The Reunion

The Reunion



Eight months ago, Richmond police found her body at the bottom of a hill on Interstate 295. Her legs, crooked and broken from the fall, had swelled in the river runnin' parallel to the road. She'd been down there two weeks. Fourteen days in the dirt and the muck. Thank god she had all her clothes on. "No signs of sexual assault," said the white, prissy M.E. Something was wrong with her face, though. The medical examiner said she'd been hit ‘til her cheek bones shattered. "Piercing of the eye by comminuted bone. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head."

I'm sure the maggots got a good taste of my girl.



That's how we talked to each other—she was muh gurl. I was her boo thang. But we won't dykes; that's just how we do.

Her daddy is funeral director at Cooks and Minn. Ain't that a shame—man put his own daughter in the dirt. He looked real queasy when the mortician handed him the class ring and the asthma inhaler they'd found on her body. I knew he was picturing all those moments in the summer when she'd pull it out and take a puff because she saw a bee whiz by. She'd get so scared she'd have to suck on the juice. Poor thing.

Ain't been no picnic for me, neither—her dying, I mean. Didn't help her face being what it was and the time they found her just a day before Halloween. Kids in the neighborhood liked to laugh about it—someone told everybody he saw her in the morgue, all busted up and bloody. But I know that hoodlum's lyin'. Won't nobody allowed in the morgue.

The po' said they had one lead. Some old hag saw a red truck pull up and dump the body 'round eleven P.M. What makes me festered is knowin' the bitch saw something and she still crawled back in bed all cozy while my girl was out there dying, or dead, rotting, or starting to.

No fingerprints. But there was something in Serena’s hand—strands of blond hair. I reckon she ripped the killer's hair out. That's my girl. The forensics people said the hair had roots...they had DNA. Still got it. Damn shame ain't nobody to compare it to. Yet, I think...yet.

One set of footprints in the mud—big, size thirteen boots. Funny thing—this real funny, now—those boots were male-sized, but that hair DNA was female.

Now they think there's two of 'em.

We buried Serena on November 1, 2009. Lots of pretty fake flowers 'round the coffin. I put a long stem rose in her fingers—yellow, for friendship. Don't yellow look so pretty next to black skin?

I've got the ring. The one they found next to her body. Her pa didn't want it. Wasn't Serena’s—we checked. Class of 2000, Ringwood high. Bitch lost her ring; whoever it was killed my girl, I mean.



Serena wasn't like me. She was the brain. She would've got valedictorian if it won't for two twin white Betties who won just about everything there was to win academic-wise. Let them boos come toss one with me on the court—we'll see who comes out winning. Serena was flitzy, though. She ain't wanted to use her brains—she went off to Hollywood. Got contacts so she wouldn't look dorky with glasses no more, kept her hair permed so it won't nappy. Said she wanted to be an actress. Went to school for it. And she was pretty damn good, too. At first it was extras, soaps, and then a small part in a Nickelodeon sitcom as some girl's big sister.

I didn't know she'd been in Richmond for three days before she wound up dead. Said so on her passport. Three days, and she didn’t call me? Somethin' was up. She wouldn’t’ve left me hangin' like that...unless she came back for that slime ball Rich. She knows I hate him. Damn cheater is all he is. The cops interviewed him. No luck there, either. His alibi held up—even though the shoe fit. I ain't kiddin'—size thirteen, he has. I don't think that's a coincidence.



I see him leaning by the serving table, and I can hardly control m'self. He stands there eating chips—the double-dipping bastard—and piling his plate with cake. Carries on chit-chatting with Blank Blank—some brown-noser who turned into a Wal-Mart cashier and secretly scratches lottery tickets. I know this 'cause I see her come out the bathroom tuckin' one back in her purse. Like an addiction. So bad she gotta go to the bathroom to do it. I reckon she don't want us to see how lame she's got. She stands there beside Rich, laughin' and flipping her hair, actin' like her leopard-lookin' chest is pretty or somethin', pokin' out of a tight red outfit. Slimeball must think she looks cute; he keeps smiling at her.

