The Hayloft: a 1950s Mystery (28 page)

The woman pointed to a telephone sitting on a
windowsill nearby and said, “Check to see if someone else is using
the phone before you dial. We’re on a party line.”

I knew about party lines. The phone at the
farm was on a party line. Our ring was one long. Any other
combination of short and long rings was for somebody else. But that
didn’t keep people from listening in on the conversations of
others.

I thanked the woman, lifted the receiver, and
made sure there was a dial tone. Then I placed my finger on the
zero of the rotary dial and spun it. I told the operator who
answered that I wished to make a collect call and gave her Aunt
Dorothy’s number. The phone rang half a dozen times, and the
operator told me what I already knew—there was no answer.

I asked the operator to try another number
collect and gave her my home number. This produced the same result.
My family must be at church. Whatever Ed was going to do, he
apparently wanted the families together. My folks would be getting
to the farm about noon. I didn’t know the Drucquers’ number, and I
didn’t want to waste any more time trying to get their number using
the inefficient telephone information system for long-distance
calls. I didn’t know what I would tell Mr. and Mrs. Drucquer,
anyway. “I think your son is a murderer.” How would they react to
that?

I could also call the local police, but then
they would have to communicate with the Carter police. I suspected
Carter had a minimum staff on duty Sunday mornings, and it might be
a long time before they would actually do anything. I wasn’t sure
what to tell them, either, that would inspire them to take
action.

I hung up and asked the woman, who had been
watching me carefully from the other side of the room, what time it
was.

“Ten minutes past ten,” she said, indicating
an ancient clock hanging on the wall that I had failed to see. “Are
you all right? Can I get you something to eat?”

Her mothering instincts had kicked in.

I said, “Thank-you, but I need to get home.”
I started for the door.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Carter.”

“That’s…thirty or forty miles from here.”

“Yes, ma’am. So I’d better get going.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No, I’m going to hitchhike.”

“Good luck. Be careful.”

“Thanks. I will.”

I was out the door and jogging back to the
road. I started walking in the direction of Carter. The first few
cars to pass were full of people in their Sunday best. I faced them
and stuck out my arm with my thumb up, but they didn’t stop. I
continued walking during the gaps in the cars, even though I could
never walk all the way. But at least I was doing something.

It took a while, but finally an old car
braked to a stop twenty yards past me. I ran up to it, opened the
passenger door, and climbed in. The driver had a lined face and was
dressed in farm clothes and a blue cap, with a cigarette between
his lips.

“Where you headed?” he asked, not bothering
to take the cigarette out of his mouth.

“Carter.”

“Well, I’m only going up the road a piece,
but I’ll take you within half a mile of the highway that goes
toward Carter. Maybe you can hitch a ride from there.

“Thanks.”

He drove for several miles and let me off
where he said he was going to. Not seeing any other cars coming, I
ran-jogged as fast as I could with my limp, toward the highway. I
reached it in a few minutes. Cars were moving faster here and might
be harder to stop, but if I got a ride it could take me a good part
of the distance I needed to cover.

There was no point in walking along the
highway, and the cars were going by frequently, so I stood in one
spot. I tucked in the loose fabric where my jacket had torn, trying
not to look down and out. I ran my hands through my hair. Having a
short haircut meant that it never looked too bad, for which I was
thankful.

I stuck my thumb out. I was right about it
being harder to get a ride here. A number of cars sped by me
without slowing down. My ears and hands were cold. The sun wasn’t
very effective yet. In between cars, I rubbed my hands together and
jumped up and down to keep warm.

A Chevy station wagon slowed down as it
approached and stopped just a few feet beyond me. I ran up to the
car.

A man stuck his head out of the front window
on the passenger side and said, “Get in the back.”

I opened the back door and piled in as the
driver, also a man, jammed the stick shift on the steering post
into first gear and took off. Judging from their plentiful dark
hair and their sideburns, the men weren’t that much older than I
was.

