Reunion

Originally Published in the Don’t Tread on Me Anthology, Lame Goat Press,  2010. (No longer available in print.)

What do you do when you get out of prison? Going to his class reunion seemed like a good idea.

Marshall Llandough stepped into the lobby of the Cedar Ridge Sunny Day Inn. The sign draped across the ballroom entrance read Welcome Class of ’68! 

“I wish you could come,” someone had written in soft feminine scrip on Marsh’s invitation. Maybe Jennifer Sherman. Jennifer had divorced her televangelist husband and moved back to Cedar Ridge about the time of Marsh’s arrest. She’d attended the trial.

Three women with calligraphied nametags chatted behind the registration table. “. . . not her real hair, you know,” said the former Louise Westerly, a pencil thin woman with graying black hair.

“Forty-four years of peroxide and six months of chemo therapy took care of that,” Patty Foot added.

Patty, a petite brunette with a lazy eye, had organized the 1968 Senior Prom. Along with Carolyn Hipler, Patty and Louise had strung two miles of crepe paper and made seven-hundred-and-twenty-six artificial carnations from pastel Kleenex to decorate the Electric Park Ballroom. Patty’s date left the party with Roxanne Tidebaum, a girl of easy virtue who attended without a ticket, a date, or a bra.

Stepping up, Marsh leaned over and asked, “Who do I have to kill to get registered?”

Carolyn broke out in nervous laughter. “Marsh Llandough!  How long have you been . . .?”

“Out?”

“Well, yes, free, that is.”

“Two days.”

Patty twittered nervously. “We weren’t expecting you . . ..” She grabbed a registration envelope and scratched a name off. “A cancellation.” Carolyn took it from Patty who handed it to Marsh.

“Dinner tickets are $40. Cocktails start in a half hour.”

Marsh peeled two twenties from a roll of bills and smiled. “Save a dance for me, Carolyn.” Her eyes widened.

Marsh lost his wife, Theresa, five years ago. Someone crushed her skull with a bowling trophy, and then cut her into nine pieces with Marsh’s McCollough Power Mac 605. The same person stabbed his teenage daughter, Isbell, seventeen times with the Chicago Cutlery cleaver Marsh had purchased the day before “to split watermelon.” Isbell apparently discovered the killer bagging Theresa’s body parts when she came home early from dance drill team.

Acting on an anonymous tip, State Troopers discovered Marsh sobbing over the bodies, his hands soaked in their blood. Curiously both the chain saw and the cleaver had been wiped clean of prints. The defense noted that Marsh’s clothing, though blood stained, did not show signs of splattering.

The prosecution noted a checkered psychological profile dating back to Marsh’s return from Vietnam. His fingerprints were on a gas can next to the chain saw. Neighbors reported loud arguments over Theresa’s many affairs. Marsh’s blood alcohol level was .015. The circumstantial evidence was enough for a jury. The State of Indiana sentenced him to life in prison without chance of parole.

Marsh showered and changed, entering the banquet hall for the cocktail hour wearing a pale blue oxford Polo shirt, new jeans, and an off-the-rack gray sports coat from Dillards.

Marsh looked for Jennifer. In his imagination she remained the waif-like blonde who twirled the flaming baton at the marching band’s half-time finale, but there was no one fitting that description. The DJ cranked up Linda Ronstadt’s “Different Drum.”

By the lime punch bowl Marsh noted a trim Asian woman in a black sheath with spaghetti straps and a short hemline. A cadre of balding men in suits encircled her. In 1968 the only Asian student was Alice Kim, his pudgy biology lab partner who helped him dissect cow eyes. The jocks called her “Jap girl” even though Alice was Korean. She later earned a PhD in microbiology.

When Alice looked out from her forest of admirers, Marsh motioned that he’d catch her later. She finished writing her unlisted phone number on Kevin Gilhooley’s business card. Kevin (class president, star of the State Championship baseball team) was recently widowed. He once stole Alice’s violin in the senior hall on her way to string ensemble and didn’t returned it until three days later.

“People everywhere just want to be free,” the music was saying. Marsh bought a Bombay Blue Sapphire and tonic. His fingers shook as he held the glass, the ice cubes clinking against the sides. Groups tightened when he approached. They hadn’t heard about the pardon.

The music shifted to Tommy James and the Shondells singing, “Mony, Mony” as the crowd parted for a woman wearing black high-heeled leather boots, Marsh’s childhood pal, Roxanne Tidebaum.

