Arch began to offer me rides home in the afternoon and kept nudging Jamie and me together. I didn’t object. Few childhood friendships begin through any kind of sincere linking of souls; people mostly cling to whatever they can grasp. I was a good choice of companions for Jamie. I was a better student than he was, but nowhere near the top of the class. Nor was I an athlete, or a star debater, or a musician. Being good at drawing and painting didn’t win you any popularity contests at Yeatman. So I had no advantages over Jamie, and every reason to be impressed, even awed, by the trappings of wealth that were commonplace to most of the other boys. I was eager and earnest, just happy to be there.

Jamie told me things I wasn’t meant to know—about his mother’s drinking and pill-popping, for instance, and about his father’s ruthlessness.

“Don’t buy his whole gentleman act,” Jamie said. “My dad is a pure son of a bitch. He destroys anyone who crosses him. He always gets what he’s after. The guys who don’t like it just have to sit there and suck on it.”

I said nothing. But I had no trouble believing Jim Haltom got what he wanted.

“It’s hilarious, really, watching all of those ‘old Nashville’ snobs bowing to kiss his ring,” Jamie said. “It must kill them, having to suck up to a hick from the sticks like my father.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You don’t know? My dad’s no blue blood. He’s a hillbilly. I’ve got cousins who are married to each other. Dad’s disowned his whole family, but everyone who’s been around long enough knows he’s new money trash. He never would have gone to college if he wasn’t good at football. Then when he got to Vandy, he latched on to Uncle David, and the rest is history.”

“Uncle David?” I asked.

“Arch’s dad,” he said. “He was a snob like all the rest of them, but even snobs get starstruck by the starting fullback. And once Dad saw the way people like Uncle David lived, he went after it like he was running the ball against Alabama. Which is why people who don’t know any better assume he’s a fifth-generation Belle Meader, not a guy who grew up going barefoot nine months of the year.”

Jamie’s revelations about his father did not disillusion me; instead, they engendered even greater admiration and empathy. I knew exactly how Jim must have felt to come from nothing and find himself surrounded by people who had everything.