tone, “I’m sure your husband was a fine and respected reporter, and in no way would I ever think of sullying his good name. If - and this is a big if - your husband discovered or possessed information that he, for whatever reason, didn’t pass onto the police, I promise you that no one will ever find out about it.”
The proceeding silence gave me hope that my sincere performance had worked its magic - not that I had any plans of deceiving this woman in the first place, mind you.
“I feel a bit nervous talking about this over the phone,” she finally responded. “Could you possibly come over here?”
“Sure. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
After a few false starts, we finally agreed that the best time to meet would be immediately after I’d viewed the TV reports. That way everything I’d seen would be fresh in my mind.
I hung up the phone and went back to the washroom to blow-dry my hair. A few minutes later, the red telephone light was again beckoning to me. I called the front desk and was breathlessly informed Cathy Jones - the woman whose husband mysteriously disappeared several years earlier - wanted me to call her back as soon as possible.
“Did she sound angry?” I asked.
“To put it mildly,” I was told.
I wrote down the number, put on my jacket and walked to my van, safe in the knowledge that when I returned, the telephone light would undoubtedly be flashing once again.
I decided to forgo Scooter’s fine cuisine for lunch and drove five miles west to Bismarck - a village roughly the same size as Delta. Like my hometown, it had changed very little. The bank and post office remained unmoved, as did the local grocery store, where Maria used to work as a part-time cashier. Even the two variety stores and clothing stores were still in operation, although their names had been modified over the years.
I made this side trip for two reasons: First, to satisfy nostalgic curiosity of the place. And second, to escape any undue scrutiny from the locals in Delta, who by now surely knew of my presence and my purpose for being there.
My thinking was even if half of the people I encountered were eager for me to uncover the truth about the Jones affair, that left an equal number of residents believing I was conducting a witch hunt.
At any rate, even if my math was wrong (and in school it often was), I didn’t care to meet anyone who wanted to run me out of town.
At least not yet.
What I really wanted was to have a quiet lunch and Red’s Café looked like just the place for a bite to eat. My hopes for an uneventful meal went out the window the moment I stepped inside. The ten people already at their tables briefly stopped whatever they were doing to check out the new guy. Each appraised me from head to toe (some longer than others), and all presumably came to the conclusion I was no threat to them and continued on with their lives.
It was then I realized there was still one pair of eyes tracking my movements. She was standing behind the counter, a middle of the road type beauty maybe 30, with collar length brown hair and a slim physique.
I gave her a courtesy smile and walked to an empty table in the corner. As I perused the placemat menu, I glanced over to the counter again and our eyes met.
So much for remaining anonymous, I thought. It was obvious we knew one another but when our paths had crossed was still unknown to me. Now if I was still on the force, my first thought would be that we’d met during a prostitution round-up. That may sound far fetched, but on more than one occasion I had bumped into so called ladies of the night at coffee shops or restaurants when we were both off duty. They would be with their boyfriend or even husband and although no words were ever exchanged between us, the terror in their eyes spoke volumes.
Inevitably, due to our chosen professions, we’d meet again, at which time the women would thank me profusely for not revealing their double life. Some even went so far as to offer me a complimentary roll in the sack as a way to repay my kindness. A couple times - when my world was spiralling out of my control - I admit I actually cashed in on a few of these offers, which of course, only screwed my life up worse.
The city I used to be part of was now five hundred miles away from Red’s Café, and the woman staring at me was probably not a prostitute. The expression on her face was one of excitement, yet cautiousness. Familiar, yet maddening unrecognizable.
As she walked to my table with a pot of coffee, we continued to scrutinize one another without a break.
“So, do you still force yourself on hapless sixteen year old girls?” she said with a huge smile plastered across her lips.
I mentally tried to erase a decade and a half of living from her face, but my mind still came up blank as to her identity.
“If I said yes, would you think less of me?” I asked uneasily, all the while returning her grin.
“To tell you the truth, Steve, I haven’t thought much about you since high school,” she said with a laugh.
“But the sight of me walking through those doors unleashed a torrent of good memories, right?” I ventured.
“You haven’t a clue, do you?”
“Not a one,” I confessed, feeling totally embarrassed.
“I’ll give you a hint,” she said playfully. “You’re sitting in my café.”
I glanced down at the placement. “You’re Red?”
“I’m Jenny, you idiot.”
“Jenny Martin, of course,” I stammered. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Now if your hair was still red . . .”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve heard it all before.”
“Why the change?”
“Just to try something different.”
“It looks good.” She laughed. “Try telling that to my mother.”
I’d always enjoyed hanging out with Jenny. She was funny, smart, and the one who turned me onto the No Ulcer Attitude - a philosophy I still try to live by today (with varying degrees of success).
In the tenth grade we both had the same spare. We often found ourselves talking about our friends, our teachers, or our personal problems, either at a picnic bench in a nearby park or over coffee at The Palace Restaurant. I never recall thinking that hour together as being a waste of time. I guess the one reason we got along so well was there was never any sexual tension between us. I’m not saying the thought never crossed my mind, but the probability that we’d like each other better without clothes on was slim. So neither of us ever pursued that avenue.
Except once.
As I remember it, Jenny was in fact sixteen, but she was no more hapless than I was a genius at calculus. The truth was we were both a bit drunk at one of Doogie’s notorious barn parties. At midnight both Jenny and I found ourselves standing together outside a “working” outhouse waiting our turn, when for some reason - the moon, the booze, the freezing cold
