VI

"It's here today, Alvin!" Mail in hand, Mrs. Walters waddled back towards the house with that calculated lethargy of the obscenely obese. "I'm a finalist again, Alvin! Can you believe that? The fourteenth year in a row!" The house bounced with the woman's excitement.

"Well, let's not get too excited. There's four or five others on that list too-"

"-It's like I've been sayin' all week. Remember how I had that good feelin' about Junior?"

"I know, I know, but we won't know until they announce it come the Superbowl."

"I just have this feelin', Alvin. Just like I knew with Junior. I cain't explain it. Once we got past thirteen, I thought we had a chance. Fourteen is gonna be it! I can just feel it!" The house continued to bounce.

"Yeah, you said that about Lotto this last time too. Remember that?" Alvin Walters took another big swig of his beer as he spoke.

"This time's the one. You'll see. Lotto or not, you can say good-bye to those bees forever." The woman embraced the thick, brown packet.

"I've heard that before too - and look what it's got me." Alvin held out his arms, motioning to the walls of the small abode.

"Alvin, don't let the drinkin' ruin this. Let's just be happy for Junior if nothin' else. His ship's finally come in." The woman looked into her husband's eyes.

"Look what it's got me! Look! You see that?" The man pointed to a hole in the wall as he spoke. You see it? How long's that been there?" Huh? How long?" The woman gave no answer, shrinking away from her husband's rage. "A hell of a lot longer than fourteen years, that's how long-"

"-You'll win next time, Alvin-"

"-next time? How many next times you think I've got?"

"There's always a next time, Alvin- it's just the beer talkin'."

"The beer talkin'? Pabst Blue Ribbon. How long I been drinkin' that? I was gonna drink Michelob every goddamn day." The woman's good news was not enough to snap Alvin out of his weekly melancholy rantings.

"Junior will get you some Michelob next time. Just ask him-"

"Junior? Junior's gonna put us on easy street. Is that it? I thought you was gonna buy enough magazines 'til they give us a million bucks. I thought that was the plan. That shit's been pilin' up around here for years and you ain't never read any of it!"

"That's not true, Alvin. I read it. You-"

"Read what? Diet plans? Those been workin' real good." Tears began to form in the woman's eyes. "I know what we can do with that shit!" Casting his beer can to the floor, Alvin scooped up two handfuls of magazines from a pile beside the rabbit-eared television. He crushed the mass of paper into a ball and frantically shoved it into the hole in the wall. "Now there." The man orchestrated a look of satisfaction as he mused at his handy work. "That'll give me somethin' diff'rent to look at the next fourteen years. While we're at it, let's wallpaper the house with it. Use it for toilet paper. That'll save junior a few bucks at the grocery." Mr. Walter's reign of terror was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Make yourself useful and get that." Still clutching the prize packet, Mrs. Walters composed herself as she partially opened the door.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Walters. Is Glenn around?" A young man in a charcoal polyester suit cheerfully greeted the woman. He held a tattered briefcase in one hand.

"No, Evan. He's out runnin' a few errands. He's gotta take care of a few things before he takes his trip to Atlanta. He should be back shortly, though."

"Atlanta? What's he gotta do over there?"

"Oh, he's got a big business trip with the management team over at Shaw." A genuine smile came back over the woman's face.

"Management team? Glenn's hit the big time, huh? I knew somethin' must be up with this big life insurance policy he took out." The young man patted the briefcase as he spoke.

"Life insurance? When'd he do that?"

"You mean he didn't tell y’all about it? You bein' the beneficiaries of it and all, I figured he would have at least discussed it with ya." The young man smiled widely as he spoke.

"Who? Me and Alvin?" The woman looked puzzled.

"Yeah. Two months ago he took out a $50,000 policy -everything he qualified for." Glenn's father listened from behind the door. "Named you and Mr. Walters as the beneficiaries. Course we hope you don't ever see that money- you and us both." The man laughed as if startled by his own joke.

"No, we sure don't," Mrs. Walters returned an unsure smile.

"Well, could you just give Glenn a message for me, please? Could you tell him that we need a cash payment for this next premium? He paid last month's on a credit card but they don't like for 'em to do that." The man spoke as though Mrs. Walters were a small child.

"I'll be sure and tell him, Evan: 'A cash payment for the next premium'."

"All right, you have a good one now."

Mrs. Walters slowly closed the door, her mind deep in thought about the life insurance policy. Mr. Walters retrieved another beer from the refrigerator.

