LV.

Bright Marin and The Major found tables at the Nickajack Hotel where Chef Burman was serving up steer butt with steamed asparagus and roasted potatoes. It was the Magic Hour of a cool October.  The sweet smoke of a pit wafted down into the bottoms of Strangetown, which returned the exchange with the sound of guitar picking by the band called the Hine Streeters, or what was left of them anyway. They were playing a giddy-up from the gazebo overlooking the creek. The concierge had the windows opened, and the music ambled in to the leisure of the guests, many of whom were visitors passing through from the North. Many of them knew The Major, and he'd greet them with great gusto and present Bright Marin as his business partner, which in fact she was. This drew surprise which Bright reveled in. It piqued the air of the sanctum of men. She enjoyed the brusque manner and relaxed etiquette of Northerners, who all seemed so pragmatic and restless she thought.  Above all, she was positively grateful that so many of them were Republicans. Those goddam Democrats are were so demented! 

They were seated, and The Major ordered a bottle of Chablis Laroche 1859, the stock of which he procured himself for the hotel. It was poured and examined and accepted.  He glided through these rituals with such a big smile, and with physically elaborate grace. It always amused Bright more than it ever impressed her. The Major was in such in an expansive mood, she felt guilty she was about overturn it. Unsure of where to begin, she got right to the middle of it.  

I'd like to speak at the rally for Jimmy Sugar next Saturday, Bonwit.  I need you to get me in.  

The Major nearly coughed up his Chablis.  Bright recognized the slight look of palpitating that Bonwit Vrooman exhibited when confronted with crises.  His eyes grew glazed and still, and slid slowly into the dead space past your face.  His breathe grew a pace faster, but more measured.  

Bright, you can't do that.  You can't even vote.  What will the coloreds think of a rich white woman coming to speak to them about... about what?  What would you say anyway?  

You'll hear my voice when the time comes, Bonwit, she said huffily.  

That may be so, but if you want to be heard, you might as well dovetail behind Mary Fletcher Wells and the Temperance Society.  They're grabbing up quite the basket of ears among the Bible beaters.  

She snorted and drank her wine. Then she crossed her legs and kicked them impatiently.  When The Major's palpitations had passed, she leaned in.  

Bonwit, she said again, I want to speak at Jimmy Sugar's rally. You are going to let me.  

Goddamit woman, he barked with exasperation such that it drew the askance attentions of the next table. This election means everything. More importantly, it means everything to my superiors in Washington. 

Are you saying I could lose Jimmy Sugar the election by what I might have to say?  

No, but you sure as hell won't help win it.  

She was indignant.  She was hurt.  It sparked the forgiven resentments that come with a ripened love.  She felt like throwing her drink in his face. She felt like slapping him. She felt like kicking him out of his chair.  But she said again:

Bonwit. I'm going to speak at Jimmy Sugar's rally.  You're not going to stop me.  I've got Barry Hogan approval.  

The Major looked red in the face.

You went behind my back to Barry Hogan?  

Now she was angry.  Who are you to keep me from speaking to whom I please?  

Bonwit shook his head with exasperation.  He picked up his fork and pushed around a morsel of meat. He looked like he was divining an entrail.  Then he sighed.  

I didn't mean it like that, Bright.  Its just... its just politically risky.  The Democrats can hook into it and drag it through the mud.  I'd expect nothing less from Lyman Resnick and his dogs at the Limestone Democrat. But... I'd be grateful to hear what you have to say.  He said this with the exhale of resignation.

Bright Marin rubbed her mysterious amulet she always wore around her neck, which was a red and milk white agate.  Then she leaned forward across the table towards The Major and kissed him.  At every last word, he had always had her back.  

He returned to eating, more silent now seemingly lost in thought. Bright watched him.  Loved on him.  Drank him in.  She let it wash through and over her.  But it did nothing to change the sadness she suddenly felt for him.  

She would never tell him of the pregnancy she terminated. Why this thought occurred to her, she did not know.  

She had visited Maw Possum, and she was prescribed the abortifacient Black Cow.  It took three days with few complications, during which she rested at her mansion Swan Song on Beaty Street.  She pretended fever and turned Bonwit away during those troubled hours.  

She felt he never needed to know.  No good would come by it.  And though she loved Bonwit Vrooman deeply, she simply did not want his child... any child.  She watched him, and she pushed the watercress on her plate pretending to be hungry.  When her emotions seemed to rise to brim of her eyes, Bonwit sensed something was amiss.  

What's getting you so upset?  I'm acquiescing to your desire to speak at the rally.  That's about it.  It doesn't mean I can't be nervous about it.  Why the tear that I see?  

Nothing, she said, smiling and dabbing at a rivulet that ran down across her cheek.  

I was thinking about something sad from long ago, she replied, and it was mostly the truth.