The Yearbook (5 page)

Chief Hayes lit up a cigarette and pulled a clean ashtray out of a drawer. Then he asked a few basic
who, what, when, where, why
questions. But he didn’t ask me about the sunken face or the hollowed-out body. I figured he mustn’t have noticed. After a few days in the warmish weather, surrounded by animals, the body must have been in an advanced stage of … well, not
whole
enough to seem unusual.

I counted the butts that piled up in his ashtray and lost track at seven. The fan was useless against the thick smoke. My eyes stung, and I began coughing.

“Sorry, bud.” Chief Hayes stood up, stubbing out his cigarette, and started opening windows. “I don’t normally smoke — quit four years ago.”

“It’s okay,” I rasped.

“In case you’re wondering,” he added, sitting back down, “I don’t normally run stop signs, either.”

Or cry,
I wanted to say.

“Over forty years in the force,” he said, “and it’s still hard to see something like that.”

I nodded.

He fiddled with his pen, deep in thought, then pointed to an old framed photo on the wall. “Go over and take a good look at that.”

I did. It was a group portrait of a Wetherby High School basketball team, the paper yellowed with age and drooping. In the center stood a young, much rounder Chief Hayes. Next to him was the only smiling person on the team, a skinny black kid who towered over all the rest. His arm was resting comfortably on Chief Hayes’s shoulder.

“Notice how many boys of color on that team?” he asked.

“Two,” I said.

“Me and Reggie Borden. I wasn’t much of a player, but Reggie was six five, a hundred thirty, and had a mean jump shot. Also a mouth like an outboard motor, and a mind like a trap. Funny, too. He used to say that jokes were his ammunition. Couldn’t decide whether to be a philosopher, professor, or doctor. Or all. Around here, in the forties and fifties, black people didn’t think in those terms. Even though some of our families had been here for generations.”

“The Underground Railroad,” I said.

Chief Hayes smiled. “You’ve been doing your Jonas Lyte homework. Well, Reggie was headed for college, and kids were jealous of him — white and black. Our school had what we called ‘secret societies’ back then — high-toned frats, really. A couple were racist gangs, and they
really
hated Reggie. Me, I was a terrible student, and I didn’t feel worthy of him — like maybe he was my buddy
only
because of my skin color. I found out I was wrong.…” His voice drifted off.

I couldn’t believe Chief Hayes was telling me all this. A minute ago I’d have been grateful for a brief exchange about the weather. “What happened to him?” I asked.

Chief Hayes rose and stared out the window. “One day Reggie didn’t show up at school. His parents didn’t know where he was. After a week, the police — all white, of course — conducted a search, when they could be drawn away from their busy schedule of parking tickets. After another week, they concluded he’d run away from home. End of case. Well, some people figured Reggie was kidnapped by one of those racist groups. A lawyer tried to bring a suit, but it was dropped for lack of evidence. I was angry. I decided then and there I would be a cop someday. And that was when I realized how Reggie had influenced me. Before I met him, my idea of the future was tomorrow morning. He’d have been proud.…”

Chief Hayes had to clear his throat before going on. “Anyway, three other students were reported missing right afterward — and they were all white. The weird thing is, those kids were found.”

“Alive?”

“Dead. Their bodies were disintegrating by the drainpipe in the Ramble.”

I felt a shiver. A question popped to mind. “Chief Hayes, when did this all happen?”

Chief Hayes turned from the window and looked me in the eye for the first time. “Spring of 1950, David. Right after the earthquake.”

C
HIEF
H
AYES DROVE ME
back to school. Afterward, I went straight to the library to ask Mrs. Klatsch a few things.

“Reggie who?” was her response to my first question.

I leaned over her desk and repeated, “Borden. He was a senior in 1950 — basketball star, African-American …”

“The fellow who disappeared! Yes, of course.” Mrs. Klatsch raised a wary eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you want to play sleuth, David. You know, Pudgy Hayes was his best friend, and he spent years looking into it.”

