“So Anna, where is Godot?” Laura tapped a French-tipped fingernail against her
empty wineglass. “The man’s staying two blocks from here—is traffic really bad?”
Green
contact lenses gave her eyes an unnerving reptilian quality, and her once brown
hair was now a rich auburn. I felt like I was viewing her through a
kaleidoscope and I kept blinking to clear the distorted image, shifting my eyes
to some other focal point in the crowded bar where everyone else seemed to be
having a good time on this Thursday night.
A
guy at the bar met my eyes. He looked like he’d just returned from a camping
trip, hair a tangle of dark waves wanting to break into curls, scruffy stubble
on his face, blue plaid flannel shirt over worn jeans.
You
know you’re in Wisconsin when you
see somebody wearing a flannel shirt in June.
Laura’s
voice pulled me back to the sinking ship of our table, “Anna, I said, what’s with all the blinking--did
you study Morse code in grad school? It’s like trying to have a conversation
with a broken mini-blind.”
Beneath
the altered exterior she was still the sharp-tongued friend I’d known over a
decade ago in college, twice as smart as anyone else in the room and wielding
sarcasm like a broadsword. With each barbed comment I reconsidered my vague
intentions of asking her to help with the Alumni Extravaganza next
weekend. Surely she already had other
plans scheduled in her BlackBerry—homes to sell, empires to build, small
children to scare.
I
made another attempt to talk to the somnambulant Sheila. “Are you excited about
performing at the Center for the Arts again?”
She
sighed, her voluminous blue dress billowing, “Mainly, it’s been . . . and the
kids . . .”
A
smile crept across her features, transforming her from tired hausfrau to the
girl who’d been my college roommate. “He’s the same old Denny . . . one minute
I’m laughing so hard my sides ache, then he’s calling in the middle of the
night, wanting to change the song list AGAIN, and I want to wring his neck.”
Laura’s
voice sliced through the brief bubble of nostalgia, “I can understand the
wringing his neck part.”
Denny
pushed his way past the clogged bar area, his white-blond hair glowing like the
flame on a lighter, “Excuse me, pardon me, oops—sorry ‘bout that!”
I
launched myself toward him, making contact with an awkward hug.
“Anna-banana!
You made it!” He scanned the faces at our table--Sheila’s weary smile, Laura’s
scowl—his own grin undiminished. “Can you believe we’re all here? And I just
came from the main stage at the Center for the Arts--I did a walk-on in Richard II! The director’s probably
LI-VID but the cast was BIG FUN!”
He
turned to Sheila, “I wore this swirly red velvet cloak--I’m thinking we can use
it for a Spamalot or a Camelot number in the Extravaganza, or maybe a bullfight?” He flashed a
cheesy mega-watt smile, “Anyhoo, hope I’m not too terribly late!”
Laura’s
pseudo green eyes narrowed, “You are.”
A ‘yikes’ expression flitted across his
face as Denny hailed a passing waiter, “Alcohol, lots of it!”
If
the waiter, a lanky young man with the bland expression of a mannequin,
recognized Denny, he didn’t let on. “Anything more specific?”
Denny
studied the remnants on our table. “Another pitcher of whatever they’re
drinking,” he shuddered. “Laura, more wine?” She held her hand over her glass,
the large emerald cut diamond on her platinum wedding band flashing like a
warning light: ‘Bridge Out, Turn Back!’
Denny
rattled on, “No? Okay, I’ll have a . . .” his head rolled back and he studied
the high stamped tin ceiling as though scanning a distant menu before
telegraphing his order, “vodka, on the rocks, with a twist of lime, please-and-thank-you.”
An
orange shirt peeked out from the unbuttoned front of his over-sized, worn gray
trench coat. He sputtered a series of questions and comments while he unwound a
long white silk scarf from his neck and shoulders as though warming up for some
rope tricks. “Sheila, dear heart, how are
the kiddies? Tell them Uncle Denny says ‘HI!’” His voice dipped
into an adenoidal twang and back as he zoomed forward in his trademark runaway
train conversational style.
“Anna,
that room at Gosset House is to-die-for!
I’m guessing you pulled some strings now that you’re DI-REC-TOR of Alumni Affairs?” He scrunched the side
of his face to give me a couple broad winks.
My
face flamed red. “It’s just temporary, for the summer, I haven’t even been to
the office yet.”
His
eyebrows danced as part of a goofy leer, “Of course I’m expecting to hear ALL about those
affairs missy!”
If
this job were permanent, the first thing I’d do is lobby for a name change, an
almost guaranteed lesson in futility. St. Bonaventure College clung to its
traditions to the point of fossilization—one of its most endearing and
aggravating qualities. Why bother trying to drag it into the 21st
century when I’d be gone by the fall semester? “Just call me madam.”
“And
Laura,” he paused. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Their
mutual animosity charged the air with high voltage static. My limp hair would probably
benefit from the circumstances.
Laura’s
husband chose this moment to return from wherever he’d been hiding. Bill Wilson
surged forward with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever running through an
open field, “Denny! How’s Hollywood
treating you?”
