by Judith Ivie
To his credit Harold now eyed Mindy coolly for a few seconds, then turned his back on her to invite the lady next to him to dance. As they blended into the crowd and began moving to the music, I was tickled to note that while money might not buy everything, it had obviously allowed Harold to purchase the beautifully cut suit he was wearing and some very successful dance instruction. He could really bust a move. Mindy and Joanie noticed, too. Joanie, in particular, paid close attention.
“Perhaps they regret their former actions and have come here to speak with their victims and make amends,” Armando continued to speculate.
I rolled my eyes at my husband, whose ceaselessly charitable outlook on the human race could be exasperating. “From what they’ve had to say so far, I think we can toss out that theory,” I scoffed. “More likely, they showed up to make everybody uncomfortable, just like they did in their glory days, and to some extent, they seem to be doing it.”
Armando waved expansively at the tables filled with laughing classmates and the couples enjoying themselves on the dance floor. “For a moment or two, but not any longer,” he pointed out. “Life goes on, does it not?”
I was pleased to see that he was right. More than that, I understood what he meant but did not say. Armando and I both had decades of living behind us, including previous marriages, children, complicated careers, illness, injury, and losses of all sorts. Yet here we were, enjoying each other and the music and looking forward to the years ahead of us. He covered my hand on the table with his, and I gave him my warmest smile.
“Shall we have another dance?” I invited, but his eyes had strayed from my face to look over my shoulder.
“I think now is not the right moment, Cara. Unless I am very much mistaken, you are about to become reacquainted with your Mitchell.”
I turned around to discover he was right.
Despite my earlier misgivings, I was delighted to find that meeting Mitch again after all these years was no more unsettling than seeing the rest of my former classmates had been. After exchanging a brief hug and a grin, we introduced our respective spouses and settled easily into a round of “remember when.” I was especially glad to see that Mitch had married Agnes Gagliardi, also a Brewster graduate but a year younger than Mitch and I. Although I had heard rumors of their romance years ago, they hadn’t been confirmed until tonight.
“I was totally infatuated with this guy for more than two years,” Agnes confided to me after we hugged and Armando excused himself to get us all more punch, “but I had to wait until you were out of the picture to activate my master plan. I guess I have Mindy Marchelewski to thank for that, huh?” she twitted Mitch, who had the grace to look abashed.
“Just how did you intend to mastermind our break-up?” I wanted to know.
“I’m not proud of it, but I planted a bug in Mindy’s ear that you might be a little too prim and proper for a red-blooded American boy like Mitch, and she did the rest. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that, Kate. I’ve felt bad about it for years, as my priest can attest. I actually tried to look you up to apologize, but I didn’t know what your married name was, and you were never in any of the class newsletters. Anyway, after that I got myself accepted to Middlebury College, where I’m sure you remember Mitch matriculated in the fall of ’78, and stalked him relentlessly from the minute I set foot on campus. The poor guy never stood a chance,” she grinned, and Mitch grinned back.
“We’ve been together ever since,” he confirmed, looking not at all unhappy with his lot. “Four kids, seven grandchildren and an eighth one due any minute.” I couldn’t help but gasp. “Oh, yeah,” he kidded me. “We Polish folk are a fertile lot. You had a lucky escape, Kate.”
I glanced at Agnes, but she was visibly unperturbed, her smile steady. “Have you seen Mindy tonight, by the way, Kate? I looked around a little, but I didn’t see her or those other two beasts she used to hang out with.”
“Not for a while, now that you mention it. Maybe they took the collective hint and left,” I shrugged.
Agnes turned to Armando, who had distributed cups of fresh punch and now sat drumming his fingers on the table top in time to the music. “I’ll bet you’re a good dancer,” she observed. “Care to treat this granny lady to a dance or two and leave these old flames to catch up in peace? Something tells me they won’t miss us a bit,” she added serenely.
