Kissing the Beehive (3 page)

"Donna? I know a woman named Donna. She has two birds. Two cockatiels."

"Yeah? _And_?"

"Annnd, well, I guess I'll have that California burger, Donna."

As she turned to go, I put up a finger. "Wait a sec. Do you go to the high school?"

"Unfortunately."

"Does Mrs. Muzroll still teach there?"

"She don't teach, mister, she _naps_. That's where you do your homework, in Mrs. Muzroll's class. You went to Crane's View?" She threw a thumb over her shoulder in its direction.

"A long time ago."

She smiled again. "I wish I went there a long time ago!"

"Still bad, huh?"

"Naah, not so bad. I just like complaining. I'll get your burger."

I watched her walk away, then checked out who else was there. A moving van was parked outside and I assumed the two giants down the counter eating meat loaf belonged to it.

I stared too long at a teenage couple in a booth who were having fun shooting paper wrappers off straws at each other. I remembered sitting in that same booth with Louise Hamlin one night after we'd had a heavy make-out session behind the school. We drank cherry Cokes and stared at each other with the delight and gratitude that comes only after hours of monumental fourteen-year-old kissing. Something deep in my chest tightened at the thought of that night, and of Louise Hamlin with her strawberry blond hair.

"Here you go. Something to look at while you're waiting." Donna put a book down in front of me. It was the _Periauger_, the Crane's View high school yearbook. "It's from last year. I thought you might like to see what it's like there now."

"Wow, Donna, that's really sweet! Thank you so much."

"I've been keeping it in the back. You can see if Mrs. Muzroll looks any different."

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"I doubt it. Thanks again."

It was the perfect yellow brick road back into my old hometown. So much was familiar, so much wasn't. I knew none of the kids but the faces in any yearbook always look the same. Same unnatural smiles, straight posture, tough guys, geeks, future poets and fools. Only the size of the hair and the styles change but the faces were the same everywhere. The school had built a new gymnasium and had knocked down the old auditorium. Mr. Pupel (known and hated far and wide as Mr. Poodle) still taught French and looked as gay as ever.

Mrs. Bartel still had the biggest tits in the world and Coach Ater still looked like a warthog thirty years on. All these things heartened me and I

read through the yearbook, even after my good cheeseburger with all the trimmings had arrived.

"See anyone you know?" Donna leaned over the counter and looked at the book upside down.

Her long brown hair was luminous and thick. Up this close, I could smell her perfume. It was smoke and lemon at once.

"Lots! It's hard to believe some of these people are still at the school. Pupel used to make the best-looking boys in class sit in the front rows. He once tried that with Frannie McCabe, but Frannie knew what _he_ was up to and sneered, 'What, so you can look up my dress?' "

Hearing the name of the infamous McCabe, Donna reared back and put her hands on her hips.

"Frannie McCabe is my _uncle_!"

"Really? He's still in town?"

"Sure! What's your name? I'll tell him I saw you. You were in his class?"

"Yes. My name is Samuel Bayer. Sam. We were great friends. He was the toughest guy I ever met. What does he do now?"

"He's a cop."

"Frannie McCabe is a _cop_? Donna, there's no way on earth Frannie McCabe could be a cop."

"Yeah, well, he is. He was bad when he was a kid, huh?" The pleased look in her eye said she'd heard her share of stories about Uncle Frannie.

"The worst! Donna, when I was a kid, if there was one person I knew who'd end up on death row, it was your uncle. I do not believe he's a _cop_."

"He's good too. He's chief."

I slapped my forehead in astonishment. "When we were kids, if I'd said he was going to be chief of police here one day, he would have been insulted."

"Hey, Donna, how 'bout some coffee down here?"

She looked at the moving men and nodded. "You should go to the station and say hi. He'd like that. He's always down there." She picked up a coffee pot and walked away.

I continued looking through the book as I ate. The football team had done well, the basketball team hadn't. The spring play was _West Side Story_.

The makeup on the kids was so bad, all of the actors looked like they were from _The Addams Family_. I flipped through the pages past the computer club, chess club, kitchen and janitorial staff. Ninth grade, tenth grade and then there it was, a face I didn't know, but a name I _did_

know, and a memory as large as my life: Pauline Ostrova.