I have my eye on him.

Then he carries his perfectly-sized clodhoppers and his scrawny frame over to Imogene.

I am a little on edge, but never as paranoid as Imogene—lookin' like Velma from the mystery gang, or somethin'.

I don't know why, but I got this real strong feeling that the bitch who killed my girl has to be in this room—our ten-year high school reunion. Whoever she is, she ain't got a school ring. I have it in my pocket.

I start scanning people's fingers in the room, lookin' for blondes. Hard to connect two and two together when it could be the girl ain't even blond anymore. And there's lots of brunettes.

I know I'm supposed to be here celebrating, and some girls from my class come up and ask me how thing's been. What am I up to? I don't feel much like tellin' everybody my business. Most don't care that I'm working as a nurse's aide at the retirement facility—what they want to know, after those polite questions, is what happened to Serena.

I ain't come here to tell everybody what I feel like now since my best girl is dead. I come here in her honor, though. I come here to see—on some hunch—if the bitch came here tonight, too. Because I been thinkin' about all the people who might've hated Serena, and there's very few people who come to my mind. Serena was a good girl. Nice to everybody—not fake nice, either...but the real thing. And she was helpful, sweet. But there was this whole mess here with Slimeball. Serena liked the bad boy. A white one, to boot. I told her many times to let that fool go, but Serena kept holdin' on, hoping that one day Rich was gonna turn around and tell her "Yeah, yeah baby, I love you, too." Lord knows how she pined for that fool. I used to pray that he'd get hit by a car walking the streets like he do, and then tell God: "I'm sorry for askin’, but you gots to know how bad he is, and if you know that, then you see." There was one time he was comin' 'round to Serena’s house and pickin' her up, taking her out to the movies, to Pizza Hut or Dairy Queen. Serena'd come home and call me right after, squealin' in the telephone about his kisses and what he said or what they did or what they ate and what she recommends if I ever go to the new Dairy Queen on Remington Drive. But that didn't last long. I know he had another girl. Prolly a white girl. But we didn’t ever know her name. And she was one, I could imagine, who might end up hating my girl. Serena just couldn't leave Slimeball alone.

The day he stopped taking her to Dairy Queen, Serena ran over to my house—a full eight blocks—and made me hug her 'til all her tears ran out. And I said, "Why you fool with that slime ball? Why don't you find you somebody sweet like Will, or Jamal?" Will Greene and Jamal Dillard were these softies that couldn't play worth a crap on the court, but were good in math and English and liked to help us when we was confused. Well, I'd be confused; Serena always knew the answers. Sometimes I'd know the answers, too, but I had a little crush on Jamal and would pretend like I didn't know anything because I wanted a boyfriend badly. Someone who'd take me out to Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen like Slimeball took Serena. She didn't want Will or Jamal, though—and I was happy 'bout her not wantin' Jamal, but I hoped she'd like Will so we could double date or somethin’ to prom if Jamal ever asked me out. Serena wanted Rich. She said he was real sweet when he wanted to be. Boy, that racked my nerves.



Now, I'm sittin' here thinkin' about my girl when this big white woman with her hair lookin' all red strides over to Slimeball and wraps her arm around him. She's got huge green eyes and a wide perfect-looking mouth. I look straight down from her bouncy orange locks to her fingers. And there my eyes stop. Sure, sure—maybe nobody wears the ring. Maybe no one in the room is wearing the ring but a few people, because it's kind of a tacky ring. It's kind of a heavy ring. But most people are wearing it because this is our high school reunion. There are crepe paper strings on the walls in our school colors. There's a refreshment table, and a boom box playing Ricky Martin and Christina Aguilera like back in high school. There are all these faces aged ten years older. Some people look the same, and others look like their faces been blowed up and then reassembled into some whole other thing. They come runnin' up to me like I know who they are, and I ain't got no clue. This is the reunion; so yeah, most people are wearing the ring. But this bitch—she ain't got one. And how much you wanna bet the Betty’s got blonde roots?



