Salad: "Sandpiper" potato salad

Main course: "Cleopatra" fried chicken and "b.u.t.terfield 8" biscuits

Dessert: "National (Red) Velvet" cake and ice cream

Coffee & Tea

Introduction: Mrs. Nellie Goodloe, Chair

Remarks: Candidate John Warner

The back cover reads, "Compliments of the Dollar General Store," then, in musical notes, its theme-song refrain: Who says a dollar won't buy much anymore?

Every day is dollar day!

At the Dollar General Store!

(I guess they paid for the programs.) Theodore looks handsome in his gray slacks, navy blazer, and pale blue necktie that brings out his eyes (cla.s.sic). I'm wearing a black c.o.c.ktail dress with a peac.o.c.k brooch of Austrian crystals. I put my hair up in a fancy do. Through the bay windows at the front of the Coach House I can see a few hundred dressed-up folks milling around. No alcohol allowed (technically), as this is a dry county (nonenforceable), but Nellie Goodloe has made sure there's a champagne punch with lime sherbet. Nerves have calmed down considerably, but a touch of the spirits will soothe folks even more.

Liz and her husband have not arrived yet. Theodore is instantly swarmed and congratulated for his halftime spectacular. I am so very happy for him. He beams, as would any artist, having reached a ma.s.s audience. The women in the room are dressed in their finest, and it's funny, most of them wear a bright flower in their hair. Not to be outdone, I snap a white carnation off a table arrangement and tuck it behind my ear.

Iva Lou sees me and comes right over. Her dress is a masterpiece-a floor-length gown of peach Qiana polyester. The skirt is full and flowing, with a short train at the back. The bodice is fitted tightly like a series of rubber bands. It looks very traditional, except for the fit. The little modern touch is an applique on the chest-a picture of three books standing upright on a shelf, outlined in seed pearls and dotted with sequins.

"Ave! Get this! We raised two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars tonight! Isn't that something?"

"Congratulations!" I am thrilled for Iva Lou. Finally, all her connections have paid off.

"What do you think, girl?" Iva Lou twirls in her gown.

"You are spectacular."

She flashes a big grin, then sticks out her chest and points to the applique. "Lyle told me this dress could turn him into an avid reader. I'm gonna let him peruse my card catalog directly following this shindig. What do you think?"

"I think Lyle is the luckiest man in Wise County."

"I think you might be right. Well, if he ain't now, we'll make sure he is tonight." Iva Lou struts off toward a salivating Lyle, planting the seeds for later.

Lew and Inez Eisenberg are already sitting at their table. Inez looks pretty in her turquoise muumuu. She has chopsticks in her hair for that exotic touch. Their expressions are pleasant, but they aren't speaking; they're looking off in separate directions. I feel sorry for them. Spec picks the crabbies off a tray as they are pa.s.sed. He gives one to his wife, who is sitting next to Inez. They don't have much to say to each other either.

I work the room and folks are pleasant; it's partly the alcohol and partly the presence of a television-camera crew from WCYB out of Kingsport, Tennessee. They've sent Johnny Wood, anchorman, reporter, and weatherman, to cover this event. He looks shorter and squatter on TV than he does in real life. He sweats in real life just like he does on TV, though. He seems cordial, but he's here to do a job so he hasn't time for small talk. Folks respect that and generally leave him alone. We've never been on the TV before, so we're on our best behavior.

"New dress?" Aunt Alice asks from behind me.

"This old thing?"

"It doesn't look old to me."

"You look very nice tonight, Aunt Alice." She is taken aback, and her eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Enough about that. What's going on with our business arrangement?"

"Mr. Eisenberg is handling it. You know lawyers take their sweet time."

"I just want it done." Before Aunt Alice can wind up and upset me further, I walk away. Theodore is surrounded by a fresh batch of admirers. I decide to place my evening bag at our dinner table. Iva Lou wasn't kidding; we are sitting right next to Elizabeth Taylor's table.

"You look very pretty," a voice whispers. I look up and it's Jack Mac, giving me the once-over like I'm a brand-new 1978 Ford pickup truck, fully loaded.

"Thank you." I in turn look him over, and my expression of surprise gives me away. He is crisp and cla.s.sic in a navy blue suit with a barely there gray pinstripe. His shirt is pristine white, though the collar seems a little tight. The tie is scarlet red and made of fine Chinese silk.

"New duds," he says, indicating the suit.

"They're lovely." Lovely? I have never used that word in my life. It is a mamaw word, a sewing-circle word, an old-lady word. And besides, he doesn't look lovely, he looks downright handsome.

"My father's tie."

"That's very good silk, you know." I can't resist touching it; I love delicate silks. My mother used to smack my hands when I touched the fabric while she was sewing.

"Pap got it over in France somewhere during the Second World War."

"Take good care of it." Now, why do I say that? Is taking care of his wardrobe any of my business? What do I care if he wads it up and uses it for an oil rag?

"I wanted to talk to you about the other night." For a moment I don't know what he's referring to; it's been a while since Apple b.u.t.ter Night, and I haven't had time to think about any of that. He senses this and almost drops the subject, but he can't since he brought it up, so now he's stuck. I don't help matters by acting vague.

