valedictorian, Keith Andrews, has just been named a National Merit, Scholar.” Miss Ferrell began the clapping. The valedictorian, a skinny fellow, got to his feet. Saint Andrews, I thought. He did look somewhat saintly, but perhaps that aura would attach to anyone who was first in the class. Keith had a head that was too small for his body, and his bowl-cut, blond-brown hair, unlike the sprouted-looking things that most of his classmates wore, shone like a halo in the light from the brass wall sconces. Nor did Keith Andrews favor the fashionable clothes of most of his peers. He was wearing a loose, glimmery suit straight out of Lawrence Welk.
Keith extended a bony wrist as he approached the microphone. A number of the parents stiffened up. They had come to see their children shine, not some National Merit nerd, buttoned inside polyester.
“What is an educated person?” Keith began in a voice that was surprisingly deep for such a slight, angular fellow. I had a sudden flash: With his awkwardness, downcast eyes, and lack of athletic presence, Keith Andrews reminded me of Arch. Was this what my son would look like in six years?
There was another squeak of laughter from one of the seniors’ tables. Standing beside Keith Andrews, Miss Ferrell gave the group a slit-eyed look. Whispers from the parents filled the close air.
“Our word education comes from the Latin ducere, to lead, and e-, out,” Keith pronounced, undistracted. “The point of education is to be led out, not to get high test scores, although we could do better in that area,” he said with a grin. More snickers erupted” as well as groans from the head table. Even I knew what this was about: a recent Denver Post article had compared Elk Park Prep SAT scores with scores from area public high schools. The prep school’s scores were lower than their public counterparts’, much to the distress of Headmaster Perkins.
Keith went on. “Is education attainable only at big-name schools? Or is our pursuit of those institutions just a function of ego?” Parents and students turned to one another with raised eyebrows. This was clearly dangerous territory. “As for me, becoming educated means I’m learning to focus on the process instead of the outcome…” And on he droned as I headed back to the kitchen with empty dessert plates so I could start organizing the dirty dishes to cart home. Predictably, the antiquated kitchen at the headmaster’s house boasted no dishwasher.
When I returned with coffeepots for refills, Keith was winding up with “… always asking ourselves, is this integrity or hypocrisy? Is this a ticket for a job or an education for a lifetime? Let’s hope for the latter. Thank you.”
Flushed with either embarrassment or pleasure, Keith left the microphone amid a smattering of unenthusiastic applause. Faint praise, if you asked me, but maybe that was because he’d come off less as a valedictorian than a political candidate.
“Well, we’ll be seeing you all later …” Miss Ferrell was saying. “And seniors, please don’t forget to check the schedule for college reps visiting this week. . , .”
My helpers were scooping up coffee cups, saucers, dessert plates, and forks. With my second tray I walked back to the kitchen. In the outer rooms the noise of people bustling about searching for coats and boots rose to a small din.
Then, suddenly, there was total blackness.
“What the ? ” No way had I blown those fuses. I had just turned off all the coffeepots.
Screams and shuffling filled the sudden darkness. After I stumbled into a cabinet and nearly dropped my tray, my eyes adjusted to the shadows. Neither the oven nor any other appliance, including the refrigerator, had stayed on. I could barely see my tray, and could not see the floor at all. I was afraid to take a step in any direction.
A loud female voice cried, “Well, I guess that’s the last time the headmaster invites us!” There was more shuffling, the scraping of chairs, and shrieks of laughter. Frigid air gusted from a door or window that had been opened.
“Wait, wait, we’ll shed some light on this situation in a moment…” urged a man’s voice that sounded like the headmaster’s. There was a shuffle, a bump, and what sounded like an exceedingly creative curse, then a flashlight glimmered near me. The person holding it clomped across the linoleum and down the wooden stairs to the basement. Out in the dining and living rooms the talking, laughing voices rose in volume, as if cacophony could fight back the terror of unexpected darkness. After several moments the lights flickered. Then they came back on. There were more shouts of laughter, and exclamations of relief from the outer room.
