The Yearbook

by Peter Lerangis

  Another cop car arrived in minutes. Chief Hayes went out for a conference, then came back in and started the car.

  He pulled away from the curb jerkily and nearly rammed into a road construction site barrier. Then he ran a stop sign on Cass, only to slam on the brakes and curse. I’d have offered to drive, but I was afraid he’d throw me in jail for asking. Instead, I settled back and was thankful we weren’t in a high-speed chase.

  Eventually we arrived at the police headquarters, a squat, yellow-brick building in the same Late Eyesore style as the rest of downtown Wetherby. Chief Hayes led me inside. His office was at the end of a dim, tiled hall. Inside, a rotating fan swept past file folders stacked on a row of metal cabinets. Jutting triangular corners of paper razzed us like small white tongues in the breeze. Chief Hayes sat behind a wooden desk covered with papers and an old computer. I sank into the torn green cushion of a chair opposite him. I noticed a chunk of wood was missing from the lip of his desk on my side, about the size and shape of a bite mark. I couldn’t imagine what jail must be like if this was the police chief’s office.

  Chief Hayes lit up a cigarette and pulled a clean ashtray out of a drawer. Then he asked a few basic who, what, when, where, why questions. But he didn’t ask me about the sunken face or the hollowed-out body. I figured he mustn’t have noticed. After a few days in the warmish weather, surrounded by animals, the body must have been in an advanced stage of … well, not whole enough to seem unusual.

  I counted the butts that piled up in his ashtray and lost track at seven. The fan was useless against the thick smoke. My eyes stung, and I began coughing.

  “Sorry, bud.” Chief Hayes stood up, stubbing out his cigarette, and started opening windows. “I don’t normally smoke — quit four years ago.”

  “It’s okay,” I rasped.

  “In case you’re wondering,” he added, sitting back down, “I don’t normally run stop signs, either.”

  Or cry, I wanted to say.

  “Over forty years in the force,” he said, “and it’s still hard to see something like that.”

  I nodded.

  He fiddled with his pen, deep in thought, then pointed to an old framed photo on the wall. “Go over and take a good look at that.”

  I did. It was a group portrait of a Wetherby High School basketball team, the paper yellowed with age and drooping. In the center stood a young, much rounder Chief Hayes. Next to him was the only smiling person on the team, a skinny black kid who towered over all the rest. His arm was resting comfortably on Chief Hayes’s shoulder.

  “Notice how many boys of color on that team?” he asked.

  “Two,” I said.

  “Me and Reggie Borden. I wasn’t much of a player, but Reggie was six five, a hundred thirty, and had a mean jump shot. Also a mouth like an outboard motor, and a mind like a trap. Funny, too. He used to say that jokes were his ammunition. Couldn’t decide whether to be a philosopher, professor, or doctor. Or all. Around here, in the forties and fifties, black people didn’t think in those terms. Even though some of our families had been here for generations.”

  “The Underground Railroad,” I said.

  Chief Hayes smiled. “You’ve been doing your Jonas Lyte homework. Well, Reggie was headed for college, and kids were jealous of him — white and black. Our school had what we called ‘secret societies’ back then — high-toned frats, really. A couple were racist gangs, and they really hated Reggie. Me, I was a terrible student, and I didn’t feel worthy of him — like maybe he was my buddy only because of my skin color. I found out I was wrong.…” His voice drifted off.

  I couldn’t believe Chief Hayes was telling me all this. A minute ago I’d have been grateful for a brief exchange about the weather. “What happened to him?” I asked.

  Chief Hayes rose and stared out the window. “One day Reggie didn’t show up at school. His parents didn’t know where he was. After a week, the police — all white, of course — conducted a search, when they could be drawn away from their busy schedule of parking tickets. After another week, they concluded he’d run away from home. End of case. Well, some people figured Reggie was kidnapped by one of those racist groups. A lawyer tried to bring a suit, but it was dropped for lack of evidence. I was angry. I decided then and there I would be a cop someday. And that was when I realized how Reggie had influenced me. Before I met him, my idea of the future was tomorrow morning. He’d have been proud.…”

  Chief Hayes had to clear his throat before going on. “Anyway, three other students were reported missing right afterward — and they were all white. The weird thing is, those kids were found.”

