The one glitch for Joan was that she had already agreed to go halves on a forty-ounce bottle of lemon gin with Daphne Pyle. Joan wasn't much of a drinker, but when Daphne approached her, she'd decided that this would be her breakout weekend. Daphne's parents were Christian fundamentalists and they policed their only daughter to the point of tyranny. But Daphne was open, warm, and adventurous. Shifts, thought seventeen-year-old Joan. She'd hang out with Gabe and Hazel for the afternoon, then get Daphne to meet up with her at the Welcome sign. Later, she couldn't recall when she had started drinking the lemon gin or where Daphne had gone or whether or not she'd had anything to eat besides the cinnamon buns. There were two things, however, that she did recall. After she had puked up the sweet buns and gin, she had continued retching. She had never been so sick in her life, before or since. The second thing she remembered was that Roger Rimmer had tried to rape her and had nearly succeeded. She had never shared this secret with a soul.
Even in the strobing light of the ballroom, Joan could tell that the rest of the band members hadn't aged as well as Roger. Candy happily informed her that this was a twice-in-a-lifetime reunion for Rank. Roger occasionally came to town to visit his parents, but this was the first time they'd seen Rudy Weiss, the keyboard player, since the tenth reunion. Rudy, who had driven in from Prince George where he worked as an accountant, had developed a double chin, and a huge belly that hung over his waistband. Of course Marlena's husband Ray lived in Madden, as did bass guitarist Steve Howard.
Ray, probably under the supervision of Marlena, clearly worked out regularly. He was muscular for a man of fifty, but it hadn't saved his hair, which was now a fringe decorating his neck more than his head. Steve Howard, thick around the middle, had shaved his head to hide the fact that he was balding. His dad, Chuck, had worked for Joan's dad then started his own company after Leo died. He'd accepted equipment in lieu of several weeks' pay. She still felt terrible about this, but was glad Steve had carried on the tradition and was still roofing the houses of Madden and surrounding communities.
As the band ended its song, the room vibrated with applause and a wave of women moved toward the stage. Joan smiled. It was a known fact that when people heard music from their adolescence, it triggered a surge of hormones similar to those created by lust. It didn't matter how old they were. Surprisingly, Marlena, the one person usually at the head of any crowd, had held back. She was smiling seductively toward the stage, but she wasn't sharing the moment with her husband Ray, who was preoccupied with his cymbal. She was looking directly at Roger Rimmer, and the lead singer was leering back at her.
Joan turned toward Gabe and shouted over the crowd noise, “I can't believe that the women still fall all over him.”
“What?”
She was about to repeat herself, then turned to indicate Roger. Now, though, he was only ten feet away and moving directly toward them. She shook her head. “Never mind.”
The two men slapped each other on the back. “Hey, man. How's it going?” asked Roger. “Where's that beer you owe me?”
Joan was taken aback as the easy rapport continued. Obviously Roger and Gabe were friends. Even though she had never told Gabe about the near rape, she remembered their shared, mutual distrust of Roger. Well, if Gabe liked him, maybe Roger had changed. She'd do her best to start fresh.
He held out his hand. “Hi. I'm Roger Rimmer.”
“I know who you are.” She smiled, slow to take his hand, expecting that he'd remember and be embarrassed.
“It's Joan, Roger. Joan Parker,” said Gabe.
Roger grinned, then pulled her into a hug. “Joan! How are you?”
Did he really not recognize her? His image was emblazoned on her memory card. That bush party three decades ago had permanently coloured her worldview. For years she'd been afraid to walk past treed areas alone at night. She'd avoided men with fair, cupid curls and had turned off Mick Jagger because of their remote resemblance. Now here he was in the flesh. They did the sixty-second “This Is My Life.” Roger had moved to California, playing with different bands through the late seventies and early eighties. After that he had done some vague work in the renovation business. It was clear that he hadn't hit the stellar heights for which he'd aimed. As his recap floundered, Gabe shuffled uncomfortably and finally interrupted.
“Okay, I declare a moratorium on discussions of the past. Here's to the now!” He raised his glass.
