Spencerville

toward domestic brands whose labels didn’t ring a bell. He recalled that Jeffrey and Gail, like everyone else they knew at Bowling Green, drank cheap, sweet wine that today they’d deny ever having heard of. Nevertheless, as a joke, Keith found a bottle of apple wine and a bottle of something called grape wine, which was actually grape juice and alcohol, manufactured locally. He also found a decent bottle of real Italian Chianti, which would also bring back memories.
    He paid for the wine, went back to the Blazer, and put the bottles in the rear compartment. He took his Washington license plates, which were in an addressed manila envelope, and walked toward the post office on the west side of Courthouse Square.
    The post office was one of those old Federalist buildings with classical columns, and, as a boy, Keith had always been awed by the place. He’d once asked his father if the Romans had built it, and he’d been assured that they had. His sense of history was a little better now, and he smiled at the memory, then understood what Annie meant when she’d written about memories. He recalled accompanying her several times to the post office to buy stamps and to mail letters.
    There was no line at one of the windows, and he took the envelope to the clerk, where it was weighed and stamped. Keith requested return receipt and was filling out the tag when he heard the clerk a few windows away say, “You have a good day, Mrs. Baxter.”
    He turned to his right and saw a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a simple pink and white cotton summer dress, walking toward the door. She left.
    He stood motionless a moment, and the clerk said to him, “Finished?”
    “Yes. No… forget it.” He crumpled the form and left quickly.
    On the steps, he looked up and down the sidewalk but didn’t see her, then spotted her with three other women walking toward the corner. He hesitated, then bounded down the steps and followed.
    His mental image of Annie was of how she looked twenty-five years before, the last time he’d seen her on the day he left to report for induction. They’d made love in her apartment in Columbus, and at dawn he’d kissed her and left. Now, in her mid-forties, her figure was still youthful, and she walked with the same girlish jaunt he remembered. She was laughing and joking with her friends, and he couldn’t get a good look at her face, except in brief profile as she turned to talk.
    Keith found that his heart was beating rapidly, and he stopped and watched the four women. They paused at the corner and waited for the light to change. Keith took a step forward, hesitated, took another step, then stopped again.
Go, you idiot. Go.
    The light turned, and the four women stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. Keith stood watching them. Then Annie said something to her friends, and the three of them continued without her toward the courthouse park. Annie stood motionless a moment, then turned and walked directly toward him.
    She smiled and put out her hand. “Hello, Keith. Long time.”
    He took her hand. “Hello, Annie.”
    “I’m flustered,” she said.
    “You look fine. I’m about to faint.”
    She smiled. “I doubt it.” She took a step back. “Let’s look at you. You haven’t aged a day.”
    “I’ve aged twenty-five years. You look very good.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    They made eye contact and held it. Her eyes were as big and sparkly as ever, he noticed, and she still wore the same pale pink lipstick he remembered. Her skin had a healthy glow, but he was surprised she wasn’t tan, because she used to love the sun. There were a few wrinkles, of course, but they gave her otherwise girlish face a little maturity. She had been pretty then; she was beautiful now.
    He fished around for some words, then said, “So… I got your letter. In my mailbox.”
    “Good.”
    “How was Bowling Green?”
    “It was… nice. Sad.”
    “I was going to… I didn’t know if you went alone, or…”
    “Yes, I did. My daughter and I.” She added, “I looked for you there. Well, not physically, but, you know…”
    He nodded, then looked at her. “Do you believe this?”
    “No. I’m dreaming.”
    “I’m… I can’t find the words…”
    She looked around. “Another minute or so, then I have to go.”
    “I understand.”
    “I sent you a letter. It was returned. I thought you were dead.”
    “No… I mean, I didn’t leave a forwarding address at the office…”
    “Well, I was