  “Alive?”

  “Dead. Their bodies were disintegrating by the drainpipe in the Ramble.”

  I felt a shiver. A question popped to mind. “Chief Hayes, when did this all happen?”

  Chief Hayes turned from the window and looked me in the eye for the first time. “Spring of 1950, David. Right after the earthquake.”

  Chapter 9

  CHIEF HAYES DROVE ME back to school. Afterward, I went straight to the library to ask Mrs. Klatsch a few things.

  “Reggie who?” was her response to my first question.

  I leaned over her desk and repeated, “Borden. He was a senior in 1950 — basketball star, African-American …”

  “The fellow who disappeared! Yes, of course.” Mrs. Klatsch raised a wary eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you want to play sleuth, David. You know, Pudgy Hayes was his best friend, and he spent years looking into it.”

  “Pudgy?”

  “Charles Hayes. He’s now the police chief.”

  I loved it. Chief Pudgy. Officer Pudge. The blackmail potential was fantastic. “Uh, what did he find?”

  “Just rumors: Reggie was a small-time convict in Seattle, a beggar in Chicago.… All nonsense, of course. I’d be less surprised if he were a college professor or a company president — even a movie star.” She chuckled and stood up from her desk. “Well, you’re welcome to try to find what no one else has, David. I’ll get you microfilms of the 1950 newspapers. We may have a copy of that year’s Voyager in the Local History section.”

  I was determined to find out about Reggie Borden and his disappearance. Were the events of 1950 connected to this year’s? How could they be? A kidnapper or murderer from back then might be pushing a walker now.

  Still, you never knew.

  I found the yearbook and looked through it. Under Reggie’s senior photo was the name REGINALD PHILIP BORDEN III and a long list of activities. In the book’s front section I found the same basketball team photo that had been hanging on Chief Pudgy’s wall. Reggie was also in photos of the Glee Club, the Key Club, the Honor Society, the Prom Committee, and the “Masque and Wig.” That last one, which was the drama club, had a two-page spread. The play that year was an Agatha Christie mystery, and one photo showed Reggie emerging from a trick bookcase that turned on a central pivot.

  The book was noncirculating, so I photocopied everything I needed. Then, when Mrs. Klatsch came back with two spools of microfilm, I buried my face in the machine and read until I was bleary-eyed. I made these copies, from the two newspapers:

  (Boston Globe, February 8)

  Tremor Rocks Unsuspecting Village

  A minor quake topped trees, set a major fire, and rattled nerves in Wetherby, a sleepy village known primarily for its witch trials of three centuries ago.

  (Wetherby Herald, February 12)

  News and Views From the Publisher

  by Marvin Routledge

  In the wake of Friday’s tremor, I have heard residents call our village “cursed.” Though others judge us harshly by our history, we residents must celebrate our uniqueness. A quake in New England can be a source of public relations and pride! Yes, our fault can be our virtue!

  (Same issue, Letter to the Editor)

  Dear Sirs:

  We must not ignore the menace in our own backyard! I am flabbergasted at those who accept the preposterous idea that an earthquak
e occurred in Wetherby, when there is ample proof of a secret underground Communist stronghold, assembling and testing nuclear weapons.…

  (Wetherby Herald, February 20)

  Red Menace Among Our Youth?

  The County Bureau of Investigation today announced findings of a covert organization recruiting juvenile members. This group, believed to be led by outside-Communist agitators, held meetings in the Wetherby High School basement, which has been sealed until further notice.

  (Wetherby Herald, April 20)

  High School Student Missing

  A 17-year-old Negro boy, Reginald P. Borden, has been reported missing for four days. Reginald, a WHS senior, is 6 feet 3 inches tall and 132 pounds and has been active in sports and dramatics. Wetherby police are seeking clues.