The three toasted awkwardly, then Joan excused herself to go to the ladies' room. As she departed Roger laughed warmly and warned her not to write anything on the stall that she'd regret later.
Joan felt a strange discomfort as she made her way through the ballroom. Had she distorted the entire episode up at the Welcome sign? Had the fear that had weighed her down her entire life been her own creation? They'd been a couple of kids at a bush party who had had too much to drink. She stopped for a moment in the midst of the crowd, shook her head. Maybe she should have returned to Madden years before to gain an adult perspective.
Her thoughts were interrupted when she noticed several people turned toward the ballroom entrance where a figure was backlit in the doorway. The dramatic, poised woman, with shiny black hair piled on top of her head, let the doors slowly close behind her. There was something familiar about her, not necessarily from years ago but from a recent encounter. Ah, the woman who had passed her on the highway earlier. She couldn't place her, so shrugged it off and made her way to the washroom.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she did the same self-examination that she was sure all the others were doing. How did her wrinkles compare? Was the slight thickness around her lower abdomen worse than the average in the room? Did her short bob-cut make her look matronly? Did the burgundy rinse seem as though she was clutching too tightly to youth? If Mort had made this journey with her he would have reassured her, but since he wasn't here, it was up to her. She thought of her expensive mint-green underwear that nobody would see and smirked at her reflection. If nothing else, she was ready to be hit by a truck and really, what did it matter? She'd be driving home in thirty-six hours. Joan dabbed her mouth with the lipstick she'd bought in France on a promotional junket earlier in the year. It tasted slightly of butterscotch. Not the overwhelming flavour of American glosses popular with adolescents, but a whimper of sweetness, demure, sensual, and barely noticeable.
The washrooms were down a tangled web of corridors, a result of the many additions made to the original motel. Heading back to the ballroom, she couldn't remember exactly how she'd come. After venturing down a long, dark hallway, she ended up at the kitchen. Trying to retrace her steps, she found herself under the dim light of the alarmed emergency exit. Turning abruptly, she almost collided with Roger.
“Thought you might need a guide, Joannie.” His breath announced rye and his eyes were glossy.
“Direction isn't my strongest sense but I think I know where I am now.” As she tried to walk past him he slid his arm around her shoulder.
“I just wanted to tell you how gorgeous you look.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Thank you.” She tried to pull away.
His grip became tighter. “What's the rush?”
She removed his arm from her shoulder but he stretched his arms out to block the narrow hallway, then purred, “Joan.”
As she tried to slip under his arm he pushed her to the wall. She instinctively turned her face away from his hot breath but he caught her jaw in his hand and forced her to look at him.
“How come we never screwed?”
She struggled to keep her voice calm and firm. “Let go, Roger.”
He kissed her neck and the smell of onions mixed with rye made her gag.
“Why, Joan? Why should I let go? The others all want me, you know. What's wrong with you?” He slid his hand onto her thigh and moved it up under her dress. She pulled away. He lunged toward her and she kicked hard with her pointy-toed shoes.
“I'm not the others,” she replied sharply. She pushed open the fire door. The loud clanging alarm shook him. It was a harsh exclamation of his failure. She knew he wouldn't follow her. As the emergency door closed on its pneumatic hinge, she looked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Marlena at the end of the hall, her mouth agape at what she had witnessed.
Joan hurried across the brightly lit parking lot, avoiding the shadows cast by the large pines. Through the plate glass window, she saw Gabe emerge from the din of the party and look around the lobby. She stopped to compose herself. Just like thirty years ago, she wouldn't mention Roger's drunken, fumbled advance. She'd handled it and didn't want it to sour the joy of seeing Gabe again.
“I was starting to wonder if I'd been dumped,” Gabe called out as she approached. She just smiled. Over his shoulder, the beautiful, raven-haired woman who had stopped the party with her entrance was ending a conversation with an older man. As the woman quickly strode through the automatic doors and into the night, the man turned. Mr. Fowler. Stooped shoulders, unkempt, thinning grey hair, an elderly man.
