Spencerville High or Bowling Green?
Bowling Green. I never went to a high school reunion. Did you?
No.
We just missed one this summer. Hey, I'll go next year if you do.
You're on.
Jeffrey continued, There was another guy from our high school at Bowling Green. Jed Powell, two years younger than us. Remember him?
Sure. His folks owned that little dime store in town. How's he doing?
He got a head wound in Vietnam. Came back here, had a few bad years, and died. My parents and his were close. Gail and I went .to the funeral and handed out antiwar literature. Shitty thing to do.
Maybe.
You getting mellow or drunk?
Both.
Me, too, said Jeffrey.
They sat awhile and caught up on family, then reminisced a little about Spencerville and Bowling Green. They told stories and recollected old friends, dragged up from the basement of time.
It was getting dark now, and the rain still fell. Keith said, Nearly everyone I knew sat on this porch at one time or another.
You know, Keith, we're not even old, and I feel like we're surrounded by ghosts.
I know what you mean. Maybe we shouldn't have come back here, Jeffrey. Why'd you come back?
I don't know. It's cheaper than Antioch. We're not financially comfortable. We forgot about money in our zeal to produce little radicals. He laughed. I should have bought defense stocks.
Not a good investment at the moment. You working?
Tutoring high school kids. So's Gail. She's also on the city council for a dollar a year.
No kidding? Who the hell voted for a pinko?
Her opponent was caught in a men's room.
Keith smiled. What a choice for Spencerville.
Yeah. She'll be out of office in November. Baxter's got it in for her.
I don't wonder.
Hey, watch that guy, Keith. He's dangerous.
I obey the law.
Don't matter, my friend. The guy's sick.
Then do something about it.
We're trying.
Trying? Aren't you the guy who tried to topple the United States government once?
That was easier. He laughed. That was then.
Moths beat against the screened windows of the house, and the rockers creaked. Keith popped open the last two beers and handed one to Jeffrey. I don't understand why you both left cushy teaching jobs.
Well . . . it got weird.
What got weird?
Everything. Gail taught sociology, and I taught Marx, Engels, and other dead white European males who are now dead for sure. I sat there in my ivory tower, you know, and I couldn't see what was going on in the real world. The collapse of communism sort of caught me by surprise.
Me, too. And I got paid to avoid surprises.
Did you? You some kind of spy?
Go on. Your heroes had feet of clay. Then what?
He smiled. Yeah, so I didn't know if I should rewrite my lectures or rethink my life.
I hear you.
Anyway, my classes were not well attended, and whereas I was once in the vanguard of social thought, I found myself bringing up the rear. Christ, I couldn't even get laid anymore. I mean, maybe I'm getting too old for the undergraduate women, but . . . it's more a head thing than physical. You know? Also, they've got these rules now, whole pages of rules on sexual conduct . . . Jesus Christ, they tell you you've got to get a verbal go each step of the way—Can I unbutton your blouse? Can I undo your bra? Can I feel your breast? He laughed. No joke. Can you imagine that when we were undergrads? Christ, we just got high and fucked. Well, you didn't, but . . . anyway, Gail got a little behind the times, too. Her potential students all signed up for Feminist Studies, Afro-American History, Amerindian Philosophy, New Age Capitalism, and stuff like that. No one takes straight sociology anymore. She felt . . . sort of establishment. Jesus Christ, has the country changed, or what?
Antioch might not be representative of the country, Jeffrey.
I guess not. But, jeez, there's nothing as pathetic as an old revolutionary who doesn't get it anymore. The revolution always eats its own. I knew that thirty years ago. I just didn't expect to be on the take-out menu so soon.
They sack you?
No. They don't do that. Gail and I just woke up one morning and made a decision. We quit on principle. Stupid.
No. Smart. Good. I can't say the same for myself. I wish I would have done what you did. But I got axed.
Why? Cutbacks?
Yup. The price of victory is unemployment. Ironic.
Yeah, well, but you won. Now I can't look forward to a socialist paradise on earth. He finished his beer and crushed the can. Politics suck. They divide people.
I told you that. Keith sat silent for a while and thought about what Jeffrey had said. He and his childhood friend had lived different lives and believed in different things, and apparently had nothing in common by their senior year in college. In reality, they had more in common than they knew.
They'd been little boys together, they'd played in the same schoolyard, and left for the same college the same day. Each considered himself an honest man and perhaps an idealist, and each probably believed he was doing the best he could for humanity. They'd served in different armies while others stood aside. But, in the end, they'd each been misled, used, and abused by different systems. Yet here they were old Spencerville boys, sharing too many beers on the front porch. Keith said to Jeffrey, We've both been left in the scrap heap of history my friend- We're useless relics who both lost the war.
Jeffrey nodded. Yeah. Can we get the next thirty years right?
Probably not. But we’re not going to make the same mistakes.
No but the past clings to us, Keith. Word got out that Gail and I are Reds, which isn't really true, but it hasn't helped the tutoring business. I mean, what are we supposed to do? Join a church? Go to Fourth of July picnics dressed in red, white, and blue? Register as Republicans?
God forbid.
Right. We're still radicals. Can't help it.
