The Syndrome (14 page)

But what
was
memory, anyway? A jangle of neurons, rinsed in amino acids.

Removing the kettle from the flame, he told himself that he
really had to get in touch with himself, with who he was and where he’d been, with what he was doing and where he was going. And where better to begin, he thought, than at his high school reunion?

When the day came, he was jumpy. Even though he’d taken a tranquilizer, he worried that it wouldn’t be enough. So he washed down a tab of Unisom, a nonprescription sleeping pill, and waited for the combination to kick in.

As it happened, it was one of those perfect fall afternoons. Overhead, a diamond bright contrail bisected the ballpoint-blue sky.

The taxi was right on time. Climbing into the backseat, he noticed a pair of El Salvadoran flags above the rearview mirror and, without thinking about it, gave the driver directions in Spanish—a language he’d almost forgotten he knew. The driver shot him a smile, showing two front teeth rimmed in silver.

“The Friends’ school, no? I never have a fare to this one, but I know it—just north of the cathedral. Chelsea Clinton is attending this school, am I right? Before she is going to California.”

Duran nodded. The Buena Vista Social Club was on the radio and, leaning back, he closed his eyes and thought,
It’s gonna be okay.
And so it was—even though the traffic was a mess, Wisconsin Avenue snarled with trucks, cars making U-turns amid a chorus of horns, pedestrians bunched at the curbs like startled deer—and the driver yelping “Eee-pahhhh!” at every close encounter.

The banquet table in the Kogod Art Center was manned by a trio of friendly reps from each class at the reunion. Duran didn’t recognize any of them, but each had a red-rimmed name tag pressed to the fabric of her blouse. He greeted the woman who looked to be his own age, scrawled his name on an ’86 name tag, stripped the backing from it and slapped it on his lapel.

Moving to a paper-covered table, he poured four fingers of watery punch into a Dixie cup, took a bite of a chocolate-chip cookie, and looked over the Schedule of Events. There was a varsity football game at two, an alumni-student soccer match at four, Meeting to Worship, class photographs, workshops on this and that. At six, a buffet dinner.

He talked to a peppy ’56 alumnus, then drifted around toward the back of the school, where the athletic fields were. The football game—against the Model School for the Deaf—was already under way. And it was a spectacular day for pigskin, with a light breeze gusting out of the west, trees turning color under an agate-blue sky, temperatures in the fifties. And all around, an affable and stylish crowd lounged on the hillside overlooking the game. Duran was excited.
Crush the Deaf
, he thought, chuckling to himself as he glanced about in search of old chums.

According to the scoreboard, the Deaf were already up by a couple of touchdowns. But so what? He was in a terrific mood, and Sidwell was never very good at football, anyway. Leaning against the trunk of a towering black walnut, he sipped his punch and reflected on the miracle of what was, after all, a quintessentially American afternoon.

He really ought to get out more.

At the end of the quarter, he watched the players trot toward their benches, mouth guards dangling. And standing there in the sunlight, with one impossibly colored leaf after another spinning down to the crisp green lawn, he felt a surge of delight, a connectedness to these people, this place. Even though he himself was more of an observer than a participant in the whoops of recognition and embraces of reunion, everyone was friendly enough. Certainly, lots of smiles came his way.

And it felt good, good to be a part of something larger than himself. Good to feel connected. Good to belong.

A whistle trilled, and the footballers trotted back onto the
field, where they lined up against one another, the burgundy against the blue.

Being deaf, the Model students were oblivious to the quarterback’s count and the referee’s whistle. So a large drum had been brought to the field. Though the deaf couldn’t hear it, they could feel its vibrations—which were profound. Duran had noticed the drum—a gigantic thing near the 50-yard line—and guessed that it belonged to the marching band. But, obviously, it was much too big for anyone to carry. A gray-haired man in a powder-blue warm-up suit stood beside the instrument, brandishing a padded mallet whose business-end was as large as a grapefruit.

The Deaf’s quarterback, swiveling this way and that, signed a play. The players dropped into the three-point position, and tensed. Then the man in the warm-up suit swung his mallet, and the world trembled. No matter how distracted by the reunion around them, by offspring or urgent cell-phone calls, every spectator turned to the field in astonished unison. The sound was thunderous, a huge concussive boom. And the vibration was massive, a seismic tremor that rose through the soles of Duran’s feet, and rushed to his brain—where it reverberated like a tuning fork struck with a hammer.

