The Class Menagerie

style. He always seemed half-afraid she was going to lose her head and pack him a lunch or drive him to a piano lesson.

'If it weren't my own class—' Mel finally said.

'No, don't explain. I didn't mean to sound snappish. I'm just a little rushed. I'm on my way to the airport in a few minutes and I always have to sort of 'commune with my soul' before I tackle the drive.'

'You're having visitors?'

'No, Shelley is. A class reunion. I've been drafted to help with the convoy.'

'How about tonight for the dinner and movie then? You'll deserve it.'

'I do hate to keep turning you down, but I really can't tonight.' (Oops, did that 'really' give away the earlier lie, she wondered.) 'Shelley's got me booked— or hooked. Any night next week, though. How about Tuesday?'

Mel agreed that Tuesday fit his schedule, too. This settled, they rang off and Jane poured herself a thermal mug of coffee to take along. With any luck she'd be at the airport a good half hour before anybody arrived. This would allow her to make the drive without worrying about the clock and give her time to get her bearings. The three women she was supposed to pick up were coming in on three different flights and she would have to know where she was going next to keep from missing them.

She put on a black-and-white plaid skirt and her good black sweater, freshly out of summer storage. It was a good thing it was unusually cool for September. Jane was sick to death of her summer clothes. She hastily applied some makeup, glanced once more at

the city map to refresh her memory, and went out to the car.

During the interval while Jane had been inside the house, Shelley had put something on the front seat of her station wagon. Three modest-sized posterboards with a name on each: Lila Switzer, Susan Morgan, and Avalon Smith. And on the back of each, as a reminder, the airline, flight number, and arrival time of each.

Trust Shelley to be so organized.

It was a good thing Jane had allowed herself extra time. She missed bullying her way into the correct exit lane and had to go to the next exit and backtrack. Fortunately she had better luck parking and made it into the airport well ahead of the first flight she was due to meet.

If only she had some idea whom to look for. She was going to feel a bit silly holding up a placard. She'd asked Shelley for descriptions of the women she was meeting, but Shelley had refused to help. 'Jane, it's been twenty years since I've seen them. God only knows what they all look like by now. I'll fix it so they find you.'

The first flight was actually a bit early and Jane dutifully held up her 'Susan Morgan' placard as the passengers flowed from the door to the walkway.

'Why, hello. Who are you?' an attractively coiffed and tanned woman said to her.

'I'm Jane Jeffry, Shelley's neighbor. Are you Ms. Morgan?'

The woman put a hand with expensively sculpted nails and a number of exceedingly expensive rings on Jane's arm. 'This year I am. Next year, who knows? And please, none of that 'Ms.' stuff. Just call me Crispy. Everybody else at the reunion will.'

'They will?' Jane asked, smiling. 'Why on earth would they do a thing like that?'

The woman laughed warmly. 'Because my maiden name, back in the dark days of my maidenhood, was Susan Crisp. I like you, Jane. I might make you my assistant.'

'Assistant what?'

'Tormentor. Oh, this is going to be such fun.' She rubbed her lovely hands together like a stage villain. 'I can't wait to see everybody. I've got about a dozen bags and my hairdresser is crammed into one of them. Where shall I meet you?'

'My next gate is around the turn down there, first on the left, and the next is at the far end of the same concourse. Can you manage the bags?'

'My dear, I can manage anything.' And she sounded as if she could. She went off chuckling to herself. Jane watched her go with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Assistant tormentor? Good God, what had Shelley let herself in for?

More important, what has she let me in for?

As if feeling Jane's eyes on her, Crispy — halfway down the concourse and drawing a number of admiring looks — turned gracefully on a spiked, lizard-skinned heel, waggled her fingers, and winked conspiratorially.

The last time Jane had seen an expression like that was when her sister Martha had decided to purchase a high school term paper and blackmailed Jane into being her go-between. Jane's father had caught her slinking out of the house with the cash wadded in her fist. If she recalled correctly, as she was certain she did, Jane herself had gotten the entire blame for the episode.

The next one Jane was to meet didn't have half the exuberance of Crispy. Avalon Smith looked like a well- preserved 'flower child' with the careless wad of burgundy-red hair, freshly scrubbed, makeup-free face, and layers of droopy, no-special-color clothing. She had a long brown scarf flung around her neck, and an equally nondescript necklace made of wood and bits of something that looked like varnished dirt clods.

'I'm Avalon Smith,' she almost whispered to Jane, as if admitting to a rather embarrassing secret.

Jane introduced herself. 'If you want to get your bags and come back here, I'll fetch you when I've met one more person.'

'I just have this,' Avalon said, indicating a big, squashy tapestry bag that had been indistinguishable from her garb.

'Then come along.'

Avalon trailed along as obediently as an eccentrically clad carnival pony. 'Did you have a good flight?' Jane asked.

'Oh, yes.'

That was it. Jane waited for polite elaboration, but there wasn't any. 'Where did you come from?' Jane asked, feeling obligated to make conversation.

'Arkansas.'

Jane wanted to grab Avalon's arm (if she could find it in all that organic clothing) and say, 'Look at me when you talk!' but she didn't.

They settled themselves at the last gate and Jane looked desperately at her watch. Only ten minutes to wait. Unless—-God Forbid! — the plane was late! 'So… are you excited about seeing all your old friends from school?' Jane asked.

Avalon thought hard. 'I guess so.'

Jane was spared any further attempts at chitchat by Crispy's arrival. This amazing woman had managed to snag one of the overgrown go-carts that ferry infirm passengers around. It was piled high with a half dozen pieces of matched luggage that looked like they were made of periwinkle blue suede. Jane had never seen anything like it outside of an expensive catalog display. The cart was driven by a good-looking young man who was smiling as if he'd been given a stupendous tip. 'I've twisted my ankle, haven't I, Derek?' Crispy said, grinning.

Then she spotted Avalon and leaped off the cart. 'Avalon Delvecchio! Imagine! After all these years!' She enveloped Avalon, limp as a rag doll, in a fierce embrace.

'I'm sorry — I don't—' Avalon mumbled.

'You don't know who I am, do you, dear!' Crispy crowed. She glanced at Jane for confirmation, then back to Avalon. 'It's me. Crispy.'

'Crispy! It can't be. You're so—' She stopped, appalled at what she'd been about to say.

Crispy said it for her. 'Thin, pretty, rich? Isn't it amazing?' She whirled around to let Avalon get a better look, then explained to Jane. 'I was the fat, pimpled slob with the nibbled nails and terrible hair.

Isn't it amazing what marrying three or four rich men can do for a girl?'

'You've been married that many times?' Avalon asked.

'Oh, at least. That was just the rich ones. My darling Avalon, I'd have known you anywhere. You look exactly the same. You must have a gallon of formaldehyde for breakfast every day. What's your name now?'

'Smith,' Avalon said, still in shock and acting like she wasn't sure she believed this was who she said she was.

'What a pity. Still, we can't have everything. Why, I married Landsdale Brooke-Trevor just for his name and he turned out to be an impotent pansy. You see what I mean?'

'I–I think so.'