RYDMAN FOX AND THE CASE OF THE LOST INNOCENCE

My name is Rydman (Redmon) Fox. I'm a private investigator in the east central Indiana town of Princeburg. And I have been put on a case by Megan Joye to find, of all things, her lost innocence.

#

"Mr. Fox," Megan began, "my innocence is very precious to me." I had to raise my eyebrows at this statement. This woman was 38, she had 2 kids and she'd worked in an adult bookstore. Why was she talking about innocence as though she were a toddler playing behind a baby gate? I would find out soon enough.

"Miss Joye?" I began. "How have you lost your innocence? You've had sex, you've lost your virginity. Isn't that how people generally lose their innocence?"

"Under normal circumstances I'd agree with you, Mr. Fox."

"Please, Rydman."

"Megan."

"Go on."

"Well, as I said, under normal circumstances I'd agree with you, but this is anything but ordinary." I was becoming more puzzled by the moment and was just about to ask, in not a little exasperation, just what she meant when she offered the answer. "Rydman, my 20th high school reunion is coming up. I'm scared to go. Everyone will have changed. Nothing will be the same. Dear God!" Megan's tears made me realize that this whole assignment was not about a thing but rather about that ever elusive quality; youth, and the carefree attitudes that go with it. I felt for her, I truly did. I'm 45, and rather the elders of the world agree or not, that's getting up there. So I took Megan's money and her case. This would be an interesting trek into my own personal Twilight Zone.

#

Megan wore clothes that showed her curves, and, she was amply endowed. She still looked to be between 20 and 24, and she was as beautiful now as when she'd been a model. But, truly, the years do tend to alter one's perceptions, and the years had done just that to Megan's. Now this reunion, normally a happy experience, would become the place where innocence could be lost. I was sitting at Megan's kitchen table watching her husband, Ricardo, play video games with the kids. The word kids doesn't really work in this case. Amy and Hunter were young adults, fraternal twins who had just turned 17 the day before. Amy was a stunner, having a combination of her mother's Irish looks and her dad's Latino darkness. Of course, Hunter was the same and both kids could easily be models. I admit, it was in moments like this that a small pang of regret struck like a knife in my heart. I'd been silly in my youth, silly and stupid, and I'd let the spouse and family card slip out of my deck of life. Now, as I edged ever closer to old age I felt that soon the only card left would be the joker, with my face on it. But, as they say, time waits for no man, and soon Megan was ready, with Ricardo in tow, to begin the search for her lost youth.

#

"Megan! Long time, no see!" Megan's eyes lit up as her dearest friend from school, Anne Guillaume, embraced her in a warm hug, a warm hug that got a little steamy when Anne's hands crept below the waistline. Sunshine shone in the windows, but things were decidedly chilly in the room. I began to understand why Megan talked about innocence lost. As if she knew that hidden fences had been crossed Anne stepped back and smiled, rather sadly. "Forgive me, Megan. I have always had a crush on you." At this, Ricardo exploded.

"What the hell are you talking about? That's my wife!!!" Anne grimaced and laid a hand on Ricardo's arm.

"Honey, it's alright. Anne, I've known that for years. Remember junior prom? You came, in your words, 'stud', and you unashamedly danced with those girls we had all wondered about. But, though I love you dearly as a friend, I don't feel 'that' way about you." Anne's eyes looked to be full of tears but she wiped them away and led us to her kitchen table, a late model Formica beauty. It brought back memories of moments with my Mamaw, and for awhile my eyes were also filled with the salty water of emotions. But, a P.I. must be hard boiled so as not to crack, and therefore I tamped down my emotions and sat down to listen to old friends reminisce.

"Megan, you look so good! I swear, you've found the fountain of youth, haven't you?" What happened next caught both Anne and myself off guard. Megan reached up and removed her locks of luxurious red hair. She then carefully removed the false eyelashes above her green eyes. Next came the contacts and the green eyes became brown. It was at this point that I began to notice, especially in the natural light, that Megan was only 38 biologically but looked 68, a worn out 68, physically. And the story she was about to tell explained it all.

"Anne, Rydman, I am far from the sweet goddess I was in school. I have spent years remembering the abuse, both physical and emotional, that my first husband gave me." At this Anne drew in a sharp breath that was quickly noticed by Ricardo.