I can't control myself. I watch them for the rest of the night. The way they flirt. The way she walks like she owns the whole goddamn building. And I keep thinkin' about Serena—how she called me at two in the morning some nights—'course, it was only ten o'clock in California—and she'd tell me about the latest script she was rehearsin', or the new guy on the block who had to take his shirt off for a scene and had pecks big as titties. And we'd giggle. Like it was gross. When both of us would've loved for that big muscle man to dance them for us. I miss the California post cards—I still got a bundle of 'em she sent over the years. I'm thinking about all these things, sipping fruit punch that I think somebody spiked because my head's starting to loosen up and my nerves give out of the tension. And I'm just waiting, listening to "Shake Your Bon-Bon" and waiting for the night to end.



It's kind of funny. For a moment, I try to tell myself that maybe someone did spike the punch and I'm just a bit tipsy. And I think that I see this, but I really don't. However, I know I don't just think I see it—I really see that big red truck sitting outside the Ruritan house where we're having the reunion, and I do see the red head and Slimeball climb up into it.

I get in my Kia and follow them.

I'm extra careful on the road. Might swivel out the lane a few times because the lines get blurry, but I don't kill nobody. Not like they did.



I keep tryin' to remember what his alibi had been. That rock-solid alibi that had gotten Slimeball off. And what comes to mind is Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart cameras had him checkin' out three packs of smokes in lane six—the lane that the leopard-chest operates. See, Slimeball ain't changed. He's got this redhead, and he's got lane number six at Wal-Mart hanging onto the elastic of his britches, too.

At eleven o'clock, Slimeball was flirtin' it up in the Wal-Mart.

And where was red-headed Betty?



I don't think it's wise to come up to their door and knock and punch the woman out. That's kinna how I'm feelin' like doin'. But that ain't smart. So I sit in my car outside their house. I watch their shadows in the window and I know they're 'bout to do da nasty. I see all these arms coming together, arms flying, and big squares of stuff that must be clothes coming up in the air and falling fast to the floor. Then the shadows disappear, and the light goes out. Some other light comes on in a different room. And I just wait. Wondering.

I wonder for a few minutes what it must feel like. Only men who hit on me are the old geezers in the retirement home. Most of them are old wrinkly whites who say I look mighty pretty for a darky. Boy, if that don't burn me up. I want to haul off and slap 'em sometimes. But that's a case in which you got to consider that most of them are senile and don't know what they saying. I tell myself this, anyway—because it cools me down. I've found that truth ain't got nothing to do with reassurance. It's all about what you choose to believe. And right now I believe these people killed my girl. Sure, I ain't got much proof. I could be throwin' myself in a real sticky situation by sittin' here outside their house. But all of it measures up.



Serena was on E! talking about a movie role she'd been offered two weeks before her death. She'd told me about the interview; so I'd watched. She had no intention of runnin' off to Richmond during that E! interview. She had no plans to do that the last time I talked to her, either—which was five days before her death. Someone had to have changed Serena’s mind. Someone asked her to come to Richmond.



The lights go out in all the rooms of Slimeball's house. And for about ten minutes, I feel like it's over. This whole game I been playing out here in the dark is over because they're going to bed and in six hours the night will turn to another morning that Serena don't wake up to see. Just another day when the only people who are grieving about Serena are me and her daddy because you can best believe that slime ball, Rich, didn't shed a tear. He didn't say two words to me at the reunion. Just a half-nod, a commemoration that he knew, and he was sorry. Yeah, he's sorry all right.

But then out of the blue a tiny light brightens what I think is probably the kitchen, and I decide to get out of my car and walk up there to find out.



