If we repeat something to ourselves, and to one another, often enough, it becomes firmly fixed in our collective consciousness. No matter that if we examined our own memories closely, the theory would evaporate in the light of established facts.
We believe what we want to believe, goddammit.
And we believed that Doug Fischbach and Janelle Ross ran away together on Friday night, after the 1969 home-coming football game, immediately following a nasty confrontation wherein Doug and Janelle were discovered, by their respective steadies, engaged in some sort of carnal congress.
And we stubbornly clung to those assumptions, at the expense of our own recollections.
I myself knew that Janelle was still at the party after the fight between Doug and Stu. It was Janelle who distracted Butchie long enough for Del and me to get Junior and Gina dressed and away from the river.
And if I had sorted through that memory closely enough, I would have realized that Doug was still on hand too.
When Del and I rounded the clump of trees, looking for Junior and Gina, the first word out of Butchie's mouth had been, "Doug?" Clearly, Butchie expected him. And even more clearly, Doug and Butchie had planned some sort of unpleasant recreation with the little girls.
Those facts fell into place as Junior recounted her harrowing story. And that brought into focus something Ron Adler had said in the cafe, back when the exciting news broke that J. Ross Nelson planned to visit Delphi. The fragment that I'd almost seen earlier, in the Lutheran Hall.
"Miss High and Mighty J. Ross Nelson didn't disappear until later, because I saw her the day after," Ron had said, speaking of the fateful party in 1969.
Ron said it. We all heard it. And we discounted it entirely, because it did not fit in with our romantic notion of how the events had transpired.
I left Junior, dozing fitfully, on the couch in the office, and was relieved to find Ron still yakking with Neil in the hall.
"Ron," I said urgently, interrupting them, "I need to ask you something."
He eyed me warily.
"Remember when Gina first announced that Janelle was coming to Delphi? You said something about having seen her in town the next day? Are you sure about that?"
"I said Gina was in town the next day?" Ron blinked, confused.
"No, dipshit. You said you saw Janelle in town the next day—the day after the homecoming party in 1969. Right?"
He grinned. "I said that all along, but no one would listen. Yes, I saw her walking down the street by the school, the morning after that party. Why?"
I didn't wait for him to finish his question. I wouldn't have answered it anyway. I just grabbed Neil by the arm, headed for the door, and filled him in, on the way to his house.
"Hi guys," Janelle said, looking up from the book she was reading in one of Neil's overstuffed living room chairs. Sade crooned softly from the stereo, a glass of wine stood on an end table nearby, and a cat curled comfortably in her lap. "How'd it go?"
Neil shot a look at me and raised an eyebrow. The floor was mine.
"Remember that pin that Doug had, the one he thought was yours?" I asked, deciding there was no point in beating around the bush. "I found out who it belonged to. And how Doug got it. And when."
"Oh?" Janelle asked, eyes wide, lovely face innocently curious.
I'd seen that expression on the big screen before too.
"Yeah, it belonged to my aunt, the mother of my cousin, Junior Deibert. She was Junior Engebretson back then. You might remember her, even though she was just thirteen at the time. She wore it to that kegger at the river in 1969. She lost it there, after Butchie Pendergast talked her into taking off all her clothes."
"That's interesting," Janelle said. "But it doesn't really concern me."
"Well, actually it does," I said, sitting on the couch. Neil stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed.
Janelle looked from Neil to me and back to Neil again. She flashed another smile at us.
"You see, we had all labored under the erroneous notion that you and Doug left that river party together, immediately after Doug punched Stu. Granted, you both helped us to form that opinion. On separate occasions, you both stated that fact firmly."
"That's how I remember things," Janelle said carefully.
"Ah, there's the rub," I said. "Because I just lately have remembered that you helped me to shepherd a young, and very drunk, Junior away from Butchie Pendergast, long after that fight was over. And long after you were both supposedly gone."
"Yes, well, the timing of our departure might have become a little fuzzy over the years," Janelle said, shrugging. "But what difference can that possibly make?"
"Actually, it wouldn't matter that you and Doug were still on the riverbank with Butchie Pendergast. Or that Doug obviously picked up Junior's pin, thinking it was yours," I said, shrugging back at her. "What matters is that Doug kept that pin. Why didn't he just hand it over on your little three-day jaunt? Why wait twenty-five years?"
"Well," Janelle said offhandedly, "we were young, and we were rather busy, if you get my drift. I suppose it just slipped Doug's mind."
A few days ago, I would have bought her seamless performance. But Stu had reminded me that Janelle was, and always had been, an actress.
"Bravo," I said, applauding. "Unfortunately, Ron Adler saw you in Delphi on Saturday, the day after that party in 1969."
Janelle sipped her wine, wiped her lips, then tried a wan smile.
"Okay, so now you know," she said, sighing, slumping attractively in the chair. "Doug couldn't have given that pin back to me, because we never ran away together. It was all a story. A fabrication.
"The last time I saw Doug was at the river with Butch, in 1969. And the first I saw him again was last week, here in Delphi."
Neil and I had worked out the timeline on the way back from the funeral. We knew it was the truth. But we were still flabbergasted to hear Janelle admit it so easily.
"So what really happened?" Neil asked.
"I couldn't tell you where Doug went. I have not a single clue. I didn't know that the whole town thought we'd been together until after I arrived last week. I didn't even know that Butchie Pendergast had died. And the timing of his death was a complete shock to me."
She was so sincere, so sorrowful. So irritatingly beautiful. It was all too natural to sympathize with her.
Unfortunately, there were just a few too many coincidences in her story. And lies in her past.
"Then where the hell did you go?" I demanded. "Since you weren't with Doug."
She inhaled deeply. "I hitched a ride west with a semi driver, and never looked back."
"But that doesn't explain anything," I said. "Why did you go? And more importantly, why did you go then?"
"Because," Janelle said quietly, "I was pregnant."