Dedication
"That was 'Your Wildest Dreams' by the Moody Blues here on 96.5 WOAR, where the hits keep coming. Well, all you night owls, we're approaching the hour of 4:00 a.m. and our news update with Sean McDonnell followed by our AccuWeather forecast with meteorologist Mel Coakley. Then stay tuned because Laura Whiting will take over the helm and get you through the early morning rush hour. I'm Bart Fontana, and I'd like to thank you for keeping me company in the late-night hours. It's just about time for me to go home and go to bed, but first I have a personal dedication going out to the lovely Linda. This one's for you, honey."
Bart pushed a button on the console, and Roy Orbison's "Crying" began to play. The late-night deejay sang along with the record as he picked up his coffee cup, newspaper and car keys.
"I was all right, for a while ...."
Laura Whiting, who looked like she'd just gotten out of bed—which she probably had—entered the studio with a large Starbucks café latte in hand.
"Good night, Laura," Bart called cheerfully as he headed for the door.
"Good morning, Bart," she answered sleepily as she slipped into the chair he had vacated.
Bart headed out to his car, still singing the Orbison classic.
"Now you're gone, and from this moment on I'll be crying."
Bart had been a disc jockey with WOAR for over twenty years, and during that time, there had been a multitude of songs sent out to Linda. In fact, his nightly dedication to her had become his trademark. As Carol Burnett had once tugged on her ear at the end of every episode of her television show, so too did Bart Fontana end each broadcast with a dedication to his high school sweetheart. The songs had covered the full spectrum of WOAR's music library and spanned more than fifty years of rock 'n' roll music, from Elvis Presley's "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" and Smokey Robinson's "The Tears of a Clown" to U2's "With or Without You" and the Beatles' "Yesterday." All the songs, from doo-wop to disco, had one thing in common: they all dealt with sadness, loneliness and lost love.
When still a rookie at WOAR, Bart had been given the station's late-night time slot, one that the other deejays—who, for the most part, were married with families—had quickly rejected. No one wanted to work from midnight to four. Much to management's surprise, however, Bart liked the graveyard shift. True, he could never get the salary or fame that was accorded to J.J. Blocker, the station's eight-to-twelve prime-time deejay, but neither did he have the pressures that the dynamic J.J. had. Bart could take things at a slower pace. He had no traffic to or from work, no trouble finding a parking spot and not nearly as many younger, hungrier kids fresh out of broadcasting school eager to take his job.
Also, Bart preferred the music that was programmed for his time slot to the more modern hits his colleagues had to play since his audience consisted mainly of insomniacs and men and women who worked the nightshifts at hospitals, factories and all-night diners. And while his listeners were not content with the sleep-inducing melodies of Musak, neither were they interested in the top hits of the latest generation of MTV viewers.
Bart made it home in under ten minutes, as the roads at that hour were, as usual, deserted. Within an hour of entering his apartment, he was sound asleep in his queen-sized bed.
He woke just after noon and made himself a bowl of Cheerios and a cup of coffee, a quick breakfast that he ate while reading his email. While scanning through various newsletters, short messages from friends and relatives and his daily dose of cartoons and jokes, Bart found a communication from Sidney Farrell, an old classmate at high school.
What the devil does he want? he wondered when he saw Farrell's name appear in his Outlook Express inbox.
Bart clicked open the email message and read it. Sidney explained that he was one of seven people who had volunteered to locate and contact the members of their graduating class regarding their thirtieth reunion. Had it really been thirty years since he had donned the blue graduation cap and gown and said goodbye to Memorial High School? Thirty years since he'd last seen Linda?
* * *
Linda Billingsley was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl Bart Fontana had ever laid eyes on. Her light blond hair hung down her shoulders like cascading strands of golden silk, and her violet-blue eyes sparkled with humor, intelligence and a touch of mischief. Bart and Linda met at the tender age of fourteen and, young though they were, fell deeply in love. They dated throughout high school, and close friends and family predicted the two would marry after graduation. Linda thought so, too.
