Cast in Stone (24 page)

"Forget
it, Leo. You'll rupture yourself and then I'd have to haul your big
ass all the way back to Seattle. Go get 'em. I'll wait here."

I
threaded my way through a maze of bicycles up

onto
the front porch and rang the bell. Almost instantly, the door
was opened by a slight woman in her thirties. She was dressed for
jogging. White Nike tank top, shiny blue synthetic shorts, new blue
tennies. She stuck out her hand. "I'm Anne Siemons. You must be
Mr. Waterman." I said I was.

Peering
over my shoulder, she spotted Carl in the van.

"Isn't
your friend going to join us? Pamela at the university said there
were two of you."

"He's
in a wheelchair," I said.

"Oh.
I'm sorry." She looked at her front porch with new eyes. "What
a mess. My apologies. The kids are at the lake. Seems like there just
aren't enough hours in the day since Bud left."

I
waited for an explanation of Bud, but didn't get one.

"The
garage is at ground level. He can come in through there."

She
backed the Volvo station wagon out of the garage so we could roll
Carl in through the kitchen. Even then it was tight. In order to get
Carl past the washer and dryer, I had to lift the front of the chair
while Carl inched incrementally forward. We repeated the process
several times, until we conquered the corner and rolled into the
kitchen. Handicapped access had obviously not worked its way down to
suburban home design.

I
followed Carl and Siemons down a short hall into the living room.
What had once been expensive furniture was now frayed and threadbare.
Folded laundry was piled on nearly every flat surface. A newspaper
and magazine collection worthy of the. Library of Congress lay strewn
about the floor. Seated on a stained blue couch was a large blond
woman of about Siemons's age, wearing a red sleeveless dress of
indeterminate shape. No shoes. No jewelry. No smile.

"This
is my friend and neighbor, Janet Behnoud," said Siemons. "Janet
was going to the lake with the kids, but I made her stay."

We
introduced ourselves as we settled in around a smoked-glass coffee
table covered with round watermarks. On the table, amid flecks
of ashes and what appeared to be blobs of grape jelly, a copy of the
Badger Annual of 1980 was propped open like a tepee.

I
pulled a copy of the banquet picture from my pocket and smoothed it
on the table. Janet Behnoud took a quick look and sat back heavily on
the couch. Anne Siemons watched her friend as if expecting
directions, then turned her attention to the photo.

"That's
me," she said, indicating a younger version of herself, -bottom
center of the photo.

"Yes,"
Carl confirmed.

"Jimmy
Furchert," she pointed again. "He was my date."

Using
the chipped nail of her right index finger, she began to move
clockwise around the picture. "And Kelly Hill and Dave Dennett,
Maranda Mallory and Cory Flynn, Mike Williams with Julie Miller, Jeff
Swogger and his date." Again, the women locked eyes. Siemons
tried to talk past it. "They're married now. And Janet. And over
here—where you can't see"— she pointed to an area on the
right that had been cut off by the photographer—"were Milt
Hagen and Katie Seaver."

She
stopped, looking at us as if for the first time. Somewhere in the
house, a washer was in spin cycle.

"Milt
owns a—" Again she stopped.

The
distant washer began to refill. Again Anne Siemons looked to her
friend. More loud silence passed between the two women.

"I
feel like I'm in one of those gothic novels," I finally said.

The
women stared.

"The
kind where the suspects sit around the drawing-room table and cast
these meaningful glances at one another as the music rises behind
them. These looks you two keep passing have got me waiting for the
music. Somebody want to clue me in here, or what?"

When
it became apparent that explanations were not forthcoming, Carl
leaned forward to the coffee table, stuck his thumb into the
propped-open yearbook, and eased it over. Fall sports banquet.
Page two hundred fifty-three.

"Lucky
guess?" he asked.

"When
Pamela called from the university—" Anne Siemons began.

"We
were there when she called you," I interrupted. "She just
asked if you'd help us identify somebody in the book. No page number
or anything."

"We've
come a long way," said Carl.

"It's
about her, isn't it?"

A
sudden chill caused me to shudder.

"Her,
who?" Carl asked.

"Her,"
Siemons said. "The little dark one in the back there." She
nodded at the picture in my hand as if unwilling to even point.
Siemons blinked twice, sliding her gaze from the book to Carl to me
then back to the picture in my hand.

"That's
why I asked Janet to stay."

Reaching
out now she pointed to the figure nearest the camera on the bottom
right. Much thinner, not quite as blond, but the resemblance was easy
to see now.

I
addressed myself to her. "So Ms.—" "Ben-nowed,"
she pronounced for me. "You won't believe how people butcher the
pronunciation. Ben-nowed," she repeated.

"So,
Ms. Behnoud, what was it that takes two of you to tell?"

Siemons
adjusted the blue plastic band in her hair. "This is so
embarrassing," she said. "She was following him,"
Behnoud blurted. "Following whom?"

"Jeff
Swogger." She touched the curly head of an uncomfortable-looking
young man at the head table. "They didn't have a word for it
then, but she was stalking him. That's what they'd call it now."

