And they would marry others of their ilk, with the occasional interloper—a Yankee or an Italian or a Jew. Their fortunes would grow. They would build homes of their own or move into the ones in which they were raised. Their lives would not be untouched by hardship; there would be the same spillage of infidelity and divorce, disease leading to prolonged illness and sometimes death, business failures and other reversals of fortune, struggles with addiction and mental illness. But most of them would land on their feet, as would their children, who would be just as beautiful and charming as they had once been, and who might one day sit for an hour or so with me while I sketched and took photos as studies for their portraits.
I did most of the portraits outside, and I generally finished them ahead of schedule. I never lost my love of art, nor my obsession with getting every detail right. But I’d been at it for so long and with such steadiness of practice that I could blow through a house-and-garden painting in a few weeks. There were commissions enough to keep me working for two more years.
“If only we’d known,” Pancho said. “You might have tapped this well a long time ago.”
With a steady income, I had enough in the bank to make a down payment on a place of my own: a two-bedroom bungalow in East Nashville, only a few blocks from the condo complex where the Montague Village Apartments once stood. These were the early days of gentrification. There was color and light, and grass in the yards, some respectable landscaping, wooden privacy fences replacing chain-link, people walking dogs and strollers down the trash-strewn sidewalks, waving as they passed while I sat on the porch smoking and drinking coffee in the mornings. We did not see that we weren’t integrating the neighborhood so much as we were colonizing it.
One morning, I answered a knock at the front door and found a woman in a slim black skirt and a white blouse, looking fresh despite the sweltering heat of early August.
“Hi there,” she said. “I’m Marylou Greene, and I’m running for mayor.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. You look different in person.”
“That’s what people tell me.”
She pointed at the sign in my yard.
“I see you’re supporting Archer Creigh,” she said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’d like to see if I can change your mind.”
I gave her a cup of coffee and sat with her at my kitchen table and listened as she outlined her vision for the city. She had plans. A new convention center and a baseball stadium downtown. Parks rehabilitation, bike and walking paths, sidewalks in the neighborhoods. Footbridges across the Cumberland. High-speed rail. She had figures, graphs, statistics. Numbers of hotel rooms and apartments. Projected tourism dollars. Tax revenues. If Arch weren’t my best friend in the world, I think I would have gone to work for her.
“Arch Creigh is a friend,” said Marylou Greene. “But we have a fundamentally different view of where the city is heading. Arch calls it ‘the spirit of Nashville.’ I call it ‘holding on to the past.’”
“He just doesn’t want the city to buy a bunch of stuff it can’t pay for,” I said. “What if something bad happens, like a flood, or a bunch of tornadoes ripping through downtown, like a few years ago? Or what if the stock market crashes, or people stop traveling, because of an oil shortage or something? The city’s still stuck with the bill for all this stuff, right?”
“You sound just like Arch,” she said.
She looked down at my paint-spattered shoes and jeans and the stains on my fingertips.
“Oh!” she said. “You’re the painter!”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“I’ve known Jim for years. What a coincidence. Your mother was a lovely woman.”
“Now you’re starting to sound like a politician.”
Her phone pinged. She picked it up out of her purse, looked at the screen, and tapped out a reply with the same practiced skill I’d seen Arch deploy on dozens of occasions.
“I hate those things,” I said.
“Me too,” she said. “It’s a necessary evil.” She stood up.
“I hope you don’t feel like you’ve wasted your time,” I said.
“Not at all,” she said.
“I’d vote for you if I could,” I said.
She winked. “It’s a secret ballot, you know,” she said.
That very afternoon, I went to his campaign office and told Arch and his staff all about my visit with Marylou Greene.
“She’s knocking on doors in East Nashville?” said Nick Averett. “Oh, please.”
Averett had a surly mouth and an air of entitlement I recognized from my past encounters with a certain class of Texans from the suburbs of Dallas and Houston. I preferred his deputy, Bart Walsh, a Belle Meader like Arch, who projected an air of calmness and Tennessee gentility. He waited for Averett to finish before he lifted his hand.
“I think Marylou deserves a little more attention,” Walsh said.
“It’s a moot point,” Averett said. “We’re playing for the runoff. She’ll be out of money long before then.”
“She doesn’t need money to knock on doors and talk to people,” I said.
“Charlie—it’s Charlie, right?” Averett said. “No offense, but I’ve done this a few times.”
“You’re the expert,” I said. “I’m just telling you about a conversation. She was very persuasive.”
“He has a point,” Walsh said. “We could spend a little more time canvassing. Just personally talking to people, especially in North and East Nashville.”
“We’re already doing that,” Averett said.
“I mean Arch,” Walsh said. “Not just the volunteers.”
“Do we have time for that?” Averett asked.
