Pawing Through the Past (17 page)

36

By nine-thirty the whole group, including Fair, was called to attention by BoomBoom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.”

She didn’t immediately get it.

Bob Shoaf cupped his hands to his lips. “Shut up, gang!”

The chatter frittered away, and all eyes turned toward BoomBoom, standing on a table. Modestly dressed by her standards, in a blue cashmere turtleneck, not too tight, a lovely deep-mustard skirt, and medium-height heels, she presented an imposing figure. She exuded an allure that baffled Harry, who saw BoomBoom as a silly goose. Harry wrote it off to the awesome physical asset that had given Olivia Ulrich her nickname. This was a mistake.

Women like Harry had a lot to learn from women like BoomBoom, who prey on male insecurities and unspoken dreams. Harry expected everyone, including men, to be rational, to know where lay their self-interest and to act on that self-interest. No wonder Mary Minor Haristeen was often surprised by people.

“Welcome, class of 1980.” BoomBoom held out her hands as if in benediction. As the assemblage roared she turned her palms toward them for quiet. “All of us who worked on this reunion are thrilled that all of you have returned home. Mike Alvarez and Mignon, his wife, flew all the way from Los Angeles to be with us, winning Most Distance Traveled.” Again the group roared approval.

As BoomBoom spoke the homilies reserved for such occasions, Harry, standing at the back with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, surveyed her class. They were a spoiled generation.

Unlike Miranda’s generation, who emerged from the tail end of World War II only to be dragged through Korea, Harry’s generation knew the brief spasm of Desert Storm. Luckily they had missed Vietnam, which forever scarred its generation.

Everyone expected and owned one or two vehicles, one or more televisions, one or more computers, one or more telephones, including mobile phones. They had dishwashers, washers and dryers, workout equipment, stereo systems, and most had enough money left over for personal pleasures: golf, riding horses, fly-fishing in Montana, a week or two’s vacation in Florida or Hawaii during the worst of winter. They expected to send their children to college and they were beginning, vaguely, to wonder if there’d be any money left when their retirement occurred.

Most of them were white, about ten percent were black. She could discern no difference in expectations although there were the obvious differences in opportunities but even that had improved since Miranda’s time. Walter Trevelyn, her Most Likely to Succeed partner, a café-au-lait-colored African-American, did just that. He was the youngest president of a bank in Richmond specializing in commercial loans, a bank poised to reap the rewards of the growth Richmond had experienced and expected to experience into the twenty-first century.

About half the class was working class, a gap in style as much as money, but those members also had one or more vehicles, televisions, and the like.

The sufferings her generation endured were self-inflicted, setting apart the specters of gender and race. She wondered what would happen if they ever really hit hard times: a great natural catastrophe, a war, a debilitating Depression.

Susan slid up next to her. “You can’t be that interested in what BoomBoom is saying.”

Harry whispered back, “Just wondering what our generation will do if the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan.”

“What every other generation of Americans has done: we’ll get through it.”

Harry smiled a halfway funny smile. “You know, Susan, you’re absolutely right. I think too much.”

“I can recall occasions where you didn’t think at all,”
the tiger cat laconically added to the conversation.

Tucker, bored with the speeches, wandered to the food tables to eat up the crumbs on the floor.

“Harry!” BoomBoom called out.

Harry, like a kid caught napping in school, sheepishly blinked. “What?”

“The senior superlatives are asked to come forward.”

“Oh, BoomBoom, everyone knows what I looked like then and now. You all go ahead.”

Susan, her hand in the middle of Harry’s back, propelled her toward the two big photographs as she peeled off to stand in front of her superlative, Best All-Round. Under the old photo the caption read Susan Diack. Under the new one, Susan Tucker. She glanced up at her high-school photograph. She and Dennis Rablan sat on a split-rail fence, wearing hunting attire, a fox curled up in her lap. Unlike Harry, she had changed physically. She was ten pounds heavier, although not plump. It was rather that solidness that comes to many in the middle thirties. Her hair was cut in the latest fashion. As a kid she had worn one long plait down her back. Dennis had grown another four inches.

