The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

friends.”
    Barney looked pensive, a look I hadn’t seen on him. After a pause, he said, “Ralph was a smart boy. He would have gone far. It’s a damn shame.”
    “Do you think anybody was with him when he…fell?” I asked.
    Barney looked at me closely, as if trying to figure out why I had asked the question. He spoke carefully. “The official police report states that he was alone.”
    “But…” I said and stopped. My reporting experience had taught me that sometimes remaining silent was the best way to get people to say more than they wanted to.
    Barney was still choosing each word carefully. “Given the circumstances, I think it is highly unlikely that the accident would have happened if he had been alone. It was the middle of the school day. He hadn’t been drinking. Although he had a wild streak, he always calculated the odds and knew what he was doing.”
    “So, who was with him?’
    Barney smiled a thin smile and said, “That’s the 64-dollar question, isn’t it?”
    “You referred to it as an accident. If somebody was with him, do you still think it was an accident?”
    “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Barney turned around as Carter kicked off to Atherton.

    CHAPTER 10
    The smooth voice of Perry Como wafted from the jukebox in the corner of the cafeteria, crooning the words to “Prisoner of Love,” as I attempted to glide around the dance floor with Sylvia. Fred Astaire I wasn’t. The tables had been retracted into the walls, and the chairs had been arranged along said walls, leaving the tile floor open for a herd of couples engaged in slow dancing.
    Most of the dancers shuffled their sock feet roughly in time to the music without executing recognizable steps, so I didn’t feel out of place. The beat was too slow for a foxtrot, anyway. Bodies swayed in unison, close together, often touching at key points. A few of the girls’ heads rested on their boyfriends’ shoulders. A handful of couples eschewed the classic dance frame and had their arms wrapped around each other, clinging together with teenage intensity, as if afraid that their partners would disappear forever if they loosened their grips.
    Slow dancing was about as close as most of us came to actual sex, and sometimes I wondered how many of us had teeth marks on our bedposts. In the case of Sylvia and me, the dance position was a little awkward because she was so much shorter than I was, at an inch over five feet. I held her loosely so that she wouldn’t get smothered by my sweater.
    I had danced with her several times because, of the available girls, she was the one I knew best. Most of the students had come stag to the sock hop, as I had. It was the evening after the football game. Several teachers, acting as chaperones, sat at the raised end of the cafeteria. Two were even dancing with each other, more skillfully than most of the students.
    Carter had beaten Atherton for the first time in almost forever. Joe Hawkins had played a large part in the victory. Maybe Carter was becoming an athletic power. I had talked to some of my friends from Atherton at halftime. It was good to see them again, but it brought back memories that depressed me. My state of exile became more real to me.
    I was feeling better now, but I wanted to branch out. When Barney came over and asked Sylvia to dance, that gave me an opportunity. Barney and my cousin, Ed, among others, were moving freely from girl to girl. For somebody whose clothes were worn and somewhat tattered, Ed had a lot of nerve. Since changing partners was acceptable practice, I was going to practice it. Of course, the girl I really wanted to dance with was Natalie, but she had her arms wrapped around Joe. Although I couldn’t help thinking that his aloof manner looked out of place, considering his fortunate situation.
    Who else was available? I saw Ruth Allen, Ralph’s former girlfriend, sitting with some other girls along the wall. A stirring in my loins told me that I wanted to dance with her, if only because of her magnificent body. I went over, caught her eye, and extended my hand. She stood up and put her hand in mine without either of us saying a word. That was easy. We made our way onto the floor and danced to Nat King Cole’s mellifluous voice singing “Mona Lisa.” The touch of her breasts felt good against my chest.
    She wasn’t a talker like Sylvia, and to get by the awkwardness of silence, I was trying to think of something halfway intelligent to