“Excuse me for a second,” I said, rising from my seat. “I’m headed for the women’s room to wash my face. And calm down in private.”
I heard Nancy’s voice echoing after me. “Do you want anyone to go with you?”
Honestly, that Nancy. When I said I wanted to calm down in private, that’s exactly what I meant. I pretended I didn’t hear her – a technique I’ve learned from Jim, who uses it every time I ask him to take out the garbage.
Splashing some cold water on my face definitely helped. And taking long calming breaths did, too. I dried my face and hands, took a look in the mirror at myself and…yuck, what a shock. I’d managed to wash off any remaining mascara, so I no longer resembled a raccoon. But I had no eye makeup on at all, and I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed in the morning. Which is definitely not a pretty sight.
Oh, well.
“Sorry for the drama,” I said as I rejoined my friends, all of whom stopped talking as soon as they saw me approaching our table. Like I wouldn’t figure out that they’d been talking about me.
I pasted a weak smile on my face. “I do feel better now. And I figured out what upset me so much.”
Mary Alice handed me a menu. “Here, Carol. Let’s order. Food always cheers me up.”
Me, too. As my ever expanding waistline constantly reminded me.
“Food won’t do it for me this time,” I said. “It reminds me of seeing our high school cafeteria today.”
Tears sprang to my eyes again. I brushed them away angrily and tried to explain why I was so upset.
“Ok, here’s the deal,” I said. “It was hard for me to walk through the school, but when we got to what used to be the chapel, I was overwhelmed. That beautiful altar. Gone. And all the pews, too. That chapel was such a special place for all of us. It just upset me so much. I couldn’t deal with it.”
Everyone started talking at once. “I felt the same way,” Mary Alice said. “But I thought I was overreacting.”
“Me, too,” said Nancy. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”
Even Claire nodded her head. “I know exactly what you mean, Carol.” And – was I seeing things? – the always unflappable Claire reached for a wad of napkins to stop her tears, which were flowing down her cheeks.
We all began bawling like babies.
“There’s nothing like a good cry,” Nancy said as our crying jag began to diminish. “I feel a lot better, letting all that emotion out.”
“I wonder how Sister Rose feels about the chapel,” Mary Alice said. “It must upset her even more than us.”
“It takes a lot to upset Sister Rose,” Claire said. “Plus, she and the other sisters had to agree to the architectural plan before the renovations began. They’ve had time to adjust to the changes. For us, it was overwhelming.”
The next half hour was spent speculating about how the place was going to look when it was finished, and if the school was the best place to hold our reunion. I guess that meant I was officially on the planning committee.
Nancy suggested a destination reunion. Like a destination wedding, except for geriatrics. But we vetoed that idea when Mary Alice pointed out that “destination” usually meant travel. Which always meant spending money. Which some of our classmates might not have an abundance of these days.
Yak yak yak. The conversation went back and forth. Forever. With nothing being decided. Except the “ruby” theme, of course. Nancy was insistent about that.
But I didn’t mind a bit. Because I was off the hook. I didn’t have to explain the other reason why I got so upset when we were touring our old high school. And why I’d resisted going to a reunion for years.
And I’m not telling any of you why, either.
Chapter 10
I used to have a handle on life, but it broke.
Ok, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone else. I can trust you, right?
Besides, if I find out that other people know my secret, I’ll know you squealed on me.
Ok. Again. Here goes.
I’ve never admitted this to anyone – not Nancy, Claire, Mary Alice, Jim, or my two kids – but when I was a freshman in high school, I was painfully shy. I mean, PAINFULLY shy. It embarrasses me now just to think about it.
When the four of us were in grammar school, it was a pretty small class. We were a tight group of best friends from sixth grade on. And there was no competition among us.
But when we got to Mount Saint Francis, that all changed. And not for the better, from my point of view. Nancy, being the pretty one – well, she was gorgeous, to tell you the truth, and her figure blossomed long before the rest of ours did, so she was beating the guys off with a stick (figure of speech) – immediately became a member of the popular clique. These were the girls with long shiny hair, a luminous complexion (no zits allowed!), straight white teeth (no braces, allowed, either), and above all, no eyeglasses. I’m betting several of this crowd wore them at home, though. But they were just too vain to be seen in public with glasses on. Or, I guess they could have worn contacts.
Anyway.
Claire was the brainiac of our group. She always got straight A’s, no matter what the subject was. But she never flaunted her intelligence. And she was always willing to help any of us who might be floundering in a particular subject – like arithmetic, for example. I know this from personal experience.
So, of course, Claire immediately gravitated to the other brainiacs in the class, and they formed a pretty tight group. There were fewer of them than of the popular crowd, however.
Mary Alice was just as sweet when she was a kid as she is now. She’s always been a natural caregiver, and everyone loved her. Becoming a nurse was a natural career choice for her. But she was also very organized and a natural leader beneath all that sweetness, so guess what! She was elected president of our freshman class. Which meant she had to attend lots of after-school meetings etc. etc. In fact, Mary Alice was so involved in school functions in freshman year that I wondered when she had time to study.
