the reunion, and maybe even the car nearly running him down that night swept away any pretense. The sender knew something, or thought he did, and had no doubt tracked him down to blackmail him. He wouldn’t pay, of course. Acceding to blackmail would be admitting guilt, and he was innocent, at least innocent enough.
Simon heard movement behind him and turned. Crossing the beach was a man overdressed for the summer sun, in a sports jacket and tie, carrying his shoes. Simon tried to judge the stiff stride and exaggerated swing of the arms, but no name came to him to match the awkward gait. It seemed like a stranger stepping onto the dock, his heavy footsteps straining the planks. Simon suddenly felt trapped there, at the end of this narrow walkway. There was no escape but the water. Why had he let himself get into this position?
The man stopped a few feet away and nodded. He had dark hair, thinning on top, and a small clipped mustache. Yellowish skin, narrow eyes, and ears that seemed more fitting for a larger head. A face that could be easily recalled if he needed to later on.
Simon nodded back. “Sorry, but do I know you?”
The man laughed oddly in a way Simon thought he should recognize. “You bumped into me once.”
“Bumped into you?”
“In the hallowed hallways of Red Paint High. My books went flying.”
Simon pictured the likely scene in his head, sprinting down the narrow halls, late for class as usual, taking a corner and running over some kid, an underclassman who didn’t know enough to get out of the way at final bell. “That happened a lot, as I recall. You don’t hold it against me, do you?”
“You stopped and helped me pick up my books.”
Simon felt relieved, which surprised him, feeling any emotion at all over such a trivial incident. “Well, I’m glad to hear I didn’t just keep going.” He waited a moment, allowing the conversation to proceed, but it did not. “So …”
The man pressed his mustache, as if making sure it was still stuck on. “I’m Paul. I was a year behind you at school.”
“Paul,” Simon repeated. “I don’t remember any—wait, you mean Paulie, Paulie … Walker?”
“I’m Paul now.”
Simon searched the man in front of him for a hint of the skinny kid buried in his memory but couldn’t match the two images. “You delivered papers for the Register one year when I did, right?”
“You have a good memory.”
“I just flashed on you for a second—you wore a bandanna all the time, a red one, sometimes you pulled it over your face.”
“That was me.”
Of all people he knew on earth, Simon couldn’t think of a more unlikely person to be facing at this moment of his life. “So you’re the one who’s been sending me those odd postcards.” It was a bit disappointing that there wasn’t a more interesting person behind the mysterious correspondence. On the other hand, he felt safe finally knowing the identity of the sender, a former schoolmate, little Paulie Walker, almost a head shorter than him, not threatening at all.
“That would seem obvious.”
“Right, since you’re here.” Simon swept his hand in the air to create some movement to this situation. “Why?” He waited for the answer, some hint of blackmail.
“As I told you, I want to repay you for teaching me a lesson.”
“What lesson is that?”
“How to keep a secret.”
“A secret?”
“What you haven’t even told your wife. Graduation night. You brought your date here. Jean Crane.”
Simon felt his fingers tighten into fists. He felt his brain churning through recent events, forging the links. “Then you did marry Jean?”
“Another logical deduction.”
He didn’t like the condescending tone, or the way Paul kept staring at him, not looking away even for a moment, barely blinking. “I was sorry to read she died,” Simon said.
“Jean.”
“Yes, Jean. She was a very nice girl.”
“She was a very nice girl. How easy it is to slip into the past tense.”
“I just thought, since she’s dead …”
“We’ll all slip into the past tense one day,” Paul said. “She is, she was. He is, he was. Dead is such a nondescriptive word. Why don’t we just say, ‘She ceases to exist’? That’s all there is to it. You exist, then you cease to exist. Happens to everybody.”
Simon understood now the references to mortality in the postcards. Paul had death on the brain, which wasn’t a comforting thought. “Look, it’s kind of hot out here for a philosophical discussion. If you want to