The Hayloft: a 1950s Mystery (8 page)

She was a good cook. We sat down to eat in the dining
room of the old farmhouse. Through the window we could look up the
lane that went between the fields, which had been harvested by the
neighbor who farmed it and were bare at the moment. Uncle Jeff was
a gentleman farmer; he liked the ambiance of the farm, but he
didn’t want to do farm work.

Tonight’s meal featured locally grown corn on the
cob, which I loved. As I buttered and salted an ear and chowed down
on it, I realized that my noisy chewing reverberated through the
room like a million termites. I needed to talk. I had moved in last
Sunday. This was my fifth dinner here. I didn’t know whether I
could stand nine months of silent meals without becoming a stark,
raving lunatic.

I swallowed a mouthful of corn and said, “I met Ruth
Allen today.”

Uncle Jeff and Aunt Dorothy looked at me. Uncle Jeff
still wore his white shirt from work, but he had taken off his tie.
He had a kindly face and laughed easily. At least, he used to. Aunt
Dorothy was wearing a print housedress and had her graying hair in
a bun, the way she wore it for teaching.

At first they remained silent, and I thought I had
said the wrong thing. Then Aunt Dorothy said, “How’s she doing?
She’s such a sweet girl.”

Relieved, I said, “She’s doing all right, considering
everything. She’s a cheerleader and she’s working on the school
paper.”

Uncle Jeff actually smiled and said, “She’s got a
great figure. Ralph had good taste in women.” Aunt Dorothy frowned
at him, but he ignored her and said, “So, Gary, are you thinking
about working on the school paper?”

“Dr. Graves made me promise not to.”

“Trying to stifle your creativity, eh? Well, it’s
only for a few more months. Then you’ll be in college where I trust
you’ll have more freedom.”

Uncle Jeff hadn’t bought into the line of reasoning
that accused me of committing a heinous crime. Perhaps that’s why
he was willing to take me in.

“Would you like to play a game of chess after dinner?
That is, if you aren’t overburdened with homework.”

I had enjoyed playing chess with him in the past, but
this was the first time he had mentioned the game since I had
arrived.

“Sure.” I wasn’t one to let homework get in the way
of fun. I was emboldened to try another topic. “I-I took a look at
the auditorium balcony where Ralph fell. It isn’t that long a drop.
And Ralph was so athletic, I would think…” here I swallowed, “…that
if he had fallen he would have been able to not land on his
back.”

It was an awkward sentence, but I had gotten it out.
I took another bite of corn while I waited for a reaction. Aunt
Dorothy looked at her food, stone-faced. Uncle Jeff looked
thoughtful.

Uncle Jeff said, slowly, “You’re a smart boy, Gary.
Do you have a theory about what might have happened?”

Ed had sworn me to secrecy, but mostly to keep his
name out of it, I assumed. And Ruth had just told me about Ralph
standing on his hands on the balcony, and she hadn’t sworn me to
secrecy. I didn’t see why Ralph’s parents shouldn’t know what might
have happened.

“Not really, but I learned that Ralph had done a
handstand on the edge of the balcony before.”

The color drained out of Aunt Dorothy’s face, and she
gasped. “Ralph wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Uncle Jeff sighed. “I’m afraid he would have. Go on,
Gary.”

“If he did do a handstand, he was skillful enough so
that if he had lost his balance, he would have been able to do a
flip and land on his feet. He might have broken a leg, but—”

“But not his neck. I looked at the balcony. It’s not
that big a drop, as you said. I couldn’t understand how he could
land on his back. He must have really been off balance. Have you
carried your thoughts any further?”

“Well, what if he wasn’t alone on the balcony. Why
would he show off like that if nobody else was there?”

“And…”

“And what if the person he was with pushed him—hard
enough so that he didn’t have time to rotate his body in
midair.”

Aunt Dorothy gasped again. “Do you think he was
murdered?”

“I don’t think anything,” I said, quickly. “I’m just
trying to figure out what happened.”

“The police weren’t interested in pursuing it,” Uncle
Jeff said. “The school administration claimed that nobody was on
the balcony with Ralph, and there didn’t seem to be any way to
prove it, one way or another.”