"He
didn't even know her," Anne added quickly. "He was only a
freshman, but he started in the defensive backfield somewhere, which
was really unusual. That's how come he was in the picture at
all. It turned out later that she had followed him from all the way
back where he came from."

"Which
was where?" Carl asked.

"Someplace
in Washington State," Janet said.

"All
the way to Wisconsin. This girl followed some perfect stranger from
Washington to Wisconsin. That's pretty damn weird," Carl said.

"You
don't know the half of it," giggled Siemons.

"Let's
back up here," I suggested. "This guy Swogger." I
pointed to the curly-haired specimen sitting next to the gorgeous
brunette. "This is him, right?" They both agreed it was.
"Who was his date for the party?"

"The
girl next to him." Anne Siemons touched the brunette. "She
was his high school sweetheart. The only girl he'd ever dated. They
got married right after he graduated. I don't know exactly when. I'd
graduated by then. They're still married. We exchange cards."

Carl
and I exchanged a meaningful glance of our own.

"Who
brought the girl then?" I asked.

"Nobody."

"How'd
she get in?"

A
shrug. "She had a ticket."

"How?"

"God
only knows. It was strictly by invitation," said Janet. "So
what happened then?" "A scene."

Anne
rolled her eyes. "The scene to end all scenes."

"So,
Swogger is there with his future wife, and this girl who got in God
knows how is there too, glaring at them from the next table."

"Nobody
really noticed her until way after dinner, when she started screaming
at them."

"Screaming?"

Behnoud
rose from the couch and moved slowly to the center of the room.
"After the dinner was over and everything"—she measured
the room with her arms—"the band started playing again, and
everybody got up and danced. Jeff and his date stayed at the
table."

"I
don't think his religious beliefs permitted dancing," Anne
said. "And?"

Janet
swam her arms again. "And, we're all out there dancing around,
and right over the top of the music, and I mean the music was loud,
you start to hear this screaming start. Biblical verses. Scripture of
some sort. About whores and whoremasters and concubines and
eternal damnation for the wicked and about how Jeff was her eternal
intended."

I
look to Anne Siemons for confirmation.

She
held up her right hand. Girl Scout's honor. "That's the exact
words she used, 'eternal intended.'"

"Absolutely
at the top of her lungs," she added.

Janet
carried on.

"Yeah,
and by this time people have stopped dancing and are drifting
over to see what's going on. It wasn't like you could ignore it or
anything. Hell, even the band stopped playing." She brought her
arms •j-- "tu„*v ,„hpti

ing
about how she'd known from the first moment she'd seen him in his
football uniform back home that he was her intended. About how she'd
made a pilgrimage here just to be near him. I mean, the place
was in dead silence by then."

"What
did Swogger do?"

"He
tried to help her."

"Help
her what?" Carl asked.

"Help
her get control of herself, I guess."

Carl's
confusion was palpable. Anne Siemons piped up.

"You'd
have to know Jeff, Mr. Cradduck. Jeff was everything the rest of
those football knuckleheads weren't. He was thoughtful, sincere and
kind and sensitive and ... I know it sounds corny, but Jeff was just
a genuinely nice person. He was a philosophy major. Became a
minister. You'd have to know him to really understand."

Janet
jumped in. "His first reaction was that this screaming maniac
was a person who needed help. That was just how he was. He always put
other people first. The rest of us, I mean, we were glued in place.
Nobody knew whether to shit or go blind."

"How
did he try to help her?"

"He
went over to try to calm her. To help her get a grip."

"And
then?"

This
time, the women looked toward opposite walls. Finally, Anne mumbled.
"And then she took out her breasts." "She what?"

"You
heard right," Janet said. "She reached down into this huge
old gown she was wearing and pulled her tits out."

"No!"

"Yes."
In unison. "And?"

"And
what? She offered them to him. Held them in her hands and started
yelling at him that these were her gifts to him."

"Jesus,"
Carl whispered.

"I'm
afraid to ask what happened then."

"Well,
about that time some of the other girls started to realize that their
big, strong, football player boyfriends weren't going to be of any
help. The guys, they were just standing there taking this all in. I
mean these gonzos are there just staring at this poor thing's chest,
you know, drooling. At that point, a bunch of the girls took matters
into their own hands. They pushed her out a side door into the
alley—with her screaming all the way, I might add."

"Did
somebody call the police?"

"She
ran off up the alley."

"Wow,"
was all I could think to say.

"Tell
them what she said," Janet said to Anne.

"I
can't. It's too embarrassing."

"Anne
was one of the girls who got her out of there. Go ahead, tell him.
I'll get the words wrong. You tell it better."

I
suspected that this particular story had been the narrative highlight
of innumerable baby showers and Tupperware parties. Anne didn't
require further encouragement.

"Okay,
so she's standing there in the alley, tucking herself back into her
dress. Breathing hard, but really calm all of a sudden. Like the cold
air has brought her back to her senses or something. And I was really
mad at that point. I mean she'd ruined the whole darn evening that
I'd worked so hard for. I almost never swear, but I did this time. I
yelled at her. I yelled something like 'What the hell is the matter
with you?' Something along those lines anyway, and do you know what
she said?"