  (Boston Globe, April 23)

  Remains Found in Western Mass. Town

  Yesterday, in a wooded area bordering Wetherby, Mass., a hiker discovered clothing fragments and human remains, later identified as belonging to three missing high school students: Walter Dusenberg, Maria Perez, and Benjamin Forsythe. A classmate of theirs, Reginald Borden, also missing, is being sought as a possible murder suspect.…

  (Wetherby Herald, April 25)

  Links Sought In Ramble Tragedy

  Wetherby police are investigating possible clues linking the disappearance of Reginald Borden, the tragic deaths of three high school students, and a recently uncovered organization thought to be subversive.…

  (Wetherby Herald, November 19)

  Tremor Source Studied

  Following a study by the Army Corps of Engineers, which suggested an underground testing of explosives could have set off last winter’s tremor, a team of geologic experts has discovered what appears to be a collapsed limestone vault approximately forty feet under the town common.…

  (Wetherby Herald, December 6)

  Fertilize That Soil!

  It’s true. The mineral content of our soil has suffered greatly this year. Levels of iron, potassium, and especially calcium are historically low. Why? Perhaps the postwar boom is taxing our resources. But whatever the reason, be sure to stock up on fertilizer at the Farrell Nursery.…

  I didn’t know where all this stuff was going to lead, but I knew it would lead somewhere.

  I kept copies of the clippings, thanked Mrs. Klatsch, and went home to think.

  Chapter 10

  RICK WAS DEAD. THE news hit WHS like a sledgehammer. Classes were cancelled on Tuesday. The hallways rang with sobbing on Wednesday. We had “grief seminars” with the school psychologist, plus an assembly about safety. I’d never seen so many parents picking up their kids after school. No one went out at night.

  Chief Hayes had left me out of the official report — for my own safety, he said. Ariana grilled me about my visit with him, but she agreed to keep it a secret.

  I felt miserable. My secret festered inside me, until I felt like screaming the truth. I didn’t know how I’d make it through the week.

  On Thursday morning, an old VW van full of yearbook cartons pulled up to the school. Right on schedule. At least Mr. Brophy hadn’t been affected by the murder.

  As I carried a carton into the office, a senior named Jason Herman ran up alongside of me. His smile was the first I’d seen in a while.

  “Is this it?” Jason asked. “The day?”

  “Yep,” I replied, placing the carton on the office floor. “And you’re the first customer. Are you paid up?”

  “I think. I forgot.”

  “Excuse me!” Ariana chimed in as she, John, Rosie, and Rachel barged by me carrying boxes.

  A moment later Ariana and Smut ran back out. “I’ll get the last box,” Ariana told him. “You get the hand trucks.”

  They split. (Smut is so obedient.)

  From Mr. DeWaart’s desk, I grabbed our computer printout of the senior class. I riffled through and read:

  ALPHA.# NAME PD?

  42 HAZEN, JESSICA —

  43 HEALD, ROBERT CASH

  44 HERMAN, JASON CK

  “Paid by check.” I grabbed a box, ripped it open, and pulled out a yearbook. “You’re all set. Enjoy.”

  “All right!” Jason walked away, leafing through the book.

  “Is he gone?” John whispered, peeking out of the yearbook office.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Why?”

  “If I hear him complain one more time about how he got rejected from every college because they’re not looking for psych majors — ”

  “He got waitlisted at one place,” Rachel called from inside the office.

  “Hallelujah,” Rosie cheered.

  Ariana came back in with the last box. “I just saw Jason with a book,” she said.

  “Yeah, he’s paid,” I replied.

  She dropped the box inside the office. “You’re not supposed to give them out individually. Each box goes to a specific homeroom. There’s a list of paid-up kids inside each one.”

  “Oops — ”

  “Do something right for a change, okay?”

  “I — I didn’t know, all right?”

