SATURDAY
I'm not entirely certain when it became clear to me that teachers had a separate existence outside the classroom. Their identities were so indelibly entwined in the small routines and dramas that composed the ordinary school day that a life away from chalk dust, pop quizzes, and fire drills was inconceivable. I remember surreptitiously peeking into the flyleaf of a book on the desk of my second-grade teacher and the shock of discovering that her first name was "Mrs. John."
In high school, when I understood that they all had first names, I still wasn't completely able to assimilate the fact that their body parts functioned in the same manner as those of ordinary mortals (notwithstanding concrete evidence in the form of children produced by them).
Even now, the notion of grappling naked with a former teacher left me slightly queasy. Queasy and, I'm ashamed to admit, curious.
"What do you mean, nothing happened?" I asked Del for the third or fourth time.
She sighed and picked up a couple of dinner specials from the counter. "Exactly what I said, nothing happened."
I trailed her from the counter. "Oh come on, Del. With you something always happens, and you know it. Even on a date where nothing happens, something happens."
I would not have been that direct if Del had not, for the past couple of decades, forced the intimate details of every encounter on me. I knew whereof I spoke.
Del abruptly deposited the specials in front of slightly surprised patrons. "For the last time," she said, meeting my gaze defiantly, "nothing happened. Hugh and I are just friends. We talked. He brought me home. End of discussion. All right?"
She swung past me, waitressing her little heart out as I sorted through her lies. Del did not have any male friends—she considered the men either as past, or future, conquests. She had no dates where "nothing" happened, and she was never interested in conversation.
Most importantly, she had not come home last night. I know because I sat alone with her retching son until he finally dropped off to sleep, just before I went to work.
With Janelle's car, and her help distracting the crowd, we had been able to sneak Presley away from the river, without anyone being the wiser.
And now Del was lying. And she didn't know that I knew she was lying. I decided to keep quiet about Presley until I could figure out why she wanted me to think she'd been home all night.
Del bustled about efficiently, chirping at the customers, ignoring me completely.
"It's guilt, you know," Rhonda said in my ear.
She still worked occasionally on weekend mornings. Since the near constant rain showers had done nothing to deter the extra-heavy reunion crowd, we were glad to have her.
"That's why she doesn't want to talk about what happened with Mr. Kincaid." Rhonda, well-aware of Del's reputation, was too newly graduated to call Hugh by his first name.
"You suppose?" I asked, still eyeing Del as she joked with a couple of older alumni.
"Yup," Rhonda said seriously. "It's an oedipal thing—making love to a father figure breaks all of society's taboos and has dire consequences in the world of the subconscious."
"Are you taking psychology too?" I asked.
"That's beside the point," Rhonda said. "Mr. Kincaid hasn't come in for breakfast either." She was right. Hugh, a Saturday morning regular, had not yet made an appearance.
Actually, Hugh wasn't the only regular missing. We'd also not seen Ron Adler, who was generally banging on the door when we opened.
Stu had arrived, though, looking bruised and weary as he slid into an empty booth. Any anxiety I'd felt about our relationship was smothered by the overwhelming urge to give him a hug and draw him a warm bath.
"Some night, huh?" I said softly, setting a cup and pot of coffee on the table in front of him. I sat opposite in the booth.
"Yeah," he said shortly, rubbing his forehead, the newest shiner glowing malevolently. He looked out the window, scowling at the rain.
"You okay?" I asked, though the answer was obvious.
"No, I'm not okay," he growled. He paused another minute, then glared at me. "Where the fuck did you go last night? I looked all over for you."
I sat back, surprised. "I took Presley home. In Janelle's Corvette. Just like she told me to."
"Coordinating rides must be one of Miss Hollywood's hobbies," Stu said, stirring his black coffee. "While Ron and I were trying to hold Doug down, she waded right into the middle, walked off with Cameron, and ordered me to take Debbie home immediately."
"Well, there wasn't time to tell you myself," I said, feeling defensive. With an attitude like that, Stu could draw his own bath. "Besides, Janelle told me that she'd ride back into town with you, and that she'd explain where I went and why. She didn't tell you?"
"She didn't tell me shit. All know is that I looked for you, and couldn't find you. And then I looked for Debbie, but she'd already left. Everyone else was leaving, so I gave up and went home. Alone."
"Me too," I said. "Well not completely alone." I gave him the condensed version of Presley's appearance at the party and what fun it had been to hold his head over the toilet all night. "So you can tell Janelle that the keys to her car are here with me, and that it's safely parked behind the trailer."
That Stu showed no interest in the fact that I had actually driven a movie star's '57 Corvette was an indicator of his foul mood.
"You two are such good friends, you can tell her yourself," he said, not looking at me.
"You'll probably see her first," I said slowly and distinctly, "since she is staying at your house."
"I never see her at all," Stu said carefully. "I didn't hear her come in last night, and her door was closed when I went to work this morning. Maybe we'll be lucky and she'll disappear completely."
"Hey guys," Rhonda leaned over the table and said quietly, "sorry to interrupt, but check this out." She nodded at the window that faced the street.
