The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

me.
    While I was driving Sylvia home, I explained my need to get some math questions answered at lunchtime. She accepted my explanation without question, not even making the argument that Barney was the best student in my math class.
    Not feeling very satisfied with that, I tried to come up with a good reason I could use to convince her that she should be taking the bus to school. During the few minutes of our ride together, I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t make me look like a heel. I would have to call her later. I dropped her at her house. She invited me in, but I declined.
    I was planning to go to the farm and vegetate, out of the rain, and hope that my problems would disappear. I drove a block with that in mind. Then I suddenly turned into a gas station, made a U-turn, and headed back up Main Street. I timed it so that I passed Sylvia’s house after she had gone inside, but before she could make it upstairs to her room and look out the window.
    There was only a short time that I would be able to talk to Sonny before he would be off defending his country. I might learn something. If I didn’t, I would drop all non-school-related activities and do exactly what Dr. Graves wanted me to do, so that I could graduate from high school and get out of here.
    I continued on Main Street past the high school for a mile and then turned left into a relatively recent housing development. I had looked up Sonny’s address in the telephone book and then verified the street with Sylvia, so that I knew I had the correct Erskine, but without telling her what I was thinking of doing.
    The house was a two-story, wooden structure with a fresh coat of paint. It was typical of the small houses built just after World War II, when there was a big demand for new housing. Soldiers returned from the war, and everybody started spending the money they had hoarded. There had been nothing to spend it on during the war, what with so many things being rationed. My parents still had leftover ration coupons that had been doled out to them sparingly. Coupons that enabled them to buy gasoline and essential food items, in addition to other necessities.
    I parked on the street and sat in the car while I reviewed what I wanted to say. This was not going to be easy. I forced myself to open the door, get out, and run up the asphalt driveway, trying to stay as dry as possible as the rain continued to pelt down. I rang the doorbell and got wetter and wetter until a middle-aged woman wearing a housedress and glasses opened the main door and then the outer door, which held a screen during the summer, but now had a storm window in it.
    “Come in out of the rain,” she said, holding that door open.
    I did, gratefully. Then, giving her my best smile, I said, “Hello, you must be Mrs. Erskine. My name is Gary Blanchard, and I’m working on a story for the town newspaper. I’d like to talk to Sonny.”
    She looked at me suspiciously and said, “A reporter for the Carter Press was here yesterday. And a photographer. They took his picture and everything.”
    I should have anticipated this. “Yes, well I’m actually working for the Carter school paper. I’m sorry; I misspoke. We’re trying to keep up with some of our graduates, particularly the grads who are doing important things, like Sonny is.”
    Her look softened a little, and she said, “Come on in. Sonny’s upstairs. I’ll get him. Hang up your wet jacket.”
    I was in an entryway, which doubled as a coat closet. I took off my jacket, hung it on a hook, and went through the next doorway. This area doubled as the entrance to the living room and the landing at the bottom of the stairs.
    Mrs. Erskine called up the stairs. “Sonny, there’s someone to see you from the high school paper.”
    “Who is it?” a muffled voice called back.
    I repeated my name for her, and she yelled it up the stairs.
    “Never heard of him.”
    “Well, get yourself down here anyway. Show some manners.”
    I heard the sound of footsteps over our heads, and then a young man appeared at the top of the stairs. He came down them in a hurry, his army-issue boots sounding like machine gun fire on the wooden steps. I got a quick look at him and saw that his hair was shaved down almost to fuzz. He was tall and solidly built, and he had a strong face with patriotic eyes in a head shaped like a snub-nosed bullet.
    He grabbed my hand in a vice-like grip and said, “Your name’s Blanchard? Do you go to