Memories of You (11 page)

S
TEVEN CAMPBELL SAT
in a corner booth at a shabby downtown restaurant, looking across the table at his friend Zeke who was making a pencil diagram on a table napkin.

“It’s a piece of cake,” Zeke whispered to the others at the table. “We knock off the liquor store at midnight, just when they’re about to close. We run down the street with the cash, meet Steve who’s waiting at the curb, jump into his car and take off. Two blocks away and we’re home free.”

Zeke had greasy brown hair in a ragged ponytail, and a big tattoo of a mermaid on the side of his neck. The mermaid was much admired by his friends because they all knew the neck was one of the most sensitive parts of the body to have a tattoo done, and carried the greatest risk of infection.

But that was Zeke’s personality. If it was dangerous, he was interested. The boy had a wild, over-thetop kind of recklessness that appealed to Steven.

When he was with Zeke, he had a feeling of breathless risk, as if anything could happen. The danger was actually soothing, in a bizarre kind of way. It helped to ease the hard, aching knot of pain that Steven carried with him all the time.

“Why do we have to run a whole block?” Speedball asked plaintively. He was an overweight teenager with a round shaven head and a nose ring. His nickname was a result of his general laziness and resistance to any kind of physical exertion.

Zeke guffawed loudly and winked at Howie, who sat on the vinyl bench next to Steven.

Howie was the smallest of the group, a wiry redhaired boy who was actually a few months younger than Steven. But Howie had nerves of steel, and a streak of casual, mindless cruelty that Steven found deeply unsettling.

Howie was the kind of person who’d kill a cat or dog just for the fun of it, if he thought nobody was watching. And if he could inflict a lot of pain in the process, he’d probably be even happier.

Once or twice Steven had tried to talk to Zeke about his misgivings and his reluctance to have Howie in the group. But Zeke, who was their undisputed leader, scoffed at the objections.

“Howie’s a pistol,” he’d told Steven. “Howie can spit in a cop’s face and not even blink. We need a guy like that. And it sure ain’t
you,
Campbell,” he’d added with calculated rudeness. “You’re so polite it practically makes me sick. If you got any problems with Howie, you can just drop out.”

Steven didn’t want to drop out. He was committed to their plan, addicted to the thrill of what they were about to do. So he kept his worries to himself and went along with Zeke’s leadership.

Now he studied the diagram on the napkin. “After you guys get to the car, where do I go?”

“Straight down Twelfth Avenue and onto Deerfoot Trail. We head for your place, zip right inside that old barn and lock the door. It’ll be like we disappeared into thin air.”

“But what if somebody gets a look at the car, even sees the license plate? What if the cops follow us out of town?”

Zeke waved his hand casually. “If we do this right, nobody’s even gonna see the car. It’ll be dark, and you’ll be in the shadows! Why? Are you losing your nerve, rich boy?”

The others glowered at Steven, who shifted uncomfortably in the booth. “I’ve got as much nerve as any of you,” he said coldly. “I want to get the details straight, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to worry about the details.” Howie jabbed him with a sharp elbow. “That’s Zeke’s job. You just have to drive the car, rich boy.”

Steven ignored the comment. “I want you to promise me you’re not going to keep the money, Zeke,” he said. “Otherwise I won’t get involved. I’ve already told you that.”

Howie and Speedball exchanged a quick glance across the table, but Zeke gazed at Steven with guileless sincerity.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” he said. “We been through this whole thing a hundred times. The money from our heist goes to the street kids. We just keep enough to cover our expenses, that’s all.”

“I want your word on it,” Steven said stubbornly. “You guys have to promise we’ll give the money away after we get it.”

“You heard the man.” Zeke looked at the other two. “Come on, give Stevie your word that we won’t be keeping the money.”

“The money goes to the street kids, so they can buy food and blankets,” Speedball agreed solemnly. “Right, Howie?”

Howie looked down at the table, picking at a crack in the surface with a grimy fingernail. “Sure,” he muttered. “We won’t keep the money, Stevie. We’ll be just like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich so we can give to the poor.”

