The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

even though I probably didn’t weigh any more than he did.
    “Dorothy told us what classes you’re taking,” my father said, without preliminary. “It sounds as if you have a good, meaty schedule. I hope you’re keeping your nose to the grindstone and studying hard. I don’t want to see a repeat of what happened at Atherton.”
    “Yes, Dad.” In fact, I had been studying more than I would have if I had been home. Other than the single chess game with Uncle Jeff, I hadn’t had any distractions in the evenings. My aunt and uncle hadn’t succumbed to buying a television set yet, and, although I was a voracious reader, I had done my homework each night before opening a non-academic book. It helped that Uncle Jeff was available to assist me with any math questions and Aunt Dorothy was equally adept at English and history.
    “I’m concerned about the academic quality at Carter as opposed to Atherton. Dorothy assures me that the teaching staff is sound, but I have my doubts.”
    I had my doubts, too, especially after what Sylvia had told me about Mr. Plover, although my teachers at least seemed to have mastered the basics of their subjects. I didn’t think it was a good idea to express any misgivings to my father, because I didn’t want to transfer to yet another school. I told him that I thought my teachers were all right.
    “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. Are you familiar with the communist investigations going on in Washington?”
    “Yes.” I wanted to appear knowledgeable.
    He raised his eyebrows as if not quite believing me. In spite of the high academic standards that he had set for me, my father was always skeptical about whether I actually learned anything.
    “Several local people are being investigated for activity inimical to the interests of the United States. One of them has a daughter who goes to Carter.”
    Could he be talking about Sylvia’s father? In his work at the Buffalo city hall, my father had a lot of political connections at all levels, including federal. Therefore, I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew about communist investigations, but it was a shock, nevertheless.
    “This man just testified before the Internal Security Subcommittee of the Senate,” my father continued. “His name is Michael Doran. Although he said that he hasn’t been a Communist for a number of years, when asked what he knew about other people, he invoked the fifth Amendment.”
    “Isn’t that his privilege?” I asked.
    “We’re talking about the security of the United States. In any case, he’s going to lose his job.”
    “Lose his job?”
    “Yes. He works for the Buffalo Express, writing editorials. It’s a particularly sensitive area, because he has the opportunity to spread his subversive opinions among the unwashed proletariat. But he’s going to be out of a job. His daughter’s name is…Sylvia, I think. Do you know her?”
    “A little.”
    “I want you to stay away from her.”
    “But what has she done? She’s—”
    “Don’t have anything to do with her.”
    My father had a way of shutting me out that prevented me from responding. Perhaps it was because I remembered how angry he could get. When I was younger, this anger had sometimes resulted in a spanking, by his hand or, occasionally, a stick from our woodpile.
    Another car was coming slowly up the driveway that had been paved mostly with the ashes from the coal furnace. The coal furnace was gone, having been replaced by an oil furnace only a few years ago. The driveway ran up the right side of the old brick house. The car, even older than the Ford I was driving, stopped opposite the kitchen door.
    “Those must be the Drucquers,” my father said in a completely different tone. He turned away from me and walked back toward the house.
    The discussion was over, to my relief, but I didn’t have time to digest what he had just said. Aunt Dorothy had invited the Drucquers for Sunday dinner, so that we could get to know them. Four people piled out of the car, all of them dressed for church. The two ladies wore hats and white gloves. My parents were churchgoers, also, but Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff weren’t; at least they hadn’t been since Ralph died. Any religious spark within the two had apparently died with him.
    Mr. and Mrs. Drucquer were short and round, with red faces and English accents even more pronounced than Ed’s. Mr. Drucquer’s threadbare suit didn’t quite fit him, and he looked