Bart, however, at eighteen was not yet ready to barter his freedom for the confining reins of matrimony, even to his beloved Linda. He had every intention of marrying her eventually, but not until he first savored the sweet taste of independence. It never occurred to him that Linda might not be willing to wait for him.
Two months after high school graduation, Linda went south to attend college, and Bart headed west to broaden his horizons. He hitchhiked across the country, working his way through small Midwestern towns by washing dishes, mowing lawns and doing odd jobs. He then spent the following year traveling the length of the West Coast as a roadie with a second-rate rock band.
During that time, his contact with Linda had been sporadic and most often one-sided. He would hastily scribble a short letter or a two-line postcard when time permitted, which wasn't often. Since he was constantly on the move, traveling from one venue to another, he never included a return address.
Finally, after three years of this nomadic existence, Bart purchased a Greyhound ticket and headed back east. His oats sewn, his hunger for travel and independence sated, he was ready to settle down and get married. When he arrived home, though, he learned to his horror that Linda Billingsley had become Linda Turner—Mrs. Rory Turner of Morristown, New Jersey.
Bart's heart was broken, but he bore the newlyweds no ill will. He'd had his chance and had blown it. Rory Turner, to his credit, hadn't been so stupid. Bart sent the Turners a gift and a card congratulating the couple on their marriage and wishing them both much happiness. It was the final contact Bart ever had with his lovely Linda, except for his nightly dedications, which he assumed, because she lived in New Jersey, she never heard.
* * *
When Bart finished reading the email message from Sidney Farrell, his first instinct was to delete it. After all, he didn't attend any of his other class reunions; why should he attend this one? He never liked school, nor did he care for most of his former classmates. In the thirty years since he received his diploma, he had thought of only one of them: Linda Billingsley. Perhaps she would attend the class reunion.
What does she look like after thirty years? he wondered.
Had her slender figure filled out? Had the pale blond hair given way to gray? Were those violent-blue eyes surrounded by the tiny lines and wrinkles of advancing age? Was she still married? If so, did she have any children? There was always the possibility that she was divorced or even widowed. Bart was surprised by the way his heart leaped at the thought of Linda being single and available. But what if she wasn't? What if she was still happily married to Rory Turner? Bart could be letting himself in for disappointment and further heartbreak. Should he take the chance?
The memory of that pale blond hair, those violet-blue eyes and that sweet but sassy smile made up Bart's mind. If there was even a remote possibility of seeing his beloved Linda again, he was not about to pass it up. He moved the mouse, clicked on his Outlook Express REPLY icon and sent his RSVP to Sidney Farrell.
* * *
"That was Bon Jovi with 'It's My Life,' and this is Bart Fontana here with you on 96.5 WOAR, where the hits keep coming. We've got Sean McDonnell coming up at 4:00 with your news and traffic update followed by Mel Coakley with your AccuWeather forecast. Laura Whiting is standing by to get you through the early morning hours—whether you're coming home from work or just waking up. As for yours truly, I'm ready to call it a night. But before I leave you, I have yet another dedication for my beautiful Linda."
As the Guess Who's "These Eyes" carried his melancholy message over the airwaves, Bart took a few moments to speak to Laura Whiting.
"Do you remember the name of that men's clothing store on Route 16, the place that rents formal wear?"
"How can I forget?" Laura asked with a laugh. "For the past thirteen years, I've played that jingle every half an hour come prom time. It's called Tux Deluxe. Clever, huh? Why? Are you going to a wedding?"
"No, my high school class reunion—number thirty. It's being held at the Curtisburg Country Club. All very posh and expensive, and naturally I don't have a thing to wear."
"You're beginning to sound like me," Laura declared, taking the seat at the console.
"But I mean it. My wardrobe consists of jeans and tee shirts. Anyway, I'm out of here," Bart said. "I need some sleep."