Offense and defense collided in an explosive rush. Spectators laughed and cheered. But Duran—Duran felt as if he had lost contact with the ground. For whatever reason, the drum’s reverberation was like a hammer to his adrenals, sending a surge of panic through his bloodstream. Even as he launched himself toward the nearest door, he knew that his reaction was ridiculous. It was a drum, not an earthquake. But knowing that did nothing to slow his pulse, or quiet his heart.

Fumbling at the screen door to Zartman House, he nearly yanked it off its hinges as he plunged inside, and sank, trembling, into a blueberry-colored wing chair.

Jesus Christ
, he thought.
What’s going on? Where does it come from?

Breathing irregularly, he closed his eyes and put himself through the paces of a relaxation exercise. And sure enough,
it began to work. Within a minute or two, his breathing was almost normal.

Slowly, he looked around. Zartman was the oldest and most characteristic building on the tiny Sidwell “campus,” a modest stone house that had once been the entire school, but which now served as an administrative building.

Looking around, he saw that he was in a large and well-proportioned room, furnished with brass lamps, antiques and oil paintings. Then he heard the women’s voices, coming through the open door, volume rising as they approached. He shifted in his seat, as if to stand and greet them, but … no. He didn’t trust his legs. Not yet.

The screen door slapped shut, and one of the women said, “And he
bites.
He’s like a little cannibal!”

The second woman laughed.

“I keep telling him no more breast-feeding if he keeps
that
up, but he’s only eight months old—so it isn’t as if
threats
mean anything to him. And to tell you the truth …” She sighed. “I’m not ready to give it up myself, you know? I mean, not just yet.”

The wings of the chair kept him from seeing the women even with his peripheral vision. But he couldn’t avoid overhearing them, and wasn’t sure how to declare himself.

“I know exactly what you mean. Nobody told me it would be quite so … oh, I don’t know—sensual!”

“Ri-ight!
And—”

A high-pitched whoop cut through the air as the second woman realized that the two of them were not alone. In an instant, Duran was on his feet, hapless with apology. “Sorry! Really, I—I must have fallen asleep … I hope I didn’t frighten you or anything! Jeff Duran.” His hand shot out toward a knife-edged blonde whose name tag identified her as Belinda Carter, ’86. Same as he.

“Sorry about the theatrics,” she gushed, peering at his name tag. “But you scared the bejesus out of me, Jeffrey Duran.” And then, without losing a beat: “Still—it’s great seeing you … after all this while.”

She was beaming at him, and the other woman, a pretty brunette, stepped forward. Her name, he saw, was Judy Binney.

“Didn’t mean to break in on your hideout,” she told him, a little sheepishly. “I guess we all had the same idea.” She cocked her head for a better look at his face. “Were you the strong, silent type?” she asked, her lips bending to a flirtatious grin. “In school, I mean.”

Duran shrugged. “Well …”

“Because I don’t remember you,” she explained. “And I think I would.”

“I don’t think I was as silent then as I was just now,” Duran supposed. “I must have dozed off.”

“And woke up to Judy and me talking about
breast-
feeding!”

“Not really—what I woke to was a scream.”

They had a laugh about that, and spent the next few minutes talking about the oddness of reunions, the fact that twelve years really
was
a long time. Judy commented that despite the small size of the school, and the revved up intensity of emotions during high school—there weren’t that many people that she’d remained in touch with.

“It’s D.C. Everyone’s so transient!” Belinda declared. “And me, too.” She kissed Judy, patted Duran’s arm. “I have to go.”

“I can’t believe I don’t remember you,” Duran told Judy when Belinda had gone. “I mean, you must be some kind of late bloomer.”

“Really? Do you think so? Am I finally
blooming?
Wait till I tell Mr. M. He was always waiting for that.”

Duran thought she meant her husband, but of course she was talking about their academic adviser, the relentlessly sincere Nubar Mussurlian. Seeing him through the screen door, Judy tugged Duran outside so that she could tell her old adviser of her newfound efflorescence. Mr. M laughed, and shook hands with Duran, inquiring as to how the world was treating him.

“Pretty well, thanks. No complaints.”

“I’m trying to remember,” Mr. M said. “Where was it you went?”

“Brown,” Duran reminded him.

Mr. M nodded. “Of course.”

