If Gabe was here, maybe Hazel had made it too. One of them would have brought some pot. It had been years since she'd smoked dope but tonight she was ready. They'd sit out back by the dumpster, smoke a joint, and laugh it all away, just like in the old days. She imagined Hazel with tattoos, pierced eyebrows or a lip ring and promised herself that no matter how outrageous her friend had become, she wouldn't blink, wouldn't pass judgment. The three of them had always been the odd ones out. Tonight it would be their strength.
When she reached her room she opened her suitcase to decide on an outfit for the evening. Everyone in the lobby had been attired on the dressy side of casual. She put aside the pink satin pants with matching vest that had cost her a week's salary and reached, instead, for a more conservative tweed skirt and sweater, an outfit she usually saved for managerial meetings. Tonight she didn't want to raise any eyebrows or be accused of not acting her age. Her concession to fashion would be the custom-made silk panties and bra, her gift to herself for completing the Hint of Midnight project. The set was pale green with black trim, in tribute to the product packaging. “Incredibly sexy and nobody will even know.” She sighed.
Joan was digging in her suitcase for her jewellery bag when, tucked away in a side pocket, she found the bottle of lemon gin, Mort's gift. With a wry smile she unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle into her mouth. Avoiding her tongue and holding her breath, she managed to down a hearty swig. Now she felt seventeen again.
W
HEN
J
OAN STEPPED INTO THE BALLROOM
her nose twitched at the combination of perfumes blended with the smell of hotel gravy. She was late and only a few diners were in the buffet line, scavenging for second helpings among the remains of wilted greens and chicken bones. People laughed together in small clutches but nobody and nothing seemed familiar. To her dismay, none of the women had shown up in the microfibre pantsuits she'd seen in the registration line-up. The swirl of materials and fashionable lines before her now would fit any upscale New York cocktail party. In her sensible skirt and sweater, she felt like someone's great-aunt. Before she could retreat to do a quick change, a big-haired blonde bounded toward her like a friendly poodle.
“Joannie Parker! I can't believe it!” She instantly recognized Candy Dirkson. Only relief that somebody recognized her surpassed her amazement that the former bully seemed happy to see her. She returned Candy's boisterous hug, stretching her arms around the ample woman. So even cheerleaders grew up. But her relief was cut short. A few feet away stood another woman, smugly smiling. The last person Joan had wanted to see was one of the first to appear out of the shadows, and after all these years, Marlena still couldn't hide her contempt. Unlike Candy, she still had the taut body of an athlete, which she was proudly displaying in a fitted cocktail shift.
“Well, look who's here.”
The greeting sounded like a challenge, but rather than grab the bait, Joan decided to take the high road. “Marlena, you look fantastic.” She knew by looking at her old nemesis that the fastest way to her heart would be through her ego. Nobody looked that good without arduous effort.
Marlena was stunned for a moment, but Candy filled in the dead air: “Doesn't she? She works out constantly. She and Ray both.”
“Ray?” Although the name sounded familiar, Joan couldn't make the connection.
“You remember Ray,” chimed Candy. Joan was still drawing a blank. “Drummer for Rank?”
It suddenly fell into place. Ray Stanfield had been a sweet guy who had played with the “hot” local band. In the seventies Rank had made a name for itself from Kamloops to Vancouver. He'd been a year ahead of them but his girlfriend, Sarah Markle, was in their grade. News of their lavish wedding had reached Joan through Vi. The high school sweethearts barely waited until graduation. Within eighteen months they'd had the first of several children.
“What happened to Sarah?” It was out of Joan's mouth before she could catch it. No wonder she preferred the social solitude of the lab, where nobody could witness her ineptness. A pall fell over the conversation.
“What about you, Joan? Are you married?” Marlena asked.
God, Joan wished that Mort were there. “Oh, you bet!” No need to mention the breakup. “Over ten years. But Mort couldn't make it. An emergency at work.” She saw Marlena glance down at her naked ring finger. Damn! She'd meant to put it back on before she left the city to disguise her transient marital situation.
“Kids?” asked Marlena.
“No. Career first. You know how it is.” She was sweating under Marlena's interrogation. Marriage and kids were still a primary measurement of a woman's worth down the gravel roads of rural British Columbia. Did she have “inadequate” burned on her forehead?