Harry first stood at the Most Athletic, sharing a joke with Bob Shoaf, whom she liked despite his silly swagger. Then she dashed over to Most Likely to Succeed with Walter Trevelyn, who gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Everyone laughed as the superlatives laughed at their own young selves.

Then BoomBoom walked from her superlative, Best Looking, to Most Talented. “Folks, let’s remember Aurora Hughes. Hank, what do you remember most about Aurora?” She turned to Hank Bittner, the Most Talented.

“Her kindness. She had a way of making you feel important.” He smiled, remembering the girl dead almost twenty years.

Hank, talented though he was as a youth, had prudently chosen not to keep on with his rock band. Instead he moved to New York, began work in a music company, and had risen to become a powerful maker and breaker of rock groups.

Next BoomBoom walked to Most Popular. Meredith McLaughlin, late because of a prior commitment, had just skidded under her photographs. She glanced up at herself, young and old, and twice her former size to boot.

“Was that really me?” She hooted.

“Yes!” The group laughed with her.

“Meredith, what do you remember most about Ron Brindell?”

“The time he decided to wear a burnoose to class because we were studying the Middle East. Do you all remember that?” Many nodded in assent. “And old Mr. DiCrenscio pitched a fit and threw him out of class. Ron marched to Mr. Thomson, our principal, and said it was living history and he’d protest to the newspaper. Funniest thing I ever saw, Mr. Thomson trying to pacify both Ron and Mr. DiCrenscio.”

“Thank you, Meredith.”

She then walked over to Wittiest, where Bonnie Baltier muttered something under her breath, although by the time the tall woman reached her she was all smiles.

“What do you remember about Leo Burkey?” BoomBoom asked.

“His smart mouth. He got mad at Howie Maslow once and told him he could use his nose for a can opener.”

People tittered. Howie Maslow, class president of 1978, had a nose like a hawk’s beak. In fairness to Leo, the power had gone to Howie’s head.

Then BoomBoom walked back to her own superlative and looked up at Charlie in 1980 and 2000. “He was always gorgeous. He was highly intelligent and fun. He had a terrific sense of fun. As to his weakness, well, who among us shall cast the first stone?”

A dead silence followed this until Hank Bittner called out, “I’ll cast the first stone. He made my life miserable. Stole every girlfriend I ever had.”

Everyone erupted at once. BoomBoom paled, waving her hands for people to quiet.

Finally, Fair, the tallest among them, bellowed, “Enough, guys, enough.”

“Shut up, Fair, you’re ’79,” Dennis Rablan hollered.

“Doesn’t matter. Speak no ill of the dead.” Market Shiflett defended his friend, Fair.

“Dead? Did they drive a stake through his heart? I’m sorry I missed the funeral,” Bob Shoaf sputtered, and it was an amusing sight seeing a former cornerback and probably a man eventually to be inducted into the Hall of Fame, sputter.

“I’d like to find whoever shot him and give the guy a bottle of champagne,” Hank called out.

The women silently observed the commotion among the men and without realizing it they gravitated together in the center of the room.

“This is going to ruin our reunion.” BoomBoom wrung her hands.

“No, it won’t. Let them get it out of their systems.” Bitsy Valenzuela comforted Boom.

“People don’t hold back here, do they?” Chris’s eyes never left the arguing men.

Harry picked up Mrs. Murphy, who reached up at her to pat her face. “Boy, I haven’t seen Market Shiflett this mad in years.”

Market stood toe-to-toe with Bob Shoaf, shaking his fist in Bob’s face. Rex Harnett stepped in, said something the ladies couldn’t hear, and Market pasted him right in the nose. Dennis, like the paparazzo he longed to be, got the picture.

BoomBoom implored Harry, “Do something.”