“And after that—Madison.”

“I think I may have had a hand in that. I’ve always been high on Wisconsin. Economics, wasn’t it?”

Duran shook his head. “Clinical psychology.”

“Well,” Mr. M chuckled, “that’s what reunions are for—so we can catch up with one another.”

The rest of the afternoon was pleasantly dull. There was Meeting to Worship, during which various alums stood up to share their thoughts on subjects as disparate as the Human Genome project, “sexual responsibility,” and efforts to eradicate bilharzia in Egypt.

The photo sessions for each of the three reuning classes were quick and professional, with a no-nonsense photographer manipulating the tableau in such a way that the African Americans were not in little clusters (as they tended to be), but dispersed throughout the crowd.

When the time came, Duran failed to recognize Bunny who, as it happened, looked nothing like the pert blonde that he’d imagined. On the contrary, she was one of the most predatory-looking women that Duran had ever seen, having a long, vulpine face and sharp yellow canines.

“Je-efffff!”
she exclaimed, and took him by the arm, dragging him from one knot of Friends to another. “You remember Jeff Duran! Well, here he is!” There was a good bit of forceful handshaking, chummy abrazos, a couple of pecks on the cheek.

“Anyone from basketball around?”

“I don’t remember who played
basketball
, Jeff! My God! Except … well, Adam Bowman, of course. He’s here.” And then her face lit up. “Did you know Adam lost a leg to bone cancer?” She produced the information with the zest of an insider.

Duran shook his head. “No. That’s … terrible.”

She nodded in agreement. “I don’t think he’s coping well, either.” She arched an eyebrow. “Refused an invitation to the Paralympics …”

Outside the cafeteria—site of the banquet—the walls displayed a montage of blowups from the yearbooks of classes in attendance. Duran searched for the ’86 varsity basketball squad—and there they were, or most of them, anyway. He himself was not in the picture. (As he recalled, he’d had strep throat or something.)

But the rest of the guys were there, standing under the backboard in the New Gym, its ceiling hung with IAC banners from the glory days. There was Sidran and Salzberg, Wagner and McRea. LaBrasca. And Adam Bowman, who went to Rice on a full scholarship, holding the ball in one hand, palm down.

Entering the cafeteria, Duran snagged a glass of red wine. Across the room, he spotted a jet-black giant who had to be Adam Bowman. Slowly, he made his way through the crowd to his old friend.

“Heyyy,” Duran said, sticking out his hand.

Bowman peered at his name tag. “Jeff! Great to see you, man!” A ferocious handshake. “Hey, Ron—say hello to Jeff Duran.”

Another manly handshake, and a brief exchange of pleasantries. Then Ron McRea turned back to the blonde on his arm, and Bowman resumed his conversation with Mr. M. They seemed to be talking about motivational speaking. After a minute or two, Duran drifted away, vaguely disappointed. It wasn’t that they’d been unfriendly. It was just that he’d expected some kind of—what? Camaraderie? Something.

He shrugged it off and sat down next to Judy Binney at the banquet table. She flirted with him over dinner and wine—which she drank rather a lot of. Then the coffee came, and there was a flurry of mercifully short speeches and reminders
of upcoming events and the fall fundraiser (‘Friends Stand Up!’).

Eventually, he found himself in the foyer of Zartman House beside Judy Binney, waiting for a taxi, while she peered outside for her husband’s BMW. Rain tapped at the windows.

More than a little drunk, Judy whispered into his ear—maybe
he’d
like to try a little breast-feeding? But then the BMW appeared, and Judy laughed it off, saying she was “only kidding.” Finally, she pecked him on the cheek, and promised to see him in 2005.

Five minutes later, his taxi arrived.

Outside the cab, the city slipped by, shiny in the rain. Tail-lights bled across the wet asphalt, while overhead, streetlights swarmed with drops of rain. Duran lay back in his seat, feeling out of sorts. The reunion had not been reassuring. Besides that little business with the drum—which was worrisome—his efforts to deepen his recall of the past had been a failure. While everyone had been pleasant and welcoming, he hadn’t been moved by anything he’d seen or anyone he’d met. On the contrary, he’d felt like an out-of-town guest at his host’s garden party. He was there by invitation, but he didn’t belong. And while the people he’d seen were vaguely familiar, his memories of them were fuzzy at best—as diffused and indistinct as the blond coronas around the streetlights.