And that left…me. Literally.
I was left out. Completely. All my grammar school friends moved on when we got to high school, and left me standing alone. All alone. (Cue violins here.)
I know, I know. I’m not the first person this has happened to. And I know I’m not the last one, either.
But this is my story, and no one else’s.
So, I was pretty miserable during the first semester of freshman year at Mount Saint Francis. Being shy (and probably self-centered, too), it never occurred to me that there were other girls in my class who were going through the exact same thing. Other girls who could have become my friends. If I hadn’t been so stupid.
Classes weren’t so bad. But lunch periods were pure torture for me, because I often had no one to sit with. If I got extra lucky, I’d get to the cafeteria and there’d be a seat at Mary Alice’s table. To be fair, I know she always tried to save me one.
But sometimes she couldn’t.
Both Nancy and Claire were on a different lunch schedule, so sitting with either of them wasn’t an option. (Cue more violins.)
I was pretty miserable. So miserable that sometimes I’d skip lunch entirely, sneak out of school, and go for a walk outside. I was an expert at getting out of and back into school without being caught, too. Most of the time.
But when I did get caught, I’d cover up my fear – what was my punishment going to be this time? – by being a smart aleck. Which, of course, got me into even more trouble with the good sisters.
It was all an act, of course. I was doing a shtick, before I even knew what the word meant. And meanwhile, I was absolutely miserable. With no one to confide in.
I wanted so much to tell my mother what was going on. But every time she’d ask me about school, I�
��d lie and tell her everything was fine. By the way, although I was absolutely miserable, I continued to get good grades. Not as good as Claire’s, of course. But certainly respectable enough to make honor roll.
As you can imagine, I had lots of time to study.
And then a new girl transferred into our freshman class. Her family had recently moved from Manhattan to our bucolic suburb of Fairport, Connecticut. Her name was Mary Margaret Mahoney, and if my life was miserable before, after she arrived, things got even worse.
I wonder if any of you have ever looked at a person and instantly despised them. No particular reason – just a mutual, visceral, primal loathing. That’s what happened with Meg and me. Oh, yes. Although her name was Mary Margaret, everyone called her Meg.
There was a practical reason for the nickname. In our class, there were nine other girls whose first name was Mary. Mary Louise, Mary Pat, Mary Beth – I’m sure you get the idea. So nicknames became the only way our teachers could keep everybody straight.
As a matter of fact, Mary was the most popular girl’s name until the 1960s. I’ll bet none of you knew that. Then it fell out of favor, and now, it seems nobody names their daughter Mary anymore. Although variations of the name still pop up, like Maria, Marissa, and Mariah. A bit of trivia you can all use when there’s a conversational lull at the next cocktail party you go to.
Anyway, Meg Mahoney made it very clear that she was not to be called Maggie, or, heaven forbid, Peggy. It was Meg. Period.
In no time at all, Meg had completely taken over the popular clique in the freshman class. Everyone wanted to be her friend. Heck, people actually competed to do her homework for her, if you can believe it.
Even the nuns loved her.
In fact, everyone seemed to love her except…you guessed it. Me. And the feeling was mutual. So Meg went out of her way to make my life miserable every chance she got.
I tried not to feel hurt every time Meg would invite a group of girls to do something after school or on weekends– in front of me – and not include me in the invitation. To be fair, though, Mary Alice, Claire and Nancy did turn down those invitations out of loyalty to me.
At least, they told me they did.
Things came to a head the night of our freshman dance. Yes, back in the dark ages, even though Mount Saint Francis was an all-girls’ school, we did have dances. Closely supervised by the nuns. And chaperoned by loads of parents.
I didn’t have a date, of course. That was long before I met Jim. But Mary Alice didn’t have a date, either, and she talked me into going with her. I didn’t want to go, but then Nancy and Claire ganged up on me. Both of them had dates, and promised to share them with Mary Alice and me so we could get a chance to dance, too.
I was so excited that night. My mom had taken a hand-me-down dress from an older cousin and refashioned it for the dance. I remember it was powder blue taffeta, which she said brought out the blue in my eyes. Short sleeves, modest neckline. Of course.
I thought it was the most beautiful dress I’d ever had, and I felt like a princess in it.
My special night got even better when I got to the dance. Nancy and Claire had convinced their dates – I don’t even remember their names – to buy a corsage for Mary Alice and me, as well as for them. For all I know, the girls (or their parents) paid for the flowers themselves. But the point is, they didn’t want us to feel left out.
I was having a wonderful time. I think I danced twice – once with each date. Which was twice more than I ever expected.
And then I heard Meg’s voice across the dance floor. “Do you believe what Carol Kerr is wearing? That dress is an absolute disaster. It looks homemade. Or like something from a rag heap.” And her faithful acolytes tittered and agreed.
