The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

the house was located on the slant where Main Street came down a hill into the village center. I coasted halfway down the hill and stopped the car at the edge of the road. Sylvia’s house was across the street, one of several that sat on the hillside under large maple trees whose broad leaves were in the process of dressing for autumn.
    By checking numbers, I spotted the house—a two-story, brown, clapboard affair that must have been forty or fifty years old. Typical small-town America. Still, it wasn’t as old as the farmhouse, which had been built in the 1870s.
    I sat in the car for a while, staring at the house. What was I doing here? Shouldn’t I stay out of this? Let Sylvia fight her own battles. Yeah, but she had been nice to me and she was being treated unfairly by the students. I wouldn’t get many points for being her friend. But what did I care? I had already decided that I wasn’t here to win any popularity contests.
    A couple of times I almost started the car and drove away. But I couldn’t do it. Finally, I took the keys out of the ignition, opened the door, and got out. I waited for a break in the light afternoon traffic and ran across the street. I went up several steps to the front door of the house and stopped. My doubts returned. What was I going to say to Sylvia?
    I didn’t know any words that seemed adequate. What could I do to help her? This miscarriage of justice was much bigger than I was. And then I remembered that my father had told me to stay away from Sylvia. By seeing her, I would be disobeying a direct order. And I was usually obedient to my parents, in spite of the trouble I had caused.
    But when I tried to walk away, I found again that I couldn’t. I couldn’t ring the doorbell, and I couldn’t leave. I stood there for what seemed like several minutes, nervously transferring my weight from one foot to the other, until I started to feel conspicuous. In spite of the fact that nobody had gone by on the sidewalk, and the people in cars probably didn’t even see me, or if they did, it was only for a split second.
    Well, Blanchard, shit or get off the pot. My finger lunged at the doorbell, and I heard it ring inside. Now I really wanted to run, but it was too late. There was nowhere to hide. The door had a translucent window on it, and I could make out an image through it as somebody approached. Somebody who looked bigger than Sylvia.
    I wasn’t prepared for this. The door opened, and a man—obviously Mr. Doran—appeared. I should have known he’d be here. After all, he didn’t have a job to go to. He was thin—almost gaunt—but not tall. His light hair was sparse, and he had a haunted expression on his face—or at least it seemed like that to me.
    An involuntary shudder went through me, as if I were face-to-face with a criminal. That reaction angered me. I got a grip on myself and said, “I need to talk to Sylvia.” I immediately realized how childish this was—making a demand before even introducing myself. I was about to say something more when Mr. Doran spoke.
    “Sylvia doesn’t want to talk to anybody.”
    He said it in a firm but not harsh voice and immediately started closing the door.
    “Wait,” I said in desperation. “I just want to tell you how sorry I am about what happened. What you did was very courageous.”
    Mr. Doran hesitated with the door half shut and looked at me. “Thank-you,” he said, softly.
    “My name is Gary Blanchard, and I just moved to Carter, but Sylvia has been kind to me,” I said, speaking quickly.
    “Gary Blanchard? Sylvia mentioned you. She said you helped her and one of her friends. Natalie, I believe.”
    At the mention of Natalie’s name, the sour taste came into my mouth—the taste you get just before you vomit.
    “Just a minute,” Mr. Doran said.
    He left the door ajar and walked away. I heard him calling Sylvia’s name. Then I could make out a few words of his end of a conversation that he was carrying on in a subdued shout. It sounded as if he were arguing. Then I heard his footsteps returning.
    He opened the door wide and said, “Sylvia is upstairs in her room. Go on up.”
    I thanked him and headed for the staircase down the hall that made a right-angle turn partway up. A sturdy wooden banister finished in dark wood protected the side away from the wall, which was wallpapered in a flower pattern. It dawned on me that I was being granted a rare privilege. It wasn’t often that parents let teenagers of the