by April Henry
The noise of conversation and laughter, mingled with the sound of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” spilled out into the hall. At first, it was overwhelming. Claire guessed there were over one hundred people in the room, gathered in knots, or sitting at small glass-topped tables underneath the glassy-eyed stare of stuffed animal heads. The largest group was congregated in front of the bar, where a harried bartender was pouring drinks with both hands. A crumpled straw cowboy hat was tilted back on his head and he wore fringed Ultrasuede chaps over his jeans.
Dante and Claire found an empty table at the edge of the room. At first, Claire didn’t recognize anyone. But then in a process similar to entering a darkened room, her eyes began to adjust to the changes twenty years had wrought. In general, the women seemed to have held up better than the men. The women all had their hair, for one thing, while a good portion of the men had receding hairlines, or had gone completely bald or turned gray. A lot of the guys had gained weight, too, ballooning past the point of recognition, including one guy in an orange tank top that made his stomach look like a pumpkin. He was staggering from group to group, shouting, “Party!” and pumping his fist in the air.
“Let me guess.” Dante pointed at a blonde, slender woman who was flitting from table to table, blowing air kisses, tossing her newly gilded locks, and smiling so hard it looked as if her teeth were in danger of bursting through her cheeks. “A cheerleader?”
“Bingo. Cindy Weaver. Or I guess she’s Cindy Sanchez now. Head cheerleader and prom queen. She never much cared for us little people. I was a weird kid in high school. I literally walked around school with my nose in a book. One time I was going down the hall and someone stuck out their foot and tripped me. I don’t know for sure that it was Cindy, but I’ll never forget looking up and seeing her standing there laughing at me.”
“Did you know her in grade school, too?”
“She moved into the district in third grade. Everybody thought she was glamorous. Her mom used to set her hair every night on sponge rollers. I thought she looked like a fairy princess. By fifth grade, she was wearing pantyhose and a bra, when the rest of us were still in white knee-highs and undershirts.
They watched as Cindy squealed and lunged for another woman, who managed to hold her at arm’s length. “That’s Maria Markgraf that Cindy is hugging. She was a cheerleader, too, but she wasn’t nearly as mean as Cindy.” Judging by the way she was dressed, Maria had become a well-paid executive. One of the few women in the room not clad in denim, she wore an open-necked cream-colored silk blouse under a camel-colored gabardine pantsuit. It wasn’t exactly “Western wear” but it was elegant. Her thick auburn hair was pulled back into a French twist. She settled back in her chair and exchanged a smile with the woman next to her. Claire said, “That woman with all the freckles, the one sitting next to Maria, is Sunny Engelbreit. Sunny was part of the horsey set, which meant her family had a lot more money than we did, but she was always pretty nice to me.”
A waitress wearing a tan Ultrasuede dress cut past them. A black feather dangled from the headband that held back her straight light brown hair. Balanced on the palm of her hand was a round tray filled edge-to-edge with glasses. Dante raised two fingers, but the waitress was too harried to notice them.
Dante turned the gesture into a point and indicated a thin man wearing a fringed leather jacket so elaborate that a single cow must have died for the fringe alone. “Wait a minute - that guy over there looks like Richard Crane. The computer guy.” A dozen people were crowded around Richard’s table, shaking the man’s hand and slapping him on the back as he awkwardly held court. Even sitting down, he looked stork-like and gawky.
“Yeah. That’s Dick. I guess I should say Richard now. Minor’s one real claim to fame.” Richard glanced up for a minute, and his gaze caught Claire’s. He gave her a little wave, and Claire was surprised to feel her face flush. Was she no better than the rest of them, willing to fawn over him now that he was rich and famous?
“Wow! I didn’t know you knew the guy who owned Simplex!”
“I didn’t really know him. No one really knew Dick - I mean, Richard. He always hid behind his camera. He was on the yearbook staff. Everyone used to make fun of him because he walked around with a pocket protector stuck in his shirt and a calculator hooked on his belt. You always read that he’s got such a reputation as a loner - but I just think he never had a chance in high school to develop any social skills.”