“Pudgy?”

“Charles Hayes. He’s now the police chief.”

I loved it. Chief Pudgy. Officer Pudge. The blackmail potential was fantastic. “Uh, what did he find?”

“Just rumors: Reggie was a small-time convict in Seattle, a beggar in Chicago.… All nonsense, of course. I’d be less surprised if he were a college professor or a company president — even a movie star.” She chuckled and stood up from her desk. “Well, you’re welcome to try to find what no one else has, David. I’ll get you microfilms of the 1950 newspapers. We may have a copy of that year’s
Voyager
in the Local History section.”

I was determined to find out about Reggie Borden and his disappearance. Were the events of 1950 connected to this year’s? How could they be? A kidnapper or murderer from back then might be pushing a walker now.

Still, you never knew.

I found the yearbook and looked through it. Under Reggie’s senior photo was the name
REGINALD PHILIP BORDEN III
and a long list of activities. In the book’s front section I found the same basketball team photo that had been hanging on Chief Pudgy’s wall. Reggie was also in photos of the Glee Club, the Key Club, the Honor Society, the Prom Committee, and the “Masque and Wig.” That last one, which was the drama club, had a two-page spread. The play that year was an Agatha Christie mystery, and one photo showed Reggie emerging from a trick bookcase that turned on a central pivot.

The book was noncirculating, so I photocopied everything I needed. Then, when Mrs. Klatsch came back with two spools of microfilm, I buried my face in the machine and read until I was bleary-eyed. I made these copies, from the two newspapers:

(Boston Globe,
February 8)

A minor quake topped trees, set a major fire, and rattled nerves in Wetherby, a sleepy village known primarily for its witch trials of three centuries ago.

(
Wetherby Herald
, February 12)

In the wake of Friday’s tremor, I have heard residents call our village “cursed.” Though others judge us harshly by our history, we residents must celebrate our uniqueness. A quake in New England can be a source of public relations and pride! Yes, our fault can be our virtue!

(Same issue, Letter to the Editor)

Dear Sirs:

We must not ignore the menace in our own backyard! I am flabbergasted at those who accept the preposterous idea that an earthquake occurred in Wetherby, when there is ample proof of a secret underground Communist stronghold, assembling and testing nuclear weapons.…

(
Wetherby Herald
, February 20)

The County Bureau of Investigation today announced findings of a covert organization recruiting juvenile members. This group, believed to be led by outside-Communist agitators, held meetings in the Wetherby High School basement, which has been sealed until further notice.

(
Wetherby Herald
, April 20)

A 17-year-old Negro boy, Reginald P. Borden, has been reported missing for four days. Reginald, a WHS senior, is 6 feet 3 inches tall and 132 pounds and has been active in sports and dramatics. Wetherby police are seeking clues.

(
Boston Globe
, April 23)

Yesterday, in a wooded area bordering Wetherby, Mass., a hiker discovered clothing fragments and human remains, later identified as belonging to three missing high school students: Walter Dusenberg, Maria Perez, and Benjamin Forsythe. A classmate of theirs, Reginald Borden, also missing, is being sought as a possible murder suspect.…

(
Wetherby Herald
, April 25)

Wetherby police are investigating possible clues linking the disappearance of Reginald Borden, the tragic deaths of three high school students, and a recently uncovered organization thought to be subversive.…

(Wetherby Herald,
November 19)

Following a study by the Army Corps of Engineers, which suggested an underground testing of explosives could have set off last winter’s tremor, a team of geologic experts has discovered what appears to be a collapsed limestone vault approximately forty feet under the town common.…

(Wetherby Herald,
December 6)

It’s true. The mineral content of our soil has suffered greatly this year. Levels of iron, potassium, and especially calcium are historically low. Why? Perhaps the postwar boom is taxing our resources. But whatever the reason, be sure to stock up on fertilizer at the Farrell Nursery.…

I didn’t know where all this stuff was going to lead, but I knew it would lead somewhere.

