the first I knew of it.
Monica laughed and took a long drink of her beer. "You were so young, and you looked it, too. We all adored you, but you only had eyes for Ronnie. Once we figured that out, we gave up trying to get noticed. Except Miss Bates. She never clued in. Even when they fired you for fraternizing with the enemy."
"Monica, I think you exaggerate."
"Me?" She grinned, the same grin that used to annoy me so much in class—knowing, impudent, teasing. Suddenly her smile disappeared, her face dimming as if a light had gone off. "Christ, what a mess," she said. She gestured vaguely at the house, but I knew what she meant.
"I was lucky they did nothing more than fire me, Monica. I could have gone to jail."
"Are you kidding? Bring everything out in the open and have parents pulling their kids out of the school? No chance." She took another pull of her ale. "Poor Ronnie," she murmured.
"Monica, what's your theory about this Rey Montana thing?" I asked.
She looked into her glass thoughtfully. "Frankly, at first I thought you'd done it."
"What!"
"You asked." She shrugged. "Maybe you came in one night and found him with some guy, got jealous, and shot him." "And where did I get the gun?"
"Tucker Freemont."
"That draft dodger guy who lived in Rochdale?" "The very same. He had a gun. I saw it."
"Where did he get it?"
"No idea. I hate guns. So did Ronnie. He was with me that day. We'd gone to score some weed, as they say, and Rochdale was the place to go then, as you no doubt remember. Anyway, when Tucker showed us the thing, I thought Ronnie would throw up or pass out or both. We just got the hell out of there."
"When was this?"
"I don't know. Sometime just before he went to that commune, I think. So that's where I figured you got the gun. Besides, you were the only one I could think of with guts enough to pull off such a stunt."
"Thanks. Any more testimonials from you and I'll end up in jail."
"Only thing I know for sure is that Ronnie couldn't have done it."
"I could, but he couldn't."
"You're more macho," she said and grinned.
"Well, I agree with you in one thing; Ronnie couldn't have done it. Which begs the question of how the damn thing got into the trunk."
"That's why I thought it might have been you," she said. "He was trying to shield you."
"Oh, and I just walked off and left him to deal with it."
"A really bad trip?"
I laughed. "God, Monica, you certainly have a wild notion of how colorful I was back then!"
"Well, Ronnie thought you were pretty terrific." She sighed. "Remember when you threw me out of class for braiding his hair? He used to sit in front of me, remember?"
"As I recall, I threw you out of class on a regular basis. You never would shut up." I smiled, the memories suddenly sharp and clear as yesterday.
"Haven't changed much, in that respect."
"In any respect," I said, and I meant it.
"Sure, what's seventy pounds and some gray hair?" She paused and looked down over the railing at the dog, who was digging busily in the backyard. "Damn dog," she muttered affectionately. "So, Michael, what are you up to these days?"
I gave her a brief sketch of my teaching gig at the university, the book I was working on, and went on to mention the Wilde Nights rehearsal.
"God, yes! I went to the first one and sat front row center. Ronnie threw me a rose. I went last year too. He was getting quite sick then, but he did one terrific, show-stopping number and still brought the house down. Did you see it?"
I nodded.
"I'm glad he had you at the end, Michael. I'm no good with sickness. But you, his first love, you were there, at the beginning, and the end. That was important to him."
I felt a sudden surge of unwanted emotion. I took a drink of beer and cleared my throat. It was just an accident, I wanted to say. I didn't plan it that way. "I didn't realize you were such a sentimentalist," I said dryly.
"When you two broke up, he just fell apart," Monica went on, ignoring me. "He got real wild. I vividly remember my birthday in June
Monica laughed and took a long drink of her beer. "You were so young, and you looked it, too. We all adored you, but you only had eyes for Ronnie. Once we figured that out, we gave up trying to get noticed. Except Miss Bates. She never clued in. Even when they fired you for fraternizing with the enemy."
"Monica, I think you exaggerate."
"Me?" She grinned, the same grin that used to annoy me so much in class—knowing, impudent, teasing. Suddenly her smile disappeared, her face dimming as if a light had gone off. "Christ, what a mess," she said. She gestured vaguely at the house, but I knew what she meant.
"I was lucky they did nothing more than fire me, Monica. I could have gone to jail."
"Are you kidding? Bring everything out in the open and have parents pulling their kids out of the school? No chance." She took another pull of her ale. "Poor Ronnie," she murmured.
"Monica, what's your theory about this Rey Montana thing?" I asked.
She looked into her glass thoughtfully. "Frankly, at first I thought you'd done it."
"What!"
"You asked." She shrugged. "Maybe you came in one night and found him with some guy, got jealous, and shot him." "And where did I get the gun?"
"Tucker Freemont."
"That draft dodger guy who lived in Rochdale?" "The very same. He had a gun. I saw it."
"Where did he get it?"
"No idea. I hate guns. So did Ronnie. He was with me that day. We'd gone to score some weed, as they say, and Rochdale was the place to go then, as you no doubt remember. Anyway, when Tucker showed us the thing, I thought Ronnie would throw up or pass out or both. We just got the hell out of there."
"When was this?"
"I don't know. Sometime just before he went to that commune, I think. So that's where I figured you got the gun. Besides, you were the only one I could think of with guts enough to pull off such a stunt."
"Thanks. Any more testimonials from you and I'll end up in jail."
"Only thing I know for sure is that Ronnie couldn't have done it."
"I could, but he couldn't."
"You're more macho," she said and grinned.
"Well, I agree with you in one thing; Ronnie couldn't have done it. Which begs the question of how the damn thing got into the trunk."
"That's why I thought it might have been you," she said. "He was trying to shield you."
"Oh, and I just walked off and left him to deal with it."
"A really bad trip?"
I laughed. "God, Monica, you certainly have a wild notion of how colorful I was back then!"
"Well, Ronnie thought you were pretty terrific." She sighed. "Remember when you threw me out of class for braiding his hair? He used to sit in front of me, remember?"
"As I recall, I threw you out of class on a regular basis. You never would shut up." I smiled, the memories suddenly sharp and clear as yesterday.
"Haven't changed much, in that respect."
"In any respect," I said, and I meant it.
"Sure, what's seventy pounds and some gray hair?" She paused and looked down over the railing at the dog, who was digging busily in the backyard. "Damn dog," she muttered affectionately. "So, Michael, what are you up to these days?"
I gave her a brief sketch of my teaching gig at the university, the book I was working on, and went on to mention the Wilde Nights rehearsal.
"God, yes! I went to the first one and sat front row center. Ronnie threw me a rose. I went last year too. He was getting quite sick then, but he did one terrific, show-stopping number and still brought the house down. Did you see it?"
I nodded.
"I'm glad he had you at the end, Michael. I'm no good with sickness. But you, his first love, you were there, at the beginning, and the end. That was important to him."
I felt a sudden surge of unwanted emotion. I took a drink of beer and cleared my throat. It was just an accident, I wanted to say. I didn't plan it that way. "I didn't realize you were such a sentimentalist," I said dryly.
"When you two broke up, he just fell apart," Monica went on, ignoring me. "He got real wild. I vividly remember my birthday in June
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