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.”