Armando all but leapt to his feet, clearly undisturbed by my reunion with a former boyfriend, and soon the two new acquaintances had insinuated themselves into the dense crowd on the dance floor.
“Why do I get the feeling that our spouses aren’t the jealous type?” I wondered aloud.
“It figures Aggie wouldn’t miss a chance like this. She’s a much better dancer than I am.” Mitch chuckled, looking after his wife fondly.
“Oh, you weren’t so bad, as I recall,” I reassured him, and we were soon giggling like the teenagers we no longer were as we swapped reminiscences. Our conversation was so diverting that before we knew it, twenty minutes had flown by. We returned to the present only when Armando and Agnes arrived back at the table, flushed with their exertions. The DJ announced the closing number, and we all groaned. Where had the evening gone?
The song was Donna Summer’s “Last Dance.” Had to be. As the lights dimmed, a tradition for the final selection of the evening, the four of us returned to the dance floor. I wrapped my arms around Armando’s neck and congratulated myself on my luck. The choices I had made over the past three-plus decades, good and bad, had gotten me here, and here was a good place to be. A few couples away, Aggie winked at me over Mitch’s shoulder. I knew she felt the same way.
The song ended all too soon. The lights came back up, and we reluctantly made our way toward the coatroom, promising everyone we encountered to stay in touch.
“Of course, we won’t do it,” I whispered to Armando, waving at yet another former classmate, “but at least I passed out all my business cards.” I’d pressed one into the hands of nearly everyone with whom I’d spoken throughout the evening.
“There is always your fiftieth reunion to look forward to,” he joked a bit wistfully. “At least you had this opportunity to see everyone together once again. I will not be as fortunate.”
Since most of his classmates still lived in Colombia, I knew he was right. Not for the first time, I reflected on how difficult it must be to be uprooted at an early age and transplanted in a new country, an entirely different culture where you couldn’t even speak the language. I squeezed his hand in sympathy.
Predictably, the line into the coatroom was endless. I caught sight of a small women’s room and decided to make a stop there before the long, cold ride home. “Be right back,” I told Armando and hurried over before every other woman in line got the same idea. As I started to push the door open, it flew inward, and Joanie Haines stumbled out, her face ashen.
“Are you all right?” I asked after regaining my balance.
“Mindy … I don’t know.” Joanie flapped a hand behind her, and Ariel lurched into the corridor.
“In there,” was all she managed to get out before her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell in a dead faint at my feet.
After half an hour the paramedics paused in their efforts to revive Mindy Marchelewski and removed her draped body to a waiting ambulance for the trip to William Backus Hospital, where we all sensed the news would not be good. A hypodermic syringe had been found on the floor beside her in the women’s room, which seemed to indicate some kind of overdose. At least that was the scuttlebutt. Whether the overdose had been accidental or intentional was anyone’s guess.
I sat on the lowest tier of bleachers with Mitch, Agnes and several others. Armando came toward me, his face a mask of Latino stoicism. He was carrying paper cups of what I fervently hoped was hot coffee for the four of us. I was trembling all over, and I knew that as soon as I unclenched my jaw, my teeth would start chattering. Gently, he placed a steaming cup in my hand and urged it toward my lips.
“Drink,” he said. I did as I was told and felt the hot, sugary liquid jolt me back to life. I gave him a shaky smile. “It is now official. You have become that Mrs. Fletcher person who trips over bodies wherever she goes. One wonders why she continues to be invited anywhere,” he mused.
I had often wondered the same thing but forbore to comment. I took another restorative sip as Armando offered coffee to Agnes and Mitch. We had been forbidden to leave before showing IDs and leaving contact information with the police officer who was questioning Ariel and Joanie in a corner of the lobby. At this moment, it was hard to believe that either of them had ever been capable of intimidation. Over the rim of my mug I watched officer turn away from the two women and shamble in our direction.
“It would seem that the police person who is moving so very casually toward us would like to speak with you, Cara,” Armando observed.
“Of course he does,” I said with resignation. “They always do.”