Marsh last saw Roxanne after the Senior Picnic walking along the roadside in bare feet and short shorts, naked from the waist up. Marsh gave her his shirt and a ride home.

Rox struck a pose. “Like the outfit?” She wore a soft black leather halter-top with thin leather cords laced between her breasts. Her baggy jeans hung on her hips, the waistband slightly rolled down to expose bright red cotton paisley boxer shorts. A circus parade of lions, tigers, elephants, and prancing horses was tattooed around her bare midriff. “Not my style anymore, but I didn’t want to disappoint folks.” She led him to an empty table. “I heard about your pardon.”

Bob McMurphy led the dinner prayer. In tenth grade Bob stole panties from the girl’s locker room and was discovered wearing them when the wrestling coach made him shower after practice. He later became an Episcopal priest. Just before the main course, Alice Kim slipped into the chair next to Marsh. “May I join you guys?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I dumped my Caesar salad in Kevin Gilhooley’s lap.”

“You mean ‘Happy Hands’ Gilhooley?”

“‘Happy Hands’?” Alice asked.

“In eleventh grade,” Rox explained, “Kevin hid a Playboy in his physics folder, pleasured himself during lectures, then bragged about it afterwards. When he ran for class president his slogan was ‘I’ll be a ‘hands on’ President.’”

Alice shook her head. “I didn’t know what that meant.”

“You were a little sheltered,” Marsh offered.

“He’s a systems analyst with Caterpillar, now. He seemed perfectly charming over martinis. He asked me to join him at dinner.” She took a sip of water. “Then he started groping me under the table.”

“What did you do?”

“I reached for his belt, undid the buckle, unzipped his pants . . .,”

“… then dumped your salad in his lap.”

“Exactly.” Alice looked back at the head table. “I can’t believe I lost forty pounds to attract the very man who once repulsed me.”

         “Men are assholes,” Rox offered. “Except Marsh. He’s a serial killer.” Marsh cringed.

         “No, he’s not,” Alice said. “Right?”

“The Governor pardoned me,” he told Alice. “A local butcher confessed when he thought he was dying. Turned out to be gas, instead of a heart attack. Turns out my wife used to pleasure him in the walk-in cooler at the Piggly Wiggly. Shetried to call off the affair when she turned vegetarian.”

Alice looked at him nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“My lawyer didn’t believe it either. DNA confirmed it.” Rox touched Marsh’s arm.

“I didn’t realize you two were friends?” Alice said.

         “In high school, we ran in different circles, but in Catholic grade school, we were tight.”

         “Rox was my hero,” Marsh told Alice. “Once during her confession Father Murray fell off his chair.”

Rox adjusted her halter-top. “At Sacred Heart we said confession in the gym while everyone watched. The nuns figured if the chairs faced opposite ways, it would be private enough.”

“After confession we’d say ‘Hail Marys’ on the bleachers.”

         “I confessed to Father Murray that I ditched my panties so I could moon Mr. Lambert when I bent over to erase the chalk boards.” The server dropped a plate of Swiss steak. There was an awkward silence at the table. The young Hispanic waiter apologized and hurriedly cleaned up the mess.

         “You always were the adventurous one,” Alice said.

“Actually, in grade school I was a scholar. I read all the Nancy Drew books in order.”

         “What happened?” Alice asked. “Oh, I’m sorry. That sounded horrible.”

         “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Rox played with her mashed potatoes. “My father was sentenced to ten-to-fifteen for armed robbery, and I grew breasts. My mom had no money. She lied about my age and got me a job at the Knight’s Inn where she worked. It was a neighborhood bar with lots of union foundry workers over forty trying to feel me up and buy me drinks. After a couple weeks, I started letting them.”

         “And the tattoos?”

         “I got them when I joined the Lords of Silence. I lived three years with Pig Iron Baptista, until the feds got his younger brother, Little Pig, to turn on him. When they busted the meth lab, we all served time.”

         “Rox had a gang name,” Marsh offered.

         “They called me One Tit.”

         Alice set down her fork with a bite of the French cut green beans and slivered almonds still on it. “Oh, I need to hear this story.”

         “I’m listening, too,” said Patty Foot who had appeared at the table carrying a scotch and soda. “Our table is talking hernias and hysterectomies. I didn’t organize this to take medical histories. I’m a nurse at Mercy. So is Howard,” she said pointing to her companion, a wiry little man in a red plaid sport coat. “Mind if we join you?”

