Date: 2023-12-08T13:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Coming-of-age
Description: Meet Chase an untamed, enterprising, stealthy scoundrel and a smart, sarcastic, irreverent rascal. He's Will's Boy: a cheat, liar, reliable confidant and good guy, busy coming-of-age in so many ways. "A wonderfully written coming-of-age story. As Chase (the main character) grows up and encounters the opposite sex, questions about faith, and even matters of life and death, there's plenty of humor to leaven the weightier aspects of the story and contribute to making it such an enjoyable and thoughtful read." –Wendy Lee, author of Happy Family, Across a Green Ocean, and The Art of Confidence
Publisher: John A Hale

Will's Boy

A Novel

John Hale

Copyright © 2023 John Hale

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the author.

ISBN: 979-8-218-30080-7 (Paperback)

Also available for Kindle.

Preface

Throughout life our behaviors and beliefs are shaped by parents, teachers, pastors, playmates, workmates, neighbors, and friends—by rules and laws—and by countless experiences and forces. Most coming-of-age novels depict a single significant experience or an important time in an adolescent’s life, but all of us come of age many times, even in late life, but never so frequently as during our earliest, unremembered years or our adolescence. The novel affords one the sweep of time to capture many of one character’s coming-of-age experiences; Will’s Boy attempts that feat.

Robert Frost’s first book of poetry was titled A Boy’s Will. Portions of the first draft of Will’s Boy were written in southern Vermont near one of Frost’s homes and the Congregational Church where he and members of his family are buried. The novel’s title is a tip of the cap to Frost, my favorite poet, and to my father who was nicknamed Happy Will by his World War II Navy shipmates. Oh, and Will’s Boy certainly does deal with the development of one boy’s will.

Thanks and Dedication

In 2004, Leggett & Platt’s CEO, David Haffner, granted me, over the next three years, a series of two-month writing leaves, and an untamed, six-hundred-page monster of a book was the result. Thank you, David.

Several early readers of Will’s Boy agreed to identify the most and least engaging sections of the book without criticizing the writing. A better, shorter novel was one result. My sincere thanks to each of those readers.

Thanks to Richard Weiss, of WeissWrite, also an early reader, for guiding me to better define and continue work on the monster. And thanks to Wendy Lee, an author and contracted editor supplied by Kevin Anderson and Associates, for her compliments and excellent editorial suggestions on the much shorter final version of the novel.

Thanks to Doug Marshall for the handsome, complementary cover art, and to A. Kate Reynolds at Workaday Communications for shepherding Will’s Boy into publication.

Thanks to Janet Tabin, one of my sisters, and David Hale, one of my sons, for their reviews, and a special thanks to Neil Campbell, a retired newspaper managing editor and longtime friend, for his unwavering support, multiple readings, and editorial insights. Thanks, too, to David Austin for his kind, frequent, uncompensated computer support.

On every trip, through eighteen years of writing and rewriting, Carolyn Hale, my spouse, friend, and loving partner of fifty-three-plus years, was with me and offered only encouragement—never a discouraging word. It’s to Carolyn I dedicate the finished work—finally!

John Hale, October 2023

Chapter One

Awakening

November 1948—May 1956

Chase Coulter’s first expulsion—amniotic drunk, light-stunned, and gasping—ended with a brief flight to the calming warmth of his mother’s skin. Later came the sorting out of voices and faces, the high chair happy squeezing of food between his fingers, pulling up beside the couch, and the wobbly walk of a toddler. Memories of those experiences apparently flashed down neural pathways, flickered across countless synapses, and splashed down in his brain’s forgotten South Pacific storage. Now and then, tiny bits of those memories, like sea glass, washed up in his dreams.

Childhood amnesia, the near universal lack of access to early memories, later interested Chase. He liked asking others about their earliest memories and telling the story of his first complete one—a second expulsion.

‡

In September of 1953, two weeks and two days into the fall term, when Caroline Coulter came to pick up Chase from school, his kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Alcott, requested they pull up a couple of chairs for a desk-side conference.

“Mrs. Coulter, I’d like you to keep Chase at home and re-enroll him next fall,” Mrs. Alcott said. “He won’t turn five until late November and a year makes a huge difference at this age.”

“I don’t understand,” Caroline answered. “He comes home from school every day happy as a lark.”

“Oh, Chase is a happy boy, Mrs. Coulter. He’s just not ready for school.”

“He’s only been here two weeks,” Caroline said. She hooked her ankles behind the front legs of the chair and leaned forward. “Don’t you think he just needs a little more time to learn what he’s supposed to do?”

“Chase understands what he’s supposed to do,” Mrs. Alcott said and then shook her head. “He’s not ready to do it.”

“You know, at home he’s very cooperative and just full of questions. His dad and I both thought he was ready for school.”