“But why?” he asked curiously.
Mitch, Agnes and I avoided looking at each other. We knew why, and so did most of the other people in the gymnasium. Agnes patted my arm in sympathy.
“It was such a long time ago,” she murmured. “Surely all of that can’t have any bearing on what’s happened here tonight.”
Armando frowned but held his tongue for the present. I knew there would be more questions when we got home, should that happy time ever come. I sighed in resignation.
“Ms. Lawrence?” inquired the young officer who now stood before us. I allowed that I was she. He consulted a small notebook and looked at my companions. “You would be the husband?” he said to Armando, giving him a squinty once-over.
“Armando Velasquez, yes. I am married to Ms. Lawrence,” Armando acknowledged. I recognized the offended chill in his voice.
“Which makes you Mitchell and Agnes Spivak, nee Gagliardi,” the cop continued as if merely confirming what he already knew. Mitch and Agnes nodded mutely. Ariel and Joanie had certainly made a complete report of anyone present who might still harbor a grudge against Mindy, I fumed. Talk about an embarrassment of suspects. If he planned to question all of us this evening, we would never get out of here. That reminded me of Harold King. I looked around but didn’t see him anywhere. Too bad. I would have been glad to pass the time catching up with him.
I peered at the name tag on the policeman’s chest. “How can we help you, Officer McCarthy?” I volunteered in an attempt to get this moving. I was probably old enough to be this kid’s mother, and it was way past my bedtime. Maybe his, too.
McCarthy’s eyes came back to me. “We’re just trying to get a baseline of everyone’s comings and goings tonight, especially those who had a history with the victim. I understand that you and Mr. Spivak did.”
“As did half the other people here this evening,” I informed him crisply, “but thirty-five years is a long time to hold an adolescent offense against someone, officer. Does this mean that Mindy’s, uh, condition isn’t a result of an accidental overdose of some kind?”
“I’m not at liberty to confirm or deny anything at this time, Ma’am. This is an unofficial inquiry. I’m asking you and Mr. Spivak to give us complete contact information in case we need to reach you later for a statement.” He nodded at Mitch, who looked annoyed.
“I don’t live here anymore. We’re just in town visiting relatives for the holiday and stayed for the reunion. We’ve got a flight back to St. Louis tomorrow morning. Can we get this over with?”
Agnes shook her head at him. “Of course, we’ll do everything possible to help, but quite frankly, we’re as mystified as everyone else is about what happened to Mindy,” she said in a more conciliatory tone. “All we know is that she was found unconscious in the women’s room by her friends, Joan Haines and Ariel MacAfee. There was apparently an empty syringe lying near her on the floor. Someone ran to get you, and the paramedics arrived shortly thereafter.” She shrugged. “That’s about it.”
McCarthy listened politely but remained impassive. To my surprise, Armando spoke up.
“We were told that this person accidentally overdosed on an illegal substance which reacted badly with the alcohol already in her system. She appeared to be inebriated when she arrived. Is this not what happened?”
McCarthy looked curious. “What illegal substance would that be, sir, and how did you come by that information?”
Armando looked from one of us to the other, but we had nothing to offer.
“Who told us that, do you remember?” I asked the Spivaks, but their blank expressions answered my question.
Armando turned his palms up. “I am afraid that I also cannot answer your questions es-specifically,” he said finally, his use of the Spanish “es” betraying his discomfort. “It seemed to be, how do you say it, common knowledge.”
“Mmm. Well, give it some more thought. Let us know if you think of any details that might be helpful.” He distributed business cards printed with his name and direct telephone number. “I’d appreciate your coming over to the sign-in table now to write down your contact information.”
He nodded at us and headed to the next cluster of people sitting in the bleachers, clearly expecting us to do as he’d asked. Agnes and Mitch looked at me helplessly and got to their feet, dazed.
“This is just nuts,” was Mitch’s only comment as they trailed over to the sign-in table with obvious reluctance, and I had to agree as we did the same.
