It was the same manila envelope I had dropped off at Nate’s house not too many weeks prior on the day of the bank run. The envelope I pulled out of the Trapper, however, felt different in my hands from the one I gave Nate.
It was heavier.
Forty-five thousand dollars heavier, to be exact.
* * *
Later that night, we all met at Gulfport Lake, and the four of us and our dates sat barefoot by a makeshift fire. When I explained the circumstances surrounding my discovery and passed out the goods, the reactions were about what I expected.
Mark held his stack in his hands and counted it, then recounted it, then counted it again, saying, “Are you serious?” over and over. When the reality of it all set in, he got choked up and walked off to the pier to collect himself.
Hop took his stack, looked at me and said, “He knew what he was doing all along,” then spent the next twenty minutes trying to explain everything to Kristin, who cocked her head as if she were hearing music for the first time.
Lance literally kicked his heels and ran around in circles in the sand, whooping and hollering until he fell down. Lizzie seemed emboldened by this new development and got really, really close to him. It was the beginning of a banner night for those two.
Emily was absolutely beaming, and she cuddled into me, pulling my coat tight around her shoulders.
“Well, there you go, Matt. You always said he was full of surprises, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but I had no idea this was coming.”
“Well, he thought a lot of you. Of all of you, actually. He told me once he’d never had friends like this before in his life – ever. But he said it was you who turned things around for him.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. He said you put everything in perspective for him one day at school.”
To Emily’s credit, she didn’t ask me what Nate meant by that, and I didn’t volunteer it. I knew exactly what she was referencing, and at the time, it didn’t seem like anything more than me saying something to keep Nate from losing his spirit. Then Em pulled my face down to hers, and I returned to the moment at hand, as it were.
All of us eventually reconvened around the fire and spent the next hour or so telling Nate stories. Before too long, we realized we totally missed the New Year’s countdown, but decided we should do some toasts anyway. I grabbed the sleeve of cups I had lifted from the gallery, and with Mark’s help, topped everyone off.
We toasted to the success of Marty Deen and his art show – no small feat thanks to Emily’s efforts.
We toasted to our dates for knocking us out with their beauty and poise – and gave a special nod to Kristin for hanging with Hop all this time. She actually laughed.
We toasted to our friendship and vowed then and there to never break the bonds that tied us together – and to never again mention the money.
And finally, we toasted to Nate. The strangest, coolest, weirdest, and, of course, most generous dude we ever met.
“To Nate,” I said, raising my cup, “Wherever you may be.”
A chorus of voices echoed my tribute, and as I turned my drink up, I looked high in the night sky and thought that somehow, somewhere, Nate was toasting us, too.
Wherever he may be.
Epilogue
In spite of me and Hop taking the helm, our reunion was shaping up to be the best one yet. The ten-year was a little awkward, and the twenty was poorly attended, but by the time thirty rolled around, there was a lot of interest. Most of us had married; several of us had divorced; a majority had kids, and a few even had grandkids. No one seemed to care anymore about income, jobs, spouses, or the other outward indicators that seemed so prevalent in our first two gatherings. By that point in our lives, we were just genuinely looking forward to seeing each other – and were glad to be alive.
Hop and I broke up the primary responsibilities. He took care of the logistics – food, band, venue, and to a lesser extent, decorations. I was in charge of getting people registered and paid, which involved several months of running down emails and addresses.
All told, we had contacts for sixty-one people, which wasn’t bad, considering only seventy of our original seventy-four were still alive. Of those, we had forty-three commitments – again, pretty good stats, considering jobs, geography, and that timing just didn’t work for everyone. Emily was even coming, having missed the last one due to the fact that she had a newborn – her fourth – and couldn’t make the trek over from Dallas. I hadn’t seen her since our tenth and was looking forward to catching up. Who knows, we might even share a dance for old times sake.
One week out from the big day, I sent a final email to the group, reminding them of the time, the address, and to pay if they hadn’t already done so. Just as I was about to hit send, my inbox pinged. I didn’t recognize the sender, but the re: line caught my attention.
St. John High School Reunion – Attn: Matt Frazier
I opened it, and there was no text, just a large three-megabyte attachment. I hesitated to proceed in case it was spam or a virus, but the thought occurred to me that it could be a late responder needing to sign up. Plus, the message seemed a little too personalized to have been generated by a bot, so I double-clicked it.
When I did, a photograph I hadn’t seen for over three decades came up.
There we were – me, Mark, Hop, Lance, and Nate at homecoming – standing in the St. John parking lot with our tuxes on, smiling as we waited for Emily to snap the picture. We were all skinny; we all had good hair, and seeing us together – along with Nate’s very visible shiner – suddenly reminded me in vivid detail all that went down that fateful semester. As I studied it, I saw something I had never picked up on before. I always thought we had been arm-in-arm when the picture was taken, but upon closer inspection, I noticed Nate was not. He was there, standing on the end, but instead of locking up with the rest of us, one of his hands was flashing the thumbs-up symbol.
The other was pointing directly at the Milk Wagon.
I sat up in my chair and grabbed my phone.
Inscribed on the bottom, in that unmistakable loopy handwriting, was a message.
I told you I wanted one.
See you Friday.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I thank God for all of His blessings and for surrounding me with people who bring so much light to my world. It is truly a gift to have close family and friends, and I would not be the person I am without the support of those near and dear to me.
To those early readers of the manuscript who provided guidance, editing, and comments – I am forever grateful. Thank you Kay, Holden, Jack, Mary, Valerie, Nick, Erica, Jeff, Ron, Lance, Tara, Karen and Mom. The book is better because of you.
Thank you to “Fast Eddie” Appel for walking me through the ins and outs of money laundering, as well as the banking regulations in effect back in 1986. Any mistakes or inaccuracies on that front are mine and mine alone.
Thank you to the St. John High School Class of 1987. The impact you have had on my life continues to shape me in so many ways. What I wouldn’t give to go back with all of you for just one more day. You, my fellow Eagles, are amazing.
To my best high school buddies Jeff and Ron – still two of my favorites today. I am so glad we grew up in the ‘80s, and I am incredibly thankful we got to do it together. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.
Last, but not least, I must acknowledge the Milk Wagon, the old beat up Suburban that, in fact, transported us through those formative years – in more ways than one. I have never driven a finer vehicle, nor do I think I ever will.
Be good.
s book with friends
The Milk Wagon Page 28