Harry, furious that BoomBoom expected her to solve the problem while she stood on the sidelines, stalked off, but as she did an idea occurred to her.

She walked to the corner of the room where Mike Alvarez had set up the dance tapes he’d made for the reunion. A huge tape deck, professional quality, loaded and ready to go, gave her the answer. She flipped the switch and Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall” blared out.

She coasted back to the women. “Okay, everyone grab a man and start dancing. If this doesn’t work we’ll go down the hall and visit the class of 1950. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

BoomBoom glided up to Bob Shoaf. Harry, with a shudder, took Rex Harnett. Chris paired off with Market Shiflett to his delight, Bitsy wavered then chose Mike Alvarez. Susan took Hank Bittner. Once all the men were accounted for, the place calmed down, except that Fair Haristeen strode up, tapping Rex on the shoulder.

“No,” Rex replied.

“A tap on the shoulder means the same thing everywhere in the world, Rex.”

“Lady’s choice. I don’t have to surrender this lovely woman even though you so foolishly did.”

Fair, usually an even-tempered man but possibly overheated from the men’s debacle, yanked Rex away from Harry.

Rex, fearing the bigger man, slunk to the sidelines, bitching and moaning with each step. Hank Bittner laughed at Rex as he passed him. In the great tradition of downward hostility, Rex hissed, “Faggot.”

Shoaf, with his lightning-fast reflexes, tackled Rex as Fair grabbed Hank. The two combatants were hustled by their keepers outside the gym, Rex screaming at the top of his lungs. Tracy Raz, hearing the commotion, left his own reunion to assist Fair with Hank.

Although the music played the dancers stopped for a moment.

Chris was appalled. “Is that guy a Neanderthal or what?”

Harry said, “Neanderthal.”

“What’s he talking about?” Susan asked Dennis. “Calling Hank a faggot.”

Dennis, lips white, replied, “I don’t know.”

37

Chris Sharpton headed for the door as Bitsy grabbed E.R. by the wrist, pulling him along to go outside.

BoomBoom hurried to them. “Don’t let this bother you. It’s just part of a reunion, confronting and resolving old issues.”

“Hey, my reunion wasn’t like this,” Chris replied. “Then again, it’s good theater. Bad manners but good theater.”

E.R. stared. “BoomBoom, I don’t believe old issues ever get resolved. It’s all bullshit.”

“Don’t get started, E.R.,” Bitsy said again, pulling her husband along. “I have to get my purse out of the car.”

Chris watched them go down the hall, then followed.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered past BoomBoom.
“Ta ta.”

Harry, who hadn’t heard E.R. tell Boom what he thought in plain English, followed her cat. Tucker had already zipped down the hall after Fair.

Harry walked down the hall to the far end, away from the parking lot, and pushed open the front doors. Fair and Hank stood under a flaming yellow and orange oak tree. Tucker sat at Fair’s feet.

“Don’t say it.”

“I’m not saying anything.” Harry tightly smiled as Hank shoved his hands in his pockets, his face red.

“Are you sufficiently calmed down?” She spoke to her old high-school friend.

“I suppose.” He smiled. “It’s funny. I live in New York City. I come back and it’s like I never left.”

Mrs. Murphy breathed in the October air for the day was deliciously warm, the temperature in the middle sixties. Tucker, far more interested than she was in these emotional moments, stayed glued to Fair. The tiger cat hitched her tail up with a twitch and a jerk.

“I’m going to walk around a little bit.”

“I’m staying here,”
Tucker announced.

“Okay.”
Mrs. Murphy walked toward the back of the school. As she passed the parking lot she noticed Bitsy and E.R. heatedly talking at their car. Chris, carrying a large box of reunion T-shirts, pushed open the school doors with her back. They’d already sold out one box of T-shirts. Chris was resigned to being a gofer. She ignored Bitsy and E.R.

“You can stay, I am going!” Bitsy, hands on hips, faced her husband.