The passenger turned around and smiled at me.
I smiled back, thankful for his friendliness. He kept smiling,
looking me right in the eye.

“I’m going to Carter,” I said, feeling
exposed by his penetrating gaze.

“We’re going to Rochester,” the passenger
said. “Beautiful Rochester. If you don’t get snowed in.” He
laughed.

I smiled. Rochester was well past Carter. I
told him where they could drop me off. It was close to twenty miles
away still, but it was something to say. The driver kept his eyes
on the road and didn’t look back. He drove at a steady fifty miles
per hour. It wouldn’t take long for us to get there at this rate.
That was good news.

“Are you in college?” the passenger
asked.

“High school. I’m a senior at Carter
High.”

He asked me what subjects I was taking, what
sports I liked, whether the girls at Carter were good looking. He
was full of questions. All the while he kept smiling at me. His
smile was making me uncomfortable. I answered his questions with a
minimum of information. I didn’t want to tell him my life story. I
didn’t tell him about my ordeal of last night. I sensed that it
wasn’t a good idea.

After I answered one of his questions, he
said, “You might like Rochester. We’ve got a nice pad there.”

“You go to the University of Rochester?” I
asked.

“No, we’ve been out of school for ages. But
we live near the university. Are you interested in going
there?”

“I’d like to go to the University of
Michigan.”

“Too big. You should go to a smaller school.
Come to Rochester with us and look it over. You might like it.”

“I have to get home,” I said.

“What’s the hurry? We can drive you home
later. If you went to the University of Rochester, you could share
our pad with us. A good looking guy like you, you’d fit right
in.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was
going. I said, “You can let me off at that next corner.”

“You said you were going to Carter. We’ve got
miles to go yet.”

The driver didn’t slow down. The passenger
turned his head to the front and said something to the driver in a
low voice. The driver said a couple of words back, but I couldn’t
hear any of it.

The passenger turned around and beamed his
smile at me again. He said, “You may be wondering about us. We met
in the army. We shared one of those two-man tents. You develop a
lot of closeness when you live together in a tent.” He laughed.
“We’ve been together ever since.”

I needed to get out of here. But at fifty
miles per hour I didn’t have too many options. And there weren’t
any traffic lights along this stretch of highway. I continued to
carry on a light conversation with the man, trying to hide my
alarm, looking for an opportunity.

As we finally approached the intersection
where I wanted to get out, I said, “There’s my stop. I’m having
dinner at my aunt’s house. My whole family’s going to be there.
They’ll be mad at me if I don’t show up.”

The driver slowed down a little and for a few
seconds I thought he was going to stop. But he was just checking
for cross traffic. He sailed right on through the intersection.

“Hey,” I said, “That’s my stop. Let me off,
please.”

“Don’t worry,” the smiling passenger said.
“You’ll like Rochester.”

I looked through the front window. Ahead was
a traffic light. It was red. Here was my opportunity. I tried not
to telegraph what I was thinking. I smiled back vaguely at my
tormenter. The driver slowed down, and it looked as if he were
going to have to stop. Then the light turned green.

We had slowed to under ten miles per hour,
but the cars ahead of us started to move. I opened the door as the
driver downshifted into second gear.

“What are you doing?” the passenger
asked.

He reached a hand back and tried to grab me.
I eluded his grasp and jumped from the car. I hit the ground and
rolled in the direction the car was going. I stopped on the
shoulder and lay there for a couple of seconds. But I had to move
over, because I might be in the path of other cars. I came up to an
all-fours position and crawled completely off the road. A
Studebaker went by, but its occupants ignored me.

I felt real pain again, including in my sore
hip. I struggled to my feet and uttered a groan. I definitely had
scratches on my legs and arms, and my jacket was torn in several
more places. I didn’t see any blood on my pants, and this was no
time to check and see how bad my injuries were. I could still walk,
at least.

