Dutch Me Deadly

“I’m not in charge. I’m just hungry.”

Everyone else must have realized they were, too, because a current of anticipation suddenly electrified the room as guests looked left and right, sizing up the competition. Bodies shifted. Feet scuffed forward. And in the next instant the floor shook as the entire lobby stampeded toward the door.

“You can’t all squeeze through at one time!” I shouted as six guests wedged themselves into a space that was designed for one, forcing the revolving mechanism to jam mid-turn.

I stared at the people shoehorned into the compartment, sighing at the faces crushed against the glass, noses flattened, and lips twisted askew.

Yup. That had gone well.

Five

“Melted brie and caramelized onion bruschetta,” announced our waiter as he placed the serving platter in the middle of our table.

“Dank u,” I called out to his quickly retreating back.

We were packed into a glass-enclosed canal boat, enjoying unobstructed views of Amsterdam at twilight. Watercraft flanked both sides of the waterway—houseboats longer than mobile trailer homes, their sliding glass doors opening onto wraparound patios. Derelict schooners with boxcar-shaped dwellings perched on the main deck. Fishing boats converted into two-story, open-air eateries. Powerboats and skiffs, barges and rowboats—all moored in a magnificent clutter against the canal wall, like a floating passenger train. Narrow Dutch buildings lined the streets: centuries-old brick structures with tiers of window glass rising all the way to their decorative gables. Some stood as straight as church steeples, while others looked slightly off kilter, as if they’d tired of perfect posture after six hundred years and decided to slouch. Strings of white lights hung from an array of fairytale bridges, twinkling above us as we tunneled through spaces so confined that I waited for the inevitable shattering crrrunch of stone bridge against glass roof.

We’d been directed into booths that accommodated three diners on either side of a table that was bolted to the floor and covered in crisp white linen. I’d hoped to park myself at the same table as grouchy Pete, but the best I could manage was a space directly across the aisle from him, in a booth with two reunion couples and a woman with bulldog jowls and small, inscrutable eyes that were completely devoid of warmth. Her hair was steel-gray and cut painfully short, as if she were more interested in ease of care than style. She wore a long print scarf that showcased every dog known to man, and only when she unfurled it from around her neck did I see her nametag.

I tried unsuccessfully not to wince.

Paula Peavey. St. Francis Xavier’s “mean girl.” Oh, no. I let fly a quick prayer that the description no longer applied. I mean, wasn’t there some natural cycle at play that forced meanies to mellow after fifty years?

She directed a suspicious look at me from across the table. “If I look puzzled, it’s because I’m trying to figure out why you’re sitting with us. Shouldn’t you be at a different table, hanging out with your own group?”

Okay, so maybe she was on a hundred-year cycle.

“Where do you want her to sit?” asked the man beside me. “On the floor? Looks to me as if all the other booths are full.”

He was the guy Mike and Mary Lou had pointed out as Xavier’s former basketball captain, the well-dressed six-footer who reeked prosperity and country club taste. “Don’t pay any attention to Paula,” he advised me in a casual tone. “No one else does.”

She pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at him.

He ignored her.

“The rest of us are happy to have you join us,” he assured me. “I’m Gary Bouchard.” He angled his nametag toward me so I could see for myself. “And this is Sheila.” He leaned back so I could catch a glimpse of his wife, the four-time class president, who nodded politely, but seemed either unable or unwilling to manage a hello.

“They’re married,” Paula explained in a sarcastic tone. “To each other.”

“So are we,” chimed the woman sitting beside Paula—Xavier’s former head cheerleader, the woman with the helmet of black hair and pink bows, and her husband, the no-neck bruiser who’d once quarterbacked the football team. “I’m Mindy,” she said, joining her hand with her husband’s and holding it up to indicate they were together. “And this is Ricky. Hennessy. Two n’s, two s’s, no e before the y. It’s annoying how many people spell it wrong.”

Ricky grabbed a bruschetta with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth, making no attempt to chew before he swallowed it whole. Nice. I could hardly wait to see what he did with a Belgian waffle.

“Emily Andrew,” I said with a subdued wave, averting my gaze as Ricky grabbed another bruschetta. “Escort for the Iowa contingent.”

“Honestly, Mindy,” Sheila protested in disgust. “Fifty years of marriage and he still eats like an animal? Couldn’t you at least teach him how to chew?”

“It’s no wonder he’s the size of the Goodyear blimp,” droned Paula. “He probably hasn’t digested a scrap of food for decades. What do you say, Rick?” She angled her head in his direction. “Have you chewed anything since those six pepperoni pizzas you devoured on Senior Skip Day? Refresh my memory. How many beers did it take to wash them down?”

A sudden silence fell over the table.

“I distinctly remember you arriving at Cascade Park with a six-pack of Schlitz under each arm,” she persisted. “If you drank all of them yourself, it probably would have killed you. So who’d you share with? And why do I keep thinking it was Bobby Guerrette?”

My ears perked up. Bobby Guerrette again? His name was certainly popping up a lot, and the two couples at my table seemed none too happy about it.

Ricky stuck five meaty fingers in the air. “Five pizzas,” he snuffled in a spray of caramelized onions. “Three pepperoni. Two sausage with double cheese. Five pizzas, not six.”

“That’s not the point, genius.”

“Do you mind keeping your spittle on your own side of the table?” Sheila griped as she flicked onions off the tablecloth.

“I’m on it.” Ricky gave her a sassy grin as he crammed another appetizer into his mouth, his expression changing dramatically when we lurched crazily in the wake of a passing boat. His eyes widened. His face paled. His brow beaded with sweat.

“You’re looking a little seasick, Hennessy,” Gary needled. “Cruising in the little putt-putt boat too rough on the ole quarterback’s system?”

“He gets terribly seasick,” Mindy admitted as she fanned his face with her napkin. “And I’ll warn you right now, he’s descended from a wicked line of hurlers.”

“I told you I didn’t want to sit with them.” Sheila thwacked her husband’s shoulder. “Move! I’m leaving.”

“I have motion sickness pills,” I said as I riffled through my shoulder bag.

“If they’re whiskey flavored, he’ll be happy to down the whole bottle,” jibed Paula.

I held up the package. “Orange flavored.”

Mindy made a gimme motion with her hand. “I’ll take ’em anyway.” She tore the box open and popped four pills out of their foil-backed packaging. “Chew on these,” she said as she forced them into his mouth.

“There’s optimism for you,” taunted Sheila. “Maybe you should demonstrate how it’s done so he won’t be at a complete loss.”

My stomach fluttered as we dipped into a trough and rolled sideways on the wake of another boat. Ricky slumped against his wife and groaned.

“There, there,” Mindy soothed as she patted his head. “Listen to me, hon. If you feel that sudden urge coming on, aim it at Sheila.”

“You better damn well hope I don’t get spattered with half-chewed motion sickness pills!” Sheila threatened.