"Pleasant dreams," Laura replied, reaching for the earphones.
As Bart left the studio, Burton Cummings was belting out the final chorus of his song: "These eyes have seen a lot of love, but they're never gonna see another woman like I had with you."
Bart's thoughts again strayed to Linda. What would he say to her after all these years? Of course, there was no guarantee that she would even attend the reunion. She might still be living in New Jersey; in which case it was doubtful she'd make the three-hundred-mile trip to renew her acquaintance with some old classmates. But, a strange feeling—call it intuition—told him that Linda would be there and, consequently, so would he.
In the weeks preceding the Memorial High School class reunion, Bart paid an unusual amount of attention to his appearance. He dieted and jogged and, as a result, lost nearly fifteen pounds. Although never a vain man, he went to a chic men's hair salon where he had his thinning locks cut and styled and had a bit of color added, leaving just a few strands of gray near the temples to give him a distinguished look. He even went so far as to have a professional manicure for the occasion.
On the night of the class reunion, Bart critically examined his reflection in a full-length mirror. The stylish tux fit like a glove. Those fifteen pounds made quite a difference. Normally a modest man, he had to admit that the intervening thirty years had not taken too great a toll on his appearance. If, by chance, Linda was available, she would no doubt be favorably impressed by how attractive her former beau still looked.
"Eat your heart out, honey," he said and laughed at his reflection.
For the past several weeks, Bart had a pet fantasy in which he met a somewhat overweight, but nonetheless attractive and desirable Linda at the reunion. She would be dazzled by Bart's appearance and embarrassed by that of her husband, Rory, a fat, bald, middle-aged failure with a penchant for strong drink and young women. Bart and Linda would no doubt have an affair. She might even leave her worthless husband and beg Bart to marry her. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't. He laughed. Who was he kidding? As if he could ever say "no" to those violet-blue eyes.
* * *
Bart felt a nervous spasm in the pit of his stomach as he drove down First Street toward the Curtisburg Country Club. At the main entrance, a uniformed parking attendant gave him a call tag in exchange for the keys to his old Legacy wagon. The rusty Subaru would probably stick out like the proverbial sore thumb in a lot filled with late model, fully-loaded Audis, BMWs and the occasional Mercedes.
As soon as Bart crossed the threshold of the country club, his eyes scanned the elegantly furnished and decorated lobby, but he saw no familiar faces. A sign pointed him in the direction of the ballroom, where the reunion was to be held. He passed through the doors into a surreal world of people who were both familiar and yet strange. These middle-aged adults seemed like caricatures of the teenagers he remembered. There were some he would not even have recognized were it not for the nametags they wore on their suit jackets and cocktail dresses.
It was sad to see the damage thirty years had wrought on the majority of those people. In most cases the hairlines had receded, slender bodies disappeared, muscle tone deteriorated and once firm breasts sagged. Bart could easily spot those in the crowd who had recent face-lifts or Botox injections, those who wore toupees or had undergone hair transplants and those whose once mousy brown hair was now dyed a bold blond, daring red or dramatic black.
Brock Westlake, now the mayor of Curtisburg, greeted people in the lobby.
"Bart! Glad you could make it this year," the politician said, rigorously pumping the deejay's arm with his handshake.
"Nice seeing you again, Brock."
The cocktail hour passed quickly. Many people came up and greeted him, but Bart wasn't sure if they actually remembered him from their high school days or whether they recognized his name from his WOAR broadcasts. As he sat down to dinner, Bart had yet to set eyes on Linda. Maybe his gut feeling had been wrong after all.
Oh, well! At least I'll get a good meal for my trouble, he thought, as the waitress brought out the salads and appetizers.
By the time he finished eating his French onion soup, Bart had more than enough of his stroll down memory lane. Was he the only one at the table who did not remember—or care about—the vice principal's alleged love affair with the girl's gym teacher, quarterback Dan Triano's game-winning touchdown against the Eastside High Whalers at the senior homecoming game or cheerleader Patty McBride's scandalously low-cut prom dress?
