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“You come on back around six. That’s usually the time Deke comes in.” He put his arms on the
counter and leaned over them. “Want a tip?”
“Sure.”
“He’ll probably have his lady-friend with him. Miss Corcoran, the librarian up to the school. He’s
kinda been sparkin her since last Christmas or so. I’ve heard that Mimi Corcoran’s the one who really
runs Denholm Consolidated, because she runs him. If you impress her, I reckon you’re in like Flynn.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
15
Weeks of apartment-hunting in Dallas had netted me exactly one possible, which turned out to be
owned by a man I didn’t want to rent from. It took me three hours in Jodie to find a place that looked
fine. Not an apartment, but a tidy little five-room shotgun house. It was for sale, the real estate agent
told me, but the couple who owned it would be willing to rent to the right party. There was an elmshaded
backyard, a garage for the Sunliner . . . and central air-conditioning. The rent was reasonable,
given the amenities.
Freddy Quinlan was the agent’s name. He was curious about me—I think the Maine license plate
on my car struck him as exotic—but not unduly so. Best of all, I felt I was out from under the shadow
that had lain over me in Dallas, Derry, and Sunset Point, where my last long-term rental now lay in
ashes.
“Well?” Quinlan asked. “What do you think?”
“I want it, but I can’t give you a yes or no this afternoon. I have to see a fellow first. I don’t suppose
you’ll be open tomorrow, will you?”
“Yessir, I will. Saturdays I’m open until noon. Then I go home and watch the Game of the Week on
TV. Looks like it could be a heck of a Series this year.”
“Yes,” I said. “It certainly does.”
Quinlan extended his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Amberson. I bet you’d like Jodie. We’re
good people around here. Hope it works out for you.”
I shook with him. “So do I.”
Like the man said, a little hope never hurt anybody.
16
That evening I returned to Al’s Diner and introduced myself to the principal of Denholm
Consolidated and his librarian lady-friend. They invited me to join them.
Deke Simmons was tall, bald, and sixtyish. Mimi Corcoran was bespectacled and tanned. The blue
eyes behind her bifocals were sharp, looking me up and down for clues. She walked with the aid of a
cane, handling it with the careless (almost contemptuous) dexterity of long use. Both of them, I was
amused to see, were carrying Denholm pennants and wearing gold buttons that read WE’VE GOT JIM
POWER! It was Friday night in Texas.
Simmons asked me how I was liking Jodie (a lot), how long I’d been in Dallas (since August), and
if I enjoyed high school football (yes indeed). The closest he got to anything substantive was asking
me if I felt confident in my ability to make kids “mind.” Because, he said, a lot of substitutes had a
problem with that.