Desire Lines (20 page)

“It’s true,” Jack is saying. “If something bizarre had to happen to one of us, it’s no surprise it was one of you Garland Street weirdos.”

“Ah, the prejudice lingers.”

“Hey, I’m not prejudiced. Some of my closest friends are Garland Streeters. Can’t we all get along?” He lifts his pint glass in a toast and takes a long drink. “Here’s to multicultural harmony.”

After a few months at Bangor High, the six of them began hanging out together. At lunchtime they found each other in shifts, drifting together with an ease born of familiarity, like pigeons on a stoop. Will was always first; his art class, right across the hall from the cafeteria, ended early. Rachel and Jack usually came together, Rachel with plastic containers of home-prepared foods: organic granola, carrots, hummus, and sprouts; Jack with individually packaged multi-pack-sized Three Musketeers bars and M&M’s, the wrappers rustling in his pockets as he walked. Brian ambled in by himself, usually with a thick paperback he was in the middle of reading. Kathryn and Jennifer rushed in late, scrounging food from those who’d come early.

Once they all became friends, it was true, Kathryn had done what she could to keep them together. She made sure that plans were disseminated; she worked hard to ease feuds and jealousies and misunderstandings. The group was more important to her than anything else in high school, and, without even realizing it, she arranged her life around it. She didn’t have many boyfriends, and the ones she did have tended to be from away, guys she’d met at summer camp or through friends who lived in other towns. She liked their passionate letters and yearning phone calls, the surprise packages that arrived in the mail filled with hand-lettered cassettes and sweatshirts printed with other schools’ mascots, the delicious intensity of delayed gratification. She didn’t want to date anyone from Bangor High who might interfere in her everyday life. For one thing, he’d have to get by the group.

Later, after Jennifer had been missing for a while and the group had broken apart in clumps, Kathryn tried to figure out why it had mattered so much to her, why the loss of it was so devastating. What it came down to was something quite simple: She felt like herself in the group; she was comfortable. This comfort derived in part from feeling that the things she said and did mattered—she made her friends laugh, they listened to her. She felt safe in a way she’d never felt anywhere else. In the group all of them were able to subvert their high-school personas. Kathryn, literary-magazine editor and aspiring reporter, could admit that she was addicted to
The National Enquirer;
Rachel, ethereal and brainy, who wouldn’t touch cafeteria food and grew her own sprouts on the kitchen windowsill at home, revealed a silly sense of humor and a secret passion for Pop Tarts. Jack, the affable pop-culture fanatic, preferred Beethoven to rock music. Though he claimed to be uninterested in sports, Brian knew the batting average of every member of the Red Sox. And Jennifer, who labored through English class and struggled to finish assignments, who complained that she had nothing to say and wouldn’t know how to express herself if she did, admitted that she faithfully kept a journal every day. She had since she was ten. The journals, one for each year, a page for each day, were lined up on a high shelf in her room, dates written on the cracked bindings in Magic Marker, stuffed with grade reports and arts-page clippings with her photo from the school play in grainy black and white.

What about Will? Kathryn wonders now. What secret did he reveal? “It’s funny that Will never told us he was gay,” she muses.

“I don’t think he figured it out until later,” Jack says. He takes a long sip of his beer, and puts his glass down on the table. “Listen,” he says. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve been putting off telling you this, but I think you should know. Will is HIV-positive.”

She stares at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“When did he find out?”

“About a year ago.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she says.

“He’s doing well,” Jack says. “The protease inhibitors are making a big difference, and his T-cell count is fine. He hasn’t been sick or anything, not since the beginning.”

“When did he tell you?”

“I saw him a few months ago in Boston. Really, Kathryn, he’s doing fine.”

“God, I feel terrible,” Kathryn says, putting her head in her hands. “I kept up with him through college, but then …”

“Look, he understands. It was that way for all of us,” Jack says. He smiles, softening the impact of the moment. “Anyway, you’ll see him at the reunion. You can talk to him then.”

“Ohh,” she sighs, more a sound than a word. She feels as if she’s been hit in the chest.

By this time it’s happy hour and the deck is packed. In the entrance to the deck there’s a bottleneck of people carrying plates of chicken wings and nachos in and out. They sit in silence for a few minutes, staring out at the crowd.

“Look over there,” Jack whispers, motioning toward a group of women several tables over. Their table is covered with wrapping paper and baby clothes, and blue and pink balloons are tied to the back of a chair.

Like so many people in Bangor, the women look familiar, but Kathryn can’t place them. “Who are they?”

“They were in our class. Fifth Streeters. Kristi Wilson, Dawn Sommers, Heidi Murkoff and Susan Kominsky. Most of them are married now. Looks like Heidi’s got a bun in the oven.”

In high school, Kathryn remembers, Jack knew everyone. It always amazed her, walking down the hall with him, how many people he connected with. And he had a knack for names. It wasn’t just other students—he also knew the names of the cafeteria ladies and enough about them to make conversation as he pushed his orange plastic tray
along the lunch line. Between classes he got to know the janitors; he brought the principal’s secretary a Whitman’s Sampler on her birthday, and he always had a joke for the vice-principal. Jack’s teachers loved him, the cafeteria ladies gave him seconds, and the school secretary excused his tardiness. The janitors let him into school on Saturdays when he’d forgotten his books. Jack was adept at the parting quip, but he also had greater skills at his disposal. Brian called it “high-beaming”—the ability to compress sincerity into a two-sentence exchange.

Kathryn scrutinizes the table of women. Several are wearing unflattering cotton A-line tops. “She’s not the only pregnant one,” she says. “I think Kristi was in my English class.”

“You want to go over and say hi?”

She grips the handles of her chair and, still seated, moves it around so that her back is to the group. “I don’t think so,” she says.

