By Craig Rodgers
The postcard comes first. Basic cardstock, a tourist find. Photo of a beach somewhere. Old, coverall swimsuits decades out of fashion. A single boat sails in the distance.
Bertrum holds it up. He holds it out. Maybe the image will bring a memory but it does not. He turns the card over. Writing. A neat, precise hand.
Hi Bert. It’s been too long.
– Perry
He turns it back again. The swimmers scattered there. Girls in their wraps. Some vague familiarity, like a still from a movie. The fog memory of a dream.
He lays the card down on the counter. He thinks back, back. Reaching. Perry. Perry?
***
It’s an outdoor place. Tables strewn in the road. Wait staff prowl among, pouring drinks, bringing sides. A hundred kinds of salad.
His drink comes, her drink comes. A local beer for him, a milky booze for her. They each take sips and nod. Small talk now, the bullshit of friends. More sipping, more talking. Then.
“Something weird came. Can I show you?”
“I love weird.”
He lays the card between them on the table. She puts out a hand and nudges. The beach girls tolerate. Then she turns it over and reads. She looks up.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay what’s weird?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do YOU mean?”
“Perry. Who is Perry?”
She snorts and sits back.
“What? Perry. From school.”
“What school?”
“High school. All school. Perry.”
“Jen, I don’t remember any Perry. I mean. Ever.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Bert, come on. Perry.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well clearly he remembers you.”
She taps the card with a finger.
“You really don’t remember?”
He shakes his head no. She slides the card away.
***
He looks it up everywhere. Social media. High school pages. There’s no Perry. The reunion, those attending. Invites. Nothing. He pours himself a drink. He goes to the local paper. Searching, scrolling. There is no Perry. He pours himself a drink. He searches births, he searches deaths. There is no Perry. He pours himself a drink.
***
The committee meets each Wednesday in the weeks leading up. Planning and the like. Catering, decorations. What kind of banner will go where. They’re renting a ferry out on the lake. One of those big numbers. The whole class will fit. Room for more still.
Bertrum sits in the back. Just like the old days. Spacing out, nodding when he must. Their talk circles and some accord is reached and people begin standing and he stands too. He shakes hands, he smiles. Small talk. We’re all well. Then the crowd filters out, then only stragglers remain.
The committee chair is there at the table. She flips through pages in a phone. Leslie something. Bertrum steps near.
“Oh. Oh hello.”
Her face is blank and then a glow. Filled again with spirit. She puts out a hand and he shakes it and she pats his. Then.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I have a question about the reunion.”
“That’s fine.”
“It’s an odd one.”
“Okay.”
“Was there someone named Perry who got invited?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Anyone. Anyone named Perry.”
She touches the papers in front of her but her eyes never leave Bertrum.
“Hey. Don’t you worry. Of course Perry will be there.”
***
The lot is vast and full. Stars shine above like a mirror shattered in the black. Bertrum sits parked and watching. The boat tied bobbing to the pier. Faces come and go. He tugs at a flask and still watches.
The passenger door pops open. A bell is pinging. She slides in beside.
“Is there more of that?”
“Whole bottle behind the seat.”
She laughs in great whooping sounds. He reaches back, he hands the bottle over. She unscrews the top and sniffs and wrinkles her nose. She gives him a look and she takes a drink. Cheap but smooth. She takes another.
“You gonna go in?”
“It feels like another life.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It is.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you going in?”
“Bert. I’m here now. What choice do I have?”
***
The line trails. Down the ramp and around. How could there ever have been so many. They make their slow way up.
Music thumps ahead. A song familiar. Something old now, something from all the way back. People chat in line. This way, that way. The vaguest familiarities from another life. Inching on. Up. The song ends, another starts. Louder now. A memory of a song. He turns in place. The noise everywhere. The line moves on. Nearing. Another song now. He knows this one too but it’s wrong somehow. Off key maybe. Jarring. Louder still. The line moves. The door is close. A foyer, tables. The ballroom beyond. The line moves.
“Hi.”
He says hi too. She asks for his name and he says Bertrum and she scans a table of names. She looks up again as if he might be mistaken.
“Bert.”
She nods and looks again. She looks for so long. He puts a hand down and he says okay but still she looks. He says it’s okay but she goes on looking.
***
At the edge of the pier the land drops. Stairs lead down carved into the cliff. He swings the bottle as he walks. One hand pressed against wet rock. Ground now. Each step sinks into soft beach sand. He walks along and he stops to push off shoes one and then the other and he moves on. Soon he finds himself sitting. Drinking pulls from the bottle. The water right there. Shore’s gentle lapping. The ferry’s lights trail off as the long distance swallows the boat away. He goes on drinking. Toes squeeze the wet sand. Hot night air runs along skin. He drinks again. Somewhere laughter comes. Gentle tittering. He turns and watches. Friends in the sand down the way. Just in the reach of lake’s wash. They play. A few and a few more. Pushing, running around. The sound of their laughter carries. Bertrum watches. He admires. He takes a drink and remembers. What it was like. He smiles and they play in the sand, their swimsuits of a sort decades out of fashion.
Craig Rodgers is the author of several books, dozens of stories, countless notes, and one convoluted plan to fake his own death.