Dante scanned the room. “So which of these people were you friends with in high school? Besides that woman who called you Warty, I mean.”
Claire managed to keep a neutral expression on her face while she reminded herself to kill Jessica. “Since I had to work after school, I didn’t have a lot of close friends.” She spent a few minutes locating the current versions of people from the group she used to each lunch with. Claire nodded in the direction of a dark-haired woman wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck. “That’s Rebecca Brody. She’s really slimmed down since high school.” Next, Claire pointed at a tall, plain-faced woman who wore her hair carelessly pinned back. “And that’s Rachel Munroe. Even though her father was a doctor, they didn’t have any money. He mostly treated migrant workers’ children in a free clinic.”
She scanned the crowd for a few more seconds. “That woman over in the corner, the blonde passing around the pictures - that’s Nina Lisac. She was Rebecca’s best friend. She got pregnant when we were still in high school and got married before we even graduated. It was kind of a Minor thing to do.”
Dante endeavored again to catch the waitress’s eye, but failed. “I think I’ll have to go to the bar if I want something to drink. What would you like?”
“Could you get me a glass of red wine, please?” She watched him go, smiling to herself as more than one woman turned her head to follow his path.
“Claire.” She started as a man’s voice murmured in her ear. A hand cupped her shoulder. “You look good.”
She turned in her chair, her heart already beating a bit faster because of the surprise of his touch and his voice.
At first, her old boyfriend Jim looked the same, just a little more weathered. His wavy light brown hair had thinned a bit, but the heart-shaped face was the same, as were the heart-stopping pair of green eyes. Why was it, Claire wondered, that crinkles around men’s eyes were sexy, but that crinkles around women’s eyes only fed a billion dollar face cream industry? Unlike a lot of Claire’s other male classmates, at least Jim hadn’t picked up a paunch along the way. His weathered Levis fit him like a dream, and his green short-sleeved polo shirt showed off well-muscled, tanned arms.
There was a moment where she could have gotten up and hugged him, but it passed. Instead she offered him her hand, and he shook it, a little awkwardly.
“So what have you been doing with yourself, Jim?”
He looked away from her as he pulled out one of the free chairs. Straddling it, he set his long-necked beer bottle on the table. “I’m working for the local beer distributor.”
“In sales?” She imagined him talking store owners into stocking new varieties of beer, enticing them with free posters of scantily clad women dancing around giant beer bottles.
“Actually, I make deliveries. I like to say it combines the two things I like most. Beer and travel. Plus, there’s always the employee discount.”
Jim laughed, but Claire thought he seemed embarrassed. He used to talk about doing something exotic after he graduated, but really, what had life ever offered him? Even graduating from high school had been exotic for his family. His dad had never been in the picture. His mom had been a waitress, with no aspirations beyond making it to her next cigarette break. Claire flashed on a memory of Jim’s mother’s white Famolare shoes, worn with heavy duty support hose that had made her legs look like plastic.
Jim was now looking down at his open hands. “Did my hands feel rough to you?” He stretched out his arms and spread his fingers. “I’ve been trying to remember to pu
t cream on them every night. I figured I’d be shaking hands a lot this weekend, and I didn’t want to scare anyone. After heaving boxes all day and pushing around a handtruck - well, my hands are always pretty banged up. And don’t get me started on the broken bottles.” His hands were bundles of tendons and muscles, laced with ridges of scars. Claire couldn’t help noticing the lack of a wedding ring.
He seemed to follow her thoughts. “So was that your husband? Do you guys have the two-point-two kids?” The soft voice was the same. Listening to it, Claire had to suppress the urge to scoot closer to him, as if he were drawing her into the same magic circle they had shared more than twenty years ago.
Claire shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to all that yet. How about you? I remember hearing you got married.” She refrained from using the phrase “had to.”
Jim shrugged and looked away. “That didn’t last long. For the moment, I’m single.”
She changed the subject. “Do you still pay music?”