A determined and slightly disheveled Lisa Franklin Hauck-Robertson emerged from Adler's Garage into the drizzle, Ron Adler in tow. She motioned him to the passenger window of a pickup truck to talk to a shadowy figure sitting inside.
"That's Coach Fischbach's truck, isn't it?" Rhonda asked quietly.
Stu nodded, watching intently. Ron, partially obscured by the cab of the pickup, was gesturing and nodding emphatic negatives in the rain.
"She's done that up and down the whole street. For fifteen minutes now I been watching—she goes into a store or whatever, stays inside for a couple of minutes, comes out—sometimes alone, sometimes like with Ron over there—talks to whoever is in the truck, and then goes to the next place."
"Del, come here a minute," Rhonda said, over her shoulder. "What do you think of this?"
Ron was still shaking his head, blinking madly into the truck window. Hugh Kincaid rounded the corner and was waved to join the conversation.
Del peered out the window, tightened her lips, and said, "I think we're too damn busy to worry about what anyone else is doing." She narrowed her eyes at Rhonda and me and said archly, "Would either of you ladies like to lend a hand here? I'm running my ass off while you two gaze out the window."
She spun on one heel and left before either of us could reply.
Rhonda raised an eyebrow. "See what I mean?" she whispered. "Guilt."
I shrugged. Del was right—we were too busy for two-thirds of the staff to stand around gawking.
"Who's the other person in the truck?" I asked, with one last glance across the street. The pickup windows were tinted; the passenger could not be identified from our angle.
"Suppose it's the coach?" Rhonda asked.
"Let's hope not," Stu said darkly. "Every time I see him, he takes a swing at me. Next time, I'm throwing the first punch."
"Well, whoever it is, we'll know in a minute," Rhonda said, nodding at the window.
Lisa, grim and determined, was splashing across the street toward the cafe.
We busied ourselves carrying dirty dishes, taking orders, and measuring coffee grounds into fluted paper filters. Anything to keep the door to our backs when Lisa entered.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lisa, damp and agitated, slide into the booth with Stu.
Belatedly remembering that I had not taken Stu's order, and looking for an excuse to eavesdrop, I sauntered over to them.
"Can I get you anything?" I asked brightly, pen and pad in hand.
"Nothing for me, thanks," Stu said, eyeing me meaningfully. He knew what I was up to.
"Just coffee, please," Lisa said.
"Yes indeedy," I said cheerfully.
"Just a second, Tory," Lisa said, "maybe you'd know."
"Know what?" I asked.
"Where Doug Fischbach is," Lisa said. "He didn't come home last night, and Debbie is out of her head with worry."
I don't know which surprised me more—that Lisa thought I might know Doug's whereabouts, or that Debbie was actually worried about him. Especially after last night.
"I haven't the foggiest, Lisa," I said. "He hasn't been in the cafe this morning. Sorry."
Lisa sighed and ran a hand through her damp, over-dyed hair. "And you, Stuart?"
"I hope I never see that son of a bitch again," Stu said.
"What about Janelle?" Lisa asked.
"Personally, I don't care if I ever see her again either."
"No, that's not what I mean." Lisa smiled. "Do you think Janelle might have seen him?"
"Ask her yourself," Stu said wearily. "Try the house, she's probably still sleeping."
"We did already," Lisa said. "She's not there. Her car's gone too."
"I can explain that…" I said.
The cafe door burst open, and a short, wet, heavy, balding man burst in and charged up to me.
"You!" he shouted, jabbing a finger into my chest. "Where is she? I know you know. You were talking to her last night."
All conversation in the cafe stopped. Aphrodite left the kitchen to stand menacingly at the till, within arm's length of the wall phone. Stu slowly stood behind me, a protective arm on my shoulder. Del and Rhonda stared openmouthed.
"You know this guy?" Aphrodite demanded.
"I saw him at the football game last night. He was looking for Janelle," I said loudly. For everyone's benefit.
"I'm Benny Nelson," he said smugly, "Janelle's husband."
Amazingly, he held a damp, hairy hand out for me to shake. I just looked at it.
"Listen." He grabbed my arm.
I pulled back. Aphrodite lifted the phone from the receiver. Stu's hands tightened on my shoulders. Lisa watched silently, with a smug expression on her face.
"Listen yourself," I said, more forcefully than I felt. "Keep your hands off or we'll call the police."
He stared at me for a long moment and then dropped his eyes. "You rubes are sure touchy," he said, to himself mostly.
"What do you want?"Aphrodite asked.
Still looking at me, he said, "I can't find Janelle. She didn't stay in her motel room. No one in this dipshit town has seen her. I gotta find her."
To our absolute astonishment, his face crumpled and he started bawling right in the middle of the cafe, great heaving sobs. "I'm so afraid something has happened to her. I gotta find her." He appealed tearfully to everyone. "You gotta help me."
The dead silence that followed was broken by a laugh, amused, bitter, and completely genuine.
"They did it again." Lisa wiped her eyes. "They fucking did it again."
I looked at Stu, who shrugged, bewildered.
"Don't you see?" Lisa asked Stu. And Del. And me. "It's just like before." She grinned. It was a nasty, humorless expression. "They're staging an encore performance of the Doug and Janelle Disappearing Act."