Thirty years ago Ed Fowler had been hip. His hair had brushed his collar and he'd worn corduroy pants instead of the suit-and-tie uniform of the other male teachers in Madden. Slightly younger than her parents, he'd always made Joan feel special. All the kids viewed him as cool, for an adult. After her dad had died, Mr. Fowler had made a point of singling her out with praise for her work. He'd listened kindly to her excuses for being late and missing assignments after she'd started working long hours at the gas bar.
“Mr. Fowler!” He looked up with cloudy blue-grey eyes. “I'm Joan Parker, Mr. Fowler. I've come back.”
“Why, how cool is this? If you wait long enough, the nicest memories come chase you down.”
Gabe nodded and held out his hand. “Ed.”
Fowler took Gabe's hand in both of his and grinned broadly. “And look at you two. Still hanging out after all these years.” Gabe and Joan shared an awkward glance. “And Daphne Pyle making it back too. I knew you girls would fare okay. Why, it didn't take a genius to know who'd survive.”
Joan was gobsmacked. So the dark-haired beauty was Daphne Pyle. She should have seen it. While Marlena's taut body and trendy style came from obvious effort, Daphne's seemed innocent, right down to the pink blush in her cheek. She was still the prettiest girl in the class.
“My mother sends her regards, Mr. Fowler.”
“Vi Parker. What a girl. She's fared all right, Vi has?”
“She's fine.”
“You tell her hello from me. From Ed Fowler.”
“I will.”
“You make sure you do.” Then their former teacher shuffled off through the doors and into the darkness.
Riotous applause and drunken cheers rose from the ballroom as, with a rumbling drum solo, Rank rolled into another song. Joan and Gabe shrugged at each other then decided to call it a night.
When they reached the parking lot he offered to walk her to her cabin but she insisted he get on the road. The rain was threatening to return and the highway to Elgar would be treacherous with drunk drivers racing to the next pub before last call. Gabe put his hands on her shoulders. His breath on her cheek smelled of gin mixed with mint gum. Not her brand, but an old-time competitor's product. She wasn't sure what to expect, but he simply kissed her cheek and strode toward his SUV. As he drove away she wondered if she could convert him to Hint of Midnight.
A sudden breeze caught her off guard and sent a chill down her back. So much had changed, so much hadn't. Gabe was a cop and friendly with Roger. Marlena still had a hate on for her. The gin on an empty stomach had hit her hard and the visceral memory of Roger's onion-and-rye breath made her want to vomit. She turned on her heels and headed across the parking lot toward her cabin, sidestepping puddles and digging the key out of her purse as she went. It had been a long time since she'd stayed in a hotel that used a metal key. As she fumbled with the lock, she heard a crunch of gravel and looked up toward the motel units near the woods. Nothing but shadows. Her hands were shaking as she jiggled the door handle. “C'mon,” she whispered and was relieved when the lock finally responded with a click.
The air inside the cabin seemed mustier than it had earlier. After double locking the door, she pulled her dress off her shoulders and stepped out of it. Leaving it in a pile on the floor, she flopped onto the bed in her underwear. She was exhausted. The room was spinning. Placing the pillow over her head didn't help. She stumbled to the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet and lifted the seat. Instantly the gin came up. After heaving until there was nothing left, she laid her face against the cool black-and-white linoleum and closed her eyes.
A heavy knocking vibrated beneath her cheek. It took a moment before she could assemble all the pieces. Someone was pounding on the cabin door. She got to her hands and knees. “Who's there?”
Slowly pulling herself to her feet, she steadied herself against the wash basin, glanced in the mirror, then wished she hadn't. Her left leg had pins and needles, thanks to wrapping herself pretzel-like around the toilet on the cold linoleum. The clock on the microwave said 1:37 a.m. She toddled delicately to the door then opened it a crack. Through the narrow slat she saw Roger Rimmer. He pushed his face toward her. Scotch, aged single malt, peaty and smooth, if her nose was on the mark.
“Joan, let me in,” he said drunkenly.
The sight of him was sobering. “Go away,” she croaked.
Despite his condition, he managed to shove his hand between the door and the jam just as she slammed the door. “Ah fuck, ah fuck, ah fuck!” he hissed.
Repulsed, she opened the door enough to release his hand, then slammed it shut and locked it.