“I’m in a band.” He tilted his beer to his lips and took a long swallow. “If you can call it that. We mostly do weddings. I spend a lot of my time singing Louie, Louie. I’m one of only thirty-seven people in the United States who actually knows all the words.” He looked past Claire. “Here comes your boyfriend or whoever he is.”
Claire turned. Dante was walking toward them, his eyes on the two glasses he was trying to keep safe from jostling elbows. “My boyfriend. Here, let me introduce you.”
“That’s okay. I need to go out and get a smoke.” Jim gave her a nod, and was gone before Claire could urge him to stay.
Dante put a glass into her hand. “Who was that?”
“Jim Prentiss. We used to be pretty close, a long time ago. Talking to him made me realize how lucky I am not to be a waitress at the Apple Tree Truck Stop, wearing the thickest support hose they make.” Claire couldn’t help thinking that Jim made quite a contrast to Dante’s old conquests. Dante’s former girlfriends tended to have trust funds, degrees from Harvard and wear ugly, abbreviated clothes from designers so hip that Claire had never heard of them. “I’m afraid Minor is going to seem a long way from New York City.”
In answer, Dante put his arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. “Hey, I wanted to come, remember?” He changed the subject. “So do you think he’s the one who gave you that heart-shaped box? After all, he came right over to the table as soon as I was gone.”
For a moment, Claire had forgotten about the box. “Jim? I don’t think so. He asked me about his hands, whether they felt rough. I think he was worried about impressing some other woman. Or women. Not me.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and watching the crowd swirl and eddy about them. There were glad cries of reunion as people re-discovered each other, exchanged photos of their children, teased each other about lost hair and gained weight. A few conversations seemed more serious. Claire saw Sawyer Fairchild, the gubernatorial candidate, talking to Richard Crane, their heads close together. Nearby, a woman waited patiently. She had the kind of prettiness particular to Miss America contestants, with teeth like Chicklets and straight brown hair worn shoulder-length with the ends curled under. Sawyer and Richard’s conversation ended with the two men nodding and shaking hands.
Cindy was still going from table to table, acting more the politician than Sawyer ever would. But Claire noticed that Cindy stayed away from her area of the room, as if Claire were emitting some kind of invisible force field. A few months before, they had met each other unexpectedly. Cindy had bragged about the wonders of her new maid, an illegal immigrant who, according to Cindy, was happy to work for two dollars an hour, paid under the table. Claire had done her one better, though. When Cindy had paused long enough to ask what Claire was doing these days, Claire couldn’t resist saying that she now worked for the IRS.
Claire spotted Wade Merz standing just a few feet from them, scanning the room. His eyes glossed right over Claire and then came back again, his expression puzzled and a little wary. Claire realized that without her rubber highlighting cap and silver cape, Wade wasn’t too sure who she was. She hazarded a guess that he was probably under the impression he had sold her a car (and judging by his wary expression, a lemon) at some point. While Claire watched, the waitress walked between them with her now empty tray. Wade stopped her by laying a hand on her upper arm.
“Excuse me, but I’d sure like a heapum big vodka tonic.” He gave the waitress a smile that made his crooked nose more prominent. “Say, you don’t look like an Indian. Or should I saw squaw?”
“Squaw is an old white word for pussy,” the waitress said. “So don’t use it. And, for your information, I am half Tequamish and was raised on the reservation.” Her utterly mirthless smile lent credence to the tale that the Tequamish used to celebrate victories over their enemies by eating their hearts - yanked, still beating, from their chests. Although anything, Claire supposed, started sounding better than ground acorn pancakes, which had been the staple item in the Tequamish diet.
Wade ducked his head so he wouldn’t have to meet the waitress’s gaze. “I’ll be sure to remember that, miss.”
Claire had been so busy eavesdropping that she didn’t notice a man approaching from the other side of the room.
“Hello, Claire. Long time no see.”
She turned, but didn’t recognize the speaker. She and Dante both stood up. He was a tall man, two or three inches over six feet, but pudgy, his hair a faded gingery-gray. In a room filled with denim, he wore a snug gray suit and a wrinkled red tie. Behind thick glasses, his eyes regarded her, blinking slowly. Claire tried to be subtle, but finally she had to glance at the high school picture on his nametag. The bony pale face, shock of hair and square-framed glasses were instantly familiar in ways this plump stranger wasn’t. Could this really be her old friend, the skinny redheaded boy who had always been in motion, going faster and faster even as he went crazy?
