LATE AUGUST
However nonchalant you might think you are, now, about the collective experience called high school, everything you are, or might have been, has roots in those years.
A good many otherwise intelligent people waste their entire lives trying to reinvent themselves, either in the exact mold of their youth, or into the exact opposite—neither of which can be easily accomplished under the gaze of Those Who Knew Us When.
The disaffected leave, usually at the first opportunity, swearing never to return. But the siren call of Hometown whispers a taunting melody, drawing them back, sometimes to dash them on the rocks of their own dreams.
It's interesting to observe the flailing of those who thought they'd reached escape velocity, only to discover the irresistible pull of Delphi's gravity field.
On the other hand, if you never left, you're not allowed to stand on the sidelines and watch.
"I don't get it," Del said, handing me an open envelope. "What do they want us for?"
We were past the mid-morning rush. Aphrodite's Delphi Cafe was moderately full of locals looking for an excuse not to go back to work between coffee break and lunch. None of us had any meals up, and Rhonda was making the rounds with the coffee refills, so I stood behind the counter, warily eyeing the stack of mail Del had brought over from our trailer.
It was mostly bills anyway, mostly having medical return addresses—radiologists, orthopedists, consultants. There was an ominously thick packet from the hospital in Aberdeen. Though none were addressed to "Tory Bauer, middle-aged, overweight, widowed waitress," the bright red URGENT messages stamped on the outsides of the envelopes were a clear indicator of my status as one of America's working uninsured.
Del's mail, however, consisted of cheery predictions from Publishers' Clearing House, her bimonthly copy of the Elvis Sightings Newsletter (motto: "Elvis is alive, and we've seen him"), and the letter she held out.
The return address listed the "Delphi Float/Reunion Committee," and it was addressed to "Ms. Delphine Bauer" and "Mrs. Tory Atwood Bauer." Inside was an invitation to all members of Delphi High School classes of 1965–1975 to work together to build a float for the town's Seventy-fifth Anniversary Football Homecoming Parade/Game in September, and to help plan our portion of the All School Reunion that would follow. The committee sincerely hoped each and every DHS alumnus would pitch in "for the greater glory of the school" in general, and our decade in particular. To that end, a general meeting was planned for the following evening. The letter was signed by reunion chair Debbie Wetzler Fischbach, wife of the current high school football coach, ex-cheerleader, and member of the 1969 Delphi Homecoming Court.
"Looks to me like they want volunteer labor and donated supplies to enter a float in the homecoming parade," I said, stuffing my unopened bills in a drawer behind the counter.
"I realize that," Del said, exasperated. "I wasn't asking what they wanted with us. I was asking what they wanted with us."
I fished a knitting needle out of the drawer, turned around and scrunched down a little so as not to disgust the patrons, inserted the pointed end inside the short-arm cast I was now wearing, and scratched vigorously. "Aah," I said quietly.
"Will you please not do that in here?" Aphrodite called from the kitchen where she was smoking a cigarette over the grill. "Makes us look bad."
"I can't help it," I said, grinning. "The cast is hot and it itches. And besides, no one would know I was doing this if you didn't make a special point of announcing it."
"Is Tory scratching inside her cast again?" Rhonda called from the other side of the cafe. "Gross."
"I could go home and do this in private, and let you serve the public without me," I threatened, though of course I didn't mean it. I had already been off work far longer than I could afford. The healing broken arm was the last remnant of some nasty injuries I'd received a shade more than a month ago. I was counting the minutes until the cast could come off, though the resultant unpaid medical bills provided a discomfort that outweighed the deep itch of reknitting bones.
"Never mind, scratch all you like." Rhonda laughed.
"I don't know about that," Ron Adler said, from his regular booth by the window. "The idea of Tory's dead skin flakes floating through the air kinda gives me the willies." Small and neat, with thinning hair and a face that receded sharply from nose to Adam's apple, he blinked furiously, an unconscious tic that accented his every word.
"You be good or I'll come over there and scratch right over your coffee," I warned.
"Watch out, she means it," Del said loudly to Ron, for the benefit of the rest of the cafe crowd, who was, as always, listening in. "An injured, hot, and itchy Tory is a crabby Tory."
"Yeah," I growled in agreement.
"You got that right. In fact, the only time Tory smiles these days is when Stu McKee comes over," Rhonda teased, also for the benefit the crowd.
