“We’re going to need more room, aren’t we?” she said. “Let’s shove these two tables together.” As she rose, three men from a nearby booth leaped up to help.
Sheila had been our homecoming queen, elected by the football team. I could still picture her riding across the field on the back of a convertible at halftime, wearing a fox stole, waving to the excited crowd. The stole was real fur, borrowed annually from Dr. Weston’s wife. At the fifty-yard line, Max Keeler, captain of the team and her steady boyfriend, presented her with a bouquet of red roses and a chaste kiss.
It could have been me.
Sue seemed to read my mind. “Think she’ll bring up homecoming? We all knew you should have been queen. If Dusty . . .”
I shook my head. “You know as well as I do the team always picked the captain’s girlfriend.”
“But Dusty was captain the year before and the guys really looked up to him—more than Max Keeler, that’s for sure. Anyway, quite frankly, my dear, they would have voted for you.”
“Forget it, Sue. Long time ago.”
“Anyone here know the Beemer fight song?” A wiry, blond man wearing an electric-blue cowboy shirt complete with fringe and pearl buttons over faded blue jeans and high-heeled boots burst into the room. Safely tucked under his arm was a small woman with black hair that curled around her face and the metabolism of a humming bird.
“It’s Ken! Howdy, Cowboy Ken!” We jumped up to hug him and meet his wife Marjorie. Ken’s face had more lines than I remembered but the easy grin and sparkling eyes were unchanged.
We studied the large plastic list of food options and made cholesterol jokes. I decided on the double Buster burger with fries and a Diet Pepsi and flipped the menu shut. “Where are the famed couple and Glory?” I asked Sue, who was wavering among the salad selections.
“John and Kay are at the church. They’ll see us tonight. And Gloria can’t come into town until later—her granddaughter hit a deer.”
“Car? Bullet? Glory’s busy skinning a buck and carving out venison steaks?”
A voice accustomed to the open range overpowered Sue’s answer. “Look, Marj.” Ken pointed to his menu. “They have tenderloins. You have to get one.”
“Okay.” She winked at me. “Every time we’re in Iowa, Ken tells me how wonderful the tenderloins are. I keep trying them but . . .”
“Some are better than others,” I told her. “There’s a place near Cedar Rapids that’s famous for them.” I didn’t tell her the grilled, unbreaded version she chose needed more grease to be good.
Conversation ranged around what everyone was doing, had done, might do. No one mentioned Dusty until Marjorie, the one among us who didn’t notice his absence, brought up his death and unleashed the stories. I thought of the funeral filled with sobbing teenagers and so many flowers the local florist ran out. I hated lilies to this day. Since none of the churches was big enough to handle the crowd, they held the services in the school gymnasium. Dusty’s parents ignored me and acted as though his death were my fault, certain he’d have been home in his bed if I hadn’t wanted to go to the dance. Sue and Gloria sat next to me, anxious to supply shoulders to cry on, handkerchiefs, comforting words. They told me everything would be okay. None of us believed it. After that day, I put Dusty’s promise ring in my jewelry box. It was still there. Marvin had never asked about it, and I’d never brought it up.
Sue jabbed a finger into my shoulder. “Here comes Judy. What on earth is that she’s wearing? Her nightgown?”
Judy, dressed in a white, flowing, expensive-looking tunic top, glided toward us, careful not to brush against anything. Her hair was graying and permed into tight curls, making her look like a show poodle. She seated herself at the end of the table and gave us as much of a smile as Botox allowed. “Jerry’ll be along in a few minutes. He’s watching the end of the soccer match—Germany and Great Britain.”
Sue and I exchanged glances. “You think he has a bookie on speed dial?” she murmured into my ear.
Judy claimed she didn’t want anything to eat—they’d be going to a nice place later—but would take a glass of white zinfandel.
Our waitress, a friendly young girl who said her name was Angie, looked pleased. “Good,” she said, “that’s the kind we have.”