“Logan?”
“I know. You’re surprised.” His voice was flat, but she thought she detected the hidden trace of a smile. Logan smacked his lips. “You probably didn’t think we’d ever run into each other again, did you?”
“I didn’t think that,” Claire lied. Although that was exactly what she had thought, that surely Logan must be dead or permanently disappeared by now, crushed in the endless cycle between the streets and hospital stays. Her joy at seeing him was tempered by the thought that he looked as if he had barely made it out alive.
Finally, she remembered her manners. “This is my friend Dante. Dante Bonner, Logan West. Logan and I go way back. We’ve known each other since we were five.”
“And we went way forward, too,” Logan added. “Claire was the only person from high school who visited me at Dammasch. The state loony bin,” he added for Dante’s benefit. Claire started as Logan grimaced, throwing his head back, his jaw thrusting upward. He continued talking as if nothing had happened. “Dammasch was the model for the hospital in Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Dammasch was closed now, for good reason. There had been stories of attendants who preyed on the people they were supposed to care for, of inmates left tied to their own beds for days. With a twinge of guilt that it had only been a few times, Claire remembered her visits to Logan. They had talked - or rather she had talked - while Logan had shuffled down the hall beside her, restless with no release. Occasionally he turned to look at her, his glazed eyes without recognition. Even though he wasn’t talking, he chewed the air, smacking his lips. The corridors of the hospital stank sharply of urine and vomit and bleach, and Claire tried to breathe through her mouth. The other inmates had been no better off than Logan, shouting, screaming, staring silently at the TV bolted on the wall or at the dust motes flickering in the air. Each of the three times she visited, Claire had thought how could Logan not be crazy, in a place like this? Each visit there had come a moment when words failed her, and she had simply walked beside him, hol
ding his trembling hand. Later she had learned that the restlessness and the terrible repetitive movements were all side effects of the drugs meant to keep the visions at bay. No wonder that Logan’s mother had told her that each time he was discharged, he threw his meds away.
Now Claire found that all the things that one normally said to an old friend seemed too much like prying. So what are you doing these days? What have you been up to? Did you finally settle down? And yet, Claire really wanted to know. She tried a neutral tack.
“How are things going for you, Logan?” She found herself taking his hand between her palms.
His mind was still in the past. “You know, you coming to visit is about the only thing I remember about Dammasch. At least, I think it is. I’ve been hospitalized all up and down the West Coast. After a while, it all runs together. Gurneys. Being pinned down by restraints like a bug. One-on-one suicide watches. Being so zoned out you drool on yourself. If you don’t like the Haldol, try the Mellaril or the Stelazine or the Prolixin. Do you know what kind of memories I have? I remember what hospital I was in when Ronald Regan got shot. The hospital I was in when Princess Di got married. I remember what hospital I was in when the Challenger exploded.” His voice was bitter.
“But things are different now?” Claire prompted.
“About a year ago I got a doctor who put me on this new drug. Risperdol. I didn’t think it would work, but five months later, the voices stopped.” He spoke gingerly, as if talking about the voices in too much detail might somehow bring them back.
“That must have been a relief, after all those years,” Claire said softly.
“Are you kidding? When I realized they had stopped, I curled up in the bathtub. I stayed there for four days. It’s like you drive a car for years and it’s got a rock caught in the wheel well. Then one day you take the rock out and something’s missing. It doesn’t feel like your car any more. It’s the same way about the voices. Sometimes I think, ‘This isn’t my head. My head has voices in it.’ I just tell myself that if it gets too bad I can always stop taking the medicine.” He ran his hand across his mouth, hard, as if he were wiping off his expression, then attempted a smile. “Now I live on my own in a real apartment. Not even any roommates. Do you know - I’ve never lived alone this long before. I’ve got a job. I even have a cat.”