This month she was playing Earth Mother, in all-natural fibers, flowing, floor-length skirts, long blond hair braided down her back. A nineteen-year-old vegetarian newbie, aiming for wise and worldly. Last month she was a hippie. Next month, maybe a space alien. We do not try to predict Rhonda Saunders's fashion statements; we go with her flow.
I busied myself by swabbing the countertop, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
"Actually," Rhonda said, flipping her braid over one shoulder, "I think it's nice that Tory cheers Stu up a little. He's been so sad lately."
Del snorted. "He looks pretty chipper for a man whose wife left him…" She paused. "…for another state."
Minnesota, to be exact.
Renee McKee had returned to her home state last month, and speculation was rampant as to whether South Dakotan Stu would follow his wife, or stay here in Delphi, perhaps to embark on a new relationship. Since Delphi was officially insulted by Renee's desertion, the cafe straw poll overwhelmingly favored the latter.
Rhonda placed a comforting, worldly arm around my shoulders and said to Del, "You be nice. I think it's cute. Stu's wife is gone, and Tory hasn't dated since—"
"—you were in diapers," Del interrupted.
"Since she was in diapers." Ron blinked.
"Since Aphrodite was in diapers," someone else added. "Right around the turn of the century."
In the kitchen, Aphrodite harrumphed.
"Since Nicky died," Rhonda finished firmly, with a stern glare at the crowd in general. "It's about time she got out again, and if Stu McKee has a crush on her, I say fine and dandy."
"No one has a crush on anyone. And she"—if they could refer to me in the third person, so could I—"is far too busy even to think about romance."
Del, who knew I was lying, and Rhonda, who guessed, both smiled.
"Besides," I said, desperate to change the subject, especially since I had spotted Stu ambling across Delphi's dusty main drag, toward the cafe from the Feed and Seed Store he ran with his father, "my dance card is full." I made a quick decision that I knew would divert attention. "I'm going to do what Debbie Wetzler Fischbach asks—I'm going to help plan the big reunion and homecoming parade. That'll keep me more than occupied for the duration."
"What?" Del and Rhonda asked together.
I smiled. Stu came in and sat down. No one else noticed.
"Just what I said. I think it'll be fun—they won't expect me to do actual 'building,' of course." I waved my cast. "But I can help plan and stuff envelopes and lick stamps."
"But why in the world would you want to?" Rhonda asked, bewildered. She had not been out of high school long enough to work up any nostalgia.
"That's what I want to know," said Del, who had been out long enough, but still had not worked up any nostalgia.
"It'll be interesting to find out what everyone's doing these days," I said over my shoulder as I arranged a paper placemat and silverware in front of Stu. "What can I get you?" I asked him. Nonchalantly.
"Is it too late for the breakfast special?" he asked, tilting a Cargill cap back off his forehead a little, and locking cool green eyes directly on mine with a small smile.
"I think we can talk Aphrodite into whipping up another plate of cholesterol, sodium, and nitrosamines," I said, squashing a return smile. "And how would you like your cholesterol?"
"Over easy," he said, "with extra crispy nitrosamines, and I want real saturated fat on my toast. None of that imitation healthy stuff."
"Gotcha," I said, grinning, until I caught Ron Adler watching us closely. I handed the slip to Aphrodite, who grunted in approval, turned, and ran directly into Del, who had followed me behind the counter.
"What do you mean, it sounds like fun? Debbie Wetzler and that snooty bunch never paid a bit of attention to you, or me, all through high school. And you never joined a committee in your whole life."
"I know," I said, carrying coffee over to Stu. I shrugged again. "I know, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, and it seems like we should all be past worrying about who was popular and who wasn't."
I had announced my intention to join the committee only to change the subject, but I found, to my own surprise, that I really did want to do it.
"I bet Tory was popular, anyway," Rhonda said, being diplomatic.
"Yeah, right," Del huffed, tucking a stray red tendril back behind one ear. She'd fixed her hair in a sort of uplift with a twist on top. It looked good with her tight jeans and artfully unbuttoned plaid shirt. "We all were popular."
Del had been popular. With the boys. And sometimes with men. She still was, though that wasn't exactly Rhonda's point.
"Rhonda," I said gently, "even back in the pioneer days, when I was in high school, fat girls were never popular."
"Oh Tory," she said sternly, "of course you were popular, no matter what your size. And I bet you were just as sweet then as you are now." Rhonda had been popular—cheerleader, homecoming queen, surrounded always by a crowd of adoring boys. She had no idea what it was like to be the fat girl in a small school.