"I never meant to insult you or upset you in any way. I'm very sorry." I don't know what to say. It's not like he shot me or anything. He proposed. His look of concern makes me uncomfortable.

"All's well that ends well. You're back with Sweet Sue, I see." Sweet Sue is working the crowd like a canteen chanteuse. She's wearing a silvertone halter dress, her hair in a golden fountain. Her eyes are painted with a dusty lavender powder. Her teeth are so white, they gleam. She looks like she fell right out of the Knoxville News Sentinel style section.

"Not exactly." Jack Mac says this with a smile and looks off to her and then back to me. This cavalier smirk really annoys me. Does he think he's juggling the affections of the town beauty and the town spinster? Does he see me as the pitiful one who needs the man, and Sweet Sue as the one who gets to pick? For a split second Jack MacChesney is the enemy. But I remember myself; I am not involved with this man. His duplicitous nonsense is not my problem. I am not the other woman. He tried to set that up but I did not play.

"You know, Jack, I'm just a pill-counting pharmacist. And I don't know much, I'll be the first to tell you. But from my seat, women ought not be trifled with. You have a beautiful girl over there. You ought to concentrate on her. Her alone."

Jack Mac looks at me a little confused. "You think we're together?" he asks.

"You brought her to the dinner."

"Actually, I bought these tickets when we were together, then circ.u.mstances presented-"

"You take care of her kids." Does he think I'm an idiot?

"I can't just drop those boys. I've been seeing her for over a year. They've come to know me and trust me. I won't just disappear on them."

"Okay. Fine." I roll my eyes and look away, hoping he'll take the hint and shove off. But he stays.

"You're here with Theodore. Explain the difference to me."

"Wait a second. I can see whomever I please. Okay? I haven't been going around town w.i.l.l.y-nilly, proposing to people and then jumping in bed with ex-lovers."

"You are really something," he growls without an ounce of kindness.

"Yes, I am. I have principles!" I have my hands on my hips, and my neck is three inches off its pins, thrusting my face into Jack Mac's. He does not step back. I don't either. We are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. His breath is sweet, and his eyes are on fire.

"You're bitter and you're lonely. You're determined to stay that way. So stay that way. I don't have to take your bull. I won't take it. Ma'am." He turns and goes.

Theodore comes up behind me. "What was that all about?"

"What a jacka.s.s." Theodore and I watch as Jack Mac excuses himself through the crowd to get to his table.

"Nice suit, though." Theodore shrugs.

Elizabeth Taylor has just pulled up. We know this immediately because the headlights from the staff car are bright and aimed directly into the restaurant through the bay windows. The entire restaurant is flooded with light, and now with antic.i.p.ation. It was one thing to see her in a convertible last night; she was still far away and dreamy as she is on a movie screen. But tonight she will be sitting in a room with us, having dinner! We're going to be way up close. It's thrilling.

Johnny Wood is giving directions to the TV crew, and the crowd, full of antic.i.p.ation, chatters loudly. Theodore and I kneel on our chairs to watch her entrance over the crowd.

Several aides precede her through the entrance, clearing a path for her and the candidate. Elizabeth enters, wearing a floor-length royal-purple caftan with three-quarter-length dolman sleeves and a boat neck. Her hair is down, blown straight to her shoulders. What look like large Indian beads, in agates of gold, purple, and brown, hang around her neck like royal jewels. She is absolutely breathtaking again tonight. Nellie Goodloe greets her at the entrance and gives her a quick hug. Elizabeth points to the rose tucked over Nellie's ear; Nellie blushes.

John Warner, a former undersecretary of the U.S. Navy, looks presidential in his deep-navy-blue suit, white shirt, and red, white, and blue striped tie. He has the tall good looks of a Northern Virginia land baron. He is confident but impatient. He scoops the shock of thick gray hair away from his forehead with his hand a lot-it reminds me of President Kennedy. Folks say he's lucky to be running for the Senate at all. He came in second to d.i.c.k Obenshain in the primary last year. Then, in an unexpected tragedy, Mr. Obenshain was killed in a plane crash. The Republicans went to their runner-up, Mr. Warner, and asked him to run in Mr. Obenshain's place. He politely obliged. The papers say Mr. Warner is an old-fashioned political pot sticker; you lose a man, and he'll seal the hole. You can see he's a little put off by the attention his wife receives, but he can't exactly make her sit in the car. She brings out the voters, and that's exactly what this dark-horse Republican candidate needs to win. I wonder how he feels about always coming in second, first to Obenshain and now to his wife. Maybe he doesn't care, as long as he's in the race. He looks amazingly well-rested for a man with only ten days until the election. That's probably just good breeding. Grace under pressure is a Virginia gentleman's calling card.

