Of course, those teachers must long since be dead. And as Devon looked my way, for a moment I envied them.
He had a glass of red wine in his hand, and he was wearing a dark gray suit. There was no sign of recognition on his face. Still, he came over. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Devon Smith.”
I was too flustered to speak, and, after a moment, he went on. “You’re not wearing your nametag.”
He was right; it was still in my hand, along with the drink chits. I thought about just turning and walking away. But no, no—I couldn’t do that. Not to him. Not again.
“Sorry,” I said, and that one word embarrassed me further. I lifted my hand, opened my palm, showing the nametag held within.
He stared at it as though I’d shown him a crucifixion wound.
“It’s you,” he said, and his gaze came up to my face, his brown eyes wide.
“Hello, Devon,” I said. I’d been a singer; I still had good breath control. My voice did not crack.
He was silent for a time, and then he lifted his shoulders, a small shrug, as if he’d decided not to make a big thing of it. “Hello,” he replied. And then he added, presumably because politeness demanded it, “It’s good to see you.” But his words were flat.
“How have you been?” I asked.
He shrugged again, this time as if acknowledging the impossibility of my question. How has anyone been for six decades? How does one sum up the bulk of a lifetime in a few words?
“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ve had …” But whatever it was he’d had remained unsaid. He looked away and took a sip of his wine. Finally, he spoke again. “I used to follow your career.”
“It had its ups and downs,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
“That song …” he began, but didn’t finish.
There was no need to specify which song. The one I’d written about him. The one I’d written about what I did to him. It was one of my few really big hits, but I’d never intended to grow rich off my—off our—pain.
“They still play it from time to time,” I said.
Devon nodded. “I heard it on an oldies station last month.”
Oldies. I shuddered.
“So, tell me,” I said, “do you have kids?”
“Three,” said Devon. “Two boys and a girl.”
“And grandkids?”
“Eight,” said Devon. “Ages two through ten.”
“Immortality.” I hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but there it was, the word floating between us. Devon had his immortality through his genes. And, I suppose, he had a piece of mine, too, for every time someone listened to that song, he or she would wonder if it was autobiographical, and, if so, who the beautiful young black man in my past had been.
“Your wife?” I asked.
“She passed away five years ago.” He was holding his wineglass in his left hand; he still wore a ring.
“I’m sorry.”
“What about you?” asked Devon. “Any family?”
I shook my head. We were quiet a while. I was wondering what color his wife had been.
“A lot has changed in sixty years,” I said, breaking the silence.
He looked over toward the entrance, perhaps hoping somebody else would arrive so he could beg off. “A lot,” he agreed. “And yet …”
I nodded. And yet, there still hadn’t been a black president or vice-president.
And yet, the standard of living of African-Americans was still lower than that of whites—not only meaning a shorter natural life expectancy, but also that far fewer of them could afford the array of treatments available to the rich.
And yet, just last week, they’d picked the person who would be the first to set foot on Mars. Of course it was a man, I’d thought bitterly when the announcement was made. Perhaps Devon had greeted the news with equal dismay, thinking, Of course he’s white.
Suddenly I heard my name being called. I turned around, and there was Madeline Green. She was easy to recognize; she’d clearly had all sorts of treatments. Her face was smooth, her hair the same reddish-brown I remembered from her genuine youth. How she’d recognized me, though, I didn’t know. Perhaps she’d overheard me talking to Devon, and had identified me by my voice, or perhaps just the fact that I was talking to Devon had been clue enough.
“Why, Madeline!” I said, forcing a smile. “How good to see you!” I turned to Devon. “You remember Devon Smith?”
“How could I forget?” said Madeline. He was proffering his hand, and, after a moment, she took it.
“Hello, Madeline,” said Devon. “You look fabulous.”
It had been what Madeline had wanted to hear, but I’d been too niggardly to offer up.
Niggardly. A perfectly legitimate word—from the Scandinavian for “stingy,” if I remembered correctly. But also a word I never normally used, even in my thoughts. And yet it had come to mind just now, recalling, I supposed, what Madeline had called Devon behind his back all those years ago.
Devon lifted his wineglass. “I need a refill,” he said.
The last time I’d looked, he’d still had half a glass; I wondered if he’d quickly drained it when he saw Madeline approaching, giving him a way to exit gracefully, although whether it was me or Madeline he wanted to escape, I couldn’t say. In any event, Devon was now moving off, heading toward the cafeteria table that had been set up as a makeshift bar.
“I bought your albums,” said Madeline, now squeezing my hand. “Of course, they were all on vinyl. I don’t have a record player anymore.”
“They’re available on CD,” I said. “And for download.”
“Are they now?” replied Madeline, sounding surprised. I guess she thought of my songs as artifacts of the distant past.
And perhaps they were—although, as I looked over at Devon’s broad back, it sure didn’t feel that way.
“Welcome back, class of Nineteen Sixty-Three!”
We were all facing the podium, next to the table with the portable stereo. Behind the podium, of course, was Pinky Spenser—although I doubt anyone had called him “Pinky” for half a century. He’d been student-council president, and editor of the school paper, and valedictorian, and on and on, so he was the natural MC for the evening. Still, I was glad to see that for all his early success, he, too, looked old.
There were now perhaps seventy-five people present, including twenty like Madeline who had been able to afford rejuvenation treatments. Id had a chance to chat briefly with many of them. They’d all greeted me like an old friend, although I couldn’t remember ever being invited to their parties or along on their group outings. But now, because I’d once been famous, they all wanted to say hello. They hadn’t had the time of day for me back when we’d been teenagers, but doubtless, years later, had gone around saying to people, “You’ll never guess who I went to school with!”
“We have a bunch of prizes to give away,” said Pinky, leaning into the mike, distorting his own voice; part of me wanted to show him how to use it properly. “First, for the person who has come the farthest …”
Pinky presented a half-dozen little trophies. I’d had awards enough in my life, and didn’t expect to get one tonight—nor did I. Neither did Devon.
“And now” said Pinky, “although it’s not from 1963, I think you’ll all agree that this is appropriate …”
He leaned over and put a new disk in the portable stereo. I could see it from here; it was a CD-ROM that someone had burned at home. Pinky pushed the play button, and …