“We’ll make time,” Arch said. “Hey, guys, can I talk to Charlie for a minute?”
Walsh and Averett excused themselves.
“I’ve got something important to tell you,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Vanessa’s pregnant.”
“When’s the due date?”
“Late December, right around Christmas,” he said.
“After the election.”
“Thank Christ.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just—I’m really happy for you, Arch. Truly.”
“Thanks, bud.”
It all seemed too much. But this was the way of things for Arch. The plate could never be too full. Even when covered by clouds, the sun never ceased to shine.
ten
Vanessa played the role of dutiful wife at Arch’s campaign events but spent most of her time preparing for the arrival of the baby: remaking her old bedroom into a lavish nursery, attending birthing classes (Arch never missed one; Nick Averett always sent a photographer), learning to prepare homemade organic baby food, reading book after book about natural childbirth and baby’s first year. Arch thought it was silly, but he tolerated Vanessa’s obsessions. Averett tried to exploit “the whole organic thing” to soften Arch’s image for educated, health-minded women. Vanessa knew she could do whatever she liked so long as she showed up and smiled.
I never got the sense that Arch thought of the baby as a distraction. He read the birthing books and rearranged his schedule to join her at the doctor’s office for checkups. Every time I saw him greet Vanessa, he placed his ear against her belly so he could listen to the sound of life floating around in its little amniotic sea.
“Do you know the sex yet?” I asked.
“We could find out,” Arch said, “but Vanessa wants it to be a surprise. I told her we should just find out so people will know what sort of things to buy. She says it doesn’t matter. She’s painting everything gender-neutral. But I’d love to have a girl. Then again, if it’s a girl, she can’t go to Yeatman.”
You would be surprised how many Yeatman alums make this observation about their future children.
As pr
edicted, the media identified Clem Cardwell as the front-runner. He had the deepest pockets, the widest connections. But everyone who voted along party lines or hated tax-rate hikes to pay for public services or considered the annual increase in population a sign of imminent apocalypse had no dog in the hunt but Arch. Three times during the first debate, he made sure to mention that we didn’t want to end up like Atlanta, which was dog-whistle code for “too much traffic and too many queers, Yankees, and brown people.”
“What happens when there’s a shift in the economy?” Arch would say. “The market always corrects. It’s a matter of when, not if. Banks don’t feel pity or make allowances. When the bill comes due, they expect you to pay it or else. I lost my father when I was young, but I remember a few things he taught me. One of them was this: Live within your means. That’s a value we should still hold dear in this town, however much we grow. It’s a big part of the spirit of Nashville.”
Marylou Greene had a long list of talking points to beat back at Arch’s assertions, and a fluency with economic data and statistics. Furthermore, she was unflappable and unwaveringly cheerful. You could never catch her scowling or raising her voice in such a way that she might be construed as being bitchy or shrill by the sort of people who weren’t yet used to the idea of a woman in charge.
One choice was made much clearer from the debates, however: Clem Cardwell was shit on the stump. He sweated a lot and was as red-faced as a drunk on a bender. He fumbled questions and seemed to forget what he was talking about at times.
“He’s a disaster,” Averett said.
“Does anyone really pay attention to mayoral debates?” I asked.
“Donors,” Averett said. “They’re all that matters.”
“Cardwell doesn’t need donors,” I said.
“Marylou Greene does,” Arch said. “Clem’s perspiration problem is helping her immensely.”
“How’s that good for you?” I asked.
“Who do you think we have a better chance against in the runoff?” Averett said. “A good ole boy from a rural town with a classic bootstraps story and a ton of friends in both Belle Meade and Browntown, or a carpetbagger married to a commie professor?”
“Her husband’s a communist?” I asked.
“He’s an academic,” Averett said. “Nothing rubs Southern voters the wrong way more than overeducated Jews telling them what to do.”
“He’s Jewish?”
“For fuck’s sake, Boykin,” Averett said. “Are you even paying attention?”
On the morning of Election Day, I walked down to the polling station at the elementary school around the corner from my house. Coffee and cookies were served in the cafeteria. Outside, kids were running around on the playground. People were smiling, chatting with one another in line and around cafeteria tables. I had never voted before; I walked home swollen with pride for having done my civic duty.
Later, I drove downtown to the Sheraton, where Arch was holding his election night party in one of the ballrooms. Bart Walsh met me downstairs and led me up to the room where Arch waited with Vanessa and the rest of his inner circle. A few bottles of good wine were breathing on the kitchen island. Averett opened a bottle of good scotch. Someone was out on the balcony smoking.
“Charlie!”
Dolly darted through the adults gathered in front of the television and embraced me. I spotted Jim in an armchair by a window that faced out toward the Capitol. Dolly led me over to him.
