Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

It was a big drugstore, with a few other customers in it. The pharmacist behind the counter gave me a funny look, and I smiled and nodded at him and walked over to the magazine rack. After leafing through a news magazine, I replaced it in the rack and walked over to a display of shaving cream as if it interested me. From there I walked out the side door.

I walked until I was clear of the drugstore’s side display window and ran for three or four blocks. I turned a corner then and started walking at a fast pace, but slow enough so that my breathing evened out.

I must have walked over a mile, trying to think things out, trying to come up with some kind of an idea. The agonizing thing was that nothing that had happened was really my fault. You could be in this same kind of mess sometime, just like me. Anybody could.

If only I had some money, I thought, I could get a plane or bus ticket. The police didn’t watch bus terminals or airports for every fleeing street-corner bandit. If I could get out of this city, get back home a thousand miles away, I’d be safe. After all, no one had my name or address. The cop hadn’t gotten any identification from me when he searched me because I wasn’t carrying any. It would be as if none of this had ever happened. Eventually Laurie and I would joke about it. You and your spouse joke about that kind of thing.

Right now, though, things were a far cry from a joke! If I didn’t get out of town fast, I might well wind up ruined, in prison!

I was in more of a residential part of town now, wide lawns, neat ranch houses, and plenty of trees. The moon was out and it had stopped raining, and I saw the man walking toward me when he was over a block away, on the other side of the street. The desperation surged up in me, took control of me. You can understand how I felt. There was no time to make phone calls or wait for money. I had to get away fast, and to get away fast I needed money. I stooped and picked up a white grapefruit-sized rock from alongside someone’s driveway.

Crossing the street diagonally toward the man, I squeezed the rock concealed in my raincoat pocket, smiling when I got close enough for the man to see my face.

He was carrying enough money for a plane ticket to a nearby city, where I had Laurie send me enough to get home. At home, though, where I’d thought I’d be safe, I still think about it all the time.

I’d never had any experience in hitting someone’s head with a rock, so how was I to know? I was scared, like you’d be, scared almost out of my senses, so I struck harder than I’d intended — much harder.

Think about it and it’s kind of frightening. I mean, here’s this stranger, on his way home from work on the late shift, or from his girl-friend’s house, or maybe from some friendly poker game. Then somebody he’s never seen before walks up and for no apparent reason smashes his skull with a rock. It could happen to you.

The banner across one wall in the Plaza Hotel banquet room welcomed “Jacksonville High, Class of ’53.” The crowd milling around in the room was on the rim of middle age. Temples were graying, bald spots were in evidence.

Tad Jarmon roamed through the crowd. At the bar, he found his old friend, Lowell Oliver, whom he had not seen since graduation. “Hello, Lowell,” he said.

Oliver drained his glass. “Hi, ol’ buddy,” he said with a loose grin. He shoved his face closer in an effort to focus his eyes. Suddenly, he became oddly sober. “Tad Jarmon.”

“In the flesh.”

“Well... good to see you, Tad. You haven’t changed much.” He held his glass toward the bartender for a refill. His hand was shaking slightly.

“We’ve all changed some, Lowell. It’s been twenty years.”

“Twenty years. Yeah... Twenty years...”

“Have you seen Jack and Duncan?”

“They’re around here someplace,” Oliver mumbled.

“We’ll have to get together after the banquet and talk over old times,” Tad said.

Oliver stared at him with a peculiar expression. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “Old times. Yeah... sure, Tad.”

Tad Jarmon meandered back into the crowd. Soon he spotted Jack Harriman with a circle of friends in another corner of the room. Jack looked every inch the prosperous businessman. He was expensively dressed. His face was deeply tanned, but he was growing paunchy. He’d put on at least forty pounds since graduation.

“Hello, Jack.”

Harriman turned. His smile became frozen. “Well, if it isn’t Tad Jarmon.” He reached out for a handshake. “You guys all remember Tad,” he said, a trifle too loudly. His hand felt damp in Tad’s clasp.

One of their ex-schoolmates grinned. “I remember how you two guys and Duncan Gitterhouse and Lowell Oliver were always pulling off practical jokes on the town.”

“Yeah,” another added. “If something weird happened, everybody figured you four guys had a hand in it. Like the time the clock in the courthouse steeple started running backward. Took them a week to figure out how to get it to run in the right direction again. Nobody could prove anything, but we all knew you four guys did it.”

The group chuckled.

“I saw Lowell over at the bar,” Tad said to Harriman. “I told him we should get together after the banquet and talk over old times.”

“Old times...” Harriman repeated, a hollow note creeping into his voice. “Well... sure. Tad.” He wiped a nervous hand across his chin. “By the way, where are you living now?”

“Still right here in Jacksonville, in the big old stuffy house on the hill. After my dad died, I just stayed on there.”

Tad excused himself and went in search of Duncan Gitterhouse. He soon found him, a man turned prematurely gray, with a deeply lined face and brooding eyes.

“Well, Duncan, I guess I should call you ‘Doctor’ now.”

“That’s just for my patients,” Gitterhouse replied, his deep-set eyes resting somberly on Tad. “I was pretty sure I’d be seeing you here. Tad.”

“Well, you know I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of talking over old times with you and Jack and Lowell. Maybe after the banquet, the four of us can get together.”

The doctor’s eyes appeared to sink deeper and grow more resigned. “Yes, Tad.”

The banquet was followed by speeches and introductions. Each alumnus arose and told briefly what he had done since graduation. When the master of ceremonies came to Tad, he said, “Well, I’m sure you all remember this next guy. He and his three buddies sure did liven up our school years. Remember the Halloween we found old Mrs. Gifford’s wheelchair on top of the school building? And the stink bombs that went off during assembly meetings? They never could prove who did any of those things, but we all knew. How about confessing now, Tad? The statute of limitations has run out.”

Tad arose amid laughter and applause. He grinned and shook his head. “I won’t talk. My lips are sealed...”

After the banquet, the four chums from high school days drifted outside and crossed the street to a small, quiet town-square park. Jack Harriman lit an expensive cigar.

“It hasn’t changed, has it?” Duncan Gitterhouse said, looking up at the ancient, dome-shaped courthouse, at the Civil War monument, the heavy magnolia trees, the quiet streets. “It’s as if everything stopped the night we graduated, and time stood still ever since.”

“The night we graduated,” Jack Harriman echoed. He pressed a finger against his cheek, which was beginning to twitch again. “Seems like a thousand years ago.”

“Does it?” Tad said. “That’s odd. Time is relative, though. To me it’s just like last night.”