“Attendance isn’t taken at each class,” I said, “so
if somebody skipped, it wouldn’t necessarily be noticed. And it’s
probably too long ago for anybody to remember whether a specific
person attended a class that was in session at the time Ralph
died.”

“Do you suspect someone?” Aunt Dorothy asked.

“No, no. As I said, I’m just trying to make sense of
it.”

“Well, I want you to stop. Ralph is dead. All this
theorizing won’t bring him back. All it will do is open old
wounds.”

Aunt Dorothy snapped her mouth shut. Uncle Jeff and I
both looked at her, but we didn’t say anything.

***

“Check,” Uncle Jeff said as he took my rook with his
queen.

He hadn’t lost his touch. “You’ve got me,” I
conceded. “I am allowed to join the chess club at school, so I
think I’ll do that and brush up on my game. Then maybe I’ll be
ready for you.”

We were playing in the large living room with the
grand piano at one end. Aunt Dorothy was doing something
upstairs.

Uncle Jeff smiled. “Good,” he said. “You’ve got a
solid basic game. I’m looking forward to playing with you some
more.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Gary, if you
have any ideas you can pursue concerning how Ralph died, I’ll back
you. Just don’t rile Dorothy. I was stymied when I tried to find
out some things. But perhaps you’ll have more luck. From the point
of view of a statistician, I would say that the odds are against
Ralph dying the way he did without somebody else being
involved.”

“I agree,” I said, “but I don’t know if I can prove
it. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thank-you.”

The first thought that occurred to me was the
discrepancy in the stories told by Ed and Ruth. Ed said that Ruth
and Ralph were breaking up; Ruth said they were getting along fine.
Was it a misunderstanding or was one of them lying?

I asked, “Do you know how good the relationship
between Ralph and Ruth was when he died?”

“It was fine, as far as I know,” Uncle Jeff said.
“But as the father, I’m always the last to find out anything. I
don’t know whether Dorothy has any more information. I’ll
delicately query her and let you know if I learn anything
different.” He smiled and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” I spoke before I thought, but if my aunt
and uncle smiled more this wouldn’t be a bad place to live.

CHAPTER 9

I sat down in the hard, wooden chair in front
of Dr. Graves’s desk, as directed by Carol, the administrative
secretary. Dr G was reading something while tapping his pencil. He
didn’t look up for about thirty seconds, which gave me time to
wonder if he were upset with me. Since he could kick me out of
Carter for the slightest provocation, this was a real concern.

What would I do then? I couldn’t go home in
disgrace. I had taught myself how to juggle three balls. With
practice, I could learn to juggle more exotic items. Like knives. I
would run away and join a circus.

But right now I would rather be backstage
with Sylvia and Natalie. We hadn’t met this morning, the first time
in four mornings that some combination of us hadn’t gotten
together. As far as I knew, Dr. Graves wasn’t aware that I had been
meeting with them. Even if he should happen to find out, I could
justify my behavior. After all, I was spying on Sylvia, at his
request. And a spy had to be granted a certain amount of leeway
concerning school rules. This made me feel a little better while I
rehearsed what I was going to say.

Dr. Graves finally glanced up and stopped
tapping his pencil. Looking at me over his glasses, he said, “Good
morning, Gary. How are you adapting to life here at Carter?”

“Fine, sir. It’s smaller than Atherton and a
little easier to get around.” That was innocuous enough.

“Yes. Well, what can I do for you?”

“I want to tell you what I’ve found out about
Sylvia and her father.”

Dr. Graves quickly got up from his chair,
walked around the desk, and closed the door. He had a long,
athletic stride and was back in his seat in about eight seconds. He
took off his glasses and gave me his full attention.

This intimidated me because it implied that
what I was about to say had a lot more importance than what I
wished to give it. I swallowed and started talking. “I don’t think
Mr. Doran is wholeheartedly behind the Korean War.”

“The Korean War is over.”

“I think he believes that it was a bad idea
for us to send troops to Korea.”

