Reunion at Red Paint Bay

Simon Howe, editor
of the
Red Paint Register
, drove south toward home, into the fading light. Beyond the rusting town sign, as far as one could see into the scrub pine woods, there was no other imprint on the land to suggest what lay ahead. A sign wasn’t really necessary. People didn’t just happen upon Red Paint. If you took the spur road off the interstate, you probably already lived there and knew where you were going. Simon reached over the gearshift and let his hand fall on the knee of his wife, Amy. She had been quiet for miles, unusual for her, all the way from their dinner at the Bayswater Inn. Maybe she was worrying about their son, home alone for the first time. If there was separation anxiety, he figured it was more on her part than Davey’s.

A small flash of light in the brush caught his eye as he approached the train tracks. He stopped as if the wooden barrier arms were down and felt the night breeze dampening his face, bringing with it the faintly dank smell of the marshes. “Lightning bugs,” he said, “there were always hundreds of them in our yard in summer when I was a kid. I used to snatch them from the air and put them in a glass jar. It was like catching fire.”

Amy followed his gaze into the woods to see what he was seeing. “Maybe that’s why they’re disappearing, all the little boys putting them in jars.”

Simon stared into the tall weeds for a minute, watching for another flicker, but there was none. He drove on, the old Toyota rattling across the tracks and straining up the steep hill. At the top the length and breadth of Red Paint, four miles by three, stretched out ahead of them. It appeared like a watercolor of a town, a still life at dusk. There was no main road, just a narrow ribbon of asphalt snaking from the cottages on the bay to the bungalows dotting the eastern pine woods. In between lay the town center, an irregular common of grass bordered by brick storefronts. In the middle, a red-and-black bandstand, dated 1813. From its steps, visiting politicians invariably praised the good citizens of Red Paint for sticking to their roots. Staying put turned into a virtue.

“How many people do you think will show?” she asked.

“Where?”

“Your reunion. Think they’ll fill the ballroom?”

“I don’t know. I hate reunions. It’s like turning into your own embarrassing teenage self again for a night.”

“I’m looking forward to it, meeting your old sweethearts.”

“I had girlfriends, not sweethearts.” Ginnie, Nora, Lauren—he hadn’t thought of them in years. Except Ginnie, once in a while.

Amy tapped his arm. “I forgot. I promised Davey we’d bring him a cheeseburger and fries for staying alone.”

Simon glanced in the rearview mirror before slowing. “He didn’t need an incentive. He practically shoved us out the door.”

“He was putting up a good front. I know he was nervous.”

Simon did a U-turn into the dusty parking lot at Red’s Diner, circled the flashing
RED
’
S
sign, and pulled back onto Route 7, Bayswater Road.

Amy angled the air vent toward her face. “So,” she said, “what are you leading with this week?”

She often asked this. Sometimes he made up absurd stories of UFO sightings over Red Paint Bay or terrorist groups training out by the old gravel pits to avoid mentioning what always filled page one—tedious articles about variance applications and town meeting procedures. Tonight he just wasn’t in the mood to
pretend. “I suppose I’ll play up that guy who lost his toe in the landfill accident last month. He’s filed suit against the town. I was thinking of the headline
Big Toe Worth $500K?
”

“Provocative question.”

“Right. The city papers will be all over it for follow-ups.”

He came up fast on a turning car, and Amy stiffened against her seat as he veered onto the gravel shoulder, then back onto solid road. He drove past Black Bear Miniature Golf and Ten-Pin Alley, neither with any visible signs of life. What were the other 7,140 citizens of Red Paint doing in their houses at this hour, watching some alternative reality on TV? “I was thinking of a new tagline for the
Register
,” he said, “
Nothing Happens—And We Report It
.”

“Catchy.”

“It’s actually the slogan for a Buddhist newspaper, so it’s much deeper than it seems.” Two bright lights came up quickly in the rearview mirror, white disks, then turned off abruptly, as if disappearing into the woods. He kept watching, expecting a police car to appear, blue lights flashing in hot pursuit. He would turn around and follow, of course, just like in his reporter days in Portland. He saw nothing. “You know when the last murder was in Red Paint?”

Amy took a long drink from her water bottle. “It must have been before we bought the house—at least ten years.”

“Twenty years ago this week, a biker was shot outside the Mechanic Pub. All that time since without a killing.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Maybe he was. A murder focused the mind of a small town as no other event could. A murder could make people feel like victims and ask what the world was coming to. A murder could make them lock their doors at night. And, of course, people bought papers to read every grisly detail. “It’s just surprising,” he said. “You figure somebody would pick up a loose .22 once in a while to settle an argument.”

The giant Burger World sign came into view, and Amy braced one hand against the dashboard. He turned into the takeout lane with exaggerated slowness, inched up to the large plastic ear, and leaned out the window. “One cheeseburger, well done, and regular fries.”

“Would you like to maxi-size your order for another dollar, sir?” The voice was gentle and soft, a young girl’s voice that he hadn’t heard before. She sounded pretty to him, but he couldn’t say why. He considered making up some reason to go inside to see, a test of his intuition.

“Sir?”

“Yes. I mean no.”

“Okay,” the sweet voice said, “that will be $3.74. Please pull up to the next window. And have a nice night.”

As the Toyota crept forward Amy ducked her head into the middle of the car and called out, “Thank you,” which seemed unnecessary to him, since she wasn’t part of the transaction. But harmless. Just Amy.

“You know …,” she said, settling back into her seat.

“What?”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to be more friendly with people.”

“Which people?”

“The girl back there.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You want me to be more friendly ordering a cheeseburger and fries from a giant clown’s ear?”

“You can be terse sometimes.”

“I’m succinct, not terse. The teenager inside that ear or wherever she is could care less as long as I order quickly. They run on volume here, not friendliness.” Simon took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Does this have anything to do with the
FRIENDLIEST TOWN
sign? Because you realize that was just a marketing ploy. The Downtown Association dreamed it up to lure small businesses.”

“I’ve just noticed you can sound unpleasant with people. They could get the wrong impression.”

“Unpleasant?” He backed the car down the narrow drive-thru lane and stopped alongside the yellow ear. “Excuse me. Hello?”

“Would you like to change your order, sir?”

“No, I just wanted to ask, when I ordered, did I sound terse to you?”

“Terse?”

He wondered about the word—was it above the comprehension level of a teenager working at Burger World? “Terse or rude,” he said, aiming his words into the bright lemon ear canal. “Was I unpleasant?”

“No, you were okay. You should hear some of the guys. They’re pretty gross.”

Simon rested his arm out the window. “I’m sorry you have to listen to that.”

“Yeah, for seven bucks an hour. But I can get back at them, if I want.”

He pictured her red-painted fingernails grinding roaches into a paste to spread over the burger and squeezing out a dirty sponge into a Coke. A horn blew from behind. “Well,” Simon said, “good luck.”

“Thanks. Your order’s ready now.”

At the pickup window a teenaged boy handed out the black-and-white BW bag, with the familiar grinning cow face on the side. Simon looked in. “She gave us extra ketchup. Lots of it.” As he pulled away he twisted back to call out “Thank you” to the bulky kid, who smiled and waved.