The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

smaller opponent and much humiliation if I lost, especially because of his inebriated state. And his muscles were impressive.
    “What’s your name? I ain’t seen you before.”
    “Gary.”
    “I’m Willie.”
    He reached his hand across the table toward me. I crammed the remains of my cookie into my mouth and shifted my drink cup to my left hand. When I took his hand he gripped mine hard and jerked me toward him. I fell across the table. My drink flew out of my hand and splashed all over him when I slapped the table to catch myself. I also grunted loudly and spit out the cookie onto Willie’s shirt.
    While I tried to pick myself up and determine whether I had suffered any damage, other than to my ego, Willie laughed. A few people who had observed the action, including the mother, apparently were too shocked to laugh at first, but when they saw that I wasn’t hurt, they did laugh—at Willie. Because he had pink punch streaming down his face and half-chewed chocolate chip cookie on his shirt.
    As I continued to collect myself, someone started to admonish Willie. He held up his hands and said, still slurring his words, “Hey, it was a joke.” He didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that he looked a mess.
    I had to do something. One option was to attack him, but aside from the fact that he had a good defensive position on the other side of the table, it wouldn’t look good for a senior to fight an underclassman. In addition, I would get into trouble, which I couldn’t afford to do, and it would raise my profile, which I didn’t want.
    I smiled and said, “You look good enough to eat.” Too late, I realized the double entendre, but the resulting laughter cleared the air.
    “I like you,” Willie said. “Sit down and talk to me.”
    Why not? He looked harmless now. I sat down across the table from him, being careful to keep my hands and arms where he couldn’t grab them.
    He wiped his face with a napkin given to him by the mother and said, “What grade are you?”
    “Senior.”
    “I’m a southmore.”
    I didn’t know whether the mispronunciation was the result of his drinking. I said, “You play any sports?”
    “Baseball and cross-country.”
    I wondered how much longer he would be running cross-country if he continued to smoke. And drink to excess. I was about to excuse myself and try my luck on the dance floor again when he said, “You look something like the guy who died—Ralph Harrison.”
    Natalie had said that, but only after I told her we were related. Nobody else had mentioned it. Maybe the alcohol gave him special insight, although it’s not surprising that one might look like one’s first cousin. However, I played dumb and said, “He died?”
    “Yeah, he fell off the balcony in the auditorium. That’s what they say, anyway.”
    “Did you know him?”
    “He taught me how to walk on my hands. Good guy. But there was something funny about how he died.”
    I was about to ask him what was funny when Sylvia came sliding up to me on her sock feet, grabbed my hand, and said, “Here you are, hiding out. Come and dance with me. I’m tired of having my toes stepped on by the clods I’ve been dancing with. At least you know one foot from the other.”
    I went with her. You don’t argue with an irresistible force.

    CHAPTER 11
    My parents arrived at the farm about noon, along with my two younger brothers. Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff had invited them over for Sunday dinner, thinking that we probably missed each other. I was glad to see them, in spite of the fact that I had never been homesick in my life. My mother gave me a kiss; my father shook my hand. My brothers asked me how things were going as if they really cared.
    Having been an only child all week, I was ready to toss a football around with them, but my father immediately steered me away from the group toward the outdoor brick fireplace, built by Uncle Jeff for holding summer barbeques, and the baseball diamond beyond the fireplace, which featured a large green backstop made of wood, also built by Uncle Jeff. The diamond had grown up to waist-high timothy grass and weeds since Ralph hadn’t been there to mow it during the summer.
    My father was dressed in his Sunday best, which included a conservative three-piece suit and a tie. It was also his Monday best, etc., because he wore the same clothes to work. He was several inches shorter than I was now, which I was glad of because it appeared to give me a physical advantage,