Bart took a long, slow sip from his glass of red wine to keep from crying out, "Who gives a shit? I'm only here to learn what became of Linda Billingsley-Turner."
But in all the talk of who had attended what college, who was now working for what company and what had become of those not in attendance, there was no mention of Linda.
Boredom soon set in. Bart found he had nothing in common with his dinner companions beyond the fact that they had attended the same high school and graduated the same year. His former classmates all worked nine-to-five jobs and had spouses (or ex-spouses), children (and, in some cases, grandchildren), mortgages and IRAs. All that could be said of Bart, on the other hand, was that he lived in a rented apartment, worked the graveyard shift at WOAR and carried an eternal torch for his long-lost Linda.
By the time the main course arrived, Bart's appetite was already sated. (He had never been a big eater.) He toyed with the thick slab of medium-rare prime rib on his plate, wishing he were home watching the Red Sox game or getting ready for his nightly broadcast. It had been a mistake to attend the reunion; he was having a terrible time. Finally, he politely excused himself and left the table on the pretext of visiting the men's room. When he exited the grand ballroom, however, he headed not toward the gentlemen's lounge but in the direction of the coat check room.
As he walked down the gold-carpeted hallway, he spotted a fair-haired woman in the lobby. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart fluttered in his chest. He had only gotten a glimpse of her face from the side, but it was a profile that was indelibly etched on his memory. Bart stood still, struck motionless with anticipation. The woman, having checked her coat, turned in his direction.
It must be the soft lighting, the forty-watt imitation candle bulbs in the chandeliers and wall sconces, he thought when he saw her face.
There was not a line or wrinkle to be found. The hair was still the same natural pale blond of her youth, untouched by gray. She walked closer toward him, a smile of recognition on her beautiful face.
"Hi, Bart," she said.
It was the same soft, sweet voice that echoed in his memories.
"Linda."
It was all he could say. He was too stunned by her closeness and her appearance to utter another word. As incredible as it seemed, she didn't look a day older than when he had last seen her.
"I knew you would be here," she said. "That's why I came. I had to travel a great distance, which is why I'm so late."
"So, you and Rory still live in New Jersey?"
"No," she said, briefly casting her eyes down. "I'm no longer married."
Bart couldn't help smiling. He had an irresistible impulse to reach out and caress Linda's silky blond hair. Instead, he offered her his arm.
"Shall we join our old classmates in the grand ballroom?"
Linda shook her head.
"I'm not interested in anyone in there. I only came here tonight to see you."
"Me, too," he confessed. "To tell the truth, I didn't like most of those people in high school. In all these years, I never thought of a single one of them—except you, Linda."
"I know," she said, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"I never stopped loving you," he admitted. "In thirty years, I've never met a woman who could compare with you."
"Oh, Bart," Linda cried. "I never meant to hurt you. I loved you very much, but I was so lonely when you went out west. Rory was fun to be with, and he was so good to me. But even though I fell in love with him, I never stopped loving you. I've always wanted you to know that, Bart."
"Shhh," he uttered, kissing her gently on the forehead.
How soft her skin was and how youthful her complexion still looked.
"Let's go somewhere else. My place isn't far from here, or maybe you'd prefer to just go get a cup of coffee."
"Thanks, I'd love to. Let me just fix my face," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes as she headed toward the ladies' room. While opening the restroom door, she turned to face him and repeated, "I loved you, Bart."
The lovesick deejay smiled as he watched the door close behind his long-lost love. He leaned against the wall, amazed at the sudden twist of fate.
I must be dreaming, he thought with overwhelming joy. Linda and I together—after all this time!
His mind conjured up delightful images of marriage, a three-bedroom house and perhaps even a child. Linda would be what—forty-seven now? It might not be too late.
"Bart?" he heard a voice call. "Bart Fontana. Great to see you!"
