A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [106]
“I wonder who among us will be the first grandparent,” Nora mused.
“Oh jeez,” Bill said, “what a way to spoil a good meal.”
Agnes calculated. It would not be Nora or Rob or herself. Unlikely to be Jerry. That left only Bill and Bridget and Harrison. Melissa was staring at her lap, and Matt looked as though he wished himself a hundred miles away.
“Does anyone know what happened to Artie Cohen?” Agnes asked, trying to change the subject. Artie, one of their fellow students in Jim Mitchell’s class, had been a particular friend of Stephen’s.
“I heard he ended up in Indonesia,” Rob said, “but I’m not sure.”
“Doing what?” Jerry asked.
“Medicine maybe?” Rob said. “Peace corps kind of thing? I think I might have read that about ten years ago.”
“Good for him,” Agnes said.
“Does anyone else get the alumni bulletin?” Rob asked.
“I do,” Agnes said. She studied the bulletin each time it came out, looking to see who worked where, who had married whom, who had died. “You all knew that Joe Masse died, right?” Agnes asked.
“A car accident?” Rob asked.
“He was in a small plane that crashed at a ski area in northern Italy.”
“I heard that,” Jerry said.
“Sad,” Nora said.
“Does anyone ever talk to Stephen’s dad?” Jerry asked.
Nora glanced at Harrison and back at Jerry. “I do,” she said. “I visit from time to time, usually on my way to Boston.”
“He still in Wellesley?” Jerry asked.
“Yes. In that enormous house. All by himself,” Nora added.
Harrison, who had been drinking red, signaled the waiter for another glass of wine.
“What happened to his wife?” Jerry asked.
Agnes could feel the collective tension of the thirteen souls at the table. Harrison, chin resting on his hand, was staring out a dark window. Jerry, perched forward, elbows on the table, was listening intently. Rob cast a look at Josh as if to say, I’ll tell you later. Even Nora, who always seemed calm, nibbled at her nail. “Gone,” Nora said. “Left after Stephen died. I think that’s what happened.”
Agnes cut into the fish. The sauce was particularly good. Some sort of grain (rice?) appeared to be green, though the light was so low, it was hard to tell.
“Does anyone know what happened to old Fitz?” Rob asked, referring to their art teacher at Kidd. “Remember he just picked up in the middle of our senior year and quit?”
“Jim Mitchell once told me he quit because he’d had this panicky sense he had to start painting,” Agnes said.
“You mean like oil painting?” Jerry asked.
“Some kind of painting,” Agnes said.
“So what happened?” Jerry asked.
“Couldn’t make a living at it. He couldn’t get a gallery. Last I heard, he was teaching history in Nyack, New York.”
“Wow,” said Rob, a kind of hollow and empty wow.
“Guys,” Jerry said in an animated voice. “Remember the time Mr. Mitchell caught us smoking weed behind the field house after practice?”
“I certainly do,” Harrison said.
“Who was there?” Jerry said. “You, me, Rob, Bill . . .” Jerry suddenly remembered Melissa and Matt at the table and quickly amended his statement. “No. Bill. You weren’t there.”
Bill chuckled.
“But Stephen,” Jerry said. “He was there, right?”
“Stephen was there,” Harrison said quietly.
“And we’re like . . . swallowing the smoke, standing on the roaches. Mitchell knew, right?”
“Of course he knew,” Harrison said.
“Yeah,” Jerry said admiringly. “Mitchell was the man. Never said a word. We could have been expelled.”
“We certainly could have,” Harrison said, taking another sip of wine. “Closest I ever came.”
Tell them now, Agnes thought, feeling a pressure build inside her chest.
“It was so stupid,” Harrison said. He turned and looked pointedly in Matt’s direction. “Never smoke marijuana,” he added. It occurred to Agnes then that Harrison might be just a little bit drunk.
“On school grounds,” Rob added.
“Immediately after a game,” Jerry said.
“When a teacher might be around,” Harrison cautioned.
“Yeah, Mitchell,” Jerry said, sighing. “He was great.