by Paula Boyd
Well, damn. I climbed out of the Tahoe, pointed my clicker behind me to lock the doors and tried to catch up with Lucille Speedwalker, who was zipping through the burgeoning crowd at about thirty miles per hour.
Clusters of people rippled and surged toward the edge of the river, accompanied by exuberant whoops and hollers--and an unhealthy amount of secondhand cigarette smoke. Coughing and muttering, I pushed my way along, trying to keep my eye on the bobbing mass of puffed pink hair. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think, and the whole situation was beginning to wear on my good nature. Then, through a break in the sea of humanity, I caught another glimpse of my mother up ahead, elbowing her way to the front of the pack, her big black purse swinging this way and that. My shoulders shook in yet another involuntary shudder. Blinking away a flood of unsettling flashbacks, I followed Mother at a prudent pace, muttering apologies to the poor souls left swaying in her wake.
"Hey, Jolene!"
It took a few seconds and a few steps for it to sink in that someone had called my name. I took a few more in hopes that the person--a male person whose voice did not ring a bell--was actually calling to someone else as I am not the only Jolene on the planet. When he said my name again, with Jackson added for clarification, I stopped and turned around.
A squinty-eyed guy in a turquoise Hawaiian shirt, cutoff jeans, and a long dangly feather earring waved and called my name again. His hair was now shoulder-length and mostly gray and his eyes weren’t quite as vacant, but Russell Clements still looked pretty much like he had in high school. The spaced-out doper and I had been the top contenders for the "most time spent in the office" award, he for obvious reasons, I for trying to convince the superintendent to fire the principal. Russell they knew how to handle. Me, not a clue.
People ebbed and flowed around me, closing off my exit path, so I stopped. "Hi, Russell," I said. "How’s it going?"
"Hey, you remembered me! Wow." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled his thong-clad feet. "Man, it’s been a long time since high school, but I knew it was you. Wow. High school. Really takes you back, huh?"
Oh, yeah, way back, and it’s not a pleasant trip. "Listen, I’ve got to--"
"Hey, did you know I’m thinking about getting married?"
Uh, no, and why would I?
He jingled some change in his pocket and shrugged a little. "Me, finally getting married at forty-four. Who’da thought?"
Not me, that’s for sure. "Congratulations, Russell," I said, and pretty darn politely, too, considering about eighty people around me were alternately blowing smoke and coughing up lung tissue. I’m all for their freedom to kill themselves however they please, I just prefer they not kill me at the same time. "Who’s the lucky girl?"
"She’s not really a girl, I guess, but she’s real good to me. Keeps me lined out on things. I help her too." He shuffled his feet a little more. "Getting married was kind of her idea."
"We all need support, that’s for sure." I didn’t have any at the moment--unless you counted the three hundred people who’d rammed into my back in the last thirty seconds--but it was a nice thought. And yes, we all know who I’d prefer to have around to do the supporting. "Best of luck with your--"
"She’s got stuff to deal with before we get married, about her kid and all." He shook his head, his beaded feather earring slapping against his face. "It gets weird sometimes. I’ve tried to help, but me not having any myself--kids, that is--it’s kind of hard for me to understand, not that he’s little or anything."
It was also fairly hard to understand Russell since he’d barbecued his brain as a teenager. Still, I realized he was in need of a sympathetic ear. I’m usually a sucker for such things, but I didn’t have time for it at the moment, not with Lucille on the loose. "I’m sorry to have to run, Russell, but my mother is going to be worried if I don’t catch up with her." And she might hurt somebody. I fanned a fresh haze of cigarette smoke. "Glad things are going so well for you. Best of luck with the wedding."
He looked a little sad that I wasn’t going to stay and listen some more. Before I could find a clear path, however, a stray thought caught hold and his eyes widened a little. "Hey, you won’t believe who all’s here. I’ve seen half our class already. Even saw Coach Kelly and Miz Addleman." He whistled. "Man, you ought to see her daughter. What a babe. Long dark hair like you used to have. Wow."
