I don't know if there were other computers that Junior could have used to enter and collate the reunion information sheets, but dragging me into her husband's office at the Lutheran church served an even deeper purpose than committee work.
Junior's proselytizing soul was in continual unrest over my steadfast disinterest in being Saved. She had slowly learned that I would not listen to any sort of preaching, so just getting me on church property constituted a victory for her.
Settled in her hometown, in a marriage that seemed to be both happy and stable, Junior turned her considerable energy toward taming the world and making it conform to her view of Right and Proper. Junior's undivided attention could be both intense and uncomfortable.
She had not entirely given up on me.
I stood at a long table that was strategically placed under a large mural made of little glass pieces mortared into an asymmetrical cross, sorting out reunion sheets according to year of graduation. Certain that Lutheran conversion rays were being beamed on me from all directions, I reflected on the fact that Junior almost always got her way.
Named Juanita Doreen II, a burden imposed by my Aunt Juanita Doreen the First, Junior saddled her oldest daughter, young Juanita Doreen III, in the same fashion. Thankfully, in my family, there was room for only one Juanita, so eight-year-old Tres and her mother made do with lifelong nicknames.
Junior sat at the computer, a bewildering array of beige boxes that beeped and whirred alarmingly. She squinted at the screen, clicking keys, muttering to herself a little.
"Tory, come here and tell me what you think," she commanded, her eyes not leaving the screen. "Do you like this font?"
I walked behind the desk, careful to keep Junior and her fetus between me and any stray computer radiation, and peered at the monitor.
"Sure," I said. "What's a font?"
She turned and looked up at me. "You are joking, aren't you?"
"Junior, how would I know anything about computers?" I asked. "It's not as though the trailer, or the cafe, is crawling with them."
"You know what I say to that," she said primly.
Yeah, I knew. Her spiel had three main points: Go back to school, do something with your life, and (most important) get away from Del.
"I can't afford any major life changes right now," I said.
"Aren't you getting any help with that?" She pointed at my cast.
"Not enough," I said. "I'm going to be paying off that particular adventure the rest of my life."
"You know," she said, "we could do a fund-raiser for you."
The thought of having to smile bravely through a Tory Bauer Bake Sale or a Tory Bauer Benefit Dance was numbing.
"No thanks," I said. The price for accepting that kind of assistance would be far too high. In exchange for financial aid, I'd be at the beck and call of every civic function, board, and committee. "I appreciate the thought, but I'd rather not owe anything to Delphi."
"I wasn't talking about the city," Junior said tartly. "I was talking about the church. We're supposed to be in the charity business."
"It'd be just a tad hypocritical of me to accept money from a church I have no intention of joining," I replied wearily.
"There's such a thing as being too independent," she said, turning back to the computer. "Everyone needs help sometime."
Unfortunately, Junior's notion of help always involved her being in control. But now that we'd had the obligatory lecture, we could actually get down to work.
"I thought we'd use a Wizard to design a form and enter the information into a database, which will sort the entries out alphabetically, according to year, and insert the data into the word processing program. We'll format one person per page with justified double columns, frame and insert any scanned BMP graphic files we have, and print out the pages individually. Of course, we'll have to set up a header and reformat the pagination system to fit the master book, but we can do that later. And we'll probably have to meet again to enter any late arrivals into the database. How's that's sound?"
"Great," I said, mystified. "All I have to do is read the stuff out loud as you type, right?"
"Yes. You can manage that, can't you?"
"I'll give it the Delphi High try," I said, quoting an old cheer.
We established a routine quickly, and worked our way through the stacks faster than I had expected. Junior was a remarkably fast and accurate typist.
"The computer has a spellchecker," she explained, sighing, when I complimented her on her typing. "It fixes the typos for me automatically."
I pretended to know that and continued on. Only an hour into the ordeal and we were up to 1969 already.
"Maiden name Franklin, first name Lisa, current married name Hauck-Robertson," I droned, before realizing whose info sheet I was reading. "Whoa, that's Lisa Franklin. Her last name is Hauck-Robertson? What'd she do, marry a hyphen?"
"I wouldn't know," Junior said. "Come on, I have to get home and cook supper soon. We don't have time for idle speculation."