The deejay shook the outstretched hand and replied, "Sid. Lena. Nice to see you two again."
"You're not leaving so soon are you?" Sid Farrell asked. "The night's still young."
"Afraid so. I work the midnight-to-four shift at a radio station."
"You're the one who makes the nightly dedication to Linda. Right? Hey, wait a minute! You used to go out with Linda Billingsley, didn't you? So, she's the mysterious Linda. I'll be damned! You know, I ran into her last year when I was in New Jersey on business."
"Oh really?" Bart asked, with no real interest.
"Her illness may have left its mark on her, but she was still a fine-looking woman."
"Linda was ill?"
"Cancer," Sid acknowledged sadly. "She was as thin as a rail, and most of her hair had fallen out from the chemo, but she was still beautiful."
How was it, Bart wondered, that she looked so well now?
"I didn't know she was sick. She never said a word."
"Rory told me she was a rock, right up to the very end."
"What end?" Bart asked.
"Her death, of course," Sid replied awkwardly, wishing he hadn't brought up the subject.
"Linda isn't dead. She's here tonight. She just went into the ladies' room."
"That's not possible, Bart. Linda Turner died in January, shortly after Christmas."
"No. You're mistaken. I just spoke to her a few moments ago."
"Rory Turner himself phoned me with the news when he received the invitation I had emailed to Linda."
"No!" Bart cried and barged through the ladies' room door. "Linda," he called.
No one was in the lounge.
He walked into the lavatory. There was no one there either. He walked back out into the hall in a daze.
"She was here a few moments ago. I saw her with my own eyes. I spoke to her for Christ's sake!"
Sidney Farrell looked at him dubiously.
"Are you feeling all right, Bart?"
Bart paid no attention to Sid.
"Where could she have gone?" he asked himself.
He walked over to the hatcheck girl.
"Did you see the pretty blonde pass by here? The one who checked her coat a few minutes ago."
"No one's checked a coat here in nearly two hours," the girl told him.
"You must have seen her. A pretty woman with long blond hair who doesn't look much older than eighteen. She was wearing a blue cocktail dress."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't recall seeing anyone who fits that description."
* * *
Sid Farrell and his wife, Lena, were leaving the Curtisburg Country Club after the conclusion of Sid's thirty-fifth high school reunion. He handed the parking valet the key to his Lexus and said goodnight to his departing classmates.
There are fewer and fewer of them each year, he thought sadly.
As he waited for his car, he remembered the night of his tragic thirtieth reunion, five years earlier.
"Poor Bart Fontana!" he said.
His wife had been thinking of that awful night herself.
"I'm surprised someone didn't see it coming," Lena said. "After all, what man carries a torch for his high school sweetheart for thirty years?"
"But who would have expected him to fly off the deep end like that when he learned of Linda's death?"
"He was probably on the fast track to insanity for some time."
"I'll never forget that night, not in a million years. He actually believed he'd seen Linda. There was no convincing him otherwise. I can still hear him crying out to her as the paramedics took him away."
Lena shivered and hugged her arms across her chest.
"It's hard to believe he hanged himself later that same night," she said.
"Yeah, but maybe he's better off," her husband suggested.
"What a horrible thing to say!"
"Not really. Maybe he and Linda are together at last."
The valet pulled the Lexus up to the curb, and Sid and his wife got in and drove away. It was almost three in the morning, and Sid, tired of hearing the CD on his car stereo, pushed the scan button on his radio. The digital readout stopped at 96.5, and a familiar voice came over the airwaves.
"That was the Carpenters singing 'We've Only Just Begun,' I'm Bart Fontana here with you tonight and every night on WOAR, where the hits keep coming. That song—like all the others I play—is for my lovely Linda."
"Crying" - Words and music by Roy Orbison and Joe Melson
"These Eyes" © Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman.
"This one's going out to a listener in Salem, Massachusetts. Here's Ted Nugent with 'Cat Scratch Fever.'"
