«I write great letters.»
«Darn right. But call up some of those correspondents, ask for some of your old letters back. How many do you think will return?»
He was silent.
«Zilch,» she said.
«No use using language like that,» he said.
«Is 'zilch' a swearword?»
«The way you say it, yes.»
«Charlie!»
«Don't 'Charlie' me!»
«How about the thirtieth anniversary of your drama club group where you ran hoping to see some bubblehead Sally or something or other, and she didn't remember, didn't know who you were?»
«Keep it up, keep it up,» he said.
«Oh, God,» she said. «I don't mean to rain on your picnic, I just don't want you to get hurt.»
«I've got a thick skin.»
«Yes? You talk bull elephants and go hunt dragonflies.» He was on his feet. With each of her comments he got taller.
«Here goes the great hunter,» he said.
«Yes,» she exhaled, exhausted. «There you go, Charlie.»
«I'm at the door,» he said.
She stared at him.
«I'm gone.»
And the door shut.
My GOD, he thought, this is like New Year's Eve.
He hit the gas hard, then released it, and hit it again, and let it slow, depending on the beehive filling his head.
Or it's like Halloween, late, the fun over, and everyone going home, he thought. Which?
So he moved along at an even pace, constantly glancing at his watch. There was enough time, sure, plenty of time, but he had to be there by noon.
But what in hell is this? he wondered. Was Alice right? A chase for the wild goose, a trip to nowhere for nothing? Why was it so damned important? After all, who were those pals, now unknown, and what had they been up to? No letters, no phone calls, no face-to-face collisions by pure accident, no obituaries. That last, scratch that! Hit the accelerator, lighten up! Lord, he thought, I can hardly wait. He laughed out loud. When was the last time you said that? When you were a kid, could hardly wait, had a list of hard-to-wait-for things. Christmas, my God, was always a billion miles off. Easter? Half a million. Halloween? Dear sweet Halloween, pumpkins, running, yelling, rapping windows, ringing doorbells, and the mask, cardboard smelling hot with breath over your face. All Hallows! The best. But a lifetime away. And July Fourth with great expectations, trying to be first out of bed, first half-dressed, first jumping out on the lawn, first to light six-inchers, first to blow up the town! Hey, listen! First! July Fourth. Can hardly wait. Hardly wait!
But, back then, almost every day was can-hardly-wait day. Birthdays, trips to the cool lake on hot noons, Lon Chaney films, the Hunchback, the Phantom. Can hardly wait. Digging ravine caves. Magicians arriving in the long years. Can't wait. Hop to it. Light the sparklers. Won't wait. Won't.
He let the car slow, staring ahead across Time.
Not far now, not long. Old Ross. Dear Jack. Special Gordon. The gang. The invincibles. Not three but four, counting himself, Musketeers.
He ran the list, and what a list. Ross, the handsome dog, older than the rest though they were all the same age, bright but no show-off, bicycling through classes with no sweat, getting high marks with no care. Reader of books, lover of Fred Allen Wednesdays radio, repeater of all the best jokes next day noon. Meticulous dresser, though poor. One good tie, one good belt, one coat, one pair of pants, always pressed, always clean. Ross. Yeah, sure, Ross.
And Jack, the future writer who was going to conquer the world and be the greatest in history. So he yelled, so he said, with six pens in his jacket and a yellow pad waiting to un-Steinbeck Steinbeck. Jack.
And Gordon, who loped across campus on the bodies of moaning girls, for all he had to do was glance and the females were chopped like trees.
Ross, Jack, Gordon, what a team.
Fast and slow he drove, now slow.
But what will they think of me? Have I done enough, have I done too well? Ninety stories, six novels, one film, five plays — not bad. Hell, he thought, I won't say, who cares, just shut your mouth, let them talk, you listen, the talk will be great.
What do we say first, I mean as soon as we show up, the old gang, by the flagpole? Hello? Hi. My God, you're really here! How you been, what's new, you okay, good health? Marriage, children, grandchildren, pictures, 'fess up. What, what?
Okay, he thought, you're the writer. Make something up, not just hi, a celebration. Write a poem. Good grief, would they stand still for a poem? How about, would it be too much: I love you, love you all. No. Above and beyond. I love you.
He slowed the car even more, looking through the windshield at shadows.
But what if they don't show? They will. They must. And if they show, everything will be all right, won't it? Boys being what they are, if they've had a bad life, bad marriages, you name it, they won't show. But if it's been good, absolutely incredibly good, they'll show. That'll be the proof, won't it? They've done well so it's okay to remember the date and arrive. True or false? True!
He stepped on the gas, sure that they'd all be there. Then he slowed again, sure that they wouldn't. Then stepped on the gas again. What the hell, by God, what the hell.
And he pulled up in front of the school. Beyond belief, there was a place to park, and not many students by the flagpole, a handful at most. He wished there were more, to camouflage the arrival of his friends; they wouldn't want to arrive and be seen right off, would they? He wouldn't. A slow progression through the noon crowd and then the grand surprise, wouldn't that be the ticket?
He hesitated getting out of the car until a small crowd emerged from the school, young men and women, all talking at once and pausing by the flagpole, which made him happy, for now there were enough to hide latecomers, no matter what age. He got out of the car and at first did not turn, afraid to look, afraid maybe there'd be no one there, no one would come, no one would have remembered, the whole thing was dumb. He resisted the temptation to jump back in the car and go away.
The flagpole was deserted. There were a lot of students around it, nearby, but nobody right at the flagpole.
He stood staring at it as if by staring someone would move up, go by, perhaps touch it.
His heart slowed, he blinked, and started instinctively to leave.
When, from the edge of the crowd, a man moved.
An old man, hair white, step slow, face pale. An old man.
And then two more old men.
Oh Lord, he thought, is that them? Did they remember? What's next?
They stood in a wide circle, not speaking, hardly looking, making no move, for the longest time.