Homefires (72 page)

Tonight, as I anticipated the thirtieth high school class reunion, I gazed at my husband, in snug peg-legged jeans, open
madras shirt collar peeking from navy blue sweater’s V-neck and polished loafers. “You are one cool dude,” I said,
feeling
every word.

“Still glad you married me?” Kirk murmured teasingly, yet his eyes were still flat.

My next words were as mechanical as Gilley’s Broncing Bull from the eighties. “I’d marry you, anyway,” I sang June Carter-like, “I’d have your ba-a-a-bies.”

“I’d do it all over, too,” he said, kissing me carefully, so as not to smear my Hot Red Berry lipstick or mess up my carefully disarrayed hair. “You’re as pretty as you were thirty years ago. No.
Prettier.”

“Thank you,” I said, playing the part, as, I was sure, he was. Heck, to quote Shakespeare, the whole
world
is a stage. Then I whispered, running my fingers through his still thick hair,
feeling,
“I’m glad you’re not one of those greasers.”

He chuckled, sounding as sexy as Clint Eastwood. “Never could stand that stuff.”

Kirk, the dream man, never came back. But,
hey!
For tonight, this version was no slouch. By the same token, Kirk’s dream woman, his Janeece of old, was lost to him forever. But the present facsimile could adapt to meet his ever-changing needs in her own unique way.

In that light, for the present, the scales balanced.

Anyway – I switched into the party-girl role – change keeps things interesting.

The Dixie Doo-Wop Band burst into
Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On
as our small committee began welcoming class arrivals. Their middle-aged male vocalist, whose raven-dyed pompadour spilled unapologetically to center forehead, had the chameleon ability to be Jerry Lee, Elvis or Conway Twitty, depending on the song. On this one, he belted out a hoarse, desperate Jerry Lee rendition, sweaty gyration and all.

Excitement buoyed and propelled me to greet familiar, as well as unfamiliar, faces. Mine and Kirk’s truce had lightened my heart. Kirk and I hadn’t been able to attend the twentieth class reunion and so were shocked at how the years had changed all of us. Tonight, we both scurried about, making everyone feel
welcome and comfortable. Every so often, Kirk would detour past me to sneak a kiss or “accidentally” rub against me. This was not unusual since, through everything, Kirk’s sexual attraction to me remained steadfast. A thing that befuddled me, at times, left me wondering how it could be so without love.

Tootsie Gilmore, a petite ex-cheerleader, now married for the second time, could have stepped from her class photo into the gymnasium tonight wearing her Chapowee Cheerleading costume, a full, flared crimson skirt and V-neck sweater over white turtleneck, with black and white saddle oxfords.

“
Holy Moly
, Tootsie,” I wailed, “you haven’t changed a lick!”

Her eyebrows shot up over her small tilted nose. “You have, Neecy – and I mean that as a compliment. You were always pretty, but age sets well on you, honey.”

I hugged Tootsie in everlasting gratitude as Callie, stunning in her white majorette costume and crimson-tasseled boots, grabbed her for a time of reminiscence. I gazed about me, at peers in their favorite high school attire, and felt a surge of incredible affection.

Callie rushed to clasp my hands in hers. “Last count is a hundred and
ten, Neecy.”
Her booted little leaps took me back to 1959 and made me laugh as I hadn’t in years. “Some of these guys haven’t been to either of the other reunions.” She chortled then and whispered, “Look at ol’ Nighthawk in his textile jacket. Not a bad fit after all this time. Lordy, Kirk hated him for rescuing him from the Grey High gang that night at our Junior-Senior Prom.” Her gaze lingered on the object of her comments longer than was usual for Callie. As if sensing detection, the handsome head turned. His gaze narrowed speculatively on Callie. Then began to glimmer.

“Wheww” I muttered, turning away, “I felt that jolt all the way across the room.” Cal merely looked thoughtful as Nighthawk sauntered in her direction.

You are My Special Angel
stopped me in my tracks. Nostalgia paralyzed and had me spinning and yearning backward to our senior prom night all those years back. Tonight, I started as Kirk’s hand, with just a touch, claimed me anew. And I was in his arms and we danced cheek to cheek and my soul yearned for it to be heart to heart, as when we were innocent teens.

