|I’ll admit, it’s Rebecca Ramsey I’d most like to see tonight. Everyone on the reunion committee talks about how she held off Henry Sturdevant all those years ago. Henry was six-four, about two twenty. Like the Colossus of Rhodes in motion. When he wasn’t rifling passes into the end zone on Friday nights, he was blasting it in himself.
Henry planned a few night games with Rebecca as soon as she moved into town that fall. Minister’s daughter, knockout. Perfect posture, and Henry said he’d get her horizontal before the leaves fell. Liquid chocolate eyes behind those cat’s eye glasses paralyzed my tongue every time I tried to croak hello. Henry said he’d have her glasses off before Halloween. Blouse buttons on a curving path up to her perfect chin made my throat go tight. Henry said his fingers would walk that path by Thanksgiving.
Wonder if he’s still pulling that same stuff, wherever he is?
I arranged to sit next to Rebecca in trig that year. One day I said, “Watch out for Henry, Rebecca.” She looked at me and smiled.
Henry wouldn’t give up that year. He picked her up for Prom already drunk. Stayed upright for conversation with Rev. and Mrs. Ramsey in the living room, bid them good evening, pulled open a door, and walked into the closet. On Monday, I asked her in trig, “How did your father let you leave the house with him?” She looked at me and smiled.
I doubt she’ll show tonight – we couldn’t even find her address. I’m watching the door. Wonder if she still has a face that glows like a Rembrandt?
Wait, here she comes. I can’t believe it. She’s with Henry, and look at him. A minister’s collar. Rebecca walks up, looks at me, and smiles.