Class of 69 The reunion dance had started only an hour ago, but already a good many of the dancers were tipsy, and most others were well along, and now the gossip was flowing and confessions were under way and old flames were being extinguished and rekindled under cardboard stars in the Darton Hall College gymnasium. Amy Robinson was telling Jan Huebner, a former roommate, about the murder last year of Karen Burns, another former roommate. "Its such a Karen sort of thing," Amy said. "Getting killed like that. Nobody else. Only Karen." "Right," Jan said. She waited a moment. "Move your tongue, sugar. Details." Amy made a weary, dispirited movement with her shoulders. "Nothing new, Im afraid. Same old Karen story, naive as a valentine. Trust the world. Get squished." "Poor girl," Jan said. "Poor woman," said Amy. Jan winced and said, "Woman, corpse, whatever. Still single, I suppose? Karen?" "Naturally." "And some guy -?" "Naturally." "God," Jan said. "Yeah, yeah," said Amy. Earlier in the evening, they had liberated a bottle of Darton Hall vodka, which was now almost gone, and both of them were feeling the sting of strong spirits and misplaced sentiment. They were fifty-three years old. They were drunk. They were divorced. Time and heartbreak had exacted a toll. Amy Robinson still had her boyish figure, her button nose and freckles, but collegiate perkiness had been replaced by something taut and haggard. Jan Huebner had never been perky. Shed never been pretty, or cute, or even passable, and at the moment her bleached hair and plucked eyebrows and Midnight Plum lipstick offered only the most dubious correctives. "What I love about men," Jan was saying, "is their basic overall cockiness. That much I adore. Follow me?" "I do," said Amy. "Take away that, what the heck have you got?" "Youve got zero." "Ha!" said Jan. "Cheers," said Amy. "Pricks," said Jan. They fell quiet then, sipping vodka, watching the class of 69 rediscover itself on a polished gymnasium dance floor. Unofficially, this was a thirtieth reunion - one year tardy due to someones oversight, an irony that had been much discussed over cocktails that evening, and much joked about, though not yet entirely deciphered. Still, it made them feel special. And so, too, did the fact that they were convening on a deserted campus, in the heart of summer, more than a month after the standard graduation-day gatherings. The school had a forlorn, haunted feel to it, many memories, many ghosts, which seemed appropriate. "Well," Jan Huebner finally said. "Bad news, of course - Karens dead. But heres some good news. Gal never went through a divorce." "Thats a fact," said Amy. "I mean, ouch." "Ouch is accurate," Amy said. Jan nodded. "Twenty-nine years, almost thirty, and guess what? That slick ex-hubby of mine, Richard the Oily, he grins and waves at me and strolls out the door. Doesnt walk, doesnt run. Strolls. Talk about mu Excerpted from July, July: A Novel by Tim O'Brien All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