I kept copies of the clippings, thanked Mrs. Klatsch, and went home to think.

R
ICK WAS DEAD.
T
HE
news hit WHS like a sledgehammer. Classes were cancelled on Tuesday. The hallways rang with sobbing on Wednesday. We had “grief seminars” with the school psychologist, plus an assembly about safety. I’d never seen so many parents picking up their kids after school.
No one
went out at night.

Chief Hayes had left me out of the official report — for my own safety, he said. Ariana grilled me about my visit with him, but she agreed to keep it a secret.

I felt miserable. My secret festered inside me, until I felt like screaming the truth. I didn’t know how I’d make it through the week.

On Thursday morning, an old VW van full of yearbook cartons pulled up to the school. Right on schedule. At least Mr. Brophy hadn’t been affected by the murder.

As I carried a carton into the office, a senior named Jason Herman ran up alongside of me. His smile was the first I’d seen in a while.

“Is this it?” Jason asked. “
The
day?”

“Yep,” I replied, placing the carton on the office floor. “And you’re the first customer. Are you paid up?”

“I think. I forgot.”

“Excuse me!” Ariana chimed in as she, John, Rosie, and Rachel barged by me carrying boxes.

A moment later Ariana and Smut ran back out. “I’ll get the last box,” Ariana told him. “You get the hand trucks.”

They split. (Smut is
so
obedient.)

From Mr. DeWaart’s desk, I grabbed our computer printout of the senior class. I riffled through and read:

“Paid by check.” I grabbed a box, ripped it open, and pulled out a yearbook. “You’re all set. Enjoy.”

“All
right
!” Jason walked away, leafing through the book.

“Is he gone?” John whispered, peeking out of the yearbook office.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Why?”

“If I hear him complain one more time about how he got rejected from every college because they’re not looking for psych majors — ”

“He got waitlisted at one place,” Rachel called from inside the office.

“Hallelujah,” Rosie cheered.

Ariana came back in with the last box. “I just saw Jason with a book,” she said.

“Yeah, he’s paid,” I replied.

She dropped the box inside the office. “You’re not supposed to give them out individually. Each box goes to a specific homeroom. There’s a list of paid-up kids inside each one.”

“Oops — ”

“Do something
right
for a change, okay?”

“I — I didn’t know, all right?”

“Hey, whoa, chill out,” John said. “We’re all a little upset, but we have to stay cool with each other.…”

Ariana sighed. “Yeah. Sorry, David — ”

Smut came roaring into the lobby, wheeling two hand trucks. “Load ’em up! We’ve got about eight minutes.”

We stacked boxes on the trucks and quickly rolled them into the hallways. The six of us were able to distribute the books quickly to the eight senior homerooms.

When we got back, Jason was waiting.

He did not look happy.

“What’s the idea?” he said, holding the book open to us.

Jason, in case you hadn’t guessed, had missed the yearbook photo shoot, which meant he’d become a Bananahead.

“You asked for it, David,” Ariana murmured.

“Jason,” I said with my smoothest nice-guy smile, “it was only meant as a joke.…”

“A
joke?
Putting this …
thing
over my name?”

I held my breath to avoid laughing, which would have really upset Jason. Then I glanced where he was pointing.

The Bananahead was nowhere to be seen.

Above Jason’s name was a black-and-white photo of a shrunken human face. It was festooned with dried flesh, and blood dripped from its mouth.

My jaw fell open. It looked like Rick — or what was left of him in the Ramble.

Behind me, Ariana sucked in air. Smut said, “How did that get there?”

“I have my ideas,” Jason slammed the book shut and gave him an angry smirk. “Subconscious hostility toward me … repressed envy … maybe whoever did this had inadequate love as a child. But you know what? I don’t care. You give me my money back. My mom’s a lawyer, you know, and you can expect to hear from her.”

“Just a minute.” Feeling numb, I walked into the
Voyager
office. Mr. DeWaart was sitting at his desk, staring at an open yearbook.