The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

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    CHAPTER 18
    The lunch bunch ate together the next day. We didn’t say much at first, but after Barney had eaten a few bites, he said, “I talked to someone who admitted going up on the catwalk with Dr. Graves.”
    “A boy?” I asked.
    Barney nodded.
    “Who is it?” Sylvia asked.
    Barney shook his head and waited until he had chewed a bite thoroughly and swallowed it before he spoke again.
    “Can’t say. It’s the same situation as Gary’s. But he’s a freshman. Graves likes the young ones.”
    “Did he say what happened?”
    “Same story. They went up on the catwalk. Graves asked him to sit on his lap. Then they went down, and he returned to class.”
    “That doesn’t do us much good if he won’t testify about it,” Sylvia said, bitterly.
    “He said he would testify under one condition. I told him this had happened to someone else. He said he’ll testify if that person testifies at the same time.”
    Three pairs of eyes looked at me. I who wanted to drop this whole line of inquiry, because I had the most to lose. But Sylvia had already lost a lot—friends, status. And what about the boys Dr. Graves was playing games with? What were they losing?
    “All right, I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
    ***
    “Would you like to come in and have a soda?” Sylvia asked, as I stopped the car across the street from her house.
    I had declined her invitations up to now, because I always had something to do. But not today. Except shoot baskets in the barn. And that could wait.
    “Sure.”
    We ran across the street, and she produced a key, which she used to open the door. We stepped inside to what sounded like a faint echo, but maybe it was the sound of silence. There were no noises indicating habitation by a living person.
    “Where’s your dad?” I asked.
    “He’s writing some articles. Anonymously, of course. And Mom’s working. It’s lonely here in the afternoon.”
    That’s why she had invited me inside. Sylvia led the way to the kitchen, which was straight down the hall past the stairs. She gave me my choice of soft drinks and took one herself. Then she showed me around the downstairs, which I hadn’t seen yet. The living room was comfortable. The furniture wasn’t new, but it was in good repair, in contrast to the Drucquer house. There was a separate dining room with a table, chairs, and a sideboard that Sylvia informed me were antique.
    When we completed the tour, Sylvia said, “Would you like to play a game or something?”
    I liked to play games, but I had a better idea. I said, “Have you ever been to Ralph’s place?”
    She shook her head.
    “Let’s go there. I’ll show you the barn and everything. It’s got a great hayloft with a basketball court.”
    “I’ve heard about the court. Some of the members of the team have practiced there.”
    “Change into old clothes. The hayloft is full of hay—which when you think about it is appropriate.”
    “Give me five minutes.”
    She ran upstairs. She was actually gone ten minutes, but I let it pass because she was a girl and girls take longer to dress than boys. I was getting more considerate of others as I grew older. She returned wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt that said “University of Rochester” on it.
    It took us five minutes to drive to the farm. I pulled into the driveway, turned around, and parked on the street, since I would be driving Sylvia home later. Aunt Dorothy was teaching at Atherton High today and wasn’t home yet. I wanted to introduce Sylvia to her.
    I led the way to the barn. We walked through the ground floor to the old metal ladder that led to the hayloft. I went up first, pushed the heavy trapdoor to its vertical position, and secured it to the hook on the wall. I turned on the floodlight and helped Sylvia exit from the ladder as she clambered up.
    “Hey, this place is all right,” Sylvia said, looking around. “Can we shoot some baskets?”
    I was surprised at her request, but I grabbed a basketball and passed it to her. I was even more surprised to see that she had a good two-hand set shot. We played a couple of games of HORSE.
    When she beat me in the second game, I said, “Don’t you know you’re always supposed to let boys win?”
    “Sorry,” she said, giving me an impish grin. “I guess I’m just too competitive.”
    I pointed out the other forms of recreation available in the hayloft. To my increasing surprise, she wanted to slide down the haystack. We did this several times.