  “Hey, whoa, chill out,” John said. “We’re all a little upset, but we have to stay cool with each other.…”

  Ariana sighed. “Yeah. Sorry, David — ”

  Smut came roaring into the lobby, wheeling two hand trucks. “Load ’em up! We’ve got about eight minutes.”

  We stacked boxes on the trucks and quickly rolled them into the hallways. The six of us were able to distribute the books quickly to the eight senior homerooms.

  When we got back, Jason was waiting.

  He did not look happy.

  “What’s the idea?” he said, holding the book open to us.

  Jason, in case you hadn’t guessed, had missed the yearbook photo shoot, which meant he’d become a Bananahead.

  “You asked for it, David,” Ariana murmured.

  “Jason,” I said with my smoothest nice-guy smile, “it was only meant as a joke.…”

  “A joke? Putting this … thing over my name?”

  I held my breath to avoid laughing, which would have really upset Jason. Then I glanced where he was pointing.

  The Bananahead was nowhere to be seen.

  Above Jason’s name was a black-and-white photo of a shrunken human face. It was festooned with dried flesh, and blood dripped from its mouth.

  My jaw fell open. It looked like Rick — or what was left of him in the Ramble.

  Behind me, Ariana sucked in air. Smut said, “How did that get there?”

  “I have my ideas,” Jason slammed the book shut and gave him an angry smirk. “Subconscious hostility toward me … repressed envy … maybe whoever did this had inadequate love as a child. But you know what? I don’t care. You give me my money back. My mom’s a lawyer, you know, and you can expect to hear from her.”

  “Just a minute.” Feeling numb, I walked into the Voyager office. Mr. DeWaart was sitting at his desk, staring at an open yearbook.

  “Hi,” I said. “Uh, Jason wants his money back.”

  “And he’ll get it,” Mr. DeWaart snapped.

  “Thank you,” Jason said from behind me. He ceremoniously dropped the yearbook onto the floor. It made a loud whomp, and he marched off.

  I picked it up, then huddled inside the office with Ariana, Smut, Rosie, John, and Rachel. Mr. DeWaart shut the door and glared at me. “You did proofread this, no?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  Ariana cut me off. “Was this one of your crazy ideas, David? I mean, if you have something against Jason, this was a stupid way to express it!”

  Before I could reply, Mr. DeWaart shoved the book toward us and said, “It wasn’t just Jason.”

  Ariana took it. We all looked over her shoulder as she flipped through. The shrunken head was all over the place — above every single name that was supposed to have had a Bananahead over it.

  “I’ve never seen this picture before!” I insisted. “We gave Mr. Brophy the Bananahead shot, remember?
Rosie put it in a small envelope. When I got to the printer that Saturday, the photos hadn’t been pasted down yet. But Mr. Brophy had the envelope. He held it up and asked me about it before I left the printer. He made a joke about it.”

  “Did you actually see what was in the envelope?” Mr. DeWaart asked.

  “No …”

  “Hey, before you guys get any funny ideas, let me just say for the record that I did not switch those photos,” Rosie said.

  “It must have been Brophy,” Rachel concluded.

  John nodded. “Figures. He fried his brain on LSD in the sixties. That stuff can have long-term effects, you know.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m the one who’s going to have to cover for this.” Mr. DeWaart sighed and looked at his watch. “Let me go to the office and make a P.A. announcement before the whole senior class descends on us with torches and pitchforks.”

  “Wait,” Rachel said. “What are we going to do, take all the books back?”

  “You bet,” Mr. DeWaart replied, “for a full refund or a corrected printing of the book.”

  “But is that in the budget?” Ariana asked.

  “No. But if Mr. Brophy is at fault, he’ll pay for it.”

  “And if he’s not?” Rosie said.

  Mr. DeWaart shrugged. “I’ll pay. It’s my responsibility to produce an official yearbook.”

  Ariana and Smut followed him into the hallway, arguing. John and Rachel went off arguing about something else. Liz split with Rosie, who was still looking worried.

  I sank into a chair with the yearbook. I leafed through, looking at that hideous face, time and time again.