The High School Reunion – part 2 by kathrynmburke.
Kathryn M. Burke
Christy was supposedly coming to the reunion. There was an online list of the people who had said they would be there, and she was on the list; at least, I assumed it was her, even though she was now Christy Lampton (she had formerly been Christy Stevenson). I was pretty sure there was only one Christy in our class, so this must be her.
As I boarded the plane to fly to the reunion site, several states away, I wondered what had happened to her. I’d felt a bit disappointed that she’d not contacted me before she left for college after that momentous encounter in my bedroom; or maybe I was just hoping that she’d come by for another session. Our families were not close, so there was no way I could have found out what happened to her. What was she doing now, at the age of thirty-eight? Was she happily married? Divorced? With a bevy of kids? Who knows?
It was of course a silly fantasy for me to think that we would have some sort of grand, romantic reunion, throwing ourselves into each other’s arms and running off into the sunset (after, of course, I discarded my wife–or she discarded me). But at least I’d get a glimpse of her and catch up on how her life had gone in the past two decades.
But, at an informal gathering of my classmates at a local bar, I didn’t find Christy there.
I was sure I would recognize her; in fact, I indulged in the additional fantasy that she hadn’t changed a bit and would still look the way she did when she’d disrobed in my bedroom twenty years before. But none of the women who were there could possibly be her, and I couldn’t find anyone who knew anything about her.
I was so disheartened by her absence that I almost decided to leave the scene and ditch the rest of the reunion weekend. But I’d already paid a pretty penny for the official reunion dinner on Saturday night, so I figured I’d wait it out until at least then. Maybe she’d show up for that.
It was difficult to find enough things to do during the next day to fill up the time. I declined to hang out with some of my old high school buddies, as I quickly realized that I had almost nothing in common with them anymore and really didn’t want to be around them. Anyway, the only thing I could think about was Christy, and I was sure I’d make pretty bad company in anyone else’s presence.
Finally the time for the reunion dinner came, and I got into a pretty nice tuxedo for the occasion. As I made my way to the venue–a big ballroom in the main floor of the hotel I was staying at–I somehow felt overcome with a sense of dread that all my dreams of getting back together with Christy, or even seeing her again, were about to be dashed.
There was a cocktail hour ahead of the dinner, and I sauntered around without much interest, sipping a martini. I was already tired of boring chatter about high school days, and as I looked hopelessly around the room I once again sensed that Christy was absent. Then something amazing happened.
I thought I saw Christy–not as she must be now, but exactly as she was at the age of eighteen–staring at me from a distance.
It was a dream, surely–that must be what it was. My wish-fulfillment fantasy of meeting the Christy whom I’d deflowered was so intense that I was now actually hallucinating.
But no: this woman was now heading tentatively in my direction.
She came up to me. I noticed she was just a tad shorter than Christy–maybe about five foot four. But otherwise she bore an incredible resemblance to her: gorgeous, glistening black hair, a face that was a little less oval than Christy’s but just as exquisite a fusion of wide-eyed innocence and faint sadness; an intoxicatingly shapely body, augmented by her wearing a gray strapless ball gown, bedecked with sequins, that extended to her feet and clung to her body like paint.
She looked like one of those great actresses of the 1940s–an Ingrid Bergman, maybe. No, a better comparison would be Joan Fontaine, with her heartrending look of shy innocence, with just a hint of alarm around the eyes.
I stared open-mouthed at this vision of loveliness. I could not have spoken a word to her: my heart seemed to have stopped beating. But it was she who spoke to me.
“Are you Joel Mathers?” she said in a high, musical voice.
I managed to croak out, “Yes.”
She gave me a warm smile. “You don’t know me, but I’m Sandra Lampton, Christy Lampton’s daughter. I guess you knew her as Christy Stevenson. She really wanted to come, but she sprained her ankle pretty badly a few days ago and couldn’t make it. She didn’t want to waste the ticket for the reunion dinner, so she said I could use it.”
Christy’s daughter! I should have guessed.
“How do you know about me?” I said, almost dreading the answer.
“Well, of course Mom told me about you.”
“What did she say?”
“Not a whole lot–just that you were a good friend of hers and that I should make a point of looking you up. I had to look at a picture of you in your high school yearbook and then hope you hadn’t changed a whole lot!”
“Have I?”
“I don’t think so. I recognized you right away.”
During this almost surreal conversation, I could scarcely take my eyes off this ravishing creature. There are some women who know they’re beautiful, and others who don’t quite know. Sandra was one of the latter, and it made her even lovelier in my estimation. And I could already tell she had a lot of other virtues as well.
“May I ask how old you are?” I said.
“I turned nineteen about two months ago.”
“Are you in college?”
“Yeah. I just finished freshman year. Mom was never able to finish college, because Dad got her pregnant during her freshman year and she had to drop out. So did Dad. But they’ve done pretty well for themselves.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So… they’re still together–your parents?”
“Well, course! I have to say, Dad–his name is Peter–is just about the most wonderful man you’ll ever meet. Everything a girl would want from a dad!”
I felt a curious mix of emotions as I heard all this. On the one hand, I was crestfallen (and envious) that Christy seemed to have such a happy and long-lasting marriage; on the other hand, I was becoming increasingly enraptured by this enticing young woman chattering away innocently in front of me.
It was now time to move to the grand ballroom for the actual dinner. I was pleased to see that Sandra trailed along after me–kind of like a wide-eyed kitten following its owner so that she wouldn’t be abandoned. I sat her down next to me at a big round table. It was designed to hold as many as eight people; and sure enough, six other classmates (none of whom I knew well) sat down on the other seats, continuing their conversation from the cocktail hour. I ignored them all and devoted my sole attention to Sandra.
I told her something of myself: my job as a freelance consultant for tech firms, my own college years, and so on. I coaxed out of her something of her home life, but I was more interested in what her hopes and dreams were. It thrilled me to learn that she was attending a college that was only about two hours’ drive from my house. I filed that bit of information away for future reference.