Chris tossed the old tan suitcase on the bed and hung up its matching suit bag in the closet. Immediately he searched for a courtesy bar. Finding none, he rang the bar and asked if they could send up a bottle of scotch. An agreeable feminine voice answered, "Yes sir, Mr. Timmons. Anything else?"

"That's it. Thanks." Chris hung up and tossed socks and underwear in a top drawer. Grabbing a remote control from the bedside table, he pushed numbers rapidly, taking note of digits representing ESPN and HBO. He opted for a baseball game that was just beginning.

He was already regretting the trip to his hometown. This was only his second time back to Guthrie since high school graduation. The first trip had been a quick three days of settling his father's affairs and putting the man in the ground. Chris was a junior in college back then and considered the funeral to be his swan song to Guthrie and his youth.

But now he had returned, and did not know why. He flew halfway across the country to a 20-year high school reunion. It was an event which prompted no curiosity in him. There were no life-changing inspirational teachers to thank; no close running buddies to catch up with; or, any old flame that prompted, 'What if?'

A knock on the door interrupted his self-questioning and sent him to answer.

A smiling young man stood there with scotch and an ice bucket. "Thought you might want ice."

"Thank you." Timmons gave the boy five dollars and watched him walk down the 3rd floor hallway. Shutting the door, he placed the bucket on a desk and filled a glass with only scotch. Tossing his shoes off, he plopped down on the bed and turned up the TV...The Cubs were batting in the bottom of the 2nd inning and already trailing.

Six innings and four glasses of scotch later, a loud commotion stirred Chris from half sleep. He sat up and set his empty glass on the night table. The noise continued outside the room for a couple of minutes until something banged against his door. The noise stopped with the bang.

"What the hell?" muttered Chris as he stood and walked across the room. Bolstered by the scotch, he turned the bolt lock and quickly swung the door wide open. The hallway looked peaceful and empty except for two items on the carpet at his feet.Reaching down, Chris picked up a thick book and a newspaper sports section.

The sports was from the Guthrie Gazette, dated, 'November 1, 1992'. He took them both back into the room and sat on the bed. He began reading a newspaper story he was quite familiar with... Hell, he had lived it. Headlined 'Terriers Take Title', he read with fresh drink in hand:
"The Guthrie High Terriers won the District 19 football championship Friday night defeating the Cawthorne Chiefs, 8-7, in a tense defensive battle between the two rivals.
Trailing 2-7, Christopher Timmons put the Terriers ahead when he fell on a fumble in the end zone with 29 seconds remaining in the game. The ball had been fumbled by star Terrier quarterback Josh Phillips after he ran 18 yards around his own right end. Phillips was sandwiched at the 1-yard line by two Chief linebackers and dropped the ball, which then rolled into the end zone where tight end Timmons alertly fell on it. After missing the extra point, Guthrie kicked off, played defense for two Chief plays and secured the district win."


"Yea, that was it, my high school glory days," mused Chris. Lasted through the weekend and into the following Monday's morning classes. My so-called buddy, Josh, pointed out on the way to the shower that if I had run the correct pass pattern, I would have been nowhere near the fumbled ball.

"Wouldn't put it past the SOB to have put this in the hallway and make all the damn noise." Chris, having set the paper on the bed, was talking to the glass in his hand. "I'll ask him tomorrow at the reunion. He'll be there".

"What about this book?" It also looked familiar. A gray worn cover with title in blue, The Best Loved Poems of the American People. Flipping open the front cover, he instantly recognized 'his' book. Inscribed in black ink was "To Chris, from Aunt Marian". He was 12 when his aunt had given him the book. He figured he had lost it sometime while in high school. Now here it was, but something was different.

Below his aunt's note, another was written. In a fresher, brighter red ink, "Go to page 547, if you dare." Chris reread the challenge and then turned the pages. On 547, he found a poem entitled "On the Threshold". Underlined in the same red ink was the line, 'There is nothing left to live for and I long to be alone.' Written in the right margin with the same red ink, "Confused? Try memory lane. Go to page 526."

A curious Chris followed instructions. There in red ink, 'I kissed you. The impulse as suddenly came, as that cold-looking cloud is transformed into flame.' Again, separate from the poetry, "Who am I? Look at the black-and-white clue. Then, go to page 44."

He did not turn the page. Chris poured, then sipped, deciding to slow down. "Why would anyone go to this effort for a class reunion?" he asked himself. "And who?" He got up and went to the bathroom deep in thought. On his way back, he announced to the room, "The newspaper is the clue."

Chris recalled game details, his temporary god-like status, and a weekend of unprecedented worship from many who had never given him the time of day. Even Josh had deemed it appropriate to take Chris on a double date with two cheerleaders. To quote the quarterback, "To the victors, belong the spoils, and Chris old buddy, you made us victors, by accident or not."


Then it came to him, and it had nothing to do with cheerleaders. The poetry had to do with an earlier incident at Josh's house. This conclusion made Chris a little uneasy.

It happened the Saturday afternoon following the big Friday night victory. Chris was to swing by Josh's house, pick him up, and then get their dates on the way to a cabin on Lake Guthrie. Josh's cabin, Josh's girls, so Chris's car. A fair deal for such a unique opportunity.