Zackie Wakin strolls past the aides toward Elizabeth Taylor. He extends his hand to her. She extends hers to him, and he kisses it like a prince. The crowd woos. Zackie, the feriner peddler, charms the movie star. Zackie is small but so is she. As they stand eye-to-eye, he and Elizabeth take on that romantic Moviola glow that comes in those love scenes when the man looks down, not at the woman, but into her soul. Elizabeth, forever the game girl, throws her head back and laughs a few times. We can hear snippets of their conversation. She knows a lot about Lebanese culture. She accompanied Richard Burton to the Middle East when he was making a picture in the late sixties. When the aides hear her speak of a former husband, Elizabeth is hustled away, following her current husband into the kitchen to greet the staff. She turns and looks over her shoulder at Zackie, shrugs as if to say, Sorry we were interrupted, and waves to him.

The kitchen doors swing open, and we hear the candidate say, "I'm John Warner, candidate for the United States Senate. I'd like to count on y'all on November fourth." I read in the paper that this is something John Warner likes to do. As much as he likes the muckety-mucks out front, the folks who make the meal are the ones who vote en ma.s.se.

Theodore and I are close to the galley doors that lead to the kitchen, so we scoot to the circular windows and peer in as Elizabeth and Warner take their tour. The deep aluminum serving pans are full of golden fried chicken. One pan holds only wings; they look so succulent, I want to go into the kitchen and grab a few. Elizabeth Taylor has the same thought, and as Warner blah-blahs to the chef, she bends over and samples a breast. She holds it with two hands, pinky up, and bites into the meaty part near the bones carefully, so as not to smear her perfect peach lipstick. Warner refers to Elizabeth, and she nods as she chews. He shoots her a dirty look when he sees she's sampled the chicken. She downs a large hunk quickly to finish it off and get back to the campaigning. She swallows, but something is terribly wrong. She gags. I know from Rescue Squad training that she is choking, so I burst into the kitchen. She is holding her throat and looking helpless. She cannot speak. I can see the scar on her creamy neck from an operation she had years ago. It is still pink.

"Miss Taylor. Let me get help."

I hear the aides murmur, "Who is she?" and the staff tells them I'm with the Rescue Squad. Theodore hollers for Spec, which triggers a buzz throughout the dining room. Spec pushes through the swinging doors like John Wayne, scans the kitchen, finds Elizabeth, and runs to her. Theodore follows.

"She swallowed a chicken bone, Spec," I say.

"Jesus Christ. Run git the ambulance around tout suite." Spec tosses me his key ring. Theodore and I run through the dinner crowd, out the entrance, and into the ambulance. We speed around back, open the rear chute, pull out the gurney, and wheel it into the kitchen. Warner is yelling at Spec and his aides, but mostly he seems frustrated with Elizabeth for choking.

Spec works like a pro, lifting Elizabeth onto the gurney. He carefully straps her in and checks the wheel locks. You know, folks complain that Spec runs around town in the ambulance, using it for personal reasons, but I bet they're mighty glad that he drove it here tonight. It just may save Elizabeth Taylor's life.

Spec and I load Elizabeth into the ambulance. Warner is now extremely upset, holding his wife's hand and stroking her face. Luckily, Dr. Gladys Baronagan, the Filipino physician from Lonesome Pine Hospital, came to the dinner with her husband and was recruited to help in the emergency. I hear her tell Spec that she may need to operate.

Even in tragedy, Elizabeth could not be more beautiful. She lies on the gurney like a lavender lily. She takes pain like a trouper, and believe me, I've seen all sorts of suffering and sometimes folks act pretty crazy. But she is almost beatific, like she expects that bad things will happen, and by G.o.d, you just deal with them and go through them and don't let them kill you. Her eyes say, I won't die. Just get the d.a.m.ned bone out of my throat!

Theodore and I jump into his car and follow the ambulance up to the hospital. When we get there, Miss Taylor is whisked through admissions and brought directly to the emergency room. A small crowd has gathered but no words are spoken. It's a h.e.l.l of a thing. Spec paces nervously outside the ER. We pray everything will go smoothly.

Theodore and I are starving, so we eat a variety of junk from the vending machines and wash it down with instant coffee. Candidate Warner is in a special room right outside the emergency room, so we can't see him. Several aides mill about, one more worried-looking than the next.

Finally, after about an hour, a nurse comes out to talk to us. Dr. Baronagan ran a rubber pipe down Miss Taylor's throat, pushing the bone down into her stomach, where it would dissolve in digestion. No need for surgery. Miss Taylor will be fine. Johnny Wood and his crew enter and make a beeline for the nurse; he wants an exclusive for the eleven o'clock report. She holds up her hands and asks the men to leave, telling them, "This is a hospital, not a circus." Johnny Wood shrugs and takes his crew outside. He films his story on the sidewalk.

"What's wrong with you?" Theodore asks as he turns to me.

"I'm fine," I tell him, holding my head in my hands.

"Let me see." He lifts my face with his hands and examines it carefully.

"You look pale," he decides.

"I ate too much candy. That's all."

"Let's go." Theodore laughs.

But I don't think it was the candy. I kept replaying the scene of Jack Mac telling me I was bitter and lonely until it upset my stomach. But I don't have to share that with Theodore. You don't have to tell your best friend everything.

CHAPTER SEVEN.