I Was There the Night He Died by Ray Robertson Read Free Book Online Page A

gets busy, begins adding width and weight to the thin arm holding the sunglasses; appends an additional couple chins to the one that’s already there; discerns a neck where there once was just shoulders directly melded to head; registers the kind, lettuce-green eyes that were always Rachel’s. Rachel Turnbal’s.
    â€˜My God,” I say, “I’m sorry, it’s been … How are you?”
    â€œDo you want a ride?”
    â€œThat would be great.”
    Waiting as long as the honking traffic behind her will allow, “Why don’t you get in, then?”
    I jog around to the other side of the car and get in.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Rachel says, putting the Beemer in gear and rocketing us off.
    â€œNo Frills.”
    â€œNo Frills it is.” Which, after she shifts gears again, will be in approximately seven seconds the way we’re flying down Lacroix Street. I double-check to see if my seat belt is fastened.
    By determinedly avoiding looking at her, I’m sure I’m only confirming her suspicion of what I’m thinking, which she seems content to let me do. She probably gets this a lot. How many people, after all, get to become another person?
    â€œSo the famous writer comes back home. The famous novelist.”
    Unbelievable: someone from my graduating high-school class of nearly a quarter-century ago has actually read my books. With an exaggerated grimace like she’s just turned around at the bar and spilt her drink all down the front of my shirt, “Although I’m afraid I haven’t read any of them,” she says. “I’m a public school teacher. I haven’t had time to read something I didn’t have to teach in ten years, and when I do finally have some time to myself, the last thing I want to do is look at words on a page. I didn’t actually know you were a writer until I saw that article in the Chatham Daily News the last time you were here, when you were doing something at one of the high schools, I think. What was that, a couple of years ago now?”
    â€œAbout that,” I say. “Actually, I was at CCI.” CCI is Chatham Collegiate Institute, our alma mater. “No one left from our time, though. Except for Mrs. Adams.”
    â€œMrs. Adams: Mrs. Creepy Crawler.” Mrs. Adams was CCI’s biology teacher when Rachel was my grade ten lab partner. We dissected our first worms together.
    â€œShe looked pretty good,” I say. “About as good as she did back then, at least.”
    â€œAnd here we are,” Rachel says, and she isn’t kidding, whipping into the No Frills parking lot on what feels like two wheels before stopping directly out front of its doors. “I’d love to get caught up, but I was supposed to be at my parents’ house for dinner half an hour ago.”
    â€œNo problem,” I say.
    I’m standing on the frozen blacktop with my hands in my coat pockets when Rachel says, “I suppose you heard they’re trying to shut down CCI?”
    â€œNo. I hadn’t.” Uncle Donny’s field of gossip extends only as far as personal misfortune and the flagrant misuse of taxpayer money. “Why would they want to do that?”
    â€œOh, the usual reason—money. Here.” She reaches into her purse and produces a pen and a scrap of paper which she scribbles on, pen cap in mouth, before handing it to me. “Call me if you’re interested in being on a committee some of the alumni and parents are organizing to try and save it. It mostly means putting your name on petitions, but the more people involved the better.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œOh, what am I thinking? You’re probably only in town for just a few days, right? Are you visiting your parents or something like that?”
    â€œNo, I—Yeah, something like that. Anyway, I’m going to be around for awhile.”
    â€œThat’s great. I guess.” Rachel roars the