Denny
grabbed his drink from the waiter and raised it, “Dr. Bill! Cheers to a
tabloid-free week!”
Bill
sat between Laura and Denny, either a brave or foolish move. “Somebody
mentioned you’re doing a sit-com?”
Denny
squinted, “If I confess the rumor is true can we please talk about something else?”
Laura
glared at him, “What, talk about something other
than you?”
When
Denny didn’t respond she pressed further, “Some of us have better things to do
than wait around all evening until God’s
Gift to the Motion Picture Industry decides to put in an appearance.”
Denny
feigned protest, “Hey, don’t blame me for what they print in the paper.”
I
realized I was holding my breath in anticipation of a cataclysmic clash, like
waiting for the crash of cymbals in the “1812 Overture.”
Denny’s
arrival had not gone unnoticed in the bar, which meant we were gathering a
public audience for a private meltdown, probably not the sort of publicity the
college desired from their interim alumni director.
I
forced myself to breathe and hoped for a quick resolution. One of them would
either say, ‘Sweetie, I’m just kidding, you know I love you,’ or one of them
would storm out of the room—same scene, different decade. Things hadn’t changed
that much, had they?
Laura
stood, clutching her Kate Spade purse like a rock she wanted to hurl at Denny’s
head. “Those of us who have grown up
realize there are more important things in life than entertainment.” Her perfect lips curled in disdain.
“How
drrreadfully dull for you.” Denny rattled the ice in his glass, “Meanwhile, how
many autographs do I have to sign to get another drink?”
Laura
stormed off, leaving Bill to patch together a goodbye, “Sorry everyone, she’s
been, uh, not herself.”
Denny
waited until Bill disappeared into the crowd before he scanned our faces in
search of mutual outrage, “Then WHO
is she and what eggszackly is her
problem?”
I
couldn’t believe we were just sitting there. “Shouldn’t we do something?”
Denny
grabbed a menu wedged between an array of condiments. “Now that the dragon lady is gone I’m
thinking we can actually eat, drink and be merry—huzzah!”
Sheila
topped off our glasses, the flared sleeve of her dress dragging through the
replenished basket of popcorn that had appeared during the verbal
sparring.
I
maneuvered through the labyrinth of bodies and sloshing beverages and gave the
back door a solid push before pausing to scan the dark parking lot.
The
glare from the overhead light made it impossible to see beyond a few feet. The
door bounced off the brick wall and swung toward me, intent on knocking me back
into the crowded bar.
I
stepped aside, the rush of air from the near miss fanning my dark hair over my
face, and walked along a row of cars, guided by the sound of Laura’s irate
voice, stunned when I heard my own name mentioned as though synonymous with
toxic waste.
“And that Anna! She could have gone anywhere
and she came back here? That is so pathetic--so Anna.”
Her
derisive laugh underscored the jab to my solar plexus. “Did you see what she was
wearing? She looks just like she did in college. Some people simply can’t move forward in life—how many graduate
programs was she in? She’s going to be paying on student loans the rest of her
life. Be a librarian or a teacher or whatever, just PICK SOMETHING! I bet she still hasn’t finished her thesis, what a
waste.”
I
reached out to steady myself against the nearest car. The surface felt cool to
the touch and reassuringly stable in contrast to the white hot anger and pain
flashing through my nerve endings.
“You
don’t want to leave things like that, do you?” Bill said.
Did
I? My summer rental was ten minutes away, I could go there right now and nobody
would ever know that someone I had once called ‘friend’ thought I was a
complete loser. What made matters even worse was the accumulating evidence that
she might be right.
Laura’s
response was more cavalier, “What does it matter, Denny still thinks the world
revolves around him. The others may want to run his fan club and stroke his ego
but I’m not about to.”
I pushed off from the car, my feet
propelling me forward as I ignored the non-confrontational part of my brain
that was signaling, ‘REVERSE, REVERSE!’
Bill registered my off-kilter zombie
approach, “Anna!”
Laura
glanced at me and turned away, offering me her profile, her face pale against
her auburn hair, a silent and impermeable cold marble statue.
Words shuffled
through my brain like flashing neon cue cards: UPPITY – BITCH. And to think I
came out here to see if she was okay!
My eyes
stung. I blinked back tears and swallowed hard.
One
minute you’re shouting incoherent phrases at a former friend in the parking lot of a bar, a week later you might
find yourself hosting mud-wrestling at some backwater dive instead of the
alumni reunion at the Center for the Arts—not the sort of career leap I had in
mind, particularly after the bumpy path that had led me back to St. Bonaventure
College.
My
breathing steadied as the mischievous glimmer of an idea emerged, “I’m sure
President Wendahl will be thrilled to learn that you, a prominent local
businesswoman, have volunteered to perform in the Extravaganza.”
Laura
stared at me aghast.
I
felt a rare surge of confidence, reined in with a yank that almost resulted in
whiplash when I heard a familiar voice from the past.
“Anna?
I thought that was you. What are you doing in Bluff View?”
Fenton
Martin. The man who had splintered my heart.