The Last Gentleman

yet cleared of breakfast butter and molasses.
    â€œOf course you’re going with us,” he said to her, sending the Lincoln swooping along on its limber old springs.
    â€œHah. Not me, boy,” she cried, casting about her huffy coed glances.
    â€œI’m serious.”
    â€œI’m serious too.”
    â€œIs it all right with you, Jamie, if your sister goes?”
    â€œI don’t care who goes. But I’m going.”
    â€œWhy for God’s sake?” For the first time she spoke directly to her brother.
    â€œWhat do you mean, why?” he asked her irritably. “Does there have to be a why?”
    When Kitty did not answer and in fact began to blink back tears Jamie said: “I am not interested in seeing the Tennessee game.”
    â€œAnd I happened to know how much you like Chem 2. Bubba Ray Ross was telling me. I’ll bet you’ve heard too, haven’t you Billy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI am not interested in Chem 2,” Jamie said, “or 3 or 4.”
    â€œWell, what in the world are you interested in?” Kitty was smiling angrily and busily tucking her skirt under her knee and squaring away the world anthology on her lap.
    â€œI—ah. I just want to take this trip. No, to tell you the truth I’m going to transfer. I’ve already spoken to—it can be done.”
    â€œTransfer! Where? Where’re yall going to live—in the camper?”
    â€œI know this boy who goes to school in Albuquerque. In fact I heard from him yesterday. I correspond with him quite a bit. I could live with him, in fact.” After a moment he added: “His father has a shop of some sort. Out on the highway.”
    â€œOh, for heaven’s sake. Tell him, Billy.”
    â€œAll I want Jamie to tell me is whether he has made arrangements to live with somebody or whether he wants me to go with him.”
    â€œWell, I mean, if you want to.”
    â€œO.K.”
    â€œDo yall mean to tell me that you’re going to jump in that little truck and go out there and park it somewhere and just start going to school?”
    Jamie smiled and leaning forward spoke to both of them in a different voice. “I remember reading this novel in school last year, by a Russian writer. I think his name was Goncharov, or something like that, but he is a wonderful writer. Do you know him?”
    â€œNo,” said the engineer. Kitty did not answer.
    â€œHe’s really a good writer,” said Jamie, going back to his ashtray. “At least in this novel. It was about this young man who was a refugee or a prisoner, I forget which. He was traveling the whole length of Russia in a cattle car, along with hundreds of others. He was sick with brain fever, whatever that is, I have only come across brain fever in Russian novels. It was summer and they were crossing Siberia, day after day, weeks even. The car was crowded and he had one tiny corner and a bit of straw and that was all. And though he was quite ill and even delirious at times, the strange thing about it was that it wasn’t so bad. Through the slats of the car he could see the fields, which were covered by a little blue flower. And of course the sky. The train stopped often and peasant women would bring him bowls of blueberries and fresh warm milk—that was the peculiar thing about it, that even though he knew no one and the train only stopped for a few minutes at a time, somehow news of this young man traveled ahead of the train and they expected him. And though everybody else on the train became exhausted by the hardships of the trip, he actually got better! It was really good. I think it’s the best novel I ever read.”
    â€œThat’s fine, Jamie, that’s fine and I agree with you,” said Kitty peevishly. “But I still don’t see why—”
    The engineer interrupted her. “Are you coming?”
    â€œMe? No, indeed.”
    They were silent when the Lincoln turned up the links road. When Jamie got out into the garage, which smelled of wet concrete from David’s hosing, the engineer held Kitty.
    â€œWhat?” she said, still turned away and not quite managing a look back at him.
    â€œI want to tell you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOr rather ask you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI want you to come with us.”
    â€œAre you kidding?”
    â€œNo, I want you to marry me.”
    â€œIn the next thirty