When he arrived for the pickup, Josh met him at the door. Said he was behind and hadn't even showered yet. Adding that waiting would be good for the girls, he told Chris to have a seat on the couch and watch TV. Josh then headed upstairs while Chris obeyed.

Five minutes later, Chris was no longer alone. Standing across the living room was Josh's younger sister. He had met her a couple of times. Kind of thin, long-haired brunette who seemed shy. "Waiting for Josh," he offered.

"Remember me. Julia, the sister of Mr. All-state."

"Sure, I remember you. Ninth grader, right?"

"A very mature ninth grader." She parked herself on the couch next to Chris. "You senior football players going for some pom-pom action this weekend?'

Chris felt her presence in his space. A little uncomfortable, he looked at her and made himself see the young girl and ignore the early stages of an emerging older beauty. "You shouldn't talk like that. You're just a kid. Also, not your business."

"Maybe in your eyes, but that will change. You go ahead and sew some wild oats. A hero's just reward. I can live with that. But remember, you will be marrying me. We are going to have three children, only one boy. It's meant to be."

Chris jumped up, "Girl, you're young, and you're crazy." Julia jumped up as fast as her intended, hugged him and planted a wet one on his lips. Backing off about a foot, she looked straight at him, announcing, "Chris Timmons, you are the one."

Then he lost himself, "Come here." Chris grabbed Julia, squeezed her desperately and began kissing her. He ran his fingers through her long black hair. He felt female form under her nondescript outfit. Then, he noticed his hands begin to roam and he stopped. Pushing her welcome warmth away, "This is not happening."

"Okay. Okay." Julia was catching her breath and attempting to get control of her own strange feelings. "We have our whole lives and I'm not sure the time is right. Boy, my hair is a mess. Josh should be down soon. Make sure you keep in touch. I'll be waiting. Don't forget." She rambled as she moved away. Chris absentmindedly promised as she exited, "I'll call you. See you soon."

He hadn't meant to say anything. While he waited for Josh, he sought understanding and found none. The situation and his resulting feelings were new unknowns. And like most humans, he feared the unknown. Therefore, as a confused teenager he chose the easy path... He would avoid the unknown and not attempt to conquer it. Chris would never call her.


Draining his glass, Chris uttered, "Well. That's it." He now turned the page to 44, where he found 'You kissed me! My head drooped low on your breast, with a feeling of shelter and infinite rest.' Scribbled to the left, "But I never saw you again, coward." Go to page 8.

Ignoring the name calling, Chris turned to 8. 'Then, alas, can hearts so harden? Without ever asking pardon, threw me back in the garden...There to die.' A longer comment, below the poem this time, "If you've read this far, you've given me more time tonight than you have since that Saturday afternoon long ago. Return to page 547."

Chris was hesitant to continue. He did not like the word 'die'. The poetry trail had turned negative. This wasn't a reunion prank. This girl was blaming him for an unhappy life. Sure, he had indicated he would stay in touch, but hell, she was a ninth grader and he was on his way to the lake with a cheerleader. He must avoid any chance of seeing her.

Thinking it an odd direction, he returned to page 547. Was he to reread the first line presented? Chris looked at the page and was startled to see new underlining on a page he had looked at about 45 minutes earlier. This was not possible. The old underlining was gone, new lines selected. No one else had been in the hotel room.

Chris looked around and then read the lines out loud, 'I am void of all ambition, I am dead of every hope; the coil of life has ended...I'm letting go the rope.' There was also a new margin note, which he read to himself, "Goodbye. Love, Julia." As he finished reading, a lipstick print of a kiss appeared below Julia's name.

Panic struck Chris. He pushed the book away. Although it was 10:45, he retrieved some reunion paperwork from a coat pocket. He found the phone number for Josh Phillips. With shaking hand, he dialed, not knowing what he was going to say. It rang and a male answered, "Hello."
"Hello. May I speak to Mr. Phillips, please?" Chris was to calm down.
"This is Josh Phillips. May I help you?"
"Josh, this Chris Timmons. In town for the reunion. Sorry to call so late. Thought I'd touch bases with you."
"Well, Chris, good to hear from you. And don't worry about the lateness. Sadly, the family is up tonight. We've suffered a terrible tragedy this week. My sister, Julia. You may remember her. Anyway, they found her body in the lake Tuesday and tonight was visitation at the funeral home. We just got back."
Chris, body shaking, "Sorry to hear that. I do remember meeting her. Was it an accident?"
"Police say suicide. She has always been a little different. You know, sort of a quirky spinster, but I never thought this would happen. Not quite 35 years old. The funeral is Saturday, noon. You can come by if you want. Otherwise, I'll be in and out of the reunion."
"Josh, I'll let you know. Again, I'm sorry for your family's loss." Chris hung up.


Chris had no more scotch. The next morning he remembered crying himself to sleep. Getting up and packing were a chore with little sleep and his hangover. He threw the old newspaper away but could not find the poetry book. Chris left without it on a 9:30 plane back to Los Angeles.