Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

They’d done their best to capture the spirit of the era. There was a US flag with just fifty stars—easy to recognize because of the staggered rows. And there were photos on the walls of Jack and Jackie Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, and a Mercury space capsule bobbing in the Pacific, and Sandy Koufax with the Los Angeles Dodgers. Someone had even dug up movie posters for the hits of that year, Dr. No and Cleopatra. Two video monitors were silently playing The Beverly Hillbillies and Bonanza. And “Easier Said Than Done” was coming softly out of the detachable speakers belonging to a portable stereo.

I looked around the large room at the dozens of people. I had no idea who most of them were—not at a glance. They were just old folks, like me: wrinkled, with gray or white hair, some noticeably stooped, one using a walker.

But that man, over there …

There had only been one black person in my class. I hadn’t seen Devon Smith in the sixty years since, but this had to be him. Back then, he’d had a full head of curly hair, buzzed short. Now, most of it was gone, and his face was deeply lined.

My heart was pounding harder than it had in years; indeed, I hadn’t thought the old thing had that much life left in it.

Devon Smith.

We hadn’t talked, not since that hot June evening in ’63 when I’d told him I couldn’t see him anymore. Our senior prom had only been a week away, but my parents had demanded I break up with him. They’d seen governor George Wallace on the news, personally blocking black students— “coloreds,” we called them back then—from enrolling at the University of Alabama. Mom and Dad said their edict was for my own safety, and I went along with it, doing what society wanted.

Truth be told, part of me was relieved. I’d grown tired of the stares, the whispered comments. I’d even overheard two of our teachers making jokes about us, despite all their posturing about the changing times during class.

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 …”