"Yes, I'm not Megan's first. Her first was Brock Kane." It was no surprise to me when Anne's voice took on a steel hard edge.

"Bastard!" You see, long before my private investigator days I was a policeman, a part of the thin blue line. And I couldn't begin to tell you the amount of times my partner and I were called out to scenes where Brock had been, or still was. He acted out against family, friends and especially his wife. One of the most vile times was when he showed up to his grandfather's funeral, demanding his part of the Kane inheritance. Bellowing like a bad villain in a cheesy movie, he spit and snorted and generally made a fool of himself. Though no violence, thank God, was done by his hand, the emotional abuse weighed heavy, and cast a gray pallor over the celebration of Vernon Kane. "But, Megan? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to ruin your life. You'd graduated a year ahead of us all and New York beckoned. I didn't want you to worry. I wanted you to model, becoming famous in the process. And, boy, did you ever." That was true. Anne's face was on everything; makeup ads, billboards, bus stop signage, restaurant menus. And this middle aged woman seated before us had changed, from the fresh faced long haired 17 year old to a soft butch, short haired beauty with an edge just 5 years later. Megan would have noticed more, but from 17 to 20 she was going through hell with Brock. Thank God Ricardo came along when he did.

"I had a feeling something was wrong," Anne replied, "when you quit writing. You always enjoyed writing letters and keeping the postal system afloat. No more letters had me worried that there was no more you."

"You couldn't have gotten rid of me that easy!" At this the two old friends laughed, dare I say, gaily, and the talk settled down to that of high school chums who'd seen the elephant and been stomped by it.

#

We tooled on down the interstate on our way to Lowery, a small off shoot of a community nearby, Sycamore Hills. Here I knew of a counselor by the name of Charity Young. I knew the only way that Megan would enjoy her high school reunion was to get over this feeling of lost innocence, this feeling of failure in the game of life. Sorry about all these game metaphors, but that's how I roll the dice.

#

The offices of Charity Young, counselor, smelled strongly of incense. There were crystals scattered throughout and the soundtrack to Twin Peaks playing softly in the background. I still love that soundtrack; it's like a drug for the ears. A mancala board was on a small table in the corner, and stones the colors of the charkas were in it. The whole place gave off very New Age vibes and was still somehow as homey as grandma's house. We were ushered into an office by a lovely Latino secretary and found ourselves facing Charity. She greeted us warmly and wrapped her arms around Megan. With no words spoken Charity performed a miracle; she broke down Megan's defenses. Megan began to weep, to sob, tears rolling down her cheeks and soaking Charity's shoulder. For over an hour this went on, with Ricardo and myself looking on in awe and wonder. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Megan stepped back. The abused woman who thought that life was barely worth living was gone; in her place stood a strong, fearless woman, who was ready to face the world the way she was; battle scarred, worn but also defiant. And it was this woman that her fellow classmates would meet tonight at Princeburg High. Go Cyclones!

#

That night, at that reunion, I became very adept at tipping my hat and lifting my glass. Ricardo and Megan had invited me and I was glad I had come, but I'd been in Princeburg only a few years, and this class was before my time. However, in the corner, I noticed a face I'd seen before. I waltzed over, looking rather silly without a partner, and caught Megan and Ricardo just before they hit the dance floor.

"Who is that?"

"That's the artist of the class, Tonya Philbert." At this my usual gentlemanly composure devolved into fanboy gushing.

"That's Tonya?! I thought so! She's as incredibly beautiful in person as she is on TV." Ricardo smiled.

"Would you like me to introduce you?" My mouth dropped open, and I could only nod like a mute bobble head. As I followed Ricardo I felt weak in the knees and I began sweating. God help me, I was turning into my high school self. But, thanks to Ricardo, I would be getting something I hadn't in high school; the girl. "Tonya?" Ricardo began, "This is Rydman Fox. He's a huge fan of yours." Tonya smiled and my heart skipped a beat. She was stunning.

"Mr. Fox, won't you join me?" I sat on the folding chair next to her and saw that she was sketching the scene before us, using charcoal pencils and gentle strokes. As our eyes met I said the only words I could think of.

"I love to color." Tonya leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

"Rydman, I think this is the beginning of a colorful friendship."