few antacid tablets before pigging out. For those of you who’d prefer to explore, stroll down the side alleys. They’ll lead you to a lovely maze of narrow streets and canals with little wooden houses and footbridges, but if you get lost, don’t expect anyone to go looking for you. We’re on far too tight a schedule.” She smiled sweetly. “Have a wonderful time, but wherever you go or whatever you do, remember this.” Her voice rose to a near screech. “Stay on the sidewalk!”
We pulled into a “Tour Busses Only” lot that flanked the dike at the far end of town. When Dietger killed the engine, I regarded Nana sternly. “I hope you’re going to tell me that you’re ready to ditch your cellphone in favor of smoked eel and antacid tablets.”
She cradled her phone possessively to her chest. “What’ll happen if I’m not?”
I knew of only one threat scary enough to have any effect on her.
Digging my own cellphone out of my shoulder bag, I clutched it in my fist and poised my forefinger over the keypad. “Then I’m calling Mom.”
She sucked in her breath so hard, I thought she’d swallow her uppers. “You wouldn’t.”
I smiled. “Try me.”
“This is blackmail.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or is it extortion? I always get them two mixed up.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s extortion. So what’s it to be? Drinking in the sights of Volendam”—I waved the phone at her—“or a long dose of Mom?”
She shoved her cellphone into her pocketbook and stood up. “Anyone feel like taggin’ along while I find one a them shops that takes souvenir photos of tourists dressed up like the little Dutch boy?”
“I’ll go,” said George, popping out of his seat.
“Me, too,” said Tilly. “My thumbs are locking up.”
Osmond boosted himself to his feet. “Show of hands: how many are in favor of having a group photo taken in dorky costumes?”
All hands went up.
“The yeas have it in a landslide.”
“I want to amend my vote.” Bernice stood up. “I don’t want to be in a group photo. I want to have my picture taken all by myself so I can add it to my portfolio”—she fluttered her stubby lashes—“just in case Hollywood comes to town wanting to film
“Or
She whipped her head around to drill him with an evil look. “I heard that.” A thousand years ago, Bernice had worked as a magazine model, and “comeback” was never far from her mind.
The doors of the bus
“No exiting out the rear door!” shouted Charlotte. “You have to leave by the front. Get away from that door!” she yelled at the Dicks. “Honestly, you people are going to be the death of me!”
Sensing blood pressures rising and excitement waning, I made a quick decision. “Bite your tongues and do as she says,” I cautioned under my breath. “I’ll have a heart-to-heart with her when I can get her alone. Maybe I can convince her to lighten up.”
“I’m so excited to try on one of those white caps with the wings,” Margi enthused as we shuffled down the aisle single file. “Do you suppose it’ll look like the one the flying nun used to wear on that TV show? I wouldn’t mind flying around like she used to, but I have a few pounds on her, so I’d probably need a bigger hat.”
“I’ve located the nearest photo shop on my GPS,” Tilly called out. “When you step off the bus, take a right and head due northwest.”
Iowans are renowned for their remarkable senses of direction. Some people say it’s a learned skill, but I think we’re just born that way. My dad claims if Moses had been from Iowa, he’d have led the Jews through the desert in way under forty years, even with the inevitable delays for sandstorms and potty breaks.
They hit the ground running. “Be back by two!” I yelled after them. Nana gave me a quick thumbs-up before overtaking Bernice in a footrace to the main street. The reunion people splintered into smaller groups and loitered in the parking lot awhile before following Nana’s lead toward the street. Dietger escaped across the lot to join a couple of uniformed bus drivers whose heads were engulfed in cigarette smoke, but Charlotte seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
Noticing Mike and Mary Lou McManus in a small group still lingering by the bus, I hurried over to them. “Did anyone happen to see which way Charlotte went?”
“Didn’t see her leave,” said the guy Mike had pointed out as the class clown, “but I hope the hell she never comes back.” He was small and wiry, with a fringe of white hair circling his head at ear level, a mustache like a whisk broom, and a nametag that identified him as Chip Soucy. “Geez, what a pill. Reminds me of that nun you girls were always complaining about back in school. The one who got drunk on her own power when she was principal. What did you call her? Sister Hippo?”
Mary Lou exchanged smiles with two female classmates. “Sister Hip-PO-ly-tus,” they chimed in unison. “The Hippo didn’t refer to her size,” Mary Lou explained to me. “We weren’t that mean. It was short for hypocrite.”
“She wore makeup,” accused one woman whose photo showed her younger self in a pageboy and bangs, “and we were supposed to act like we didn’t notice. I mean, no one’s cheeks are that red. Not even if they’re spray painted.”
“She was so vindictive,” said the second classmate, a heavyset woman with a tight perm. “She hated me, but the feeling was mutual. I heard she lost her position after we graduated and got demoted to housekeeping duties at the rectory. A lot of important people filed complaints about her to the diocese, so she got the shaft. And atheists say there is no God. Huh!”
“Did you know there was a massive turnover in the teaching staff after we left?” asked Mike. “Keeping us in line for four years wore them all down.”
“We didn’t wear them down,” corrected Mary Lou. “We kept them on their toes. Our standardized test scores showed that we were a bright class. That’s not bragging. It’s the truth.”
“The only reason you girls did so well was because you didn’t have us boys in class to distract you,” teased Chip.
“Wait a sec,” I interrupted. “You all went to the same school, but you didn’t have co-ed classes?”
Mike nodded. “Boys on one side of the building, girls on the other, with a big auditorium in the middle to keep us separated. The brothers taught the boys and the nuns taught the girls, with a sprinkling of lay teachers thrown in for local color.”
“Remember Mr. Albert?” Mary Lou asked the group. Then to me, “He taught algebra and geometry to both sides, but he was so shy, he could never look us in the eye. He’d explain theorems while he looked out the window or stared at his shoes. Poor man. Paula Peavey mouthed off to him continually, but he was too embarrassed to punish her. The boys were always playing practical jokes on him, like sticking imbecilic signs on his suit coat or gluing his desk drawers shut. Pete Finnegan thought he was smarter than Mr. Albert, so he never missed a chance to argue with him over the simplest math problems. We made a nervous wreck out of the poor guy. We antagonized him so much, I honestly think he grew afraid of us.”
“He never threw chalk at me,” said Chip, “so I liked him.”
I frowned. “Why would he throw chalk at you?”
“The brothers always fired chalk across the room at us if we gave them wrong answers,” said Mike. “And they nailed us every time. The Xaverian brothers had exceptional throwing arms. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of them left the brotherhood for more lucrative careers in the major leagues.”
The heavyset woman beside Mary Lou sighed. “Just think. They’re probably all dead by now. That’s a little depressing.”
“On the other hand,” Mike announced in a booming voice, “the rest of us are very much alive, so let’s celebrate that.” He gestured toward me. “By the way, this lovely young woman is Emily.”
I waved a quick hello.
Mike continued with enthusiasm. “Would you believe, Emily, that not only were we the brightest class to walk the hallowed halls of Francis Xavier High, we were apparently the healthiest and least accident prone? Not one person in our graduating class has died.”
Chip cranked his mouth to the side and gave his jaw a thoughtful scratch. “Well, that’s not exactly true. What about Bob Guerrette?”
