Blood Rivalry

James Island, South Carolina
Saturday, May 21, 1994

By 6:30 that evening, The Abaco was filled with the sort of bristling nostalgia unique to a high school reunion. The classes of ’74 and ’79 had gathered to celebrate the fifteen and twenty years that now separated them from the graduation that marked the end of their adolescence.

Name tags were available at the entrance but were worn only by spouses of graduates and by those who had left and never looked back, thus creating a division between those who stayed and those who, in their minds, had moved on. Those who had stayed, naturally, remembered one another. This was a small town, after all. But it was easy to forget anyone who had willingly drifted outside of its circle.

The talk among those who had stayed was centered on the weather, their kids, little league, summer plans—the usual. For those who had traveled for the reunion, the conversations struck a similar tone. “So, how have you been?” “I’d like you to meet my husband.” “My wife.” “Is Bowens still a hot spot?” “Any children?” “What are you doing these days?”

But after a few beers, it was like old times. The men gathered in groups, remembering their glory days on this or that team, and the women did the same, catching up on each other’s lives and exchanging gossip about so-and-so’s divorce. And the spouses who had been drug along for the ride found themselves standing outside the circles of reunited cliques or leaning against the bar, occasionally glancing at their watch, wondering how long the evening would last.

The turnout for both classes was strong. Most folks were gathered on the outdoor patio overlooking Ellis Creek enjoying the unseasonably cool May evening. The tide was coming in and pushing the water lazily up the small tributary fed by the Ashley River. A massive oak tree cast its shadow over the patio and the Spanish Moss hung low enough off its branches so that when the wind blew, it fell to the deck in clumps.

Waiters moved through the crowd holding trays of appetizers. It seemed folks couldn’t get enough of the conch fritters—the house specialty. Though it was less than fifteen minutes by car from downtown Charleston, the combination of The Abaco’s casual atmosphere and the clear evening sky above created the perfect setting whereby, for a few hours, the shared memories of their youth isolated them from the hectic pace of their lives today. Yes, the turnout was strong—but noticeably absent from the Class of ’79 was one member in particular: Walker Atkins.

“Hey, Eddie,” Toby Robertson began, standing in a group of about eight classmates, “I thought you said Walker would be here.”

“I saw him earlier today. He said he’d be here,” Eddie informed the group. He shrugged in a way that suggested he’d done everything he could, and whether Walker showed up wasn’t up to him.

Toby and Eddie were two of the Three Musketeers, as they had been known in high school, with Walker being the third. They had been the best of friends and the anchors for the school’s Cross Country and Track & Field teams—teams which had garnered national attention. Eddie and Walker were the real stars, and their races against each other had been legendary.

Toby looked put out. “Well, the sun is setting soon, and I wanted a few pictures of the old gang back together. Gotta have Walker in the picture. Why isn’t he here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Venessa, Eddie’s wife.

“Isn’t what obvious?” asked Toby.

“His brother Eli owns this place,” Vanessa clarified, voice hushed, gesturing to a sign over the front doorway that read The Abaco.