"Listen, Russell--"
"It’s really cool that you’re here all the way from Colorado for this, especially since you didn’t make it to the last reunion. Hey! You know who you gotta say hi to? Rhonda. You won’t believe her."
I never did believe her. Rhonda Davenport and I have a long and unpleasant history. We had been friends in grade school, but about the time puberty hit so did our rivalry. Although "rivals" is such a genteel term. Down and dirty mortal enemies was closer to the truth. And yes, the feud revolved mostly around Jerry Don Parker--or any male who happened to take an interest in me. Rhonda made it a contest, and except for Jerry, she always won. Teenage boys are easily swayed.
"Hey, I know you two didn’t always get along, but you gotta see her. Talk about changed." He whistled again for emphasis. "She told me once she had a kid to take care of, everything changed. Said it was like being born again."
Oh, no, no, no. We were not going down that road. If Rhonda had seen the light and it changed her from a lying slut into a decent human being, well, good for her, but I didn’t want to hear about it. I craned my head this way and that, looking for my mother to save me. I didn’t see her, but I waved and hollered anyway. "Here I am, Mother! I’ll be right there. Good talking to you, Russell. Gotta run."
And run I did. I managed to dodge and weave through maybe a dozen people when I heard my name again. And no, it still wasn’t my mother. I paused and turned to my left.
A tall woman with silver-streaked black hair waved at me. She wore a long floral dress, autumn colors, standard Laura Ashley issue. And I had no clue who she was.
"You are Jolene Jackson, aren’t you?" she asked, stepping up next to me.
I nodded tentatively, not sure whether she considered that a good thing or a bad thing.
"You don’t remember me, I suppose." She smiled and clutched her hands to her chest. "I’m your old principal’s wife. Well, ex-wife."
Oh, no. Not Mrs. Pollock? I smiled. "Sure, I remember you." Glad to be rid of the pervert? "How are you doing?" And why do you want to talk to me?
"I’m doing just great. I saw you in the crowd and just had to be sure it was you. I’d heard you’d moved away."
I gave her the short version of my move to Colorado several decades ago, and yes, I was just visiting, here for the birthday thing.
"Well, isn’t that nice," Mrs. Pollock said. "I’m sure your mother is glad to have you home." She paused and frowned. "Weren’t you just here a few months ago? Oh! Now I remember. That unfortunate situation with the mayor. And your friend Jerry Don. How is he doing?"
I smiled and tried to be just as cheerful and perky as I could manage. "He’s doing great."
"He’s a sheriff somewhere, isn’t he?"
"Yes. Bowman County. Seems to really like it."
"Well, you better run along, dear. I saw your mother up near the front rail, just to the left up there. I’m sure she’s wondering where you are. Take care, now."
With another wave of her hand, she disappeared into the crowed.
It took a little elbowing and wedging to make it through all the people, but I finally found my mother at the very front of the pack, right up against the decorative iron railing.
"There you are," Lucille said, with minimal enthusiasm. "I figured you stopped to talk with some of your old friends. I told you they’d all be here."
"And you were right." Mother likes hearing this phrase often, particularly from me.
But meeting "old friends" was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come. As I might have mentioned, I don’t consider high school the best time in my life--except for some parts invol
ving Jerry Don Parker--and I don’t want to fumble through the old hierarchy or establish a new one. I just don’t care. I’ve moved on and I don’t want to go back.
"You know, I think I even saw some of your old teachers. You ought to say hello to them too."
"Mmmm," I mumbled noncommittally, figuring I’d already had my share of old home week just walking through the crowd. Still, there were several teachers I’d always wanted to say thank you to. Whether they’d necessarily want to hear from me was another matter. "Maybe another time."
"Now, Jolene, don’t you start that foolishness about nobody liking you. You know good and well everybody in that school looked up to you and those teachers thought you just hung the moon. It’s not going to hurt you to go say hello."