Having finally reclaimed our coats and made our way out of the building, Armando and I climbed wearily into the car and reached simultaneously for the seat warmer controls. The events of the evening had chilled us more than the temperature, which wasn’t exactly balmy anyway. After a few miles the heater kicked in, and we began to thaw out.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne,” I sang softly, the lyrics registering ironically. “Good times, huh? I think the reunion committee got it wrong. Some of these old acquaintances definitely should have stayed forgotten.”
“Perhaps now you will share with me the story of you and Mindy Marchelewski that everyone but me seems to know.”
I knew he would be relentless until I came clean, so I took a deep breath and dived in.
Two
As was our custom once a month or so, Margo, Strutter and I met at the Town Line Diner for a late morning breakfast. Sometimes our husbands accompanied us, but more often it was girls only. This was one of those times. Despite having worked together all week, we always had plenty to talk about, and we enjoyed doing it over cups of the diner’s excellent coffee.
“Unanswered prayers,” Strutter pronounced, sighing with satisfaction as she pushed her plate aside. A few toast crumbs were all that remained of her bacon omelette, which smelled delicious.
Margo smiled and nodded. “I was just thinkin’ the very same thing.” Her eyes had that amused, faraway look she got when she recalled some romantic entanglement or other of her youth. The Georgia-born former debutante had certainly had her share, both south and north of the Mason-Dixon line.
“I’m not following you.” I swallowed the last of my eggwhite sandwich on dry whole wheat toast and eyed the last sausage on her plate lustfully. She pushed the plate toward me, but I waved her off, mindful of Ariel’s snarky comment of the previous evening.
Strutter snapped it up with gusto. “The old Garth Brooks song, you remember,” she prompted, dabbing sausage grease from her lips. “Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers, the guy who runs into his old squeeze years after he’s happily married to somebody else?”
“We’ve all been there,” Margo agreed, “and you got there last night, if I heard you correctly. Tell the truth, Sugar. You were a little fluttery walkin’ into that room, wonderin’ if you’d see your old sweetheart again and how you’d feel if you did, am I right?”
I smiled sadly and nodded, although in truth it was hard to remember exactly how I�
�d felt walking into the reunion. That felt as if it had happened weeks ago instead of just last night, but I surely remembered how I’d felt walking out of the gathering a few hours later with my extremely puzzled husband.
“It seems so silly now, all that anxiety, worrying about what to wear to conceal my hips, how I’d look to my old classmates after all these years.”
“You gained eight whole pounds in thirty-five years, wow. It’s a wonder anyone even recognized you under all that lard,” Strutter scoffed. An impossibly curvy Jamaican woman with milk chocolate skin and eyes the color of the Caribbean, she had been drop-dead gorgeous even nine months pregnant, so it was hard for her to relate.
Margo giggled. “Sugar, I gained three pounds last week.”
“No kidding?” I was amazed. I had never been aware of Margo gaining an ounce in all the years I had known her. “Where are you hiding them?”
“Hollow leg,” Margo answered without hesitation. “We Georgia gals keep one handy for holidays and other festive occasions right along with our pearls and sweater sets. Didn’t you ever read the debutante’s handbook?”
It was Strutter’s turn to chuckle. “Must have missed that one,” I said. “One of those leg thingies would sure come in handy right about now.”
“So how did it feel when Mitch showed up?” Margo persisted.
I thought back to the moment when I’d become aware of Mitch walking across the gym floor toward me along with his wife Agnes. He’d been a little thicker around the middle and had lost some hair, but I’d had no trouble at all recognizing him, nor him me.
“It felt fine, no flutters at all,” I said honestly and smiled, remembering the face-splitting grin that had spread across Mitch’s face when he spotted me in the crowd. “It was nice to see Agnes, too. When I saw her last night, I remembered that we’d sat across the aisle from each other in English lit. She was extremely smart academically, but she had a crazy, quirky streak that appealed to me. I always liked Agnes,” I said affectionately.