"You're no fun at all," I mumbled. I raised the sheet again, and read off Lisa Franklin Hauck-Robertson's professional stats. "She's coming to the reunion," I said, unable to resist another digression. "And like almost every other female from 1968 on, she remembers Mr. Kincaid fondly. 'Really helped me through some thorny adolescent perturbations' she says. And that's an exact quote. I've never met anyone who used the word perturbation in a sentence before. Remind me to avoid Lisa completely."
"Tory, can we please get on with it?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. McKee, Stuart," I read, then stopped short. He'd listed Renee as his wife. I reminded myself that she was still his wife, though I was irrationally grumpy about having to say her name out loud.
For once, Junior resisted the urge to comment. She typed steadily as I read. "Messner, Gerald, married for the fourth time, wife Monique, occupation, 'owner of a small software firm in Northwest Washington that develops antivirus programs and security protocols for networked systems,'" I read. "Must be a good market for security protocols these days, he has a second home in France. What do you want to bet that Monique is under twenty-five and never wears a bra?"
Junior didn't answer.
We continued on, Junior doggedly typing through my digressions. She had no comment about anyone's fondness for Mr. Kincaid. She had no interest in the triumphs and tragedies that I found so fascinating. She didn't care where anyone lived or how many kids they had.
She was intensely serious about getting the job done, and that was starting to irritate me.
"Maiden name Ross, first name Janelle, married name Nelson, occupation, vampire, hobby, sucking the blood of innocent children after sundown," I said.
Junior typed every word into the computer.
"Okay, that's it," I said, setting the rest of the pages down. "What is the matter with you? You're not paying any attention at all. Reread that last entry."
Angrily, she deleted a couple of lines. "I suppose you think that was funny," she said.
"Well, actually, yes," I said. "But that's not the point. You're typing away like we're curing cancer. Lighten up a little."
"I have a lot on my mind," she said, facing the screen again, hands in her lap.
"About the baby? Or babies?" I added hopefully. We were all dying to know.
"No, everything there is fine," she said softly. She was quiet a moment, and then said, "It's this reunion thing. It's got everyone remembering that homecoming party again."
"That's understandable—Janelle is coming back to town and the party was the last time anyone saw her. Is it bringing up some old bad memories for you?"
"No, that's the problem," she said, facing me. "It isn't bringing up any memories at all. That whole night is a total blank. I've been trying for days, and I can't conjure up a single image from it."
"Really? Nothing at all?"
"Not a thing," she said. "Too many people have told me I was there to doubt it, but I'm too embarrassed to ask any of them what happened. You were there, did you see me?"
"Uh, yeah," I said. "I took you home. Actually Del, Nick, and I took you home. To my house. We had to; your mother would have killed me first, and then you."
"I'm going to be sorry I asked this." Junior moaned. "But will you tell me what I did that was so bad that I evidently blocked it out of my memory completely?"
"I don't think you did anything—you were just a junior high kid at a high school party. Unfortunately, you ran into Butchie Pendergast."
Junior leaned back in the office chair, closed her eyes, and waited for me to tell her the story.
A widely grinning Nick, who threw no punches of his own but enjoyed everyone else's, had been telling me the "best part" about Dougie Fischbach popping Stu McKee, when I heard a familiar giggle behind a clump of Russian olive trees.
Debbie Wetzler held a rag to Stu McKee's bleeding nose. Janelle impassively rearranged her hair and clothing, while Lisa Franklin chattered in her ear. Watching the scene from the dim outskirts, Del stood leaning back against her date. His arms circled her waist and he nuzzled her neck.
Nick's arm was around my shoulders, he leaned close and said, "Shall we get back to what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted?"
Unfortunately I heard the giggle again, over the strains of "You've Made Me So Very Happy" from the Blood, Sweat and Tears eight-track cassette that was playing.
"In a minute," I said to Nicky. "There's something I need to do first."
"Sure. Go behind a bush anywhere. I won't peek." He grinned.
"I'll be right back," I said, not bothering to correct his mistaken impression, and ducked around the trees to find exactly what I was afraid I'd find—thirteen-year-old, eighth-grade Junior and her friend Gina Eisenbiesz, wearing jeans, flowered blouses, and windbreakers, sitting cross-legged on the ground. They passed a bottle of Coke back and forth, laughing their fool heads off.
