Reunion at Red Paint Bay (16 page)

“A man came in Tuesday afternoon when you were all out back, and he had the information already written up the way he wanted it, so I rushed it in since we didn’t have any other obits for the week.”

“You didn’t check his sources?”

She looked over to Margaret for help. “I didn’t know we check sources on obits.”

“That’s because funeral homes send them in. This one just walked in the door. Anybody could come
in and place an obit saying someone died when they haven’t.”

Barbara looked shocked. “You mean the woman isn’t dead?”

“That’s not the point.
Suffered a brutal attack
—that didn’t strike you as a claim you should question?”

“Yes—I mean no, it didn’t then, but it should have, yes. Should I call the police to see if they have any record of it?”

“No,” Simon said, “it was twenty-five years ago. There wouldn’t be any record of it. Besides, the obit has run.”

He runs the shower
as hot as the faucet allows and rubs the fresh bar of soap over his body in long sweeps of his hand. An Irish Spring scent seeps into his skin. He stands under the blistering spray as long as he can take it and then shuts off the faucet. He dries himself, then drapes the wet towel over the curtain rod, one quarter inside, just enough to hold it on, the rest on the outside to dry. His whole self appears to him now in the full length of the door mirror. It’s been so long since he’s seen himself like this. His thin body has filled out over the years, rounding his shoulders, thickening his thighs. He brushes a hand slowly down his chest, following the line of dark hair to his rounded stomach, then farther down. He has a few minutes to spare.

———

It is a casual affair
, the twenty-fifth reunion of Red Paint High. Women in slimming black slacks and colored tops. Men in Dockers pants and L.L. Bean shirts, the same as they have been wearing for decades. Paul comes down the broad stairway of the inn in dark jacket and gray slacks, complemented by a modest tie, maroon in color, asserted by a gold pin stuck in the center. He looks prosperous and well fed, a man who has gone off from Red Paint and done well for himself. Just outside the dining room door stands Gus, the six-foot-high wooden black bear in overalls, with a menu protruding from his belly. Paul scratches under the bear’s chin, as everyone in town always did for good luck, and enters through the double doors.

“Excuse me, have you registered?” He turns toward a woman outfitted in the high school colors, black top and red jacket. Her badge says Marge Francoeur, Class Secretary. He vaguely remembers her, a thin girl rushing down the hallways with her books clutched to her chest. “If you’ve registered then just fill out a name tag. Everyone has to have a name tag.”

He imagines a world in which everyone wears his name on his chest. It would be difficult to go unnoticed in such a life. There are eyes everywhere now—street corners, hallways, stores, parking lots. One must assume that
at any given moment he is being watched and recorded, his behavior stored in some vast database, waiting to be retrieved when needed. It takes cunning not to be recognized. Paul takes a label and prints on it, in block letters, with a thick black pen. Then he strips off the backing and smacks the sticky paper to his lapel.

Marge leans over the table to see. “
Guess Who?
—that’s a good one.” She studies his face. “Bill Edison, right?”

Paul shrugs, the mysterious guest, and drifts into the sea of red-and-black balloons, red-and-black streamers, red-and-black tablecloths and napkins. He pours himself a cup of water at the folding table marked
NON-ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES
and sidles into the crowd, blending in, preparing a face to greet the people that he’ll meet. He is sure he won’t be identified. He can be whoever he wants—a jovial sort, a studious academic, a back slapper, or his most comfortable self, the aloof observer taking it all in but not drawn in. Of this reunion but not a part of it.

By the small stage stands Simon Howe, holding forth, a shock of thick brown hair waving across his brow. So very satisfied with himself. Next to him a blond woman lingers at his shoulder, nodding animatedly at every word. Not Amy. Paul scans the room for her, at the groups of threes and fours. He thought he would have to take care not to be spotted by her, but he senses now her absence. Is it possible that she stayed home watching their son, fearful these days of leaving
him alone? Simon glances over, his eyes spanning the ten steps or so between them, locks on Paul for a fleeting moment, then moves on. No recognition, just as he counted on. He slips across the room, catching bits of conversation and laughter from people who consider it great sport to make fun of their former awkward selves, forgetting how painful it was to actually be them. He sees a single man holding a plastic cup of dark liquid, and they make eye contact. The loner lofts his drink in the air, as in a toast. Paul does, too, but neither of them moves toward the other.

He turns and finds himself suddenly in a group, three women and a man. “Join us,” the fellow says, “I’m outnumbered here.” Paul nods and they laugh for a moment at his name tag, but no one bothers to try to figure out who he is. They assume he is a spouse, of only tangential importance to this reunion. They go around the small circle, stating their professions as if it is their identity—a mason, a receptionist, an emergency room nurse, and last, a mother of four. “All boys,” she says with a sardonic tone, as if
you know how that is
.

