Patience, he told himself.
They might not even
They’ve got to.
He wished he’d asked Lane to phone him from school. Then he wouldn’t have spent the whole day worrying. But he didn’t want her to think it was any big deal.
“Try for the ‘sixty-eight,” he’d told her. “That’s the year I’ll be working on. If they don’t have it, though, ’sixty-seven or ‘sixty-six will be okay. Even ’sixty-five. In fact, if you could get the annuals for each of those years...”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Lane had said. “I’ll be lucky if Swanson let’s me check out
“Just go for ‘sixty-eight, then, okay?”
He heard another approaching car. He knew the Mustang’s sound — a low grumble — and this wasn’t it. He looked out the window anyway. A station wagon swept by.
He drank some beer, finished the Garfield piece, and looked for Warren Murphy’s “Curmudgeon’s Corner.” This issue didn’t seem to have one.
He muttered, “Shit.”
Probably a story behind its absence. Have to ask Ed next time we talk.
At least de Lint’s horror reviews weren’t missing. Larry scanned the columns. Half the books were by writers he couldn’t stand. But he spotted reviews of new books by Daniel Ransom, Joe Lansdale, and Chet Williamson. He’d already read the three books under discussion. Good. That way, the reviews couldn’t spoil anything for him.
He took a drink of beer.
Started to read.
Heard the Mustang.
The shiny red car appeared on the street, slowed down, swung into the driveway and vanished from sight. The engine went silent. A door thumped shut. When he heard Lane’s boots scraping on the walkway, he tossed the magazine aside and hurried to the door.
“Hi ho,” he said, opening the door. Lane had her keys in one hand. Her other hand was empty. “How was your day?”
“Terrific.”
Must’ve been, Larry thought. She looked even more chipper than usual.
He stepped out of her way and shut the door. Lane slung her book bag off her shoulders. Trying to keep his voice calm, Larry said, “So, did you have any luck with the yearbook?”
“Swanson didn’t want to check it out to me. You really lucked out, though. Mr. Kramer was there, and she let him have it.”
“But you’ve got it?”
“But of course.” She dropped her denim bag on the sofa, unstrapped its top and slipped out a tall, thin volume. “It has to be returned tomorrow morning.”
“No problem.” Larry reached for it.
Lane clutched it to her chest and shook her head. “You owe me.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, that’s open to negotiation. I’ve had to make considerable sacrifices on your behalf. In particular, I’m obliged to help Mr. Kramer grade papers after school every day this week to pay him back for the favor.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t kid you.”
“He shouldn’t make you do that.”
“Well, I kind of made the offer, and he didn’t refuse.”
“Ah. Well, that’s different.”
“It’s still because of this,” she said and, grinning, rapped her knuckles against the back of the yearbook.
“Okay. What do you want?”
Her eyes rolled upward. “Let me think. My services don’t come cheap, you understand.”
“They never have.”
“Daaad!”
“Laaane.”
“You make me sound absolutely mercenary.”
“But you’re not.”
“Of course not. However, I just happened to notice an absolutely radical pair of denim boots a while back.”
“And you didn’t buy them?”
“I didn’t think I should. I’d already made a few purchases that day.”
“If you’re talking about the day your mother and I went on our last outing with Pete and Barbara, I remember it well.”
“I
“I’m touched. Truly.”
“So, can I have them?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Oh, Dad, you’re great!” She thrust the book at him. As Larry took it, she threw herself against him and gave him a quick kiss. Then she hurried toward the kitchen.
Larry retrieved his beer.
He heard Lane call out, “Yo! Mom! What’ve we got to eat around here? I’m dying.”
Larry shut the door to his office. He placed his beer on the coaster beside his word processor. He leaned back in his chair and rested the bottom of the book against his stomach. The blue cover was embossed with gold lettering that read, BUFORD MEMORIES ‘68.
This is it, he thought. My God, this is it.
His heart was racing. His stomach felt tight and shaky.
He opened the book. A quick riffle revealed glossy pages of black and white photographs. At the back was an index. The final page of the index listed students with S names. Larry slid his eyes down the column:
Sakai, Joan
Samilson, Pamela
Sanders, Timothy
Satmary, Maureen
Schaefer, Ronald
No Saxon, Bonnie.
Despairing, he flipped pages toward the front of the index. And spotted a subheading: FRESHMEN.
“Thank God,” he muttered.
In 1968, Bonnie was a senior, not a freshman.
He thumbed the pages over, passing the lists of sophomores and juniors. Just above the heading JUNIORS was the name Zimmerman, Rhonda. Tail end of the senior class. He lifted his eyes to the left-hand corner. A senior named Simpson, Kenneth.
Simpson. An S!
Larry clamped his lower lip between his teeth. He turned the page and worked his way up from the