"Jesus Christ! Donna? Could you come here a minute?" My voice must have been way too loud because both she and the moving men looked at me with wide eyes.

"Yeah?"

I pointed to a picture. "Do you know her? Pauline Ostrova?"

"Yes. I mean I know her, but she's not like a _friend_ or anything.

Why?"

"What's she like?" For a moment I didn't realize I was holding my breath in anticipation.

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"Sort of weird. Smart. Into computers and stuff. She's a brain. Why, you know her family? You know _about_ them?"

"Uh-huh. I know a lot about them."

She leaned in closer, as if about to tell me a secret. "You know about the other Pauline? Her aunt? What happened to her?"

"Donna, I found the body."

I left the diner feeling so good that I could have rumbaed around the parking lot. In the car I turned the radio on full blast and sang along to the

Hollies' song "Bus Stop."

I _had_ it. I finally had it again and the fact was so glorious and exciting that I felt bullet-proof.

_I had it_! It was almost nine at night when I picked up the car phone and started dialing the office number of

Aurelio Parma, editorial gargoyle, afrit and human Ebola virus to tell him _Ha_! I have the idea for an incredible new book! Plus everything is already _there_: no need to create a thing. The phone rang in his office until, through the rocket's red glare of my enthusiasm, I realized he had gone home hours before. But I had to talk to someone about this. I got out my address book and found Patricia Chase's home number. In all the years we had worked together, I had never once called Patricia at home. Now I knew I'd have an embolism if I didn't.

I waited while her phone rang. Across the street was a gas station that had once been Flying A, then Gulf, Sunoco, then Citgo. Now it was Exxon and looked very hi-tech modern, although there was no garage where cars could be repaired. Just the gas pumps and one of those tiny markets that cater to people's addictions -- cigarettes, lottery tickets, junk food and _The National Enquirer_.

In its earlier incarnation, the station had been where we always rode our bikes after school to the bright red Coke machine in front. Drinks cost a dime and that vaguely green glass bottle would come banging down from inside, ice-cold and curving perfectly into your hand. We'd stand there with our bikes balanced between our legs, drinking in long bottle-emptying glugs. In between, we'd watch cars pull in and out for gasoline or to be repaired. We'd name the makes if they made the grade. "Fuckin' 4-4-2." "Nice 'Vette." "That Z-28'd kick _your_ ass!"

Eavesdropping on the mechanics' conversations as they worked in the garage had taught us the importance of these great machines, as well as all the dirty words a nine-year-old needed to know. At home, the pictures on our walls were of Shelby Mustangs or Cobras, a Chevrolet 327

engine, a tucked-and-rolled custom-leather interior, the drag racers Don Prudhomme or

"Swamp Rat" Don Garlits.

"Hello?"

"Patricia, it's Sam Bayer."

"Sam! Is Aurelio holding you prisoner?"

"Better, Patricia, much better! Listen to this . . ."

I told her the idea for the book. When I was finished, there was a long silence that could have meant anything coming from the formidable Chase. She has a strong, impressive voice but when she did speak, it was the softest and most tentative I had ever heard it. "You never told me about that, Sam."

"It happened a long time ago."

"It doesn't matter. It's still a hell of an experience!"

"It is, but what do you think of my idea? Do you like it?"

"I love it and so will Aurelio."

"But it doesn't necessarily mean I'll _find_ anything, Patricia. I'm just going to look."

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"I think it could be that big book we were talking about today, Sam. The gods must be happy with you to offer this idea seven hours after we talked.

Where are you, by the way?"

"In Crane's View! I just had a California burger at Scrappy's Diner and am going down to the river now to see what I can remember."

"I think it's going to be great, Sam. I'm very excited."

"You never say that!"

"You never wrote anything like this."

I was about to answer when I saw something that knocked me back into my past with the force of a punch.

While we spoke I had watched the comings and goings at the gas station.

My window was down so I heard the constant mutter of traffic and street noise outside. Nothing special, until someone nearby started speaking in a deep, dead monotone that part of my brain recognized instantly. It was repeating word for word a Honda Accord commercial I had seen on television so many times that, against my will, I'd memorized the words to it, like a terrible pop song that will not leave your head. I recognized the slogans a moment before recognizing the voice. That voice doing exactly the same thing it had always done when I was a kid -- perfectly repeating the words of television commercials. Thirty years ago it had been ads for Cocoa Marsh and Newport cigarettes, Tide detergent and Rambler cars. Today it was a Honda but that made no difference: It was a Crane's View ghost alive in my ear. Shocked, I slowly turned to look for the face.