VII

Shopping at Wright and Johnson's Gentleman's Clothiers was a sign of high pedigree in Walthal County. At Wright and Johnson, wealthy planters, catfish farmers, bankers, and businessmen had paid premium prices for ordinary clothing since 1929. The genteel citizenry chose to ignore the fact that most of the same clothes could be purchased at the local Wal-Mart or at any of the shopping malls in Jackson for a much lower price. Instead they talked of the "personal tailoring" and "professional service" provided by the clothier. Few of the less cultured residents had dared to venture into the establishment. Those that had had been ceremoniously ignored and made to feel unwelcome. Keeping the commoners out was a formula that had allowed the Johnson family to put three generations of indolent children through Ole Miss law school and financed numerous vacations abroad.

Two marble lions roared mutely at Glenn as he walked up the steps of the wood frame building. The distinctive smell of pine greeted him as he opened the door. It was much as he had expected on the inside: dark tones, dim lighting, headless gentlemen sporting fashionable attire, and the faint sound of classical music. There were no other customers as far as Glenn could tell and the place was oddly divided into several small rooms. Soon a young man appeared from one of the adjacent rooms. Glenn recognized the face immediately.

"Can I help you, Sir?" the nicely dressed, stocky young man addressed Glenn in a demeaning tone.

"I'm here to purchase a suit- if I find you have any that suit my liking." Glenn had chosen this line from dozens that he had rehearsed in his head.

Taken back by Glenn's stern tone, the young man stared motionless for a moment, then began to smile. "Hey, aren't you Glenn Walters?"

"I am. And who might you be?" Glenn replied smugly.

"I'm Harper Johnson. We went to school together back in junior high. That year you transferred over from the public school to Magnolia." Harper's face gleamed. "You remember: me and Wainwright and Scooter. How could you forget?"

Glenn tried to look astonished. "Well, I must say you've changed quite a bit."

"Hell, it's been about twenty years. Boy, you sure ha'en't changed much, though. I could pick you out of a crowd. Still tall and skinny. If you were wearing that bandanna you'd look almost exactly the same." The man laced his words with laughter.

"Well, lots of things have changed since then. If you don't mind, I'd like to look at some suits."

"Say, anyone ever call you String Bean anymore?" Harper's grin consumed his face. "First it was String Bean, then String, then Bean, and Jelly Bean... Jelly Roll. Boy, Scooter could sure come up with 'em."

"Well, I'm not exactly sure what all you're talking about, but like I say, lots of things have changed since then." Glenn tried to maintain an indifferent aloofness.

"Aw, come on. Surely you remember gym class. Coach Johns made you be nigger baby almost every day. Remember that?" The Johnson boy addressed Glenn as if he were still in junior high. "You don't have no hard feelin's about that, do ya?"

"I'd really just like to purchase a suit if you don't mind. Can you direct me to some of your finest?"

"Sure, buddy. I didn't mean to bring back no hard feelin's or nothin'. What you got in mind?"

"I was hoping that that was where your expertise would come in."

"Well, what kind of price range we lookin' at?" The salesman gave a sideways smile.

"Actually, price is no object. I'm just interested in your highest quality suit," Glenn replied coldly.

"Hey, look now. If price is no object, how 'bout I just charge you about an extra grand and I'll go play at the boats with it." The man laughed heartily at his joke. Glenn looked beyond Harper at the rows of coats lining the walls, careful not to acknowledge the joke. "Well, what size are you for starters? I know you'll be a long, whatever you are."

"Thirty-eight chest, thirty-seven sleeve, and fourteen neck," Glenn stated matter-of-factly.

"O.K. How 'bout pants?"

"Thirty, thirty-five."

Harper walked briskly over to a corner of the shop. Glenn followed. The hangers screeched against the racks as the salesman expertly shuffled through suit after suit, occasionally glancing up at Glenn. Folding the leg over one arm, he presented Glenn with the suit that he had selected. "This is one of our most popular brands and the size should be about right. You can go back there to try it on."