Her eyes don't look no less startling in the darkness. In fact, they look even bigger. The curls in her hair are flat in some parts (where he had her on the bed, I think) and she's wearin' a silky nightgown that don't cover the tops of her bosom. She keeps her arm over 'em, instead. She looks scared of me, which I reckon I can understand. Don't white people like to say that you can't see a nigger in the dark when he closes his eyes and mouth and covers up the whites? I reckon I look pretty scary to the red-headed Betty. But that's good. That gives me some kind of power in this situation. I also got power in the simple fact my clothes fit pretty good, and I ain't got to hold 'em up like her.

"Who—what...huh?" She looks mighty confused, like she don't know how to start this question. How do you ask who this skinny black bitch is and what she doin' on your doorstep past midnight?

"You mind if I come in and use your phone, Miss? My car's broke down," I say, thinkin' this is good.

"Ain't you got a cell phone?"

"No, ma'am. Not with me, I mean. I left it at home."

She opens the door slowly and I hurry on inside. I start looking around for Slimeball, but I reckon she rocked him out too good and she's the only one awake. Down for a midnight snack, huh? Yeah, like you need it. But I don't say nothin'. I see her staring at me real hard; so I stop lookin' around. Say, "You got a nice place here," to explain it.

"The phone is in the hall. Down that way."

"Thank you, ma'am," I say. Then I move to the hall, figuring if I do have to call somebody I'll call my Pa, who never answers the phone anyway, and leave a message on his machine. But in the hallway I see pictures of the redhead and Slimeball. Picture of them at Dollywood. Another of them at the lake. This last one gets to me: a wedding picture. The redhead is blond in the picture, of course, and Rich looks might spiffy for being a slime ball. They got married on the beach. Can you beat that?

"This is a mighty fine wedding picture you got, ma'am," I call out.

"Thank you," she says. And just as I expect, she hurries out of the kitchen and starts to tell me about it. "It is mighty fine, isn't it? Richard didn't think he'd like getting married on the beach, but it turned out really nice. I still have the dress—and I can still fit in it. Imagine that! It's been five years, and I can still fit in it."

I think of her trying to slip herself into that dress, and I start to suspect that she must do it quite often—once a month or somethin', the way she knows so well it fits.

"You made that call yet?"

"Yes, ma'am," I lie. "Thank you much."

Her reverie fades off her face as she stares at mine. She looks at me like she recognizes somethin' and it spooks her. Her features go dark, but she still talks sweetly. "So..."

I just stand there, not knowin' what else to do.

"You want something to eat?" she asks between her teeth.

I bet she's hoping I'll say No ma'am, thank you ma'am, and walk the hell on out of here. I think I'd want a strange woman to do that, too, if it was my house. But I got a bone to pick with this bitch and I ain't goin' nowhere.

"Sure. What might you be offering, ma'am?"

"There's ham from our Sunday brunch. A few slices of pie left. Would you like that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, if you're staying for a while," she says, returning to the kitchen, "you can stop saying ‘ma'am’ and call me Kelly."

Kelly—aw how sweet that sounds. K, I ponder...and then it hits me—that was the letter inscribed on the ring. The ring...which is still in my pocket.

I start to make a little chit chat with her, get on her soft side. "How long you been with—your husband?" I wanted to say Rich right then, but I don't know if I'm supposed to know his name yet.

"Oh, we've been together since high school, believe it or not. Off and on back then, though. Tonight was our high school reunion."

I sit at the table now as she turns around holding plates of food. She looks at me. "I could've sworn I saw someone there who looked like you."

"Nope. Not me. I just got back from Roanoke."

"Oh really? You have business there?"

"Nah—I went to see a friend of mine. I don't get to see her much." I say this lie and think of Serena. She's a friend I ain't never gonna see again.

"Oh, that's a shame," says Kelly. All pitiful-like.

I ain't gonna switch this conversation onto me yet. "So you've been married five years?"