“What do you do?” Candy asked warmly. “I bet it's something interesting. You were always sooo smart.”
After all the years Joan had spent loathing her, she decided she liked Marlena's old sidekick. “I'm a chemist. I develop flavours and scents for the food industry.” She smiled.
Marlena snorted like a small, muscular bull. “Is there such a thing? I've never heard of it.”
Joan had seldom been confronted with this kind of abrupt cruelty as an adult. Despite how plain stupid it was, she'd forgotten how deep it cut. Had she always been this vulnerable? And why did Marlena, as an adult woman, still have to do this?
Candy started to ramble about her job at the Co-op, her softball trophies, her four grown kids, and her baby grandson. It was all a fog to Joan as she stared, wounded, at Marlena.
At that moment firm hands landed on Joan's shoulders. A male voice, familiar after so many years, growled into her ear. “And who's the fairest in the land?”
Joan spun around and stood speechless as she absorbed the vision of Gabe. She'd been rescued. But, God, how he had changed. As a teenager he'd been a string bean with the soft body of a “thinker.” Still lanky, he now towered over her with the posture and physique of an outdoorsman. The only hint of his horrible teenage acne were the faint scars that added to his rugged appearance.
“Gabe!” She felt tears spring to her eyes and threw herself into his protective embrace, then pulled back to look at him again. “So are you out there planning a revolution? Plotting to overtake the government?”
Gabe grinned awkwardly.
Marlena snickered. “Get up to speed, Parker.”
“Actually, Joan, I'm the sergeant over at the RCMP detachment in Elgar.”
“You're what?” How on earth could Gabe Theissen have become a cop?
Marlena was enjoying her shock. “The rest of us have moved on, kiddo,” she said.
Gabe gently grasped Joan's arm and steered her away. “You don't have a drink. How can we toast reconnecting?” His slightly crowded front teeth showed when he smiled. Good old Gabe, still watching her back. Over her shoulder she saw Marlena's eyes narrow.
As they made their way to the bar, he politely acknowledged greetings from half the people they passed but didn't engage in conversation. Their unspoken conspiracy to ditch this place pleased her. When he asked what she wanted to drink she hesitated, then blurted, “Gin. With tonic, I guess. Thanks.”
They made their way out of a side exit near the stage where the band was setting up and found a log bench under the pines. For a moment they just stared at each other.
Joan broke the silence. “A cop?”
He responded lightly. “Change from inside the establishment. All part of the plan.”
“Has it worked?” She smiled but she was serious. She'd forgotten how protective she felt toward this boy, this man.
He nodded thoughtfully. “I like to think so. Kept a few kids from jail. Made sure a few real baddies are gone for a long time. Hopefully was right about which was which.”
Sitting with her shoulder touching his, she could smell the fresh soap scent emanating from his skin. Then she glanced down and saw the gold band on his left hand. “Gabe, you're married.” She meant to sound pleased but it came off as stunned.
He nodded slightly, twisted the ring around his finger, then said a soft, “Yeah.” He paused. “You were smart to miss the opening speeches. Remember old man Sawatsky, our grade nine social studies teacher?”
“Sure I do. Quizzes every Friday afternoon. Didn't that qualify as torture?”
“He's one of the few faculty left that can still stand. He went on reminiscing for about fifteen minutes before someone interrupted to tell him we're the class of seventy-nine, not sixty-seven.” Joan laughed but she knew he was avoiding talking about his family. After all these years, she could still read him. “Is she here? Your wife?”
“Naw, she's not into these things. Neither am I, usually. She went down to the University in Kamloops this weekend. Our son starts his undergraduate program in the fall.”
“A son,” she said warmly.
Gabe nodded shyly. “He's our only kid.”
So many years, so much life had passed. It seemed surreal that they were back here in Madden together. Through the drooping branches of the huge pine she could see the “Welcome to Madden” sign on the opposite bank of the river. Party central when they were young, it now seemed an eerie reminder of how many years had passed. For the next hour time stood still as they began to fill in the canvas of their lives for each other.