"God, Junior," I said, disgusted. "What are you doing here?"
"Let's see." She leaned against Gina's shoulder and pretended to think. "Looks like we're just sitting here on the ground. What are you doing here?" She handed the bottle back to Gina, who took a long drink.
"Give me that," I said sternly. "What are you drinking?"
"No," Junior said, trying to stand up, but not making it on the first try, mostly because she had a bottle in one hand and the other clutched protectively over her heart. "We're juss havin' a little pop. An' you can't have any. Go get your own. Shoo! Go away." She sat back down with a plop. Both girls collapsed in giggles.
"Jesus Christ, Junior," I said, "you're drunk!"
"I am not," she said slowly, this time getting all the way to her feet. "And you aren't supposed to take the Lord's name in vain. It's blasphemy."
I wasn't about to be lectured by a drunken eight-grader. By then, Gina had also struggled unsteadily upright. They both stood there, trying their hardest to look innocent and sober.
They managed the innocent part.
"How did you get here anyway?" I demanded.
"With Lila," Gina explained. "But she told us to stay out of sight and not get into any trouble."
"And your mother let your sister bring you to a party?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"No, no, no..." Gina said.
"See, it's like this," Junior interrupted, shaking her finger at the air. "I'm supposed to be staying overnight with Gina at her house. An' she's supposed to be staying overnight at mine. That way both of our mothers think—"
"I get it already," I interrupted. "But how did you talk Lila into bringing you here?"
Lila Eisenbiesz was not in Del's league, but she was still plenty wild, and I did not imagine she'd saddled herself with a pair of children willingly.
"We said we'd tell Mom she was going to a drinking party if she didn't let us come too," Gina added seriously.
"And who gave you the booze?"
"What booze?" Junior asked, wide-eyed.
"We can't tell," Gina said at the same time. "We promised."
"Hey in there, are you all right?" Nick hollered from the other side of the bush.
"Yeah, come over here. I got a little problem."
"Who are the groovy chicks?" Nick asked with a grin.
"These are not 'groovy chicks,'" I said. "These are junior high kids and one of 'em is my cousin. They shouldn't be here."
"They do seem to be a little drunkish," he said, laughing.
Gina and Junior stood together, swaying gently in the evening breeze.
"Yes, I know," I said. "Will you do me a favor? You know Lila Eisenbiesz? The other one is her sister. Lila's around somewhere, will you find her and bring her back here? She has to take these two home before they get in real trouble. It's not safe."
"You're right, some of the guys here can be real jerks," Nick said. "Sure I know Lila—just sit tight and I'll be right back."
I glared at Junior and Gina, who giggled in response, and settled in to wait for Nicky's return. Maybe the evening wouldn't be a total waste—maybe Lila would take these two brats home and smuggle them into bed without anyone finding out about it.
I hummed along to Marvin Gaye in serious make-out mode. Behind another set of bushes, I could hear the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Others were laughing and talking.
The music changed again, this time to "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." The extended version. By the time the song ended, it finally occurred to me that it was taking Nicky an awfully long time to get back.
I peeked around the bushes but could not see Nick. I decided to go look for him.
"You two," I said as sternly as I could, "stay here. Don't move. I'll be right back."
"Yeah, Tory, sure," Junior swore, hand solemnly over her heart.
"I mean it," I said over my shoulder.
"Hokay," they said.
Someone had added a couple of logs to the bonfire, which blazed brightly. Trying not to disturb anyone, I searched for Nicky but could not find him. Quite a few kids had gone home already.
Finally, on a blanket off to the side, I spotted Del, who emphatically did not appreciate the interruption.
"What the hell do you want?" she asked angrily, sitting up and pulling her sweater down.
"Do you know where Lila Eisenbiesz might be?" I asked, profoundly embarrassed. I explained the situation to her.
"Lila, huh?" she said. She rubbed her forehead for a second, then turned to the boy, who also was not pleased with the interruption. "Hold tight, honey, I'll be right back."
He grumbled, but Del got up and helped me search.
