Footprints in the Butter Read Online Free PDF Page A

it’s time to stray. Only wait till I communicate, here’s what I’ll say.”
    “I’m look-ing o-ver a four leaf clover,” we all trilled.
    When we finished, reunionites clapped and whistled. Were they nuts? This was a generation who had attended concerts by the Dead and Dylan and Manfred Mann; a generation who had insisted that Puff the magic dragon was drug-related. How could they applaud I Believe Proud Tammy?
    The band segued into movie themes. You Light Up My Life was their first selection. Ben’s sneakers whap-whapped again as we began to dance.
    “Before you arrived,” I said, inhaling bleach from his collar, “Wylie reminisced over the Clovers. Do you think that’s why he instigated our pathetic performance?”
    “It wasn’t pathetic.”
    “Yes it was, Ben, and Wylie did it on purpose. He’s acting so weird, as if he wants to tell each person here to go stick an elephant tusk up his or her butt. The Clover bit was my tusk.”
    “Patty said it was Alice’s idea. Maybe she wanted to get Dwight away from his dark corner, light up his life.”
    “Baloney. When they lifted Dwight onto the stage, I saw Alice. Her mouth got so tight, her lips disappeared. Making Dwight the fourth Clover was Alice’s tusk.”
    “And Dwight’s tusk?”
    “Dwight didn’t want his life lit. The limelight hurts his eyes. They looked zombie-ish.”
    “How could Wylie possibly know—”
    “Wylie’s intuitive.”
    “Assuming you’re right, and just for the record I don’t agree, why hasn’t Wylie done anything to me?”
    “Because you’re not the singer who reneged and spoiled his grand plan. And you’ve never been a jock like Dwight.”
    “Dwight hasn’t been a jock for thirty years, and why the hell would Wylie want to piss off Alice?”
    “I don’t know, Ben. It’s just a hunch.”
    “I thought Wylie was the intuitive one.”
    The object of our conversation waltzed by then backed up. “Let’s switch partners,” he said.
    Before I could object, Patty melted into Ben’s arms. “Why did you resurrect the Clovers?” I hissed into Wylie’s ear.
    “It was Alice’s idea,” he replied quickly.
    Too quickly. Wylie was lying through his teeth. All of a sudden I had a revelation. It was like watching a movie and admiring the handsome hero until he smiled, revealing fangs. Wylie was lying through his fangs.
    Because this whole event—the decor, the elephant cut-outs, the banner theme, the Clovers—every detail, except possibly the choice of champagne and the gray Dumbo sandwiches, had been Wylie’s scheme.
    An attempt to regain his lost youth?
    “Wylie, why are you playing Peter Pan?”
    He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “I like Peter Pan,” he said. “Pete could boff Wendy, tinker with Tinkerbell, and he never had to assume responsibility. Adolescent hormones and all that crap.”
    “Except for Disney’s animated, penis-less version, Peter Pan is always played by a woman,” I shot back.
    “Are you saying that I’m gay?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you hinting that my marriage to Patty is a sham? That my thing with you was merely an attempt to prove my manhood?”
    “No! I’m hinting, more than hinting, that you grow up!”
    “Look around.”
    “We’ve already played this game.”
    “Study the people. What do you see?”
    “Friends. Familiar faces.”
    “Strip away the beautiful clothes. What do you see?”
    “Naked bods,” I replied sarcastically.
    “No, my darling. Naked souls.”
    Releasing my waist, Wylie stomped toward the platform, leaped up, grabbed the microphone, and whistled. The sound hurt my ears, and everyone else’s, but he had our attention.
    “Hey!” he shouted. “We were supposed to be the generation that saved the world through love. Instead we opted to become Peter Pan’s lost boys. Our homes are status playpens, our favorite toy a cellular phone.”
    “Shut up, Jamestone,” growled Junior Hartsel, the ex football jock.
    Wylie ignored Junior’s