Over Kirk’s shoulder, I spied Callie locked in Nighthawk’s embrace, her arms encircling his neck, chin resting on his shoulder, her eyes nearly closed in sentimental rapture. I grinned at her expressive features. Her misty gaze slowly roamed the crowd as she and Nighthawk moved together to the love song.

Suddenly, her eyes rounded in shock and she halted so abruptly Nighthawk nearly tripped over her. I glanced over my shoulder to see what had snared her attention.

“Oh, Kirk,” I gasped. “It ’
s Roger Denton.”

Callie rushed past us, leaving a bewildered partner in her wake as the song ended.

“Rog!” Callie shrieked and fell into his arms. Still lean, he wore his old football jersey with the big crimson C and pegged jeans. Kirk and I meandered closer to witness the reunion. Roger was, if possible, more handsome in middle age. His face, once pretty-boy, now bore character lines and shadows that defined it manly. His narrowed, gentle assessment of Callie’s tearful face moved him further into mellowed humanity. After their divorce, he’d been stationed in exotic places all over the world. Callie, eventually, lost all touch with him. Last account, he’d not remarried.

Arm in arm, they moved to a quiet corner to catch up. I sighed, blinked back tears and gazed up at Kirk, whose unreadable gaze searched my features. “Tender-hearted Neecy,” he murmured. After a moment, I decided it was not an unfavorable observance.

I snuffled hugely and delicately blotted beneath my eyes. “Is my mascara smeared?” I whispered, wishing I’d not revealed my insecurity to him. Kirk assured me it wasn’t.

The band struck up
That Old Time Rock and Roll.
“You game?” Kirk asked.

“Why not?” I took his hand and we ventured into a not-soswift shag that had us laughing like doofuses until out of breath. “Whew,” I groaned, “age is telling on me.”

“How many of you have still got
the stuff
?” roared the emcee’s voice over the intercom. “Time for our shag contest. Winners get the two hundred-dollar jackpot! Contest begins in ten minutes. So guys, go grab your gals and
get ready to show us your stuff
.”

Kirk and I peered at each other. I wiggled my nose and we burst into laughter. One thing we agreed on: our dancing would win no prizes.

“Hey!” I gazed around the gym. “Where’s Cal. She wanted to enter this. She and Nighthawk didn’t do too badly.” I ignored Kirk’s dark reaction to the name and began searching. Five futile minutes later, we met at the entrance.

“You stay right here,” Kirk insisted. “I’ll scout around.”

I glanced at the big wall clock. Only three minutes left until deadline. During that time, the Dixie Doo-Wop Band played
Rebel Rouser
.

The entrance door burst open. Kirk grabbed my arm and pulled me through it.

“Kirk!” I dug in, irritated at the heavy-handedness of it. “What – ”

His fingers dug into my wrists and I noticed his stunned expression. “Neecy, you won’t believe it.” He tugged me outside, away from air-conditioning into the sultry May night where crickets sang, nearly tripping me over something on the lawn shortcut to the rear of the school gym.

Around the corner we careened and nearly collided with three dark silhouettes hovering in the shadows of the brick structure. Kirk brought me to an abrupt halt.

“Neecy.” Callie, silver-gilded by a distant nightlight, gazed at me with a strange expression on her face. Roger, somber as a handsome movie-Mafia character, shifted closer to her and I noticed a supportive arm go around her waist.

Then my gaze slashed to the other dark, bigger, rounder shape. The shadow moved and the movement took my breath as my vision acclimatized to darkness and the features began to take form. “Neecy?” it said, the voice so familiar my head spun.

“Oh, my
God.”
My hands slapped my cheeks. Goosebumps rose up on my chilled flesh. I felt Kirk’s arms slip around me from behind, supporting me as my legs began to give way. “It
can’t
be!”

“’Fraid so, Neecy,” the specter said, moving to within breathing distance of me to reveal a goofy grin and half-mooned eyes –

“Oh Lord,”
I moaned. “
Moose.”
I burst into tears and heard Callie join me as I squalled like a baby.

