that I had heard or read when I was younger. Except it stayed tantalizingly out of reach and I gave up the struggle for it, and then there it was, a line of Wordsworth from a long-ago English Lit class:
That best portion of a good man’s life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love . . .
“Jack,” said Lindsey.
She had appeared behind Nina and crossed in front of her to reach Barrett. She wore the regal and slightly forced smile of a homecoming queen and if she felt any anxiety over seeing her husband conversing with Nina and me, there was no sign of it that I could detect.
Barrett’s eyelids pricked up like an animal’s ears when he heard his wife’s voice, and he reached for her the way a child might reach for a butterfly. He took her hand, nodded toward me, and announced, “Look who I found.”
“McKenzie,” Lindsey said and kissed my cheek. “But I saw him first. We danced together earlier.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Barrett said.
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