I sighed. Sweetness has never been one of my ambitions.
"I wasn't sweet and I wasn't popular. In fact, I don't think anyone even noticed me, except for Del," I explained. "And I was far too busy mooning over Nicky Bauer to care."
"And look what that got you." Ron Adler blinked, jumping back into the conversation.
"Hey, that's my dead first cousin you're talking about," Del warned.
"I bet Stu noticed you," Rhonda said slyly, determined to play matchmaker.
"I highly doubt it," I said. Using the cast for balance, I managed a left-handed pickup of the steaming plate of bacon and eggs Aphrodite pushed through the opening between the cafe and the kitchen.
"I was a couple of years ahead of Tory," Stu said to Rhonda as I set the plate in front of him. "In fact, I was in the same class as Debbie Wetzler. But yes, I did notice her. She was smart and funny, even back then."
"It's in the Fat Girl Rule Book," I said, supremely tired of being the main subject of this conversation. "We had to be smart and funny. And sweet. It was supposed to make up for not having any dates."
"You did too date," Ron said. "If I remember correctly, you married Nick before the end of your senior year."
"Yeah, and look what that got me," I reminded him.
"So why in hell do you want to be on that stupid committee?" Del asked.
People were straggling in; the cafe was noisier.
"I'm curious," I said, realizing the truth as I said it. "Some people actually got away from Delphi, and I want to know how it worked out."
"Is living vicariously through others in the Fat Girl Rule Book too?" she asked, grabbing a tray of filled water glasses.
"Of course, it's part of the charter," I said, laughing.
"Well, you won't catch me at that stupid meeting," Del said. "And I bet Ron won't be there either, right?"
"Well." Ron blinked furiously. "Actually, I was thinking of going."
"Me too," said Stu.
"Have they all gone off the deep end?" Del asked the ceiling.
"I wouldn't do it, except Gina's making me," Ron said, wide-eyed.
Ron's wife, Gina, co-chair of the float committee, was a couple years younger than me. She had been in the second tier of popularity—not exactly cheerleader material, but not entirely hopeless either. Her marriage to Ron had always been a puzzlement.
Del elbowed me in the ribs and put the tray of glasses down on Ron's table, ignoring the other customers. I slid into his booth with her—we had both heard the same thing.
"You say Gina is forcing you to be on the committee?" Del asked innocently, examining her fingernails.
"Yup." Ron squirmed. "That's right exactly. I wouldn't do it otherwise, but you know how it is. Gotta keep the old lady happy."
He gestured emphatically with every word, but did not blink. Even once.
I glanced at Del for confirmation. She nodded surreptitiously.
"Give me a break, Ron," I said harshly, "name me any time you actually did something because it made Gina happy."
Ron swallowed.
"Oh, Tory, you're being too hard on Ron. He's just being a good husband," Del cooed, leaning over the table just a little. That jump started the blinking process again, as well as a slow blush that crept up from Ron's neckline as his eyes darted down the front of Del's blouse. "Right, Ron?"
"Um, yeah, sure." No blinks.
"This is ridiculous," I said. "Whatever your reason for being on the committee, I'm sure it has nothing to do with marital obligations."
"Well, I'm curious too," he said, blinking defensively. "Just like you."
"See," Del said to me. "I knew he could explain."
"Bullshit," I said flatly. "Why are you suddenly Volunteer of the Week?"
"Yes, tell us," Del fluttered. "Please."
Ron looked down at his hands, up at the ceiling, vainly at Stu for help, wide-eyed, and anywhere but at Del and me.
"I can't tell you," he whispered, blinking.
We had him. The good waitress/bad waitress routine works every time.
"Sure you can." Del reached across and ran a light finger from Ron's wrist to his elbow. She was not above using Ron's long-standing unrequited crush to her own advantage.
"You better," I said, "or I'll call Gina myself and ask."
"Oh Jesus, don't do that," Ron said quickly, glancing all around to see if anyone else was listening. "All right, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone. It's supposed to be a surprise."
Del and I nodded, and promised. And lied.
Stu leaned over the back of the booth, intently listening to every word.
Ron swallowed, blinked, and opened his mouth. And closed it again.
"She's coming back for the parade, going to ride on our float. No one's gonna know in advance. The whole town is gonna shit," he said in a rush, then sat back, blinking and smiling, enjoying his bombshell.