Judy spread her left hand on the table, and Ken obliged her by claiming to be blinded by the diamond. I thought of the modest engagement ring it had replaced. In our early teens Judy and I had spent hours in front of jewelry store windows debating the advantages of round versus emerald cuts, platinum versus gold settings. Marvin would have bought me a larger diamond but I was too sentimental to give up the original. It was home now in my jewelry box—next to the promise ring.
Angie brought our sandwiches and served the wine with a flourish. At the first sip, Judy made a face. “My God, what is this stuff?”
On cue Jerry, who now had thinning hair and a growing middle, followed his cologne into the room. The gray fuzz on the end of his tanned chin looked like fruit gone bad. He recounted soccer highlights, and Ken was polite enough to listen. “No lunch for me,” Jerry said, waving away the menu. “We’re going to a nice place later. But I’d like a glass of the zin.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Judy said with a shudder.
Sue poked me again. “Guess what, my dear, poor Jerry’s going to be reduced to drinking Bud Light.”
“People like this are put here to test us,” I said.
Angie checked on us several times. “Anyone save room for dessert?”
A chorus of no’s, including my reluctant one. Then I remembered. “What kind of pie do you have?” I asked.
“Pumpkin and apple.”
“Homemade?”
“Sure, by Mrs. Someone. I recommend the apple. It’s the most recently thawed.”
I passed.
Marjorie asked for something chocolate. Obviously pleased, Angie described the Chocolate Delite, a brownie topped with ice cream and chocolate sauce and even a cherry.
Marjorie nodded solemnly. “Is the ice cream chocolate?”
I was going to like this woman.
Twenty-Two
The main event was scheduled for six o’clock at El Casa Grande, our former hangout. Located at the edge of town and therefore accessible only by car, it had been the cool place for the older kids. Sue offered to be the designated driver, which saved me from an evening of worrying about negotiating icy roads. I wore my black slacks and red cashmere sweater and did what I could with my hair. The night was cold but not snowy and I risked leaving the heavy boots behind.
El Casa Grande’s parking lot was one-third full. Out of habit, I checked the crowd as we slipped through the entrance. No teenagers tonight, just graying hair. The place still had the rustic theme—knotty pine walls decorated with wagon wheels and pictures of cowboys and cactus. Grease motes hung in the air, and country western music twanged out of overhead speakers. It was the kind of place where people pour catsup on their food. Our group had claimed a big table in the corner next to the dance floor.
“Jane!” John Ferguson threw his arms around me as I took off my coat. No extra pounds on John but his brown ponytail was flecked with gray. “I was hoping you’d come. Kay, look, this is Jane. Come over here and meet her.” His wife, deep in another conversation, smiled and waved, mouthing something that was either “in a minute” or “don’t order me around, mister.” John and Kay had met in college, before he entered the seminary, long before he moved to South Africa as a missionary. I thought she must be a saint.
“Hi, Jane.” Ray, a tall, thin man with steel-colored hair and high cheekbones who still looked like he might run marathons, cupped my face in his hands. Then he lost his balance and his arms fell to my shoulders as we both teetered. Forced to give ground under his weight, I stumbled and grabbed at something cold and metal that rolled away. For a moment I thought Ray and
I would end up sprawled on the floor. A terrific entrance that would be. Just in time, hands steadied us and moved Ray’s walker closer. Ray had been one of Beemer High’s best athletes. Many of the trophies in the showcase by the school’s front door had his name engraved on them, and his basketball jersey hung in the gymnasium rafters. Now he shrugged as he said, “Hell to get old.”
Gloria, dressed in jeans and a fringed pink sweater she said she’d made herself, waved and motioned me to the empty chair beside her. She’d gained weight, making two of us who no longer fit into our pep club skirts. Ray and a pretty blond woman sat across the table. She was wearing a red leather jacket I’d seen in a magazine and ordering another pitcher of beer as though her sanity depended on it. Ray had been voted Most Likely to Become a Movie Star, and if he was disappointed the gods had chosen Robert Redford instead, his expression didn’t show it. He introduced the woman as his wife Karla, who favored me with a distant smile before turning her attention to the clock on the wall behind me. Counting the minutes until she could leave? How did a fun-loving guy like Ray end up with someone who wanted to go home before the party started?