         Marsh offered them chairs. “Rox was explaining why the Lords of Silence called her ‘One Tit.’”  Marsh looked down at his drink. There was nothing left of it but a slice of lime and some cubes. He motioned to the server and pealed three twenties from his small roll of bills. “When you have a moment, we could use refills.” The waiter looked to see if his supervisor was around, then pocketed the bills. “Let me know when the bank gets low.”

Rox adjusted her halter top. “After my initiation in the Lords of Silence I rode with Pig Iron. One day we were cruising on Highway 218. I sat on his Harley’s gas tank facing him with my legs wrapped around his waist. He ripped open my shirt and started sucking my breast. When he hit a pothole doing 75 mph, his teeth snapped together and bit off my nipple. He laughed, spit it out, then dropped me off at the emergency room. I hitchhiked back to the clubhouse after the doctor stitched me up.”

         Patty took a closer look at Rox’s outfit. “So, are you still in the gang?”

“No,” Rox laughed. “While I was in jail I got a junior college degree. A Catholic school in northern California offered me a scholarship when I was released. I swore off drugs, booze, and men. I got a master’s degree in social work, and started working with chapters of the Outlaws in LA, counseling gang members’ families. Now I run a shelter in Peoria for Illinois women escaping gangs, pimps, and abusive husbands.”

         Patty Foot raised her scotch. “I salute you.”

         At the head table, Mike Krochak called everyone’s attention to the directory included in the packets. Mike received a 1 Rating in After Dinner Speaking in 1966 and had been the class spokesperson ever since. “Are there any corrections?”

         “Marsh has a new address,” Rox shouted.

         Marsh casually stood and gave everyone his new address slowly, as if they were all copying it down for their Christmas card mailing lists.

Carolyn Hipler slid into an empty chair across from him. “I’m bored to tears. I don’t care if everyone else is afraid of you.” She set down a copy of the Cedar Ridge Spartan Scribe, the school yearbook. “Besides, I’m trying to get away from Hunk?”

         “Hunk?” Patty asked. “I thought you dumped that jerk in 1967?”

         “He wants to rekindle the flame. He told me the painful details of his second divorce. He talked about his seven years playing for the Chicago Bears. He explained the injustice of being fired as a commentator for the Canadian Football League just because he made inflammatory remarks about indigenous tribes of Ontario.” She looked up. “Oh, God, here he comes.” She started to get up. The man approaching resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy in a tailored suit.

         “I’ll take care of it.” Marsh stood up and took off his sports coat, revealing muscular shoulders and bulging biceps.

As Hunk reached Carolyn, Marsh stepped between them. “You’re in my way, punk.” He tried to push Marsh aside like he had done in high school. Marsh grabbed Hunk’s hand, leveraged his arm and twisted. Carolyn heard a faint crack.

“While you ran after guys in tight pants and evaded the draft, Uncle Sam taught me twenty-six ways to kill a man with my bare hands.” Marsh had Hunk’s attention. “And for the last four years, while you visited the dessert bar at Sirloin Stockade, I lifted weights to stay alive.” Marsh released Hunk’s hand.

         Hunk backed away. “You’re crazy, man!”  He was sure his wrist was broken.

         “Yes, I am.”

         “Thank you,” Carolyn said quietly.

         When the sheet cake appeared, Louise Westerly slid a chair next to Carolyn and joined them. “What did I miss?” She put her copy of The Scribe on the table.

         Patty opened the yearbook and began paging through it. “If you could reunite with anyone in our class, who would it be?”

         “Olivia Brachman, captain of the pom pon squad,” Carolyn said. “She was my best friend in 9^th grade.”

         “She’s a Lutheran nun in Pennsylvania,” Patty explained. “She canceled because there was a fire at the mother house.”

         “I’d like to meet the weasel who stole my Indian after I spent two years restoring that cycle,” said Howard. “But I guess he wouldn’t be in your yearbook.”

         Marsh turned to page 87 and pointed to the picture between Stephen Schaefer and Andrew Smook. “Mrs. Botz’s seventh period English class, the last Friday in January, 1966. I looked up from chapter eleven of To Kill a Mockingbird where Miss Dubose gives Jem the Snow-on-the-Mountain after he destroyed her camellias, and there she was. ‘This is Jennifer Sherman’ Mrs. Botz said. ‘She’s from Minnetonka.’” 

         Carolyn looked at Marsh. “I’m so sorry.”

         “What do you mean?”

         “She’s dead.”

         “She organized this event.” He pulled out his invitation. “I think she wrote this note.”