A José Feliciano album warbled from the car stereo into the night. By the end of the third song, we still had not located Nicky. I figured we'd better check on the juvenile delinquents.
"Are you two about ready to go?" I asked, rounding the tree clump.
No one was there.
"Shit," I said, probably the first time I'd ever sworn out loud.
"Forget about Nick," Del said, "it's more important to find those kids. They're drunk and you know what the river is like this year."
Suddenly I was scared. Junior was a pain in the butt, but I did not want to go to her funeral. We searched frantically, getting closer and closer to the water.
"Over here," I heard Del say. "I hear something."
We were near the bank of the James now. Heavy fall rains had swollen the usually placid, meandering creek into something dark and dangerous. Especially for flatland kids who knew nothing about currents.
I pushed ahead of Del onto the grassy bank by the oxbow and stopped dead in my tracks.
"Hey Doug," Butchie Pendergast yelled over his shoulder without looking around, "smell my finger. It's full of eighth-grader."
Butchie was naked, his clothes in a pile away from the creek bank. He was bent over a small form that was on hands and knees, retching. He turned around, grinning evilly, holding a hand out to us.
He grinned even wider when he saw we weren't Doug. Unashamed, he stood up and faced us. Explicit as she was, Jacqueline Susann had left red, ugly, and bobbing out of her descriptions.
It was my first erection sighting. Gina's first too, from the glassy-eyed look on her slack-jawed face.
She was sitting a little way from Butchie and the vomiting Junior. An empty lime vodka bottle lay on the grass next to Gina. Both girls were nude.
"Wanna join the party, girls?" Butchie asked. "I got enough to go around."
"You creep!" Del shouted. "These are just kids—and they're drunk. They don't know what they're doing."
"Yeah," he said, "but you do. Come on, let's give them a demonstration."
"Not if you were the last man on earth," Del spat.
"Yeah, well, you and your fat friend don't interest me anyway." He was unsteady on his feet. I realized that he was drunk too.
While Del was arguing with the horrible Butchie, I was trying to stuff a limp Junior into her clothes. She and Gina were drunk to the point of passing out. Thanks to Butchie, I'm sure.
I finally found my voice. "You should go to jail for this."
"What for?" taunted Butchie, who had pulled his jeans on again. "I didn't do anything to them. Your precious virgins are safe. We were just going skinny-dipping—no law against that."
I didn't know if there was a law against skinny-dipping or not, but I knew he was right. Butchie was a football star—I was a nobody and Del was the school bad girl. Both Gina and Junior were too drunk to give an accurate account of the evening. No one would believe us.
Furious, I rushed at Butchie, who was a good six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me, intending to defend the honor of a cousin I didn't even like.
Del intercepted me, which was a good thing, I guess. Butchie just laughed.
"What's going on here?" a voice behind us asked.
We turned to see Janelle Ross stepping delicately onto the creek bank.
"Butch, are you being an ass again?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Nope." He grinned. "The fat girl wants to go a round or two with me. It should be fun."
"You don't want to fight with Tory." Janelle surveyed the scene. "And you don't want to play around with any little girls."
I was amazed she remembered my name.
"Well, I still wanna go swimming." He pouted. "Wanna go with me?"
"We'll see," she said to him. To me she said, "Get the little ones out of here. I'll take care of Butchie."
I inhaled deeply. "And that was the last time I spoke to Janelle Ross."
"Jesus Christ," Junior said in her office chair, taking the Lord's name in vain. "No wonder I didn't want to remember that."
"You and Gina spent the rest of the night in our bathroom, puking. Mother and I cleaned up after you."
"And you never told my mother," Junior said to herself. Then to me she said, "And neither you nor Del ever said a word about it to me. Ever."
I let Junior contemplate that.
"How did we get home?" Junior asked, finally.
"Del and I found Nick, and he drove us," I said tersely. "Somewhere along the way, we picked up Ron Adler, and Gina spent the whole drive leaning on his shoulder, calling him her hero. I guess she thought he rescued her."
I didn't mention that we'd found Nick in Lila Eisenbiesz's car. With Lila. An occurrence that was to happen at regular intervals throughout our marriage.
As I said to Ron in the cafe, I should have taken that night as an omen.