He doesn’t know and moves away from them, finds an open space by the memorabilia table stacked with yearbooks and newspaper clippings. A man wearing a red-and-black scarf draped over his shoulders pushes past Paul to the microphone and taps it. “Is this on? Can you hear me?” Everyone nods and waves. “Can I have your attention, folks? I’m Stephen Greer. In case your
memory is a little shaky, I ran for class president senior year, not realizing it was a lifetime position. So here I am now, the moderator of our Red Paint High reunion.” Greer clears his throat, readying himself for his speech. “Twenty-five years ago it was the best of times and the worst of times for us. We finally earned our diplomas and were ready to make our mark in the world, but at the same time we faced a terrible tragedy, the unthinkable happening to one of our own. Let’s have a moment of silence in memory of our always cheerful friend, Stanley Dumas, who left the world as he lived it, at high speed.” The voices in the room go silent, but behind the platform there’s the sound of dishes being stacked in the kitchen and one gruntlike laugh. “All right,” Greer says looking over his shoulder with annoyance, “we’ll get to the dancing in a little bit, but before that we’re going to take a stroll down memory lane. If you haven’t submitted a question yet, there are three-by-five cards on the registration table. Write down your memories of the good old days, and do it in the form of a question. We’ll see who has the best memory.”

Jean did, of course, hands down. But she isn’t there to play the game. Paul maneuvers his way to the cardboard table by the entrance and takes a few cards.

When the class president
steps to the microphone a half hour later, Paul is standing just a few yards from
Simon. When he moves to get a drink or hug an old friend, Paul moves, too, a shadow.

“Okay, folks, give me your attention,” Greer says, “I’m going to read some questions, and if you know the answer, just call it out. I’ll start things off with one of my own: What did Jimmy Doyle ask Mr. Cox on his first day in physics class?”

“Why did the chicken cross the Möbius strip?” comes the call from several directions.

“And the answer?”

“To get to the same side,” the voices reply.

“Right, that was Jimmy for you. Here’s another one: What did Mr. Kerwin say when he picked up the ticking package in chemistry class?”

“Holy shit!” A chorus, everyone joining in, the favorite class moment of senior year.

“Right again. Let’s see if we can’t find a harder one.” Greer shuffles the cards. “What did the National Merit Scholar get away with on graduation night?” He looks puzzled. “We had a National Merit Scholar? I didn’t know that. Who was it—Sherri, Sherri Tate?” He surveys the crowd and keys in on a woman with black hair knotted halfway down her back. She shakes her head regretfully, swishing the hair side to side, her signature move, no doubt. “No?” Greer says. “Then who?”

“Simon was,” comes a call from just a few feet away, the voice of the pretty blond woman standing next to him.

Greer tilts the microphone that way. “Simon Howe, the editor in chief of the finest newspaper in Red Paint, were you a National Merit Scholar?”

Simon leans out of the pocket of people where he’s standing and waves. A self-effacing little gesture. So modest of him.

“Then I guess this question is about you. Want to confess what you …” and here Greer checks the card, “… 
got away with on graduation night
? Something more scandalous than drinking rum and Coke in the bushes?”

Simon shrugs, retreats into his group.

“Okay,” Greer says, “the next card asks, Who sneaked off to the dock during the graduation party, and what did he do there? Another graduation question. Any takers?” There are wondering glances and shaking heads. “That’s a stumper. Moving on: Why didn’t anyone listen when the girl on the dock … All right then,” Greer says, slipping the cards into his jacket, “we’ll stop there. Strike up the music!”

Simon leaves abruptly
, weaving past the suddenly swaying bodies in the ballroom and pushing out through the heavy doors. Paul follows at a suitable distance, in the shadows of the path leading to the parking lot. He gets in the Lumina, waits till the other car starts up, then trails the red taillights onto the
entrance road. He speeds up, draws closer, and turns on his brights. The car ahead slows, and he does, too. When the car speeds up again, he does also, the bright lights sweeping over it. A little farther and the car stops. After a moment Simon gets out and shakes his fist in some vague threat. Paul dims his lights for a moment, as if in apology, then turns on the brights again. Simon starts for him, but not very fast, not quite sure he should challenge whatever lies in wait for him. Paul revs his engine and hits the accelerator.
Are you watching, Jean? Am I doing this right?
The car bucks a little, then barrels down the dark, narrow road.

He felt odd
walking across the parking lot of the Bays-water Inn without Amy, as if there was an imbalance to him, the lack of a counterweight. And what would his classmates think? Why would he come to the reunion without his wife when they live only a few minutes from the inn?

“Simon?” came the call from behind him, and there was Holly Green coming down the gravel path, alone herself.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked as she caught up.

“Home with Jenny. Where’s Amy?”

“Home with Davey.”

“So,” she said, linking her arm in his, “we can walk in together, cause a stir.”

When they reached the front door of the inn she turned toward the bay, about fifty yards down the winding drive. “I saw the obituary,” she said.

“You didn’t know about Jean?”

“No, we were distant cousins. We only kept in touch at Christmas. I know she got married to that guy a year behind us who was always following her around. I never understood why she did that. She said she found him a little creepy.”

Voices came from the parking lot, and Simon moved Holly away from the front door into the darkness. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he didn’t want to be heard. “You drove her home on graduation night,” he said just above a whisper as the voices passed them by.

“She told me she wasn’t feeling well, like she was having a bad period and was embarrassed, that’s why she didn’t ask you.”

The moon emerged from behind the clouds, and a milky light illuminated the dock. Simon was surprised at how clearly it could be seen from so far away.

“The obituary,” Holly said, “it mentioned a brutal attack twenty-five years ago.”

“I don’t know what that was about,” Simon said. He let a few moments go by for Holly to say something. When she didn’t he said, “Do you?”