There he was, still walking in those big glumphing steps, arms swinging too high up from his side, his feet encased in shoes that looked as big as the boxes they'd come in.

"Holy shit, it's Club Soda Johnny!"

"What, Sam? What did you say?"

"I'll call you tomorrow, Patricia. I gotta go. My past just walked by, doing a Honda ad." I put the phone down and jumped out of the car. Johnny was walking toward the school and as always moving so fast that I had to jog to catch up.

He was forty pounds heavier and had lost most of his hair. The rest was a crew cut that made his face look even larger and squarer.

"Johnny! Hey, Johnny!"

He stopped and turned around. When he saw me he only stared.

"Do you remember me? Sam Bayer? I used to live here a long time ago?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. How are you, Johnny?"

"Okay."

"Whatcha been doing?"

"Not much."

Johnny Petangles lived with his mother and grandmother on Olive Street down by the railroad station. He was slow in the head, as they used to say, and worked odd jobs around town. What he really liked to do was watch television. Although I don't think he was an idiot savant, he had one great talent -- he could repeat verbatim every television commercial he had ever seen. "And away goes trouble down the drain; Roto-Rooter!" "Take Sominex tonight and sleep . . . ." "Puff puff Cocoa Puffs." Club Soda Johnny's gospel

came straight from the blue tube, and slow as he was, he still knew every chapter and verse.

Summers we'd be sitting in the town park, bored stiff.

Along came Johnny on one of his never-ending marches through town. "Hey, Johnny, do the Clark Bar ad. Do the Chunky. How does the Bufferin one go?" The ads didn't even have to have music or jingles for him to get them right. Even doctors in white coats pointing to charts
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demonstrating the effectiveness of

Bufferin aspirin or Preparation H hemorrhoid cream went right into Johnny's soft head and stayed forever. But because he was demented, the sentences, although perfect, came out flat and totally deflated, sounding like a computer voice. "_Char-lie says love my Good & Plen-ty_!"

Being near him now was like bringing a bouquet of fresh flowers up to my nose. The smell of nostalgia was overpowering.

He looked to the left and right. Then in an exaggerated gesture, he pulled up his sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. I noticed the dial face was a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger in _The Terminator_. "I have to go now. I

have to get home to watch television."

I put out a hand and touched his arm. It was very warm. "Johnny, do you remember Pauline Ostrova? Do you remember her name?"

He narrowed his eyes, touched his chin and looked at the sky. He began to hum. For a moment I wondered if he had forgotten my question.

"No. I don't remember her."

"Okay. Well, it was nice seeing you again, Johnny."

"It was my great pleasure." Surprisingly, he put out his big hand and we shook. His face didn't change expression when he abruptly turned and strode off.

Watching him walk away, I remembered the _old_ Club Soda Johnny, Frannie McCabe, Suzy Nicholls, Barbara Thilly . . . so many others. I remembered summer days in the town park, bored out of our skulls, happy to see crazy Johnny because he was a welcome five-minute diversion. We had so much time on our hands in those days. About all we had _was_ time. Always waiting for something to happen without ever quite knowing what. Something about to happen, someone about to come and save our day, week . . . from just _being_.

Johnny stopped, spun around and looked at me impassively. "Pauline is dead. You're joking around with me. She was killed a long time ago."

"That's right, Johnny. A hell of a long time."

I drove past Sacred Heart Church, Stumpel Ford, Power's Stationery Store. It's interesting how some shops, no matter how many times they change owners, always stay the same. Most locations go from pizzeria to boutique to whatever every few years. The stationery store in Crane's View had a new owner but was still the place to buy a newspaper, rubber bands, candy. As a kid, my first allowance had been twenty-five cents. Enough to buy a Payday candy bar and a _Sugar and Spike_ comic book there. I'd walk out not knowing what to do first -- open the comic or the Payday. Usually I'd do both at once -- read, eat, cross the street without looking and not realize until I got home that I'd finished everything.