I was humiliated. Beyond anything anyone can possibly imagine. I wanted to fade into the woodwork. Or die, right there. Or even, better yet, have Meg keel over dead from an overdose of punch.
I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone that much in my whole life, before or since.
And that’s my secret. Because being back at Mount Saint Francis today brought that whole ugly night back. And that terrible Meg Mahoney.
So you can imagine I was less than thrilled when Nancy announced that Meg had come back to Fairport after all these years and wanted to help organize our fortieth class reunion.
Chapter 11
Revenge is best served cold with lots of white wine.
I choked on my coffee. Mary Alice immediately jumped up and started pounding me on the back. “Do you have something caught in your throat?” she asked.
I shook my head and continued to cough. And finally managed a raspy, “Just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not going to cry again, are you, Carol?” Claire asked, concern written on her face despite voicing what could be interpreted by someone who is easily offended (like me) as a criticism. “What’s wrong?”
Nancy, bless her, sensing that the curtain was about to rise on Act 2 of my spontaneous dramatic presentation, signaled the server for our check. Which she paid in full, leaving a generous tip.
When Claire and Mary Alice started to chip in some money, Nancy said, “This one’s on me.” She pushed back her chair and grabbed my coat. “Everybody up. We’ll go to my house to see if we can sort this whole reunion thing out in private.
“Come on, Carol. You’re coming with me.”
And she led us all out of the coffee shop without any arguments from anyone. Even me.
On the ride to Nancy’s house, I started to apologize for my outburst, but she silenced me with a wave of her hand. “No need to say you’re sorry, Carol. I’m sure you had a good reason for reacting the way you did.”
We cruised to a stop at the intersection of Fairport Turnpike and Benton Road, Nancy’s street. She gave me a quick look. “I’m betting that you’re not just upset about how the school is being renovated. It’s more than the chapel being turned into a nightclub for geriatrics, isn’t it?”
I managed a tiny smile. “The chapel isn’t being turned into a nightclub and you know it.”
“Well, a bingo parlor then,” Nancy said. The light turned green and in less than two minutes we were parked in Nancy’s driveway.
“I think you’re hiding something, Carol,” my very best friend said to me. “I’ve always thought there was something that bugged you about Mount Saint Francis. Or, should I say, someone? It’s time to let it out.
“I used to think Sister Rose was the problem. But now we’ve reconnected with her after all these years. And even you have to admit that she’s not the ogre we thought she was when we were in high school. In fact, she’s very nice. And the program she’s running now for domestic violence victims is a fantastic service to the Fairport community.”
I exited Nancy’s sports car – still another new one, no doubt a business deduction on her next tax return – and headed toward the front door. I was trying to collect my thoughts, because I knew Nancy wouldn’t give up on me until I came clean. And Mary Alice and Claire would join right on in, too.
With love, of course.
I knew Nancy was right. It was way past time to clear the air, once and for all. And maybe then, I’d finally feel better. And stop this stupid crying once and for all.
Chapter 12
No use crying over the past.
The older you get, the less you remember.
“We never really had lunch,” Nancy said as she came into her sunny conservatory carrying a tray of sandwiches and tea. “Here’s some sustenance so we won’t starve to death.”
Yes, you read that right. Nancy has a conservatory. Remember, she’s a Realtor. And when the buy of the century in Fairport real estate (only partially exaggerating) came on the market five years ago – that would be the former home of the late, famous screen s
tar Patricia Helmond – Nancy and her husband Bob snatched it up. Not only did it have views of Long Island Sound, but it did, indeed, have a conservatory.
Jim and I have a deck and a screened-in porch. Just sayin’.
“When did you have the time to make these?” I asked, grabbing a tuna triangle on whole wheat bread and snarfing it down. So sue me. Stress makes me hungry.
Heck, everything makes me hungry.
Nancy looked just a teeny bit embarrassed. “They’re actually left over from the garden club meeting here yesterday afternoon. I hope they’re not stale. Or soggy.”
“They’re delicious, Nancy,” said Mary Alice, her mouth full of turkey wrap. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to talk with my mouth full.”
“Leftovers work fine for me,” said Claire, grabbing half an egg salad sandwich with one hand and a napkin with the other.
For the next few minutes, nobody spoke. We were all too busy enjoying an unexpected, and yummy, lunch.
“My thanks to the Fairport Garden Club,” said Claire, “for not pigging out yesterday and allowing us to feast on their leftovers. I knew there was something about that bunch I liked, even though I couldn’t grow a plant to save my life.
“Now, Carol,” she continued, fixing me with a radar stare, “we’ve all finished eating. You’ve had time to collect your thoughts. I hope. So what the heck is up with you? And no dodging the question. It’s tell-the-whole-truth time.”
“You make me feel like I’m in the confessional,” I said with a desperate attempt at levity. Which I knew wasn’t the least bit funny, but I was stalling for time. I’ve never been good at getting to the point. Or telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me, God.
Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery Page 5