Steven nodded. He knew the guys were humoring him, but they’d given their word and Steven planned to hold them to it. He looked on their exploit as the beginning of a great experiment, a redistribution of wealth along the lines envisioned by Marx and Engels.

Steven slid out of the booth and stood up. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Zeke glanced over his shoulder, then leaned toward the others. “Two weeks,” he murmured softly. “This whole thing’s going down on the nineteenth. That’s when they get their new shipment of liquor, so everybody except the cashier should be in the back unpacking crates. Don’t forget, Stevie boy.”

“I won’t forget.” Steven nodded at the group in the booth, liking the feeling of being included in their
plans, right at the center of everything that was happening.

He walked jauntily out of the restaurant, climbed into his yellow Mustang and headed for the college in the waning daylight, planning to pick up a couple of books from the library.

As he drove, Steven grimaced at the irony of his situation.

He was a desperado, an outlaw involved in planning a daring heist to help his fellow man. And yet he was also playing the role of an obedient son, trotting out to get the books he needed so he could convince his father that he was keeping up with his schoolwork.

He gripped the wheel, frowning.

Steven didn’t like to think very much about his father these days. It made him uncomfortable to picture those steady, measuring blue eyes, the lean strength of his father’s body, the surprising gentleness of his hands.

Jon Campbell would never understand what his son was doing.

But that was because Jon had always been wealthy. He couldn’t know how desperately the street kids suffered, or how much they needed help. People like the Campbell family passed their whole lives in a soft, disgusting cushion of luxury that kept them from understanding the real world.

Steven thought about his friends calling him “rich boy,” as if he was just the same kind of person as
his parents. Well, after the nineteenth, they’d know he was different.

He parked in the students’ lot and wandered into the library. Listlessly he made his way among the reference stacks, picking out a couple of books he needed for his term papers, then searched for some of the novels that had been assigned in English class.

He paged through one of the books, frowning in concentration as he moved toward the end of the stack, and almost bumped into a woman standing next to him in the narrow aisle.

It was Dr. Pritchard, her arms full of books. “Hello, Mr. Campbell,” she said.

“Hi,” he muttered, looking nervously down at the floor.

She glanced at the book in his hands. “My goodness, you actually found a copy of
Vanity Fair,”
she commented with a smile. “That must be the last one in the library.”

Steven wanted desperately to be alone, but the professor was acting so pleasant that it would be churlish to move away without replying. He recalled Zeke’s scornful comment that the “rich boy” couldn’t be rude to save his life.

“I’ve already read the book,” he said finally. “I just wanted to look up a couple of references.”

“I see.” Dr. Pritchard hesitated.

Steven was painfully conscious of how beautiful she was, with her slim, graceful body and the air of quiet elegance that he found appealing.

Not at all like his mother, whose dress and behavior was usually calculated to draw attention to herself….

“Well,” he said, “I guess I’d better shove off. I’ve got a lot of homework to do tonight.”

“Could you spare a few minutes, by any chance? I’d like you to join me in the student lounge for a cup of coffee.”

He was speechless, astounded by her invitation. The icy Dr. Pritchard never socialized with students.

“If you don’t mind,” she added, putting a couple of her books back on the shelf, “there’s something I’d like to talk with you about.”

Steven wanted very much to refuse, but he was afraid of her. If Pritchard got annoyed and gave him a failing grade, he’d have to put up with all kinds of problems from his father. In spite of his anger and rebellion, Steven still hated that prospect.

The worst thing of all was when his father looked sad and disappointed in him. That really tore at his heart, made him almost want to cry. But of course he could never show that kind of emotion. He had to be tough or the pain would rise up and overwhelm him.

“Sure,” he said. “I guess so.”

She smiled politely and led the way to the checkout counter, offering a couple of novels to the clerk along with her well-worn library card, then waiting while Steven checked out his books.