I hobbled back in the direction of the
turnoff to Carter. It must be a mile down the road. When it was
safe, I crossed the highway. I contemplated sticking out my thumb,
but it was too short a distance, and I was leery about accepting
another ride on the highway.

I came to the cross street and headed toward
Carter. Now it was safe to hitchhike again. I still had a few miles
to go, and time was flying. I could tell by the sun that it was
approaching noon. I suspected that whatever Ed had planned was
going to take place soon.

Traffic was sparse on this two-lane country
road. I walked as fast as I could. I was limping, and I felt as if
I weren’t making any progress. Moving my legs but staying in one
place. The first two cars passed me by. Then one slowed as it
passed. I could see that there were two girls inside. They wouldn’t
stop. I turned and continued walking.

The car moved slowly for a hundred yards and
then stopped. I approached as fast as I could, expecting the driver
to take off, but it just sat there with the engine running. It was
a two-door Dodge. A girl got out of the passenger side as I
approached and looked me over. I slowed down, not wanting to look
aggressive. I was afraid she would jump in the car, and they would
drive off.

She must not have been alarmed by what she
saw, because she waited until I came up to the car and then said,
“You can get in the backseat.”

I pulled the seatback forward and climbed
into the back, wincing. On top of everything else, I had apparently
hurt my back. A sharp pain went through it when I bent over to get
into the car. I sat down in the cramped space and pulled the
seatback into position. The girl got in and closed the door. It
wouldn’t be as easy to get out of this one, but I would rather be
trapped by two girls than two guys.

As the car started up, I realized that they
must be on their way to church. The girls were wearing their good
dresses, white gloves, and little white caps. Their hair was pulled
up in buns. They also wore glasses.

I said, “Thank-you for stopping.”

The passenger turned around to look at me and
asked, compassionately, “Were you in a fight?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’m trying to
get to my aunt’s farm on Sugar Road.”

“We’re going to the Mennonite Church.”

That confirmed what I was thinking. The caps
had given them away. Aunt Dorothy had told me that two large
Mennonite families lived in Carter and the children went to Carter
High. I had seen a couple of them in the halls. I didn’t recognize
these girls. But the church was very close to the Drucquers’
house.

“Great. My cousin lives near there. I can get
a ride from his house.”

I asked them what school they went to. They
said Braden, which was in a town south of Carter. But they often
went to the Mennonite Church in Carter and spent the afternoon with
their relatives. At last it looked as if I were going to make it to
the farm.

I asked them what time it was. They weren’t
wearing watches, but the girl in the passenger seat said she
thought it was about quarter to twelve. I was glad we were
approaching the Drucquers’ house. Maybe Ed would still be there.
Maybe this was all a false alarm. But being locked in the bomb
shelter was real, even if it seemed like a bad dream. No, he
definitely was planning something.

They said they would take me right to my
cousin’s house. This would save me a few minutes and every minute
counted, so I didn’t try to talk them out of it. They stopped in
front of the Drucquers’ house, and the girl on the passenger side
got out of the car again. I pushed the seatback forward and exited
painfully, trying not to show how much I hurt. Then I thanked both
of them.

As the girl got back into the car, I turned
and looked for my car. It was not in evidence. The door to the
single garage was closed. That’s where the Drucquers kept their old
clunker. I limped up to the house, trying to think of what to say.
I couldn’t come up with anything brilliant. The place looked
deserted. Perhaps they were all at church.

I remembered that the doorbell didn’t work
and knocked on the door. There was no response for thirty seconds.
I knocked again, wondering how easy it would be to break into the
house and use the phone. Fairly easy, I would imagine. Then I heard
footsteps inside, and Kate opened the door. She was dressed in blue
jeans and the old sweater with a tear in it that I had seen her
wear before.

“What happened to you?” were the first words
out of her mouth as she stared at me in wide-eyed surprise?

“Where’s Ed?” I asked.