"She's coming back here? To Delphi?" Del asked, unbelieving.
"After all this time? Are you sure?" I asked.
"How do you know?" Stu, who slid in next to Ron, asked.
"Shhh," Ron whispered. He leaned over and said softly, "A few months ago, Gina and Deb Fischbach got together. They wrote to her agent in Hollywood and he forwarded the letter and she actually wrote back. And she's coming. To Delphi, to be in the parade. On our float."
We sat back. Stunned.
We did not have to ask who "she" was. We all knew.
She was J. Ross Nelson, AKA Janelle Ross, 1969 Delphi Homecoming Queen, expatriate South Dakotan, Hollywood actress, honest-to-God famous person. The only one Delphi has ever produced. Her picture regularly showed up in People magazine and some of the less sleazy tabloids.
"But she hasn't been here since—" I stopped, thinking back, trying to remember.
"Since 1969," Del finished, squinting in concentration. "Since the night of the homecoming game. The night of that kegger by the river."
"God, you're right," I said, almost overwhelmed by resurfacing memories of my first nonabstract encounter with life and death. "She disappeared after that homecoming party. Didn't even finish her senior year."
"I know which party you mean." Rhonda wrinkled her brow. "Wasn't there some sort of scandal? I wasn't even born then, and I heard about it. So it had to be big."
"You might say that," Del said dryly.
"Didn't some kid die?" Rhonda squinted, trying to remember ancient history.
If Janelle hadn't become J. Ross Nelson, all of the details of that night would have been long, and deservedly, forgotten.
"Drowned, right? That's it, at a kegger by the river." Rhonda beamed like a contestant who'd bet a bundle on Double Jeopardy.
"Yup," Del said shortly.
"Considering it was homecoming and all, at least a couple of you guys musta been there. At that party. When it happened, I mean," Rhonda said to us, dismissing the possibility of kids, even of our elderly generation, skipping a kegger.
I looked at Del, Ron, and finally Stu, who all sat quietly. "Everyone was there, Rhonda. Even me. In fact, that was my first date with Nick."
"And look what that got you." Ron laughed, never one to resist running a joke into the ground.
"Yeah, I should have taken it as an omen."
Rhonda chewed a lip pensively. "Isn't it sorta mysterious, though, that this girl, homecoming queen no less, disappeared the same night from a party where someone actually died?"
"You been watching too much Perry Mason," Ron said.
"Perry who?" Rhonda asked.
Ron ignored her. "There was never anything mysterious about that party. And Miss High and Mighty J. Ross Nelson didn't disappear until later, because I saw her in town the day after."
"But it had to have been terrible for you. I mean being there when a classmate, someone you knew, died," Rhonda persisted. Novice Earth Mothers like their revelations to be dramatic.
"None of us were at the river when Butchie Pendergast died. We didn't know that he'd drowned until the next day," I explained finally. "And I don't think anyone realized that Janelle and Doug were gone until school on Monday."
"Doug who?" Rhonda asked.
"Doug Fischbach." Ron blinked.
"Wait a second," Rhonda said, frowning. "The big movie star disappeared with Mr. Fischbach, our football coach?"
"Well, she wasn't a movie star then, and he wasn't a coach," I explained. "They were both just high school kids."
"Our Mr. Fischbach, who happens to be married to Mrs. Fischbach? The Mrs. Fischbach who is in charge of all the homecoming stuff!"
"Yes, that Mrs. Fischbach," Del said. "The one who invited J. Ross Nelson back to Delphi."
"That's going to make your reunion meetings interesting, to say the least," Rhonda said softly.
"No shit," I agreed.
"Gina is gonna announce all of this at the meeting tomorrow night," Ron said seriously. "So you have to act surprised. You and Stu," he said to us. "And even though you aren't going to the meeting, Del, you have to keep it quiet too."
"Sure," Del lied. "But you know, I might just drop in on the meeting after all."
She grinned evilly.
Ron groaned.
Rhonda, obviously meditating on the strangeness of drownings and disappearances, asked, "But why is she coming back? She made a life and a name for herself in the real world. Why would anyone want to come back to Delphi?"
I thought for a minute of the reasons I had for joining the reunion committee. I considered the newly resurfacing memories of that after-homecoming party, and realized perhaps J. Ross Nelson understood that Messrs. Felder, Henley, and Frey's observation about Hotel California might also apply to South Dakota: Check out any old time, just don't expect to leave.