It might, depending on who I said hello to. True, I had been a leader in the school and had garnered some measure of respect. I was not, however, particularly popular. I was what you might call a contradiction.
I had been a model student, never causing any trouble in class, getting good grades, that sort of thing. I’d also believed I could right the wrongs of the world--or at least the school--all by myself, and proceeded accordingly. My popularity peaked and valleyed depending on whether or not the outcome was an improvement to student life, specifically less homework and more privileges. The little scandal involving Miz Addleman and some unread--but graded nonetheless--reports scored a double negative, although it had been entertaining in the short term.
Thump. Something jabbed into my side, something more precise than the bumps and nudges from the people jockeying for position around me. I looked down.
A little boy about four years old, holding a rapidly melting chocolate ice-cream cone, had wedged himself up to the rail beside me. The toes of his tennis shoes perched on the bottom rail of the bars of the iron fence. He pushed himself up as high as he could, screamed like a little demon and waved his cone like a flag, flinging melted brown mush all over my arm and tee shirt.
My first thought was to pluck him off the fence and hurl him into the river. My second was to gently help him down and escort him back to his keeper, if indeed he had one.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to do either because his screeches began to sound almost like real words, "Look, look!" being the most discernible. So, after wiping away the sticky goo as best I could, I followed the bouncing cone to the center of the festivities.
The new falls was on the opposite side of the river from where we stood--that’s the Redwater River, not to be confused with the Red River, which is located a few miles north and protects Texas from Oklahoma, or Oklahoma from Texas, depending on your perspective. Serving the same protective purpose at the new falls was a four-foot-tall decorative iron fence that prevented overly zealous types--such as those on either side of me--from venturing too close to the water’s edge.
A braided red cord roped off a small bridge that led to the official presentation area on the far side, directly in front of the falls. Visitors would eventually be allowed to cross the bridge and walk up to the falls for a closer look or a photo shoot if the urge possessed them. But not today. Today, we all stayed back from the makeshift ceremonial stage and hosing area.
As much as I like to make fun of anything and everything around here, I have to give credit where credit is due. Even without water flowing down the front, the manufactured structure that was going to put the falls back in Redwater Falls looked great, almost natural even, and it was impressively huge. Tons and tons of smooth brown boulders had been carefully cemented into the side of the hill overlooking the river. The rocks were arranged in various steps and staggers of outcroppings where, presumably, the water would form pools, then cascade over and back down into the river. Eventually, when the pumps came on line, water from the river would be pumped up to the top, then flow naturally along the rocks back into the stream.
In truth, the massive falls and surrounding tree-covered park with the lazy river flowing through it made for a darned nice-looking place. I could honestly see why the entire town was brimming with pride. "Well, Mother, it surely does look like a lot of thought and effort went into this project. It’s really very nice. And much bigger than I expected. I’m impressed."
She glanced around at me and glared, kind of uneasy like, probably wondering if I was being a smart ass, which, for once, I was not. "There are plenty of very nice things around here, Jolene. And some plenty smart people too. We’re not all idiots like you seem to think."
Idiots? Did I say anything about idiots? Okay, I know I have a little attitude problem regarding this place, but I’d been nice this time, really I had. "I wasn’t being sarcastic, Mother. I meant what I said. The falls is very impressive."
The unsubtle narrowing of her eyes told me that nothing I could say would convince her of my sincerity about liking the waterfall. I had just decided to keep my mouth shut and smile like a fool when a big hairy tattooed arm shot between me and the jungle boy on the fence.
The ice-cream cone went flying forward over the rail and into the grass.
The little kid screeched in dismay, "No!"
"Harley Junior!" a loud voice boomed. "What the hell you thinking, running off like that?"
A young guy, early twenties, about six-four with short blond hair, hauled Harley Junior off the fence and held the boy under his arm like a football. "Your grandmother’s worried herself sick," he said, sounding pretty upset himself. "I ought to paddle your little butt right here." He caught himself and glanced in my direction. "Pardon me, ma’am. I hope he wasn’t bothering you."