Jack laughs. “Well, aren’t you sociable?”

“This is exactly why I’m not going to the reunion,” she mutters. “First, I’m a loser, and second, I can’t remember anybody’s name.”

“Well, I can’t help you with the first one, but as far as the name thing goes, they’ll all be wearing huge ‘Hello, my name is Donna’ tags.”

“Okay. But what if I don’t want to remember anybody’s name?”

“That’s another issue. But I’m afraid you have no choice. I’m sending you there on assignment.”

“What?” she says sharply.

“You have to go. It’s part of the story. Girl disappears, best friend back in town for reunion, etc. The reunion part is crucial. And—uh-oh, don’t look now, but—”

“Jack! I thought it was you sitting over here!”

“Hey, Dawn, how’s it going? You remember Kathryn Campbell.” He kicks her leg under the table, and Kathryn turns around.

“Kath,” Dawn says, holding out a small, cool hand for her to grasp. “God, I haven’t seen you since …”

“Probably high school,” Kathryn says.

Dawn makes a motion like she’s trying to get a helmet off her head. “I like the red.”

“What?”

“Your hair. It’s so … festive.”

“Oh,” Kathryn says, self-consciously tucking a strand behind her ear. She’s pretty sure it’s not a compliment. “You’re looking very … healthy,” she says, trying to deflect.

Dawn puts a hand under her protruding belly. “Only eight weeks to go,” she says proudly. She motions back toward her table. “Heidi’s due at exactly the same time. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah, that’s great, congratulations,” Kathryn says. She looks over at Heidi, who lifts her fingers in a caterpillarlike wave. Kathryn waves back.

“So you’re in town for the reunion?” Dawn asks.

Kathryn looks at Jack, and he nods. She nods, too.

“It should be interesting,” Dawn says. “I saw Pete Michaud the other day. I couldn’t believe it—he’s totally bald. And Marcie Daniels, remember her? She was on the squad with Kristi and me. Anyway, she’s gained like fifty pounds, it’s so sad. And Janis McAlary, I heard a rumor, I don’t know if it’s true, that she’s living in Portland with a woman. You know, I always wondered about her.”

And hey, did you hear about Kath Campbell? She dropped out of school and got a divorce and a bad dye job and moved back in with her mother….

“So what’ve you been up to?” Dawn is asking. She glances at the ring on Kathryn’s left hand. “Married, I see. Kids?”

“Oh, well, no.” Kathryn covers the hand with her other. “No kids. And I’m not married—not anymore. It’s pretty recent,” she adds.

“I’m so sorry,” Dawn breathes.

“Actually, she’s in town to do a piece for the paper,” Jack says, sitting forward.

“Oh! What about?”

“The Jennifer Pelletier case.”

Dawn’s eyes grow large and round. “Did something—”

“Nothing new. It’s just a follow-up. But it’s been a while since anyone took a good look at it, and we thought it was time.”

“Absolutely,” Dawn says, nodding. “We all—I mean, it’s unbelievable, isn’t it? People don’t just drop off the face of the earth.” She shudders. “And they never found the slightest clue, did they?”

“Not yet,” Jack says. “We’re working on it.” He smiles at Kathryn, and she smiles at Dawn.

“Well, good luck,” Dawn says. She nods over her shoulder. “I should get back. By the way, everybody says hi.”

“Hi, everybody,” Jack says loudly, half standing and waving a big wave. Kathryn waves, too, and the three women wave back.

“See you at the reunion,” Dawn says. “If I can find a tent big enough to wear.” She laughs and pretends to waddle back to the table.

When she’s gone, Jack says, “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

“Which part?”

Jack sighs. “You know what you remind me of? Those old ladies who lock their doors and stay inside all day, feeling sorry for themselves. And if anybody comes along and knocks on the door, they open it just a little”—he acts it out—“but keep the chain on.
‘Hello?’”
he says in a quavery, suspicious voice.”
‘What do you want? Go away.’”
He pretends to slam the door.

“Do I really?” she says, slightly wounded.

“You’re just so damn self-protective,” he says. “Come on, Kathryn, lighten up. Everybody has problems. One of Dawn’s brothers died last year in a car accident, did you know that? And she always wanted to go to medical school, but she had to take care of her mother, who has Parkinson’s.”

Kathryn blushes. “I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should. The point is, everybody has a story. Yours isn’t the only one.”

“God, Jack,” she says. “You must think I’m a total narcissist.”

“I’m assuming it’s a phase,” he says. He looks at her for a moment.

“Now, listen, whaddaya say we order some food? We missed the free wings, and I’m starving.”

She smiles, looking into his gray-green eyes, and he smiles back. He seems so certain, and she feels so uncertain about everything. “All right,” she says. “I’d like that.”

WHEN SHE GETS
home that night, her mother is sitting in the red wingback in the living room in her bathrobe, flipping through
Country Interiors.

“What are you doing up?” Kathryn asks. She looks at her watch; it’s 12:30
A.M.

“I couldn’t sleep,” her mother says. She yawns and stretches her arms over her head, and the magazine slides to the floor. “So,” she says casually, “where have you been?”

“I was out with Jack.”

“Oh, really.”

“Didn’t you see the note I left on the table?” she says, trying to ignore her mother’s insinuating tone.

“You said you were having drinks.”

“We did have drinks. Then we had dinner.”

“And then?”

Kathryn rolls her eyes. “God, Mom! I feel like I’m in high school.”

Her mother stands up and smooths her bathrobe, tightens the belt. “Well, to tell you the truth, Kathryn, I was a little worried. It’s late to be out driving around. Especially if you were drinking.”

“I wasn’t
drinking.
I had a few drinks. Over six hours. And you don’t need to be worried about me; I’m an adult.”