No and you love it. That's why you're here. Your act was yesterday's news in Antioch. Here, you're weird and dangerous.
Jeffrey slapped his knee. Right! This place is in a time warp. I love it. He looked at Keith. And you? Do you know why you're here?
I think so.
Why?
Well I'm a burned-out cynic. I don't think they even understand cynicism here, so I'm here to get well again.
Yeah Cynicism is humor in ill-health. H. G. Wells. I hope you get better.
Me, too.
Maybe I can get cured of my idealism. You know what an idealist is? That's a man who notices that a rose smells better than a cabbage, so he thinks the rose will make a better soup. That's my problem. That's why I'm broke, out of work, and a social outcast. But I'm not cynical. There's hope-
God bless you. Can I say that to an atheist?
Anytime. You join a church yet?
No.
You should.
Is that you, Jeffrey?
Yeah . . . I saw the power of religion in Poland, in Russia . . . I don't agree with any of it, but I've seen what it can do for troubled minds. You need a dose.
Maybe.
Jeffrey stood unsteadily. Hey, I've got to go, buddy. Dinner's on. Come over tomorrow and have dinner with us. Gail wants to see you. We're still vegetarians, but you can bring your own pig or something. We have wine and beer. We do drink.
I see that. Keith stood, also unsteadily. What time?
Who cares? Six, seven. Also, I've got a stash. Jeffrey moved to the steps and steadied himself on the porch column. He said, Hey, you want to bring a friend? Lady type?
No.
What're you doing for sex? Don't choke the chicken. This town's full of divorced women. They'd love a piece of you.
Can you drive?
Sure. It's a straight run. We're renting a farmhouse and a few acres for organic vegetable
s. Two miles up the road. The old Bauer place.
Let me drive you.
No . . . if I get stopped, I can put the fix in through Gail. If you get stopped, they'll nail your ass.
Why do you say that?
Jeffrey moved back toward Keith and put his arm on Keith's shoulder. He said softly, That's what I came to tell you . . . even if we didn't get along, I was going to tell you. Gail has a source close to the police . . . actually in police headquarters, but forget that. And the word is that Baxter is after your ass, and I guess we both know why. You be damned careful, buddy.
Thanks.
Jeffrey hesitated, then said, I don't know if you and she have been in contact, but I have this feeling that you two . . . what am I trying to say? I could never picture you two separate . . . whenever I see Annie, I think of Keith, and when I saw you here, I thought of Annie, like you should have come to the door together like you always did in Bowling Green . . . Christ, I'm babbling. He turned and walked down the porch steps and through the rain without his umbrella, got into the car, and left.
Keith watched the taillights disappear on the dark, rainy road.
CHAPTER TEN
The he following morning dawned clear, and Keith wanted to work around the farm, but everything was wet from the rain, so he put on clean jeans and a new short-sleeve shirt and went into town to take care of some business.
He was tempted to drive past the Baxter house, but the police may have discovered his new car by now. In any case, there was no reason to see if she was back or not; in her own time, she'd drive out to her Aunt Louise and stop by to see him.
He drove into the center of town and found a parking place near the state liquor store. He went inside and looked over the selection of wines, which ran toward domestic brands whose labels didn't ring a bell. He recalled that Jeffrey and Gail, like everyone else they knew at Bowling Green, drank cheap, sweet wine that today they'd deny ever having heard of. Nevertheless, as a joke, Keith found a bottle of apple wine and a bottle of something called grape wine, which was actually grape juice and alcohol, manufactured locally. He also found a decent bottle of real Italian Chianti, which would also bring back memories.
He paid for the wine, went back to the Blazer, and put the bottles in the rear compartment. He took his Washington license plates, which were in an addressed manila envelope, and walked toward the post office on the west side of Courthouse Square.
The post office was one of those old Federalist buildings with classical columns, and, as a boy, Keith had always been awed by the place. He'd once asked his father if the Romans had built it, and he'd been assured that they had. His sense of history was a little better now, and he smiled at the memory, then understood what Annie meant when she'd written about memories. He recalled accompanying her several times to the post office to buy stamps and to mail letters.
There was no line at one of the windows, and he took the envelope to the clerk, where it was weighed and stamped. Keith requested return receipt and was filling out the tag when he heard the clerk a few windows away say, You have a good day, Mrs. Baxter.
He turned to his right and saw a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a simple pink and white cotton summer dress, walking toward the door. She left.
He stood motionless a moment, and the clerk said to him, Finished?
Yes. No . . . forget it. He crumpled the form and left quickly.
On the steps, he looked up and down the sidewalk but didn't see her, then spotted her with three other women walking toward the corner. He hesitated, then bounded down the steps and followed.
His mental image of Annie was of how she looked twenty-five years before, the last time he'd seen her on the day he left to report for induction. They'd made love in her apartment in Columbus, and at dawn he'd kissed her and left. Now, in her mid-forties, her figure was still youthful, and she walked with the same girlish jaunt he remembered. She was laughing and joking with her friends, and he couldn't get a good look at her face, except in brief profile as she turned to talk.
