Mary Clark - Nighttime Is My Time

Jenny Adams was the last one to get on. She'd been a bovine kid, and while she had slimmed down some, she was still a big woman. There was something unmistakably small-town suburban in the cheap brocade suit and off-the-pushcart costume jewelry she was wearing. She was accompanied by a burly guy whose beefy arms were straining the seams of his too-tight jacket. Both were smiling broadly and said a general hello to the occupants of the elevator.

Gordon did not reply. The half-dozen others, all wearing their tags, sent out a chorus of greetings. Trish Canon, whom Gordon remembered as being on the track team and who was still beanpole thin, squealed, "Jenny! You look marvelous!"

"Trish Canon!" Jenny's arms flew around her former classmate. "Herb, Trish and I used to pass each other notes in math. Trish, this is my husband, Herb."

"And my husband, Barclay," Trish said. "And-"

The elevator stopped at the mezzanine. As they stepped out, Gordon reluctantly took out his ID and put it on. Expensive plastic surgery had made sure that he no longer looked like the weasel-faced kid in the school picture. His nose was now straight, his formerly heavy-lidded eyes now wide. His chin was sculpted, and his ears lay flat against his head. Implants and the artistry of a top colorist had transformed his formerly thin and drab brown hair into a thick chestnut mane. He knew he was now a handsome man. The only outward manifestation of the tortured kid he had been was that in moments of great stress he could not stop himself from biting his nails.

The Gordie they knew doesn't exist, he told himself as he started toward the Hudson Valley Suite. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned.

"Mr. Amory."

A baby-faced, redheaded kid with a notebook was standing next to him.

"I'm Jake Perkins, a reporter for the Stonecroft Gazette . I'm interviewing the honorees. Could I just have a minute of your time?"

Gordon managed a warm smile. "Of course."

"May I begin by saying that you've changed a lot in the twenty years since your senior picture."

"I guess I have."

"You already owned the majority share of four cable television channels. Why did you buy into Maximum?"

"Maximum has a reputation for strong family programming. I decided it would round out our ability to reach a segment of the audience I wanted in our entertainment portfolio."

"There's been buzz about a new series and a rumor that your former classmate Laura Wilcox may be the star. Is that true?"

"There has been no casting yet on the series you mention."

"Your crime and punishment channel has been criticized as being too violent. Do you agree?"

"No, I do not. It offers genuine reality, not those made-up ludicrous situations that are the bread and butter of the commercial networks. Now if you'll excuse me."

"One more question, please. Would you just glance at this list?"

Impatiently, Gordon Amory took the sheet of paper from Perkins.

"Do you recognize those names?"

"They seem to be some of my former classmates."

"They are five women, members of this class, who have died or disappeared during these twenty years."

"I didn't realize that."

Perkins pointed. "I was astonished when I began my research. It started with Catherine Kane nineteen years ago. Her car skidded into the Potomac when she was a freshman at George Washington University. Cindy Lang vanished when she was skiing at Snowbird. Gloria Martin was an apparent suicide. Debra Parker piloted her own plane, and six years ago it crashed, killing her. Last month, Alison Kendall drowned in her pool. Wouldn't you say it would be fair to call this a hard luck class, and maybe do a program on your network about it?"

"I would prefer to call it a 'tragedy-ridden' class, and, no, I would not want to do a program about it. Now if you'll excuse me."

"Of course. Just one more question. What does receiving this medal from Stonecroft mean to you?"

Gordon Amory smiled. It means I can say a pox on your house. In spite of the misery I endured here, I've made it big-that's what he thought. Instead he said, "It is the fulfillment of my dream to be considered a success in the eyes of my classmates."

Robby Brent had checked into the hotel on Thursday afternoon. He'd just finished a six-day engagement at the Trump Casino in Atlantic City where his famous comedy act had drawn its usual large audience. It made no sense to fly home to San Francisco only to come right back, and he hadn't felt like staying in Atlantic City or stopping in New York.

It had been a satisfactory decision, he decided as he dressed for the cocktail party. He reached in the closet for a dark blue jacket. Putting it on, he looked at himself critically in the mirror on the closet door. Lousy lighting, he thought, but he still looked okay. He'd been compared to Don Rickles, not only because of his swift-paced comedy act, but because of his appearance as well. Round face, shiny dome, a bit stocky-he could understand the comparison. Still, his looks hadn't stopped women from being attracted to him. Post Stonecroft, he added to himself, definitely post Stonecroft.

He still had a couple of minutes before it was time to go down. He walked over to the window and looked out, thinking about how yesterday, after he'd checked in, he'd walked around town, picking out the homes of the kids who, like him, were honorees at the reunion.

He'd passed Jeannie Sheridan's house. He'd thought about how a couple of times the cops had been called by the neighbors because her parents were scuffling with each other in the driveway. He had heard they divorced years ago. Probably lucky they had. People used to predict that one or the other would end up getting hurt during one of their fights.

Laura Wilcox's first house was right next to Jeannie's. Then her father inherited some money, and the family moved to the big house on Concord Avenue when they were sophomores. He remembered walking past Laura's first house when he was a kid, hoping she'd happen to come out so he could start a conversation with her.

A family named Sommers had bought Laura's house. Their daughter had been murdered in it. They'd sold it eventually. Most people don't hang around a place where their kid has been stabbed to death. That had been on Columbus Day weekend, he reflected.

The invitation to the reunion lay on the bed. He glanced at it. The names of the honorees and their bios were included in the packet. Carter Stewart. How long after Stonecroft did it take him to drop being called Howie? Robby wondered. Howie's mother had called herself an artist and was always seen around town with her sketch pad. Occasionally she'd persuade the art gallery to show some of her stuff. Really bad, Robby remembered. Howie's father had been a bully, always whacking him around. No wonder his plays were so dark. Howie used to run out of the house and hide from his old man in the neighbors' backyards. He may be successful, but inside he has to be the same sneak who used to peep in people's windows. Thought he got away with it, but I caught him a couple of times. He had a crush on Laura so intense it practically oozed from his pores.

As did I, Robby admitted, sneering down at the picture of Gordie Amory, the plastic surgery kid. Mr. Cover Boy himself. Yesterday, during his walk, he'd looked up Gordie's house and saw that it had been totally renovated. Originally an odd shade of blue, it was now twice the size and sparkling white-like Gordie's new teeth, Robby thought.

Gordie's first house had burned down when they were juniors. The joke in town was that it was the only way it could be thoroughly cleaned. Gordie's mother had kept the place looking like a pigpen. A lot of people thought that Gordie deliberately set the fire. I wouldn't have put it past him, Robby thought. He was always weird. Robby reminded himself to call Gordie "Gordon" when they met at the cocktail party. Over the years he'd run into him a few times-uptight as they come and another one who'd been crazy about Laura.