“Jane, haven’t seen you in forever.” A big man with wavy hair, suspiciously dark, who moved with the easy grace of a natural athlete gave me a little hug and cool kiss on the cheek. I’d barely stammered a quick hello before he continued to the end of the table where Sheila was sitting. I raised my eyebrows at Gloria.
“Paul Nivens,” she said. “Our old football star is as pleased with himself as ever. He lives in Chicago now, sells something, seems to be prospering. Not currently married but you’re too late. Sheila already has him.”
I shook my head to indicate my disinterest. “Get the deer crisis taken care of?” I asked Gloria as I accepted a glass of beer with a nod of thanks.
A little chuckle. “Yep, crisis over. Granddaughter and car both on the road to recovery.” Realizing what she’d said, she laughed out loud. “Or I should say not on the road” After a quick swallow of beer, she bounced up and down, flapping her arms. “Isn’t it great having us all together? Everyone’s here but Sharon. She couldn’t come after all. A shame. It could have been so interesting.” A wicked smirk crossed her face. As far as we knew—and Gloria would have known—Sharon and John hadn’t been in the same room since he’d dropped her for Kay. Even though it had been forty years, John was now a married missionary, and Sharon had been divorced twice, we’d expected (hoped for?) fireworks.
Everyone talked at once, passing a copy of our high school yearbook from hand to hand. Old stories were repeated at earsplitting levels—the time the principal had caught Jerry and John smoking under the bleachers, the time Harry had stolen a bottle of his mother’s cooking sherry and the six of us who divided it were certain we were on the road to sophistication. “Whatever happened to . . .?” included several deaths. Gene, my sixth grade crush, was the first—killed in an Air Force training accident right after high school. Bill, who’d once given me his last sharpened pencil during a semester test, drowned trying to save his grandson. Fat Norman had lost enough weight to become a policeman in Minneapolis but died of a heart attack anyway. Long ago athletic feats were trotted out as though no part of the players’ lives was as important as the years they spent playing the game. I listened to stories about families and jobs, interjecting “Wow” and “No way” and “That’s hilarious” where expected, and fielded questions about Andy and Marvin, trying not to see Dusty in every corner.
“Too bad you didn’t make it to our last reunion,” Gloria said. “Practically the entire class was there. Except for you and Janet. Did you hear about her?” Gloria took another swig of beer and wiped the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand. “You know how devastated Spunky was when she left for college, and then he married someone else before Thanksgiving vacation?” She waited for me to bob my head. “Well, Janet moved to Texas and had her own family. Then a few years ago she was back in Iowa for some business thing and they ran into each other and, well, there they were, on again.” Another mouthful of beer before the big finish. “So she quit her job and left her husband and children and went to the Beemer Motel where she and Spunky were supposed to meet. Only the rat wasn’t there. He’d decided to stay with his wife. How about that? Dumped by the same guy twice. Can you believe it?”
I did my best to provide the expected response. “No kidding! The poor thing.” Actually, from what I remembered of Janet, Spunky would have been smart to go into the Witness Protection Program. “Sad,” I said as I studied the menu, sidetracked by thoughts of crisp onion rings. The famous El Casa Grande burger was still available. Dusty had hated it when I asked for a bite of his, said if I wanted something, I should order it. I was torn between wanting my own burger and Mother’s warning to be conscious of my date’s finances.
“Anyone else ready to eat?” Ray waggled a finger and a waitress wearing a red cowboy shirt and string tie zipped over. I recommended the burger to Marjorie, who said she was giving up on tenderloins, and ordered the half-pound bacon cheeseburger and fries. Sue asked for onion rings and I expected her to share.
Gloria continued her class rundown. “Hey, remember Jenny Remsen, how we all thought she was crazy? I had breakfast with her, which was quite an experience. She had a plastic bag full of pills that she takes with every meal.”
“So she has health problems but she’s not really crazy?”