I smiled and shook my head no. Yes, I am aware of my previous evil thoughts about the little darling, but here's the deal, we all have those kinds of evil thoughts--I just admit mine. I was, however, glad I hadn't voiced them or scolded the boy since the man, presumably Harley Senior, looked quite capable of taking care of that and then some. "Don’t be too hard on him," I said. "He's just been wrapped up in the excitement of it all. And, he certainly didn’t look lost though or I would have helped him find you."
Harley Senior nodded. "I’m just glad he’s safe. You never know these days."
"Look, look!" Junior squealed, still hanging under Harley Senior’s arm like a sky diver, waving his hands this way and that. "Look! What’s that!"
A bass drum boomed and cymbals crashed, snagging my attention. The band burst into an energetic march, one I vaguely recalled from my high school days.
On the temporary stage across the river and to our left, about a dozen people shuffled into a two-tier line. Several men wearing dark business suits and a buxom young lady wearing a shiny yellow gown and sparkling tiara fanned out across the platform. I turned back to see if the boy was still excited about the festivities, but the Harleys were both gone.
A little disappointed that I didn’t get to put in another good word for Harley Junior, I occupied myself with trying to remember the name of the song the band played--played very well actually. A march. "British" something. About the time I remembered the name of the tune, Lucille swung her purse around from her elbow, whipped it open and started digging. I sucked in my breath and started shaking. Odds were real good she wasn’t looking for a camera. Flutes trilled and trumpets burst out the high notes, but I was frozen in place, waiting for either the tell-tale chink-chink of a bullet being loaded into the firing chamber or the glimpse of a red squiggly laser beam zipping around like a drunken housefly.
By the time I came out of my temporary shell shock, Lucille had pulled out a compact umbrella, popped it open and held it high above us.
"They should have let us stand over there under those shade trees out of this hot sun," she yelled, oblivious to my little post-traumatic stress episode.
And yes, the umbrella was also purple.
After the obligatory opening prayer and mangling of The Star Spangled Banner, the band broke into an authentic piece of Old West-style music, complete with clip-clops, while one of the men gave a glorified history of the city. The mayor stepped up
next, without musical accompaniment, and a gave a folksy talk on civic pride and how they’d all worked together, blah, blah, blah.
I was just nodding off when someone rather rudely rammed an elbow into my side. I jumped then gave that someone a dirty look.
She pointedly ignored me and glared straight ahead beneath the purple shade.
Fine. I turned and glared too, and since I didn’t hear any more speechifying, I presumed it was finally time for the main event. Yippee. I covered my mouth with my hand to hide a yawn and then rubbed my face to try to wake up. Given the right circumstances you really can sleep standing up, but not with your mother jabbing her elbow into your ribs. Another jab. "Ouch! Stop that!"
"Look up there," Lucille said gleefully, pointing to the top of the rock wall. "They’ve got the lights flashing on the tops of the fire trucks. You can just barely see them above the bushes. My word, they must have fifty trucks up there."
Five was more my guess, but the thrill of a light show to go with the shooting of the fire hoses stilled my tongue.
The trucks howled their sirens and the mass of humanity behind and beside me went wild, adding their whoops and cheers to the noise. I stuck my fingers in my ears.
On cue, a squadron of fire hoses sprayed forth and the crowd sucked in its collective breath. I took my fingers out of my ears in time to hear the roar of rushing water rumble down from the top of the hill. The band started playing something that sounded suspiciously like a pep rally song and the fans were immediately whipped back into a frenzy.
A thick mist filled the air and high-velocity gushes ricocheted toward us. The fire engine pumps spewed with such pressure I couldn’t help but worry that they’d loosen some of the fake rocks and send the whole mess tumbling down into the river any second. Leaves, twigs, a couple paper cups and a plastic grocery bag flew off in the gush, but eventually the top pools filled and water began trickling, then cascading, out and down to the next level of rocks.
The crowd whooped louder. The band played faster.
