The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

the safest statement you’ve made all day.” Archie couldn’t hear us if we kept our voices low. “I wanted to ask you a couple more questions about Ralph.”
    Ed looked wary, but he didn’t say anything.
    Might as well get to the point. “Do you think that anybody was on the balcony with Ralph when he…fell?”
    Ed took a step backward, as if trying to ward off the question. “I never said that.”
    “But do you think it’s possible?”
    “The police and the school officials don’t think so.”
    “I want to know what you think.”
    Ed remained silent. I tried again. “You said he and Ruth were breaking up. Do you think Ruth was with him?”
    Ed shook his head.
    “Let me give you a scenario,” I said. “Ralph and Ruth were sitting together at the assembly. When it ended, they started a discussion about their breakup. They stayed behind and kept talking as the others left. Maybe the discussion became heated. They got agitated. Ralph did a handstand to let off steam. Ruth, in a fit of rage, gave him a—”
    “No.” Ed shouted. “It didn’t happen like that. Ruth didn’t have anything to do with Ralph’s death.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “Because…because we had the same class after the assembly. English with Miss Wiggenstein. Wigs. And Ruth attended class that day.”
    “You’re absolutely—”
    “Positive.” Ed nodded vigorously. “Besides, Ruth is square as a bear. There’s not a wild bone in her body. She wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t socially acceptable. Like kill somebody.”

    CHAPTER 13
    Uncle Jeff and Aunt Dorothy listened to the news on a small, vacuum-tube radio in the morning. We ate breakfast sitting on plywood benches at the plywood table Uncle Jeff had built to fit into the breakfast nook. On Monday, the start of my second week at Carter High, I wasn’t really listening when the name Michael Doran caught my ear.
    The announcer was saying that Mr. Doran had been fired from his job as chief editorial writer at the Buffalo Express, apparently because of his communist sympathies, although the paper denied that was the reason. He went on to talk about Mr. Doran’s testimony before the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee.
    I hadn’t thought about Sylvia and her father since my father had told me what was going to happen. I had been too wrapped up in thinking about Ralph and my theory regarding his demise that Ed had shot down. And my father hadn’t made Mr. Doran’s firing sound imminent. He must have been fired over the weekend. Somehow, the news services got hold of it. Bad news travels fast.
    “The Dorans live in Carter,” Uncle Jeff said while chipping with a small silver spoon at the shell of the soft-boiled egg he ate every morning in a silver eggcup.
    “Their daughter, Sylvia, goes to Carter High,” I said.
    “This is going to be hard on her. Communism is the current panic. Some folks see communists under every rug.”
    “And in some cases, the communists are there,” Aunt Dorothy said, taking toast out of the toaster. “I don’t want someone who is anti-American writing editorials for my newspaper.”
    Uncle Jeff looked as if he were going to say something, but he took a bite of egg instead. I excused myself and went to get ready for school. I had better get there early and see if Sylvia was okay.
    ***
    I opened my locker to take out the books I needed for my morning classes. A loose piece of paper fell out. I picked it up off the floor and saw that it was folded into quarters. I didn’t remember placing it in my locker, so I jammed in into my pocket. I dumped the books in my cafeteria homeroom and went up the stairs to Sylvia’s homeroom. Only a handful of students were there. Sylvia wasn’t among them. Natalie and her quarterback were standing by the windows. She was running her hands over the front of his sweater, as if he were a girl and she were feeling him up.
    I walked toward them and asked, “Is Sylvia in yet?”
    They turned to look at me. Natalie screwed up her beautiful face into a look of hatred and said, “If she’s smart, she’ll never set foot in this school again.”
    I stared at her, speechless.
    When I couldn’t get anything out of my mouth, Natalie said, “Did you hear what happened to her father?”
    I nodded, still unable to speak.
    “He got what he deserved,” she said. “Commie bastard.”
    “But Sylvia didn’t do anything,” I managed to blurt out.
    “We don’t want any communists around this