“Ah, honey, come on. It will get better.”

Pewter circled the building from the other end. At the sight of the tiger cat, Pewter broke into a lope.

“You won’t believe it.”
Her white whiskers swept forward in anticipation of her news.
“Rex Harnett is back there carrying on like sin. I mean, he needs to have his mouth inspected by the sanitation department.”

“Because of Hank?”

Pewter puffed out her chest.
“Hank, Charlie, Dennis, you name it. He’s, uh, voluble.”
She opened her right front paw, unleashed her claws, then folded them in again.
“Mostly it’s babble about how he couldn’t make the football team and was elected Most School Spirit as a sop. Get a life! He did say that he knows who Charlie got pregnant.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. He needed to sound important. I don’t think he knows squat. Tracy Raz got disgusted and went back to his reunion. His parting words were ‘Grow up.’”

“I’m not sure what really started the fight but I do know that Rex Harnett may be a drunk but that doesn’t mean he’s totally stupid. Maybe he does know something.”

“Rex is hollering that he’s no homosexual.”
Pewter loved the dirt.
“Bob Shoaf told him to shut up. If Rex were homosexual, homosexuals would be grossed out. Pretty funny, really.”

“I thought you were in the cafeteria with the golden oldies.”
Mrs. Murphy turned in a circle, then sat down.

“I ran out with Tracy. The hall amplifies noise.”
Pewter paused for effect, returning to the scene outside with Rex:
“Then, and I tell you I about fell over, Rex started crying, saying that no one ever liked him. He did not deny being a drunk, however. Are they all nuts or what? I thought reunions were supposed to be happy. Miranda’s is. Anyway, Rex stormed off to the men’s room. I think Bob walked around to the other side of the school to find Fair and Hank.”

“The hormone level is a lot lower at Miranda’s.”
The tiger smiled.
“They’re just animals, you know. That’s what so sad. They spend their lifetime denying it but they’re just animals. I can’t see that we act any worse when our mating hormones are kicking in than they do.”

“Paddy proves that,”
Pewter slyly said, making an oblique reference to Mrs. Murphy’s great love, a black tom with white feet and a white chest, a most handsome cat but a cad.

“If you think you’re going to provoke me, you aren’t. I’m going back inside. Who knows, maybe someone else will blow up or reveal a secret from the past.”

Pewter had hoped for a rise out of Murphy.
“Me, too.”

They bounced onto the steps of the side door. The old, two-story building had a front door with pilasters, a back door into the gym, and two side doors which were simple double doors.

One side door was propped open. They walked down the main hall toward the gym.

Susan Tucker, Deborah Kingsmill, and Bonnie Baltier barely noticed the cats as they walked by them.

“—ruin the whole reunion.”

“They’ll get over it,” Susan replied.

“I wish everyone would stop speculating about who Charlie got pregnant. I fully expect everyone to sit down with their yearbooks and scrutinize every female in the book from all three classes. That’s not why we’re here and anyway, nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Baltier, people love a mystery,” Susan said.

“No one even knows if it’s true,” Deborah Kingsmill sensibly replied. “Because he was so handsome people make up stories. If it isn’t true they want it to be true. It’s like those tabloid stories you read about superstars drinking lizard blood.”

The women laughed.

“What’s so strange about drinking lizard blood?”
Pewter asked.

“Pewter.”
Mrs. Murphy reached out and swatted Pewter’s tail.

As the cats laughed and the three women headed back to the gym, Harry came into the hall from the front door.

Before the cats could run to her and Tucker, a shout from the men’s locker room diverted their attention. Dennis Rablan threw open the door, stepped outside, leaned against the wall and slid down. He hit the floor with a thump. He scrambled up on his hands and knees, tried to clear his head and stood upright.

As Susan, Bonnie, and Deborah ran to him from one direction, Harry and Tucker ran from the other.

“Call an ambulance,” Dennis croaked.