Read The Last of the Savages for Free Online

Mrs. Savage was overly solicitous in a manner which I would later understand to indicate disapproval, while I went out of my way not to look at her, and thereby was constantly aware of her presence. I could see that Will was stricken, too. Mr. Savage was gallantly flirtatious. “Where exactly do they grow girls as pretty as you,” he asked. I blushed at this direct reference to her appearance, which was affecting us so powerfully. It seemed a violation of taboo.
    Cheryl told us she’d grown up in a small town in Kentucky. A senior in high school, she’d met Elbridge at a Sewanee football game.
    “Cheryl’s a champion majorette,” Elbridge informed us.
    The putative champion blushed. “Go on, L.B., you’re just embarrassing me now.”
    “How about a demonstration?” Cordell suggested.
    “Now?” she asked, in a voice which suggested she was not entirely averse, looking around the table for guidance.
    “Let the poor girl eat her supper,” said Mrs. Savage.
    Cheryl looked to Elbridge, who seemed amused at the notion. “Go right ahead, honey.” Then I saw him wink at Will.
    “My baton’s just upstairs in my valise,” she said, jumping up from the table, her eyes shining. “Won’t be but just a minute.” She disappeared, leaving an awful void behind her.
    “The halftime show is a great American tradition,” said Cordell Savage. “A great southern tradition.”
    “She’s a very traditional girl,” Elbridge said, smiling cryptically. I wondered if he was being condescending.
    Within minutes Cheryl had returned with her baton, ripely overflowing a spangled cheerleader’s outfit. She stood next to Elbridge, all shy and eager. “Usually I have my music,” she apologized.
    “We’ll just sing along in our own heads,” Mr. Savage proposed.
    I turned around in my chair as she took up a position between the table and the sideboard. The performance was excruciating. That she was skillful did nothing to lessen the embarrassment I felt for her. On the other hand, it was a relief to have license to stare at her; seeing her engaged in this lumpish dance humanized her in my eyes.
    Thoroughly unaware of my tortured attitude, she marched in place, twirled and threw her baton, cartwheeled across the carpet, tossed her hair like a brilliant yellow banner and finally landed in a split, the long scissors of her bare legs glinting on the faded Tabriz. We all clapped, even Mrs. Savage; her husband whistled through his teeth. Cheryl bowed and resumed her seat, glistening beneath a fine sheen of perspiration like some freshly rinsed fruit.
    Two hours later we were skirting the southern edge of Memphis in the Cadillac, Will driving like a crazy man, running stop signs, a beer clenched between his thighs. A terrifying driver, he seemed to feel obliged to tempt fate every time he got behind the wheel. Later in life he would have a driver, which is the only reason he’s alive today.
    After dinner he had changed into black jeans, a black turtleneck and pointed black boots. He then opened a locked drawer in his desk, from which he extracted another paper bag filled with wadded-up currency—singles, fives, tens and twenties. “I’ve got more, about ten thousand buried out back,” he said, stuffing bills into his pockets, “and way more than that down in Mississippi.”
    “From what?”
    “You’ll see.”
    In the car, Will talked of Cheryl and her virtues while I clutched the dashboard in preparation for disaster. “Man, can you believe Elbridge,” Will asked in a tone of stunned admiration. “Lucky bastard.”
    We finally came to rest in front of a squat cinder-block bunker on a block of derelict frame houses. A brilliant mural in pink and black depicted flamingos—as stylized as the totem animals of a cave painting—high stepping to the notes of a stick-figure band. The sign over the door identified the place as THE HOT SPOTTE . A huge black man in an electric-blue sharkskin suit guarded the door. After a moment he