Without making a verbal response, Glenn took the suit and walked back to a small changing room as though buying a suit was a daily affair. As he disrobed, he thought back to his junior high days. He had decided to go out for the football team the year he transferred to the academy, sure that he could make the all-white team. He remembered the first day of try-outs the week before school started. His father had driven him up to the school in the family's old Ford station wagon. Conscious of the fact that the other boys' families all had much nicer cars, Glenn had requested that his father let him off at the corner before the school, saying that he wanted to warm up before practice. For this, the old man deliberately drove right up to the practice field. Glenn exited the car in full practice gear, not yet ashamed of the shoulder pads or pants that his mother had bought at a garage sale the week before or his spray painted helmet with the number "72" crudely stenciled on the side. As he walked from the car towards the practice field, he became aware of the fact that the other boys all had new white pants and shiny red helmets with "Colonel Reb" on the side. He became aware of the fact that his shoulder pads were misshapen and that his helmet was not only inferior in color scheme and appearance to those of the other boys, but that it was also lacking in many of the safety features necessary for the contact sport. He was intimidated by the many intricately woven face masks of the other boys and later found out that most of the others had the latest air cushioned and water cooled padding inside their helmets. The padding that shielded the crown of his head had fallen out so that his helmet fit down on his head and concealed his eyes, making him look somewhat reptilian. He could feel the weight of the gazes upon him as he walked up to the young, barrel-chested coach and introduced himself. The others all seemed so at ease as they carelessly tossed the football or talked about summer vacation. As he talked to the coach, Glenn could hear the snickers and murmurs of the other boys. "Does he know those pants are missin' knee pads? His helmet looks like he colored it with crayons. Put bolts in his neck and with those shoulder pads he'd look like Frankenstein. Who the hell is that? Looks like he got that equipment from the Goodwill. Ribbit, ribbit!"

In a few minutes he returned sporting the gray wool suit, the sleeves only slightly too long and the pants a near perfect fit.

"Whooo! Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man!" Glenn could not repress his smile at the salesman's gab. "That does fit you nice, big guy. Just a little long in the sleeve." Harper walked around Glenn, surveying the suit as he talked. "Stand up here on the block and let me mark it off for ya." Glenn stepped up onto a block of wood facing three fitting mirrors and stood motionless. The suit salesman marked the proper length of the sleeves with a rectangular piece of chalk in what seemed to Glenn an imprecise manner. "How does it feel in the pants? It looks O.K."

"It feels just fine."

"I believe they had you in mind when they made that one at the factory," Harper smiled as he spoke.

"It is a mighty nice fit," replied Glenn congenially, glancing down at the price tag on the sleeve.

"You can go back in there and take it off. A colored lady does the hemming for us on Wednesdays."

"Well, I'm afraid I won't be able to wait until Wednesday. I have urgent business to attend to in Atlanta on Monday and I'll need this suit," stated Glenn, regaining his air of superiority.

"Well, she only hems on Wednesday. There's not a whole lot I can do about that."

"I suppose I could get someone to adjust the sleeves for me on my own- it can't be that difficult."

"Like I always say in this business- suit yourself." The young man chuckled. "So, you gonna take that one home with ya? Not often that the customer's sold on the first one."

"Well, I am satisfied enough with this one- and I'm in a bit of a rush."

"Hey, you'll get no argument from me. I'll bag it up for you right now if you like."

"That will probably work best for me.

"Will that be cash or charge? Now we don't have a lay-away plan like the department stores-"

"Cash." Glenn spoke with a smirk.

The short, stocky man made his way over to the cash register. Glenn followed, draping the suit over one arm. Harper punched keys as he spoke to Glenn. "Hand me that suit, please. I need to scan 'er- unless you still wanna pay whatever. Then, we'll just make it an even two grand." Unamused, Glenn handed over the suit. "Yep, I never hear from Wainwright anymore- and I guess you heard about Scooter." Glenn made no reply. "Goddamn shame. Yeah, they found his car, but still ain't found the body. Think it was a couple of niggers from Jackson- probably just carjacked 'im and had a joyride after they got rid of 'im. Found the car at some chop shop on Capital Street. The paper didn't give all the details." The man placed the suit in a heavy plastic hanging bag with the emblem of two lions on it as he spoke. "He'd sure like to know I saw you. He'd get a kick outta that." Harper's face began to beam again. Glenn remained quiet. "That'll be $672.45." The moment Glenn had been waiting for had arrived. He calmly reached into his pocket, producing a money clip with the hundred dollar bills neatly folded between the dollar signs. He removed seven of the hundreds and nonchalantly placed them on the counter before Harper. "Boy, payin in all hundreds, too. Whatta you do these days? Rob banks for a livin'?" Harper made change as he spoke.

"Just a well-placed investment here and there. You keep the change."

"It's not a grand, but I can play a few slots with that too. Thank you, sir, and you come back the next time you need a good suit. We'll fix ya up right," said Harper with new-found respect.