The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

beer wouldn’t impair my driving ability.
    Although there were a few older boys and girls there, including Dennis, who had probably flunked a grade or two, I was willing to bet that most of the partygoers were under eighteen. And that included me. There wasn’t a parent in sight. No adults—just booze and broads.
    It reminded me of a definition I had heard of the difference between a good girl and a nice girl. A good girl goes on a date, goes home, goes to bed. A nice girl goes on a date, goes to bed, goes home. Although the saying was mostly wishful thinking, as was most sex talk at the high school level, it was tempting, if perhaps unfair, to imagine which kind these girls were.
    I had briefly thought about asking Sylvia if she would like to come, thinking that she needed to get out, just as I did. Now I was glad I hadn’t. And what was I doing here? I obviously didn’t fit in. I wouldn’t stay long. Willie was probably the youngest one at the party, and he was sitting by himself. I went over and sat down beside him on a folding chair.
    “Nice party,” I said.
    He smiled at me, a little bleary-eyed.
    “I have a question for you,” I said. Might as well take the opportunity to try and get some information. I continued, speaking loud enough to be heard over the pounding beat of the music, “I…I’m interested in Ralph Harrison. You said there was something funny about the way he died.”
    Willie took a drag on his cigarette and said, “Did I say that?”
    Of course, he had been in a drunken stupor at the time, just as he was now. I tried a different tack. “You said he taught you to walk on your hands.”
    Willie’s face brightened. “Ya wanna see me walk on my hands?”
    “No thanks.” Even if he succeeded, I was afraid he’d leave a trail of destruction in his path. “You must have known Ralph very well. How did you meet him?” Since they were two years apart in school.
    “He was on the varsity baseball team when I went out for JV. We both played catcher.”
    “Who’s the coach?”
    “Mr. Jarvis.”
    One of the gym teachers.
    “Dr. Graves sometimes comes to our practices.”
    “Oh.” I recalled Dr. Graves had said he watched swimming classes too.
    “Yeah, he knows a lot about baseball. He used to play semi-pro. He would give us tips.”
    “It sounds like Dr. Graves takes an interest in sports.”
    “That and he has favorites among the guys. Ralph was one of them. I’m another.”
    “What, do you brown-nose him?”
    “Naw, don’t have to.”
    “So what does he do?”
    Willie stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray sitting on an end table. He picked up a pack of Camels from the table, offered me one, which I refused, then took one for himself. He lit it with a lighter, also from the table. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke out through his nostrils.
    He looked at me and said, “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
    I promised and sipped my beer while he took another drag on his cigarette.
    Willie took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, “When I was a freshman, he took me up on the catwalk above the stage. I was cutting class with the principal’s permission, what did I know? Then he had me sit on his lap and put his hands over mine on my lap.”
    I tried to keep a blank expression as I said, “Did anything else happen?”
    “Naw. He gave me a hall pass, and I went to class.”
    “Has he done this recently?”
    “Not with me. I wised up. But he liked Ralph. Maybe he did it with him. And there may have been others.”
    “Did he ever have a fight with Ralph that you can recall?”
    Willie shook his head.
    “What do you think was funny about the way Ralph died?”
    “He was too good of an athlete to die like he did.”
    A chant started over in the corner where some stag boys were sitting together.
    “ One, two,
    what’ll we do?
    Three, four,
    out the door.
    Five, six,
    pick up chicks.
    Seven, eight,
    lay them straight.
    Nine, ten,
    do it again.”
    They repeated the chant, louder. Half a dozen boys got up and headed for the door. Willie got up to join them.
    “You coming?” he asked.
    I shook my head. Not only did I not want to drive somewhere with a bunch of half-drunk boys, I seriously doubted their ability to find chicks, and if they lucked out and found them, to know what to do with them.
    Dennis grabbed Willie by the arm and tried to dissuade him from going, without much success. I took one more swig of beer, put down the bottle, shouted a thank-you in Dennis’