"Yes. Married—but we've been together for over ten. We've been through so much..." Her eyes go a-wondering around the room, remembering. She's prolly thinkin' about all those Betties he been buckin' behind her back. Wal-Mart leopard chest is the latest. I wonder if she knows about it yet. Prolly, if she saw the videotape. We all know Rich was a primary suspect until Richmond police got the videotape from Wal-Mart. Me and Serena’s pop think he called up Serena after he saw her in that E! interview, and man did Serena look hot without her glasses and her hair so sleek and fine! And we all know how Serena’s heart goes a-flutter when Rich Slimeball Dawson says her name. I bet Kelly knows as much as I know. "But Rich and I just seem to click back together again. Nothing keeps us apart for too long." Kelly pauses, looking directly in my eyes. I'm hoping those green ones aren't gonna shoot out some lasers or something and blind me. The bitch is scary—like sweet Stepford-wife scary. "There's too much love for something to come between us."

I stick my fingers in my pocket and pull out the ring. I finger it beneath the table for a moment. Slowly, I bring it up and sit it on top. Scoot it closer so she can see it. Her eyes light up like fire on me.

"I knew I'd seen you before!"

I start grinning really slowly, just to get her gut.

She points her finger at me. "You were there! You followed us home, didn't you?" Kelly is up now, moving like she's goin' to go get Slimeball or call the cops. And I'm really confused. Wasn't this the bold-hearted bitch who hit my girl in the face until her nose damn near fell off and her cheeks caved in? The one who pushed her over the cliff? Why's she running if she's a killer?

And then I think maybe she's one of those types who clings so hard to what she's got 'cause she's afraid it's gonna stray away from her, like her man does—and if she can prevent one more time he runs away, leavin' her bone dry and hard-up, why, that's just the top of the cake, ain't it? Bein' the bigger woman. Havin' one less bitch to worry about in the family picture.

All those years playin' ball done made me strong and when I tackle her she falls down swift and surrenders, and I start to thinking maybe she's had practice. Maybe old Slimeball is a bigger slime ball than I thought. She looks terrified, throws her hands up in front of her face. Poor Kelly.

"You don't know me, but I know you," I say, holding her down. My face is close to hers. I smell baby powder on her. Her nightgown's come a-loose and bosom is spilling out of her clothes. Tears are running down her cheeks. I think she's gonna scream. I put up my finger to shush her.

"I held her in my arms when he left her, running back to you. I watched her cry. Fall apart. She ain't loved nobody else. She ain't had no happiness 'cause of him. I was the only one who loved her." I bend low, almost nose to nose with the blond-red-head-wannabe. "And you killed her...for that sorry man you married. I oughta gut you."

Kelly's eyes are wide with fear. She trembles beneath me. "I didn't want to do it."

I pull back a bit. I ain't expect her to say this.

She lifts to her elbows, eyes full of tears. "I didn't mean to. I panicked. She came here threatening to take him back to California with her…I—I picked up the lamp and hit her with it. I couldn't let her do it." She sits up against the wall and curls into herself, hugging her knees. "She said he loved her more than me...After she was dead, I slipped on Richard's shoes—all I had were my heels by the door, and it was so muddy outside. I dragged her to the truck...and...you know the rest. I swear, I only meant to scare her. To hit her once and then maybe she'd get up and leave. But after I hit her that once, I started to feel like, 'Yes…this is all of them together. All the women. If I keep hitting, they’ll all be gone. Then it'll just be us.'" Kelly glances at me, hopeful and melancholy. I'm scared to shit. This Betty is a lovesick looney. Crazier than me.

"What do you want from me?" she asks me now.

I don't know what to say. Justice? Maybe a few years in the pen will do her some good. Maybe time away from Slimeball will straighten her out. I would hope...

I pull her up and adjust her nightgown so it covers her chest. Start walking to the telephone.

But who's to say time changes anything? Hell, look at me. Some hearts don't know when to stop.

This is the end of the line, though. Now, as I watch her sob on the phone with Richmond police, I know the trouble is off my hands, onto hers. She got troubles…but no class ring—that one is coming home with me.