This wasn’t based on anything Sylvia had told
me. I had been reading the editorials in the Buffalo Express. One
of them had been about the Korean War. Although the editorials were
unsigned, Sylvia had said that Mr. Doran, as chief editorial
writer, assigned the editorials to be written. From that I inferred
that they reflected his point of view. Of course, Dr. Graves also
had access to the Buffalo Express and could be reading the
editorials. This might be old news to him. Because the information
was common knowledge, I could rationalize passing it along. It
wasn’t as if I had actually dug up any new dirt.

“That sounds like a commie point of view,”
Dr. Graves said. “North Korea is supported by China, the biggest
communist country there is. Do you have anything more specific than
that?”

“He thinks that we can’t be the policemen of
the world. We shouldn’t get militarily involved in any foreign
countries unless our freedom is at stake.” I was paraphrasing and
generalizing, but I thought I had the gist of it correct. And I
still wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t common knowledge.

“Isolationist. That kind of thinking plays
into the hands of the Communists who want to take over the world.
Good job, Blanchard. What about Sylvia?”

“Uh, I’m not sure she shares the same
opinion. Her boyfriend enlisted in the Army and apparently wants to
go to Korea.”

“Erskine. Yeah, I know him well. He was on
the swimming team. I’d sometimes go to swimming classes just to
watch that boy swim. He’s got beautiful form. Graceful as a
porpoise. What have you learned about what Sylvia is up to at
school? A while back she was trying to get some teachers
fired.”

I stared at Dr. Graves. This had nothing to
do with Mr. Doran or the communist conspiracy. And I was supposed
to be helping Sylvia gather information on Mr. Plover, although I
hadn’t had time to start. I decided to play dumb.

“She hasn’t said anything about anything like
that. Maybe…she’s stopped doing that.” When the truth came out, I
wanted to be completely dissociated with it.

“I don’t believe it. She’s always up to
something. Trying to undermine my authority. Well, keep up the good
work, Blanchard. Remember: eyes and ears open. Get along to your
homeroom now.”

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

***

On Saturday afternoon, Carter played Atherton
in football. At Carter. I knew I should be rooting for Carter, but
my heart was still with Atherton. However, I decided that I had
better sit on the Carter side of the field, since I attended Carter
High now. Besides, the visitors’ bleachers faced west, and the
spectators had the afternoon sun in their eyes. I was sure the
field had been designed that away on purpose.

It was unseasonably warm—shirtsleeve weather.
Perhaps too early to be called Indian summer, since it was
officially just barely autumn, but the leaves were starting to turn
to their autumn colors. The reds and golds made it the most
beautiful season of the year—except for winter when a blanket of
white covered the ground. And spring, when new green life appeared.
And summer, when yellow grain filled the fields scraped flat by an
ancient glacier. It was the kind of day that made me almost forget
about my problems and just be happy I was alive. Until I saw some
Atherton people I knew across the gridiron. That brought a pang in
my heart that I had been trying to quell.

I arrived just before the game started, by
design. The Carter stands were pretty much filled. The Carter band
played the school fight song in the middle of the field with more
enthusiasm than skill. The band members stood in the shape of a
large C. I walked along in front of the bleachers, looking for a
friendly face. The first one I saw was Sylvia’s. I turned away,
feeling like a traitor. The band stopped playing, and I heard my
name called. It was Sylvia.

I climbed up several steps to where she was
sitting in the middle of a group of girls and boys. She was wearing
a red skirt. Most of the girls wore red skirts. The Carter school
colors were red and black. She motioned for me to sit beside her. I
put on a fake smile and sat down.

“Do you see anybody you know from Atherton?”
she asked.

“A few hundred people.” That was an
exaggeration since there weren’t that many spectators from
Atherton, but I recognized many of them, even from across the
field. After all, I had been there since seventh grade. “I know all
the football players…”

“And all the cheerleaders,” Sylvia cut in
with a smile.

Yeah, I knew all the cheerleaders at
Atherton, but none of them could hold a candle to Natalie, who was
leading her girls in a cheer in front of us. Maybe life here at
Carter wouldn’t be so bad, after all. I was having a clandestine
relationship with Natalie that her big-man-on-campus, quarterback
boyfriend didn’t know about. True, it was a nonphysical
relationship, but in my fantasies it achieved a much greater level
of intensity.