Gabe's passion for social change had led him to the Department of Political Science, and an elective in criminology steered him toward a Master's degree at the University of Calgary. That's where he met his wife, Betty. She was a social worker. They lived together for years before he took a job with the Calgary Police Force. The work was related to his thesis on the psychology of social fraud. When Betty became pregnant, they got married and both agreed that the country would be a better place to raise kids.
Gabe stopped talking and stared into space. Joan followed his gaze and realized that he was looking up at the Welcome sign. “That was just about the last thing we agreed upon.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“Betty never wanted to get married. I insisted, with the baby coming. Sometimes I think I should have left well enough alone.”
His career, on the other hand, had gone surprisingly well. His anarchist ways helped him rise rapidly to sergeant. It appeared as though the RCMP actually appreciated someone who questioned the way things were done and wasn't afraid of taking risks. When he was offered a promotion to inspector, he refused. He didn't want to get stuck behind a desk. Now he lived in Elgar, twenty minutes down the road, worked, took his son camping. He'd transferred some of his old passion to collecting rare books.
Both their drinks were empty and the music drifting from inside was causing Joan to sway involuntarily. She felt a surge of warmth through her body. The most unexpected phenomenon had occurred. She felt as though she belonged somewhere for the first time in a long time. Here, with Gabe, in Madden. There was only one thing missing. “Let's go in and see if we can find Hazel.”
“She said she'd try to make it,” Gabe said.
“You've kept in touch?”
“She and Lila come to town at least once a year, sometimes more. Whenever she can get away from the church.” He read her shock. “Hazel is a minister with the San Francisco Free Metropolitan Church.”
Joan had heard of the FMC. Known for its liberal attitudes and work with the urban poor, it was huge. That position would make Hazel one of the most influential religious leaders in North America. It all made perfect sense. Hazel had always been intelligent, kind, and fearless. She was perfectly capable of taking on the American right wing. “What are we waiting for?” She and Gabe shared a grin.
When they entered from the side door, they stepped directly onto the dance floor, that was vibrating with a mass of writhing bodies. Joan had a rush of claustrophobia. She was jostled by a grey-haired woman in a mauve boa and tripped against Gabe. He caught her and left his arm around her shoulder, holding her close. She scanned the crowd, worried that the small minds of Madden would interpret his gesture as something more than platonic protection. But everyone, thankfully, was focused on the stage and the loud rock and roll that blared through the speakers. The sound was familiar, an echo from the past, but she couldn't quite place it. It wasn't Queen or the Bee Gees. She turned and gaped at the sight of the Mick Jagger of Madden High, Roger Rimmer. Still in tight pants and with blond curly hair framing his face, craggy lines accenting his high cheekbones, he was as good-looking as ever. Loathing rose in the back of Joan's throat.
T
HE
L
ABOUR
D
AY WEEKEND OF
1978 had been imprinted on Joan's mind forever. The WELCOME sign, large wooden letters set against the hills on the far side of the river, had long been the location for momentous events in the lives of local teens. Engagements, breakups, conceptions, and even a birth in the mid-eighties, all took place in the gravel parking lot and woods behind the sign. After Jerry Weiss leapt to his death from the letter âO' in the mid-eighties, there'd been talk of tearing it down, but the community rallied and, instead, gave it a fresh coat of paint.
The kegger up at the Welcome sign had been planned to celebrate the beginning of the final year in high school for Joan's class. For many it would be the last year in Madden. The population of young people had been declining for two decades and anyone with a whiff of ambition or ability would be gone in a snap, as soon as they could, by whatever means. Like most bush parties in most small towns, the weekend bash had the potential to be the event of the season. Candy's older brother agreed to pick up the keg and deliver it in his Ranchero to the party site. A couple of football players offered to protect the beer before the party, since the keg had to be tapped hours in advance to keep it from foaming. Everyone realized, though, that the two burly youths, despite their best intentions, would probably drink most of it before the party started, so Gabe had offered the services of himself, Hazel, and Joan. The keg would be safe with them since they by far preferred a couple of joints to a case of beer. The prospect of spending a sunny fall afternoon up at the Welcome sign, overlooking the river, with a tray of cinnamon buns and Hazel's guitar, was their idea of Shangri-La.