limits; a
body had to be driving in from Shawnee or thumbing it into town to see that kind of thing anyway. It was the part of town
that was no different than Arkansas. But here at the Skirvin, worry drifted away with the band music.
A skinny woman nursing a martini opened a window. A Skirvin Hotel waiter juggled a tray of dishes, correcting a near spill,
and that put everyone in a good mood. Lightning ricocheted over the rain-starved plains giving way to deep rumbles of thunder
lifting from the throat of early nightfall. The Venetian lanterns dimmed, causing two young women to gasp like kids over cake.
For that instant, the place was a slice of Venice.
Jeb rubbed the toe of one shoe against the back of his pants leg. “Seems like I’ve been here in a dream.”
A master of ceremonies swayed on the platform, his posture stilted as he introduced a black jazz singer from Chicago. Her
hair was blue in the dimmed light and her face emerged from the dark, led by two eyes shining out through the smoke.
Jeb got the feeling Fern was lightening up about starting over in Oklahoma City. On the way up in the elevator, she listened
to his ideas for the Sunday sermon he planned to offer up at First Community.
She was dolled up for the night. Where some of the women went gallivanting around the dance floor, her head scarcely moved
as she walked. Her dress was made of that soft, supple stuff, the kind of fabric that fell off the bed if you laid it on the
edge, material floating and circular around her ankles, the folds undulating. She wore lavender and the dress seemed to swim
among the other women under the lights; the beaded dresses flickered and reflected the overhead dance-floor lights like scales
on tropical fish. Fern could not have worn that dress in Nazareth. She walked, shoulders back, her slender neck rising out
of the beads and the lavender cloth, skin as white as a freshly dusted beach.
Fern glanced around the Venetian Room looking through a tobacco haze floating above the couples. “Say, who are we looking
for, Jeb?” she asked.
“Rachel Flauvert told me to look for a heavy man with silvering hair. Said he wears an orchid in his lapel.”
“I forgot his name, Jeb. I can’t remember anything today,” said Fern. She kept touching the brooch fastened at the dip in
her neckline that made a sort of X-marks-the-spot.
“Henry Oakley, wife Marion. I don’t see Donna.”
The elevator door behind them opened and Donna stepped out.
“I tried to wake you,” said Fern. “I didn’t know if you were coming or not.”
Donna had picked up a new green dress, puffed sleeves. She stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray at the door of the elevator.
She spotted Jeb and Fern and joined them in the door of the Venetian Room. “If you-all want me to make myself scarce, I can
find plenty to do in this place.”
“Donna, you ought to join us,” said Fern. “You don’t know a stranger, and Jeb and I don’t know any of these people.”
Jeb agreed and said, “You know the Oakleys, don’t you, Donna?”
“Do we know them, Fern? We didn’t go to school with them, but I remember Mother talking about the Oak-leys, or maybe I did
meet them, I don’t know,” said Donna. She let out a breath, her brown eyes sizing up the room. “Don’t see too many dance partners,”
she said. Most of the guests were seated around the dining tables.
Jeb held out his hand. “Fern, I’m going to take your little sister for a spin.”
“Fine, then. I’ll ask around and see if anyone can point out the Oakleys,” said Fern.
Donna accepted his arm, but asked, “Jeb, won’t you get excommunicated for dancing?”
“Would it bother you if I did?
“Not in the least. Your funeral.”
“A quick spin around the floor over there away from the lights won’t hurt.” He led her away from the dance floor’s center.
The singer chose a slow song, good for talking and asking Donna about her sister. Donna
body had to be driving in from Shawnee or thumbing it into town to see that kind of thing anyway. It was the part of town
that was no different than Arkansas. But here at the Skirvin, worry drifted away with the band music.
A skinny woman nursing a martini opened a window. A Skirvin Hotel waiter juggled a tray of dishes, correcting a near spill,
and that put everyone in a good mood. Lightning ricocheted over the rain-starved plains giving way to deep rumbles of thunder
lifting from the throat of early nightfall. The Venetian lanterns dimmed, causing two young women to gasp like kids over cake.
For that instant, the place was a slice of Venice.
Jeb rubbed the toe of one shoe against the back of his pants leg. “Seems like I’ve been here in a dream.”
A master of ceremonies swayed on the platform, his posture stilted as he introduced a black jazz singer from Chicago. Her
hair was blue in the dimmed light and her face emerged from the dark, led by two eyes shining out through the smoke.
Jeb got the feeling Fern was lightening up about starting over in Oklahoma City. On the way up in the elevator, she listened
to his ideas for the Sunday sermon he planned to offer up at First Community.
She was dolled up for the night. Where some of the women went gallivanting around the dance floor, her head scarcely moved
as she walked. Her dress was made of that soft, supple stuff, the kind of fabric that fell off the bed if you laid it on the
edge, material floating and circular around her ankles, the folds undulating. She wore lavender and the dress seemed to swim
among the other women under the lights; the beaded dresses flickered and reflected the overhead dance-floor lights like scales
on tropical fish. Fern could not have worn that dress in Nazareth. She walked, shoulders back, her slender neck rising out
of the beads and the lavender cloth, skin as white as a freshly dusted beach.
Fern glanced around the Venetian Room looking through a tobacco haze floating above the couples. “Say, who are we looking
for, Jeb?” she asked.
“Rachel Flauvert told me to look for a heavy man with silvering hair. Said he wears an orchid in his lapel.”
“I forgot his name, Jeb. I can’t remember anything today,” said Fern. She kept touching the brooch fastened at the dip in
her neckline that made a sort of X-marks-the-spot.
“Henry Oakley, wife Marion. I don’t see Donna.”
The elevator door behind them opened and Donna stepped out.
“I tried to wake you,” said Fern. “I didn’t know if you were coming or not.”
Donna had picked up a new green dress, puffed sleeves. She stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray at the door of the elevator.
She spotted Jeb and Fern and joined them in the door of the Venetian Room. “If you-all want me to make myself scarce, I can
find plenty to do in this place.”
“Donna, you ought to join us,” said Fern. “You don’t know a stranger, and Jeb and I don’t know any of these people.”
Jeb agreed and said, “You know the Oakleys, don’t you, Donna?”
“Do we know them, Fern? We didn’t go to school with them, but I remember Mother talking about the Oak-leys, or maybe I did
meet them, I don’t know,” said Donna. She let out a breath, her brown eyes sizing up the room. “Don’t see too many dance partners,”
she said. Most of the guests were seated around the dining tables.
Jeb held out his hand. “Fern, I’m going to take your little sister for a spin.”
“Fine, then. I’ll ask around and see if anyone can point out the Oakleys,” said Fern.
Donna accepted his arm, but asked, “Jeb, won’t you get excommunicated for dancing?”
“Would it bother you if I did?
“Not in the least. Your funeral.”
“A quick spin around the floor over there away from the lights won’t hurt.” He led her away from the dance floor’s center.
The singer chose a slow song, good for talking and asking Donna about her sister. Donna
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