Keith found that his heart was beating rapidly, and he stopped and watched the four women. They paused at the corner and waited for the light to change. Keith took a step forward, hesitated, took another step, then stopped again. Go, you idiot. Go.
The light turned, and the four women stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. Keith stood watching them. Then Annie said something to her friends, and the three of them continued without her toward the courthouse park. Annie stood motionless a moment, then turned and walked directly toward him.
She smiled and put out her hand. Hello, Keith. Long time.
He took her hand. Hello, Annie.
I'm flustered, she said.
You look fine. I'm about to faint.
She smiled. I doubt it. She took a step back. Let's look at you. You haven't aged a day.
I've aged twenty-five years. You look very good.
Thank you, sir.
They made eye contact and held it. Her eyes were as big and sparkly as ever, he noticed, and she still wore the same pale pink lipstick he remembered. Her skin had a healthy glow, but he was surprised she wasn't tan, because she used to love the sun. There were a few wrinkles, of course, but they gave her otherwise girlish face a little maturity. She had been pretty then; she was beautiful now.
He fished around for some words, then said, So . . . I got your letter. In my mailbox.
Good.
How was Bowling Green?
It was . . . nice. Sad.
I was going to . . . I didn't know if you went alone, or . . .
Yes, I did. My daughter and I. She added, I looked for you there. Well, not physically, but, you know . . .
He nodded, then looked at her. Do you believe this?
No. I'm dreaming.
I'm . . . I can't find the words . . .
She looked around. Another minute or so, then I have to go.
I understand.
I sent you a letter. It was returned. I thought you were dead.
No . . . I mean, I didn't leave a forwarding address at the office . . .
Well, I was upset for days. She cleared her throat and said, Lost my pen pal.
He was surprised when he noticed that her eyes were moist, and he wanted to offer her a handkerchief, but knew he shouldn't. She took a tissue from her purse and pretended to pat her face but wiped her eyes. So . . . She took a deep breath. So, how long are you here for?
I don't know.
Why did you come back?
He considered several evasive replies, then said, To see you.
He saw she was biting her lower lip, and she was looking at the ground, clearly about to cry.
Keith didn't feel in complete control either, so he didn't speak.
Finally, she looked up at him and said, You could have seen me anytime you were here.
No, I couldn't, Annie. But now I can.
God . . . I don't know what to say . . . I mean . . . do you . . . are you still . . . ?
Yes.
She dabbed at her eyes again, then glanced across at the park where her friends were at the ice cream vendor's truck, looking at her and Keith. She said to him, I have about thirty seconds before I'm doing something wrong.
He forced a smile. It's still a small town, isn't it?
Real small.
He said, I want you to know that your letters got me through some rough times.
Same here. I have to go.
When can we have that cup of coffee?
She smiled. I'll drive out to your place. When I go to see my aunt. But I don't know when I can do that.
I'm usually home.
I know that.
He said, Your husband—
I know that, too. I know when to come.
Okay.
She extended her hand, and he took it. Keith said with a smile, In Europe, Washington, or New York, we'd kiss good-bye.
In Spencerville, we just say, 'You have a real nice day now, Mr. Landry. Real good
seeing you again.' She squeezed his hand and turned away.
Keith watched her cross the street and noticed the three women taking it all in.
He stood a moment, not remembering where he was, where his car was, or what he was supposed to do next.
He found he had a lump in his throat and kept glancing at the park across the street, but they were gone now. He wanted to go find her and take her arm and tell her friends, Excuse me, we're in love, and we're leaving.
But maybe she needed some time to think about it. Maybe she didn't like what she saw. He thought about the conversation, replayed it so he wouldn't forget it, and tried to remember the look on her face and thought about what he'd seen in her eyes.
From what he'd gathered, she'd had a bad time of things, but you couldn't tell by her eyes, or her face, or her walk. Some people showed every scar, every disappointment, every sorrow. Annie Prentis was the eternal optimist, happy, perky, and unbowed by life.
He, on the other hand, had done well in life, and perhaps he didn't look burned-out, but he carried in his heart every sorrow, disappointment, and human tragedy he'd ever seen or experienced.
It didn't do any good to wonder about how life might have been if they'd married and had children. It would have been fine. They always said that they were made exclusively for each other. It was more important now to see if it was really possible to pick up where they'd left off. The cynic in him said no. The young Keith Landry, the one who had loved completely and unconditionally, said yes.
He found his car, got inside, and started it. He was vaguely aware that he had a list of errands to do, but he started for home.
As he drove, he remembered that day, twenty-five years ago, in her bedroom in Columbus. Dawn was breaking, and he'd been awake and dressed for hours. He'd sat looking at her sleeping naked on her back in the warm room, the unforgettable profile of her face and body, her long hair tumbling onto the pillow.
Certainly, he'd known that it would be a long time before they would see each other again. But it never occurred to him that a quarter century would pass and that the world they knew would have vanished so completely. Sitting in her bedroom, he'd thought briefly about the war in Asia, about the possibility that he would die, but it all seemed too remote then. They were small-town kids who'd had four idyllic years of college, and this two-year Army hitch was just a bump on the road. His only concern was that, after being inseparable in high school and college, she'd be lonely without him.