I looked around for my helpers. Together, Egon Schlichtmaier, Audrey, and I quickly schlepped the rest of the dishes out to the kitchen and clattered stacks into cardboard boxes. I thanked them and told them both to go home; the roads would be terrible. I could load the cartons into the van myself. From the entryway with its huge carved wooden doors came the high-cheer sounds of people calling their final good-byes as they donned their minks and cashmere coats. After my helpers departed, Julian made a sudden appearance next to one of the buckled counters.
“Hey, let me help you with that,’: he said, heaving up a box holding roasting pans. “What a drag! All night I had to listen to the kid on one side of me talk about how his folks had spent a thousand bucks on a prep course for the SATs, and did I know an antonym for complaisant? Then on the other side was this girl who told me that all the women in her family had gone to Smith since the beginning of time. Finally I said, ‘I swear, those women must be old.’ But before she could get pissed off, the lights went out.” Julian looked around at the boxes scattered everywhere in the old kitchen. “You want me to close those up?”
?I’d Iove it.”
Julian folded in the flaps of the boxes containing coffee cups. When the crowd had dispersed, I trundled the first box of silverware out to the dimly lit entryway. There was no sign of the headmaster. Maybe Perkins was already off dreaming of a metaphorical Milky Way. With a groan I shoved open the massive front door. Sharp cold bit through my caterer’s uniform, and I scolded myself for leaving my jacket in the van. At least the snow had stopped. I was determined to get home as quickly as possible. After all, I still had six boxes of dishes to wash.
Luminous scarves of cloud floated across the inky sky. The moon lifted from behind a shred of silver moisture, illuminating silhouettes of mountains to the west. The bright, frosty landscape rolled away from the headmaster’s house like a rumpled fluorescent sheet. Puddles of shadow from the guests’ footprints formed stepping-stones out to the van. At one point I skidded forward into a shelf of snow and the heavy box slid from my hands. It landed with a loud metallic chink. Cursing, I decided to take my first rest of the evening. I inhaled deep icy breaths, sighed out steam, and looked around. Snow clung to the branches of the stand of pine trees next to the house. The little grove looked like an ice castle inside a Faberge egg. At the end of the grove, someone had overturned a sled and left it abandoned in the snow. Gritting my teeth, I tried to worm my hands underneath the box to get some leverage. I took a deep breath, heaved the box up with iced fingers, and headed for the van.
It was slow going. Lumps of snow fell into the sides of my shoes; pinpricks of ice melted into my ankles. Approaching the parking lot, I could see my van wore a trapezoidal hat of snow. It would probably take me fifteen minutes to warm up the engine. I lugged the carton to the van door, slid it open, and heaved it inside. The moon dipped behind a cloud. The sudden darkness sent a shiver down my back. II opened the driver-side door, turned on the engine, then flipped on the headlights. They shone on the evergreens frosted with new snow. Next to the overturned sled, half-buried in a hollow, lay a coat. I groaned. One of the unwelcome punishments that comes from catering big dinners is that you end up being the guardian of a bewildering cache of lost-and-found objects.
By the pale glow of the van headlights I trudged through snow and by trees to where the sled was, up-ended. Skidding down the slight incline, I leaned toward the edge of the coat. It was dusted with snow; perhaps it had been dragged or dropped. I brushed some of the icy powder off. Something was wrong. The coat did not respond to my attempt to pick it up. It was too heavy. My near-frozen hands moved rapidly to find edges of cloth.
I could hear my breath rasping in the cold. The night air was frigid. I turned the heavy, hard thing over just as moonlight blazed out again.
It was not a coat. It was the valedictorian, Keith Andrews. Blood from the back of his head darkened the snow. Instinctively, I felt for a pulse. There was none.
2
“Oh, no. Please.” I shook Keith’s shoulders. The boy didn’t move. I couldn’t touch his head. His slick hair lay in a dark puddle of blood and snow. The moon lit his frozen grimace. The open mouthed expression was ghastly, contorted with the fear of death. My fingers caught on an icy cord that had been wrapped around his torso and attached to the sled.
I pulled away. My voice made high, unhuman sounds. The deep snow disintegrated like quicksand as I clambered backward. I raced to the headmaster’s house, careened across the slate floor of the empty entryway, and dialed 911.