“You made it,” Jim said.
“This is so boring,” Dolly said. “Can we go home, Daddy?”
“Not yet, honey,” he said. “It’s a big night for Arch, remember?”
“Can I go watch TV in the bedroom?”
“As soon as Arch and Vanessa come out.”
Finally, they emerged. Arch wore a navy-blue suit and a tie the color of the decanted Bordeaux on the table. Vanessa, great with child, wore a cream-colored dress with black borders around the sleeves and neck, and a strand of pearls and matching earrings. They looked exactly as they should have: the golden couple, handsome, brilliant, peerless, invincible, primed for the commencement of their predestined ascent. And I, looking on from afar, their erstwhile friend and confidant, admired them with both ardor and spite.
By nine thirty, the returns were in. Marylou Greene had finished first, with 35 percent. Arch followed with 30, two percentage points ahead of Clem Cardwell, forcing a run-off between Arch and Greene. The remaining 7 percent was split among the other three.
The campaign staff had a celebratory champagne toast before heading down with Arch to greet his supporters. I went out onto the balcony to smoke. I heard the door open behind me and turned to see Vanessa, a champagne flute filled with sparkling water in her hand. I tossed the cigarette off the balcony.
“I hope that doesn’t hit anyone,” she said.
“I’d rather burn an unwitting citizen than poison your unborn child.”
“And I suppose you’d throw your cloak across a puddle for me to walk on too.”
“Without hesitation.”
“But I’m no Virgin Queen,” she said. “As you know.”
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t you?”
“I’m on the way. I just thought you’d be with Arch.”
“I had to go to the restroom,” she said. “He’s waiting for me.”
“Are you ready for this?” I asked.
“I don’t have much choice,” she said. “This is what I signed on for.”
“Do you still want it?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“This is just the campaign,” she said. “What comes after is different.”
“Until the next one.”
“True,” she said. “But what happens between matters more. It’s where we can make a difference.”
The only thing I envied more than Arch and Vanessa’s marriage was their conviction that what they wanted was what was best for everyone.
“All the same,” I said. “You look great, by the way. Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “Thank you.”
Vanessa was never one to behave as if she didn’t know that it was true. Pregnancy had only enhanced her loveliness. On the balcony in the darkness, she did, in fact, seem to glow.
eleven
Nashville has always been proud of its reputation for good manners. You really notice it when you’ve been away. You stop for gas driving into town; the lady behind the counter calls you “hon” and wishes you a “blessed day.” Drivers slow down to let you in when you’re pulling onto the freeway. Strangers wave and nod when you make eye contact. The general kindness of the place works on you like a balm. You get the sense that things just go a little smoother, a little easier, a little less nastily here. This is what Arch meant by “the spirit of Nashville.”
But there’s a fine line between politeness and fraudulence. This became obvious during the brief runoff campaign, when the public air of mutual respect between Archer Creigh and Marylou Greene dissolved into a morass of ugliness.
I’d like to lay all the blame on Nick Averett—this was his specialty, after all. He didn’t normally run city election campaigns; he was a GOP operator who’d come to Nashville because he had seen the future and wanted to jump on Arch’s wagon to ensure that he’d be sitting up front when said wagon pulled into Washington, DC. His tactics were meant for bigger battles.
The night after the election, the television on behind me while I put the finishing touches on a portrait, I was surprised by the sound of Vanessa’s voice. I turned around to find her on the screen describing Marylou Greene as a “liberal Trojan horse.” She added a few remarks about health care and feminism, likening Greene to Hillary Clinton. Vanessa’s Southern charm—her soft accent thickened to a drawl, her hair a bit bigger and blonder, her dress a little more back-porch than boardroom—obscured the fact that she herself had
much more in common with Hillary Clinton—or, for that matter, Marylou Greene—than with Laura or Barbara Bush.
The next day, listening to the radio as I drove across the river from East Nashville to Belle Meade, I heard a campaign spot with the voice of a woman speaking in exaggerated black dialect, questioning whether Marylou Greene was a Christian. The next morning, an article ran on the front page of the Tennessean with a photo of Marylou Greene surrounded by black preachers from North Nashville laying on hands.
When I met Arch for coffee in his office, he slid the paper across the table and let out a long sigh as I peered down at the photograph.
“Pitiful, right?” he said.
I could offer nothing more than a weary shrug.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “You don’t like the action?”
“I don’t mind the action,” I said. “I just don’t like the advertising.”
“Nick says it’s necessary. I can’t do any good for people if I don’t win.”
I glanced across the room at Averett, who was always on the phone or in some huddle with one or more shadowy-looking operators presumably tasked with unearthing some bombshell to blow up Marylou Greene’s campaign.
The Fortunate Ones Page 17