1941 to 1946 in Burwell, Nebraska, and 1986 in Berkeley, California

By Grant Flint

I took the coward’s way out. Didn’t go to the reunion. Ordered the 8×10 glossy of those who did, instead.

It is hidden now, the picture, face down in a dresser drawer I never use.

They all look dead in the picture. My dear old classmates. I assume that if I had actually gone to the reunion, I might have seen a trace in those bloated, decaying faces - a hint of the youngsters known so long ago.

The reality, however, lies in that graveyard photo, buried upside down in my drawer. I might think I am young, different, not like them. But I’m afraid to look at the picture.

I fell in love with two of my classmates when I was 12. Margie and Darlene. There is a photo in my head.

Gene Anderson and I are riding our bikes at the edge of the little town, and as we stop a moment, taking a breather, gaze with strange, wistful emotion across the corn fields, giant sunflowers waving slightly in the fragile breeze. Margie and Darlene are coming up behind us rapidly, giggling, on their bikes.

So - zoom - we take off like banshees before they can get to us. And we zoom ahead, pumping like mad and - zip - we turn left at full speed into the front grounds of the deserted farm.

We slide up in front of the old flappy, empty barn, throw our bikes down, scamper inside, never a glance back, scurry up the ladder going up to the haymow, and then, breathing hard, grinning and trembling, we hide near the opening at the top of the ladder. Hide there, waiting, fearing, hoping.

Giggle, giggle, down below. They’re here!

“Come on down!” Darlene commands. “Harry? Gene?”

Gene and I take a quick look at each other. We don’t budge.

“We’re coming up then,” Darlene says. “Right?” she says to Margie. We hear a very weak “Right” in compliance.

We don’t move a muscle. Sweat is running down my rear end. All I have on is bibless overalls and high-topped tennis shoes.

“Well – we’re coming up,” says Darlene, sounding less sure.

We die for them to come up, hope to God they won’t. Wish we could watch all this instead of being in the middle of it.

In our heads, Gene’s and mine, is the vague but powerful certainty of what will happen if they come up. Something enormously powerful, godlike, that will forever after make us liberated, special, free from parents.

The girls gave up finally, went away. Gene and I hung around quite awhile - hoping, dreading, that they might come back. Saddened, we eventually gave up, went down, rode back home. Feeling a great regret. And some relief.

It was a lost opportunity. Changed our lives. Mine, anyway. Maybe the girls’ too. That is, because nothing happened that day when fate, accident, or plan offered a superb opportunity, nothing ever happened just right again. Never again.

Both of those dear girls gave me another shot. About four years later. We were juniors in high school. I had a temporary silver cap on one of my front teeth, which had been half knocked out in football. I had the world’s worst case of acne. I didn’t smoke, swear, or have any fun whatsoever.

Margie and Darlene, sometimes together, sometimes singly, would come up to me as I was maybe walking to school in the morning, and they would kid me a little or ask me to carry their books for a bit. So they could button their coats or whatever, but I was so painfully shy, all I could do was nearly pass out from hope, despair, excitement, and self-consciousness, and I blew every chance, large or small.

I remember feeling so sad a year later, on seniors’ sneak day, when we seniors went all the way to Omaha to tour the meatpacking plant. Someone had carefully arranged which students went in which car with which teacher or sponsor.

I ended up in the superintendent’s car with two other male misfits in the backseat, and in the front was the most popular boy at school, Bob Johnson, football star, class president, track star, all-around great guy. And sitting with him was his girlfriend, Ruth Peterson, who was my dream girl.

They had their arms around each other all day in the car and elsewhere, and I felt like my life was a complete failure.

So the years go on. Tragedies happen. Some nice things.

Meanwhile, in those years, Darlene got pregnant two months before graduation from high school. She married the guy, a rancher, got fat as a large balloon over the years, and never played the trombone anymore, as she had at school. But she stayed jolly, dyed her hair a ripe red, kept her sense of humor.

She looked like hell, but no worse than the other 38 folks in that photo taken at the 40th class reunion.

Margie, on the other hand, didn’t get pregnant until three months after graduation, had two sons, but her husband turned out to be a womanizer.

She wrote me a very nice letter before the 40th reunion, said she sure hoped that I would come to this one because it was special, the 40th.

She told me all about herself in the letter, and she said she had kept up with my comings and goings through the years by talking to my mother on trips back to our hometown.

She sent a picture. Not the sweet, beautiful, busty Margie that I remembered. I couldn’t recognize her now at all. Her hair was white, her face pinched. She wore glasses. She was proud of the gray hair, mentioned twice that she and never dyed it because age was dignity.

Maybe she thought back and remembered me as a nice boy, not the kind who would ever be a womanizer. Whatever - she was putting the pitch to me. And who knows why.

Maybe I wanted some kind of miracle, final chance. Wanted to go back there like it was at the barn, and I would say something this time. Say, “Sure, come on up! We’re up here! Come on up! Hurry!”

I wrote her back, said a lot of the right kind of things, even thought I might go back there to that reunion.

But of course I didn’t. I ordered the picture of the rest of them instead. The picture of my dear friends - those dear young people. All dead. Grotesque monsters had swallowed them up, loaded them, scarred them, put deep, terrible sadness on them.

She called me. Margie called. She said she didn’t go back to the reunion, either.

“But you were the one….” I said, confused, “you were the main one, the organizer. What happened?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said vaguely. Her voice was 15 years older than the women I go with. “It’s a long way back there.”

“Long way,” I agreed.

“Tell me, though,” she said, voice lifting a little, “I sometimes wonder if you - do you remember a thing that happened - actually didn’t happen - we were young, real young, maybe 12 or so - riding our bikes. I remember just as clearly as if it were yesterday. You and Gene - do you remember?”

“I do.”

“You ran off, rode away. To that old barn, remember? We saw your bikes there, outside. We knew you were in there. So we went in. We wanted to come up. I wish we had come up that day. Do you remember?”

“I remember,” I said. “Like yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you - you could have - it could have been different. Everything could have been different. Do you ever think about that?”

“I do. Lots of times. Many times.”

She was silent for a moment on the phone. I guess I was supposed to say something more.

“Well, you stop in,” she said, “if you ever get up this way.”

“And you - if you get down here, you be sure to call me.”

“I will,” she said, her voice an old woman’s voice again. “It would’ve been nice, wouldn’t it?”

“It sure would have,” I said.

“Well, good-bye then.”

“Good-bye,” I said. “Margie?”

“Yes?”

“I dream about you. Sometimes.”

“You do?”

“I do. It’s nice.”

I could hear her wanting to say something.

“You have a good life,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. For a moment, I thought of how peaceful it might be to be with Margie, a woman my age. “You too,” she said. “You have a good life.”

“Thanks. I’ll try. You too. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

I do dream of Margie. And Darlene. And in my dreams, they are not like the sad picture I have hidden away. They are young and ripe with life, the blush of life sweet and joyous on them. We smile at each other, touch and smile with joy.

We know what to do.

The Great Depression and Grant Flint were born in the same year, 1929. Flint is finishing his ninth novel.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 21st, 2008 | Email This Post

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