He followed her to the lounge next door, wondering what she wanted to talk about. He’d written some pretty acceptable essays for his English class and received
a good grade on his last test. She couldn’t be upset about his schoolwork.

Maybe it was something involving the twins. They were always talking about the woman as if she were some kind of goddess. Or maybe it had to do with Enrique Valeros, who was living at their house now for reasons Steven couldn’t entirely fathom.

While he pondered, she made her way to a table near the window where they could see the clean sweep of skyline and the pale glow of the sunset.

“Is this all right, Steven?”

“Sure,” he muttered.

“I’ll get us something to drink.” She stood up and moved toward the counter. “Would you like a cappuccino or a-soft drink?”

“Just plain coffee. Please,” he added with automatic politeness.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black, thanks.”

She smiled at him, leaving Steven temporarily at a loss for words. In spite of her age, she really was a terrific-looking woman. Again he wondered what she wanted to talk about.

But when she sat down opposite him, carrying a small tray with two mugs of black coffee, she didn’t seem in any hurry to discuss what was on her mind.

“I’ve had about a million cups of coffee in this place,” she said with a wry smile. “It always tastes like a mixture of blackstrap molasses and river mud, but I can’t resist the stuff.”

Steven nodded, thinking once again about irony.

Half an hour earlier he’d been sitting across the table from Zeke and Speedball, who represented a stratum of society that Dr. Pritchard probably couldn’t even imagine.

He thought about the campus rumors concerning this woman, how she’d grown up in a fabulously wealthy family and hobnobbed all her life with the rich and famous. No wonder she had such an elegant, confident manner.

In fact, Camilla Pritchard represented everything that Steven hated most. Power and privilege, brutal oppression of the lower class, mindless superiority based on position…

“You know, I have an interesting social engagement coming up this weekend.” She sipped her coffee and set down the mug with a brief grimace.

Steven looked at her in surprise. As if this woman’s social life had anything to do with him!

She smiled. “It seems I’m going to be visiting the ranch with your family.”

His jaw dropped.
“Our
ranch? In Saskatchewan?”

“That’s the one. The twins simply wouldn’t allow me to refuse.”

“They’re pretty good at getting their own way.” He peered into the depths of his coffee mug, shaken by this new development. “I guess it’s their birthday, isn’t it? I completely forgot about it until just now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go along with them for the weekend?” Dr. Pritchard asked, sounding hopeful. “I understand only six people can travel
in the plane, but I’m certainly willing to give up my seat if you want to go.”

He shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I have plans this weekend. Besides, the kids are pretty crazy about you. If they think you’re going and then you change your mind, there’ll be hell to pay. Excuse me, ma’am,” he added.

She smiled. “Yes, I guess you’re right. There’d probably be hell to pay.”

Dr. Pritchard sipped her coffee as she gazed out the window at the sunset. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

When she looked at him again, her blue eyes were mild and full of interest. “Are you enjoying college, Steven?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“You’re a very capable student. Have you decided what area of study you’re going to specialize in?”

What he really wanted was to drop out of school and take off, hitchhike around the world and find out how people actually lived. Maybe he’d join the Peace Corps and help people in some foreign country to dig wells and organize schools.

But Steven could hardly tell her that, especially when she was getting to be so cozy with his father and the rest of his family.

“I don’t know for sure. Probably sociology,” he said.

“So you’re interested in the structure of society, are you?”

“Sort of. I’d like to find out more about how social
classes are determined, how the wealth is distributed, stuff like that.”

Steven wondered why he was telling her all this. He never confided in anybody for fear they’d laugh at him or use the information to embarrass him somehow.

But his professor wasn’t laughing. She nodded thoughtfully and sipped her coffee again. “I’ve gathered a bit of that from some of your written work. You have an interesting view of the world, and you express it very skillfully.”

He tried not to be warmed by her praise. She was probably just buttering him up because she wanted him to do something really lame, like applying for a scholarship or joining the debating team.

But her next words were so astounding that he could hardly believe his ears.