         She shook her head. “No, I did. I wrote something on every invitation.” Carolyn paused. “I assumed you knew.”

         “How could I?”

         Carolyn turned over the envelope Marsh got at registration. She pointed to the crossed-out name, “Jennifer Sherman.” Carolyn looked at him. “She died Thursday morning–cervical cancer.”

         He stared at the envelope. “The night before I left for boot camp, I took Jennifer to the Electric Park Ballroom to see The Kingsmen. We danced to ‘Louie, Louie,’ and she let me get to second base in my ’62 VW bug. Even then I knew it a pity date.” He looked up at Patty. “It was stupid to still think about her.”

         “A man’s got to dream.” Patty picked up her scotch and soda. “Look at Howard,” she said motioning to her companion. “He still mooned over Annette Funicello, even after she got MS. He bought an autographed Back to the Beach poster on eBay . . ..” Howard’s face flushed. “Celebrates her birthday every October 22^nd.” Howard started to get up, but Patty pulled him back. “Hell, I don’t blame him.” She emptied her glass.

         “It’s not just the guys,” Lily said. “I wanted to prove I wasn’t still the ‘Jap girl’ I was in high school.”

“And me. I didn’t want to come back. But I mailed in the RSVP. I arranged for time off.” Rox looked around the banquet room. “I tell battered women at my shelter that they need to confront their past, but then I turn around and blot out my whole senior year.” She stood up. “When I dug out this outfit, though, I knew I was ready for the exorcism.” She took Marsh’s hand. “Why don’t you come along for the ride?” Rox started walking to a nearby table, hips swaying, the tattooed circus menagerie around her waist moving on parade.

Marsh followed, noting the table’s occupants: Chuck Bobeck, Mike Melbourne, Brad Deitz, Buddy Beert, and their spouses. The four men had ten conference wrestling titles between them.

         “Mike, Buddy, Brad, good to see you all together again. Gosh, it’s been so long. I haven’t seen you since the Senior Picnic.” She reached out to shake Chuck Bobeck’s hand. Flustered, he rose to meet Roxanne. Rox smiled at the redhead beside him. “You must be Vonnie, Chuck’s second wife. You must be so proud. I read about your daughter performing in the All-Star Cheerleading Exhibit at Disney World. What an honor . . .. “

         Roxanne turned back to Chuck. “You haven’t changed a bit. Judging from the way I’m dressed, you must think I haven’t either. But, Chuck, this is a costume, worn in your honor. I’m a social worker now.” She pulled crumpled business cards out of the pocket of her pants. “I work with victims of domestic abuse, rape, incest, etc.” She handed cards to each of the women at the table. “Any of your daughters or granddaughters get gang raped by a state championship wrestling squad, I’m the person to call.”

         The men began growling angry denials. The wives shifted uneasily in their seats. Chuck’s wife stood up. “My husband never . . ..”

         “Look, I don’t know your husband. He may be a good man. The person I knew thirty-five years ago was a thug and a drunk. But what I came say to Chuck and to the others was this. When you retell the senior picnic story, leave me out.” The men said nothing, silenced by the looks they got from their wives. “If you need a victim, imagine your wife or your daughter. Imagine her on that picnic table.” Rox reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled photo. She handed it to Chuck who tensed at the sight. “For your scrapbook. I don’t want it in mine any more. I’ve been pardoned.” Chuck’s wife grabbed the photo and gasped. Rox turned and walked away.

Marsh rushed to catch up. “What was in the photo?”

         Rox grabbed Marsh’s hand and kept walking out of the banquet room. Behind them Marsh could hear the scraping of chairs and a woman shouting.
         Rox steadied herself against the registration table. “Three weeks after graduation I found that photo taped to my front door. Chuck is holding up the beer bottle he used to sodomize me. Six other boys have their pants around their ankles and their fists raised. I’m naked and tied spread-eagle to a picnic table. In the background are all our classmates who watched. The note on the back of the picture said, ‘For your scrapbook.’”  Her body trembled. “I never destroyed that photo. And until five minutes ago, I wasn’t sure why.”

Marsh watched as two uniformed security guards and an assistant manager rushed toward the banquet room. “We should find a place to talk.” Rox allowed Marsh to guide her from the lobby.

         “Maybe you throw this outfit in the dumpster, while I take a long hot shower.”

         “It’s a plan.” Down the hallway behind them Marsh heard shouting but neither turned around. They kept walking toward Rox’s room and their reunion.