Good Riddance(18)

“Actually, never married.”

“Broke a lotta hearts, though,” said Donna.

“Peter was class president,” said Barbara.

“Actually, I wasn’t,” he said. “I ran but I lost.”

“Remind me who won,” said Mimi.

“Someone named Duddy,” said Geneva. “An Irish last name?”

Shouldn’t one of us explain why she knew that? Not Geneva, who rose and said she was getting another drink. Anyone else? Her treat.

I said I’d have another Tickled Pink, an order echoed by two others, inspiring Ritchie to rise and offer his help. When she was out of earshot and wouldn’t hear me drastically underplaying her relationship to The Monadnockian, I said, “My mother left her yearbook to me. Geneva’s fascinated with it . . . We’re neighbors . . . She lives on my floor.”

Since Peter’s arrival, several classmates had left their own tables to say hello and offer congratulations. During a break from well-wishers, I asked him, “Did you have my mother for English?”

“I did. And I worked on the yearbook. I had her when she was still Miss Winter.”

Amplifying needlessly, I said, “It was her first job right out of college.”

“We all had a crush on her. She was the youngest teacher in the entire school, at least while we were there.”

“And quite the looker,” added Dave. “If it’s okay to say that to someone’s daughter.”

Could there have been a more awkward moment for Barbara to have said, “And, boy, you sure look a lot like her. A dead ringer.”

Geneva and Ritchie were back, managing three drinks apiece, beyond the orders requested. She took her seat and asked me what she’d missed.

I said in a well-modulated voice, “Everyone remembers my mother. Quite vividly.”

“I think she was faculty before your father was principal,” said Donna.

“I was at their wedding,” said Peter.

What did he just say?

“Teacher’s pet!” said one of the women.

“Not as an invited guest. I worked at the club where the reception was held, as a busboy.”

“Were you the teacher’s pet?” Geneva asked.

I noted his political skill when he replied, “She certainly wrote some very nice college recommendations for me.”

“Got him into Dartmouth,” said Mimi.

“Since when do applicants get to see what their teachers write about them?” asked Geneva.

“Maybe when letters do a great deal for a shy senior’s self-esteem,” he said.

“I’m curious as to why you asked to be at our table,” said Geneva.

His reaction was an eloquent tilt of his head, easily translated as Our? What our? I asked to sit with Daphne. You are the extraneous plus-one. “Because I look forward to speaking with Miss Maritch.” He didn’t add “privately” or “one on one” but did add, “I never had the chance to express my condolences.”

That would be the sum of it then. He merely wanted to snag me for his formal expression of sympathy. Had he been one of the handful of grads who’d come to her funeral? Why not ask? I did.

“I most certainly would have, but I was out of the country. I didn’t hear about her passing until I returned.”

“Do state senators travel a lot, like on those junkets we’re always reading about?” asked Geneva.

He ignored the question as waiters were bringing our entrees—breast of chicken with rice and broccolini, apparently obliging Geneva to note, “Broccolini! I wouldn’t have expected that!”

“Maybe you were expecting canned peas up here in the boonies,” said Donna.

“Or Tater Tots,” said her husband.

“Who knows what I was expecting? It just came out. You know what my problem is?”

I said, “I think they do.”

“My big mouth. I warned Daphne about it the first time we met. I don’t have a filter. Very bad. But you know where this comes from?”

The whole table waited, no one looking the least sympathetic.

“Hollywood!”

“Hollywood?” Roseanne repeated. “From watching movies?”

“No. From working there. The majority of people I dealt with weren’t what you’d call diplomatic. In fact, a majority were assholes. And proud of it.”

“Oh, right. You make documentaries,” said Ritchie.

Would anyone ask the logical follow-up question—What documentaries?—so she’d have to name her prize-winning, if not only, film? Would they even know what matzo was?

There was no music playing, though a deejay had staked some territory behind a table and was fiddling with switches and knobs. I said, “There’s dancing?”—a disingenuous question since the yearbook had many references to partners, the desirable and the not so much.

“Any minute now,” Peter said. Lucky for him, the music started. I didn’t recognize the song, but apparently it was a sentimental favorite: “Three Stars Will Shine Tonight,” the theme from Dr. Kildare, one of the women explained.

Peter crossed his knife and fork on his plate, removed the napkin from his lap, and said, “I feel it’s my duty to break the ice. Daphne?”

I took a sip from my second Tickled Pink, and said, “Why not?”