Good Riddance(16)

“With name tags! That’s for sure. And mine will say Daphne Maritch, which should be all the social lubricant you need.”

“As if you’re going to recognize everyone and make the connection back to their . . . their pasts! Their former selves now living lives of quiet desperation?”

“That’s it, isn’t it? All condescension. If they’re still here, going to a reunion, they’re failures?”

“I need it,” she said, almost a whimper.

“That’s how you want to present yourself, a stranger who signed up as other.”

She turned away and stared out the window. “Factories,” I heard her murmur. Even in profile, I could tell she was pouting, waiting for me to negotiate or apologize. I didn’t.

“What’s your decision?” I asked.

She turned back to face me. “Okay. But here’s what I want: Presuming there are name tags or place cards, I want yours to say, ‘Daughter of June Maritch.’”

“It’ll be obvious. I don’t have to announce it.”

“Yes, you do. With a Sharpie.”

“Which you no doubt brought with you?”

Finally, a grudging smile. “Of course.”

I opened the black satin evening purse that had seemed right for an occasion asking for “cocktail attire.” I reapplied lipstick in the mirror of the small faux-jeweled compact.

“Looks vintage,” Geneva noted. “Was it hers?”

I closed the purse. Before she could spot the JWM, I said no.



A tuxedoed man and a tiaraed woman were checking in guests. I asked them what the round orange sticker on our name tags meant. The woman pointed to her own badge. A gold star, she explained, meant classmate, a silver star was for spouses, blue for plus-ones. Orange meant “other.”

I started to write the agreed-upon designation under my name but got no further than “Daughter of . . .” when an envelope slid toward me. I looked up. The hostess said, “I put you at his table.”

“Whose table?”

“Open it,” said Geneva, with a nudge.

Handwritten on a note card bearing the seal of New Hampshire, it said, “I saw on the website that you were attending. I hope to talk to you this evening. Sincerely, Peter D. Armstrong.”

I asked the woman which table. She tapped my name tag, as if I had never before set foot in the country of catered dinners. “That number there. Table five.”

“Do you know this guy Armstrong?” Geneva asked her.

“I know everybody,” she said.

“I’m here on something of a scouting trip,” Geneva continued. “I’m a documentary filmmaker.”

Were these two greeters chosen for their neutrality and frozen smiles, for their New Hampshire election-coverage nonchalance?

Because their badges announced them as Albert Knight and Gloria (Hink) Knight, I asked, “Married classmates?”

“Married now,” said Gloria. “Since our fortieth.”

“Birthdays?”

“Reunion,” the husband said. “We were put at the same table.”

“Were you high school sweethearts?” I asked.

Apparently, this was not a polite question. Albert checked with Gloria, who said, “We went to the prom together.”

“Then what?” said Geneva. “Broke up? Married other people?”

Gloria said, “No. Just each other.”

Albert said, “Twice.”

Gloria added, “Not our fault. We were teenagers the first time, which I wouldn’t recommend to anyone.”

“I’m surprised they put a divorced couple at the same table,” Geneva said.

“People knew we were . . . amicable,” said Gloria.

“Look who’s here!” Albert boomed, seemingly relieved to direct his attention to new arrivals. And to us: “Coat check’s to your right. Enjoy the evening.”

Gloria tore two tickets from a roll, entitling us to one alcoholic drink per guest. “Cash bar after that. Soft drinks on the house.”

Only a few yards from the reception table, Geneva said, “Pregnant straight out of school, I bet. Maybe even prom night. I was tempted to ask if they have a kid who’s exactly fifty years old.”

“Please don’t embarrass me,” I said.

The woman on coat duty, a gold-starred Beverly Swierczek, was dressed in scooped-neck silver lamé contrasting with her spray tan; her fingernails were dark blue with zigzags of silver.

“Did you pull the short straw?” Geneva asked her.

Her welcome smile faded. “Sorry?”

“This job. I hope you won’t be stuck here all night.”

“I’m on the reunion committee. I don’t mind.” Unexpectedly, she winked. “I’m a single gal. Everyone who attends checks his or her coat, emphasis on the his.”

“Smart,” said Geneva.

We entered the function room, which was smaller than I expected, about a dozen round tables draped in burgundy linen. Centerpieces were shellacked gourds and pine cones; at each place setting stood an airline-size bottle of maple syrup. Had I expected a big banquet hall? WELCOME, 68ERS! WE MADE IT! proclaimed a banner hanging from the beams.

“Bar first,” said Geneva.