“Oh, she’s still crazy—but now I identify with her.” I laughed and Gloria went on. “And Curt . . .” At my encouraging nod, she shook her head. “No, not that one. Not sure what happened to him. Last I heard he was doing something out East, teaching maybe. No, the Curt I’m talking about is the quiet kid who sat behind us in Mrs. Silverman’s English class, the one who owns a bookstore in Los Angeles.” I dipped my head again and this time she rewarded me with a smile. “Well, you know that best seller he wrote?”
“Sure, something about vampires.”
“Might be zombies.” Gloria paused to consider which. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. The big thing is, they’re making his book into a movie. Can you believe that? Who knew he could even read?”
“Curt? Really? I don’t think I ever heard him speak, certainly not in class.”
“Oh, he speaks all right—gave a talk at the Des Moines library, part of a series where they bring in famous authors. Said it was nice to see all the girls who wouldn’t date him in high school, and could their husbands introduce them to Harrison Ford, because he could?” Gloria’s giggle hadn’t changed. “Oh, and little Billy Duncan? Remember how he never had nerve enough to ask any of us out? We wouldn’t have gone, of course. Well, he lives on a yacht in Florida—with multiple women. He turned out to be quite good looking, not to mention rich. If he asked me out today, I’d say yes.”
“What about your husband?”
“Yeah, what about him?” Gloria reached down and blindly found her glass, taking a long sip before she released it and leaned back in her seat.
I scanned the room. “I notice he’s not here tonight.”
She shrugged. “He claimed he had to keep an eye on one of the cows. She’s due to calve soon.”
“’A cow is like farm machinery with an unpredictable personality,’” I said.
Gloria wrinkled her forehead. “You make that up?”
“No, read it in a book, forget which one.”
After a small silence she said, “We’ve had kind of a problem lately. Don’t agree on Tracy. You know how teenagers are.”
That was becoming a familiar comment. “She’s a senior, isn’t she? What are her plans for next year?”
“That’s the problem. She wants to go to Hollywood and become a movie star.” Gloria took a paper napkin and wiped her hands. Then, leaning forward, she put her elbows on the table. “She claims some man came up to her at in Des Moines—she was at Valley West Mall, Christmas shopping—and told her she had the ri
ght look. He said he could help and gave her his card. He even took her picture, said it was for the publicity people. Lyle insisted that was just a scam and she should go to college.” Gloria stared into her glass as she swirled the last of her beer. “I thought maybe, as a compromise, she could be a model. She’s tall and thin as well as gorgeous—I know I’m prejudiced but she is. Anyway, I found a school in Chicago but she’s almost too old already so there’s no time to go to college first like her dad wants.”
“Tough choice,” I said. I took a deep breath the way you do before saying something you know you shouldn’t. “Hey, you know Bonnie Spurlock?”
Gloria tilted her head. “Yeah, Pork Princess, manages the Beemer Motel. What about her?”
“Didn’t she go to Hollywood after high school?”
Gloria nodded. “That’s right. Didn’t work out and she came back and married Denny Wymore. So?”
“Nothing. I saw her today, that’s all.” I did my best to project innocence.
Gloria glared at me. “My Tracy is not Bonnie Spurlock,” she said in a cold voice.
Oh boy, I wished I had an erase button. I’d alienated my oldest friend and for what? Why should I care if her daughter became the circus sword swallower? I cleared my throat. “Sure, I never meant . . . It’s hard for kids to know what to do.” I made my mouth smile.
Gloria sat in her chair, gathering herself for a moment, before finally saying, “We just want what’s best for her.” She matched my weak smile.
I patted her arm. “Don’t worry about it. Things have a way of working out.”
“Sure, there’s nothing to worry about until there’s something to worry about. This will pass,” she said, obviously quoting, trying to sound as if she meant it, ignoring the tears glistening in her eyes. She fumbled a handkerchief out of her pocket and said I must be staying at the Beemer Motel. I admitted I was and pointed out the lack of choices.
Goodbye, Miss February Page 12