A big hand gently reached out to pat my arm. “Lordy, Neecy,” Moose muttered, “didn’t mean to scare you so bad.” His large shoulders gave a frumpy shrug. “I s’pose ‘shock’ is a better word.”

Callie and I finally wound down to snuffling and gaping at Moose as though he’d grown three heads. “W-why are we standing out here in the dark?” I asked in a shrill voice.

“Cause I felt kinda funny ‘bout just showing up – y’know, a’ter all the worrying I put ya’ll through an’ all.”

Moose shifted his bulk, now at least thirty pounds heavier than the last time we’d seen him. “Thang is – I’m back.” The shoulders lifted, then fell limply. “I’m tired a’runnin’.”

“Running?” Kirk tensed. “Those drug people were arrested and – ”

“Yeah. I know.” Moose’s voice sounded dead. “Only I just found out from Roger.”

Kirk frowned and stepped toward Moose. “How’d you and Roger connect?”

Rog spoke for the first time. “I ran into him in San Diego about six months ago, while I was on a business trip. We got each other’s addresses and kept in touch. When I read about the class reunion in our local newspaper – I always bought one at the corner newsstand – I phoned Moose about it. When Moose explained his precarious situation, I convinced him to come out of hiding.”

Suddenly, joy caught up to us and we began to laugh and hug Moose and bawl like three-year-olds
,
even Kirk had misty eyes.

Like the old Dead End Kids, we entered the gymnasium punching and poking and laughing together as though no world existed beyond us. Then some others spotted Moose and kidnapped him to catch up on the years.

My gaze sought out Callie and Roger, who, again, pulled aside to talk quietly, soberly. I resisted running to her, even as everything in me ached to commiserate with her over Moose’s lost years, afraid of interrupting whatever she and Rog had going. Few had been Cal’s references to Rog through the years but each carried regrets.

After that, the rest of the evening was anti-climactic. Kirk retreated into a world of glacial silence and brooding features.
Oh, he asked me to dance to the slow songs. But his mind definitely simmered to other directions.

“What’s wrong, Kirk?” I whispered during one dance.

He raised his splendid head – more handsome tonight than ever – his eyes grazing my features as though hunting down a microscopic intruder to exterminate. Finding none, his gaze softened. “It’s just – Moose’s showing up...everything is so danged unbelievable.” He sighed and pulled me back into his close embrace, shuffling his feet in time with Connie Francis singing about “Where the Boys are.”

“Isn’t it?” I pressed my nose to Kirk’s neck and inhaled his Halston scent. “How in the world did Moose manage it – keeping his whereabouts from everybody all these years?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” Kirk’s quiet reply was edged in steel.

My head whipped up. “You aren’t angry with Moose, are you?” Though, in all honesty, I was beginning to feel the first stirrings of anger myself. Moose could have let us know he was all right even if he’d wanted to keep his whereabouts unknown. I just didn’t want Kirk to light into our friend on his first night back.

Kirk’s gaze moved beyond me, grew far off. “I don’t know how I feel. I’ve gotta think about things for a while.”

We – our gang – managed to migrate back into the remainder of the evening’s festivities, determined not to let fate cheat us out of one more moment in time. Kirk and I braved the medley of old dances, including the Stroll, the Twist, Hand Jive, Shag and regular old Jitterbug.

My husband and I muddled through the Stroll, but during the Twist, I did a fancy pivot away and slowly twitched my way around to find myself stranded on the dance floor. Hands on hips, I cast Callie, now grinding her feet into the polished floor with Rog, a disgusted
oh well!
look and dropped out.

“Why’d you just disappear?” I sniped at Kirk, irritated at his embarrassing vanishing act.

“Hmm? Oh – I didn’t know how to do that dance,” he said absently. “You know I’ve got two left feet.” Did I ever? He’d not even taken umbrage at my nagging tone. Amazing. I watched him aimlessly wander off, his gaze faraway. Remote. Troubled. Alarm took hold of me.