Mrs. Alcott patted Caroline’s forearm. “Today, I asked the children to roll out their little rugs for naptime.” She looked at him. “You did that, Chase, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I asked them to lie down and close their eyes, and he did that too. He understands he’s supposed to stay put and rest during naptime. Don’t you, Chase?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, yes, he cooperates, Mrs. Coulter.” She looked again at Caroline. “But only when I’m here, and naptime is the only time I can leave the room for a few minutes.”

Mrs. Alcott picked up a heavy stapler from her desk. “Last week during naptime, I came back to the room and found construction paper shapes stapled into my planner. The next afternoon, someone”—she pointed the stapler at Chase—“someone sliced the colorful panes out of our playhouse windows.”

Caroline looked toward the back of the room and the dark, empty windows of the playhouse. “Chase did that?”

“Yes.”

“That’s terrible,” Caroline said and looked at Chase. “Why would you do that?”

“They sorta looked nicer,” he answered.

“They were cellophane gels,” Mrs. Alcott explained. “He taped them on the glass beside the door to the playground. ‘More light comes through here,’ he told me.”

“Well, perhaps—”

“Oh, honey, wait, please.” Mrs. Alcott grasped Caroline’s forearm gently. “There’s more. Yesterday, during naptime, he and two other children created a mural.” She nodded toward wild crayon scribbling on the wall below the windows.

Caroline looked at the wall, pushed the fingers of one hand back through her short blonde hair, and turned to Chase. “You know better than that. Why would you do that?”

Chase shrugged. “It was pretty.”

“Today I left my stapler out again,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Chase stapled Janice Taylor’s hair to her mat while she slept. Then he apparently decided it was time for recess. The custodian found him outside stoking the incinerator with empty milk cartons.”

Mrs. Alcott continued. “He’s not sneaky at all. And he’s honest; he readily admits doing these things. Seems almost proud of himself.”

“Darn it, Chase,” Caroline said to him and then turned to Mrs. Alcott. “It’s been a long time since he napped.”

“You’re telling me,” Mrs. Alcott answered and suppressed a laugh. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Coulter, Chase is a smart little boy; he’s just untamed. Bring him back next year.”

‡

In the year following his expulsion from kindergarten, Chase took no naps. Caroline taught him the alphabet, counting, and word recognition and he began to read.

The next fall, she enrolled him in first grade in the country school near the Coulters’ home in the village of Silver Stream, Missouri.

In first grade, Chase learned the word “incorrigible.” The unhappy, elderly teacher of the combined first and second grades repeatedly called her students incorrigible. He also learned from a group of second graders that his mother’s maiden name, Chase, was oddly entertaining and ample cause to race after him on the playground—pushing, tripping, and screaming— “Chase – Coulter! Chase Coulter!”

In April of that school year, the Coulters convened a family meeting at the kitchen table. Will Coulter, the dark-haired, dark-eyed dad, told Chase and his little sister, Julie, the family would soon shop for a home in nearby Bloomington. “The elementary schools there have two classrooms at each grade level,” he said, “and the teachers are better paid.”

Caroline, a list-maker, brought a stenographer’s pad and helped them prepare a wish list of features to look for in a new home: three bedrooms, at least two baths, a fireplace, a big yard, and an elementary school within walking distance.

The next weekend the Coulters went house hunting. In a grand, older Bloomington neighborhood, they found an aging two-story, white stucco on a large, tree-filled corner lot.

As he drove away, Will said to the children in the back seat, “That house has most of the things on our list, plus lots of trees, and that little old stable. But even if it didn’t, we’d probably try to buy it. It just felt right—like we belong there. Sometimes a list isn’t as important as the way you feel about something.”

Caroline smiled and slid the stenographer’s pad into her purse. “Old houses are lots of work, Will, but it’s wonderful.”

‡

The Coulters moved to Bloomington at the end of June. Neighbors Evan and Alice Whitman, a grocery store owner and his artist wife, parents of a son and daughter both older than Chase, welcomed them. Alice and Caroline immediately, instinctively felt like longtime friends.

Chase spent those remaining summer days playing alone. The easy-to-reach lower limbs of a mature cedar beside the driveway welcomed him to climb. He hid in the upper boughs, tasted the tree’s sticky yellow sap, and watched passing vehicles.

Chase also climbed the steep stairs into the attic of the detached two-car garage, scrambled through the short entry door at the top of the stairs, and built a room in a corner with the long, grimy boxes of cancelled checks left by a previous owner.

Next to the garage, not visible from the house, was an unused pony shed with a wide rock wall in front that once enclosed a small saddling yard. Chase walked along the flat top of the rock wall, scrambled from the wall onto the roof of the shed, stretched out on his back on the north slope, and found in the swelling cumulus clouds: a fat-headed man smoking a cigar, a woman with her hair swirled high, and Grumpy the dwarf.

‡

On the first morning of second grade at Ridgeway Elementary, Chase stood alone near the front of the classroom, next to a row of exterior windows, watching his classmates chatter and race around the room. Jim Stuart also stood apart near the windows a bit farther back in the class, arms folded across his chest, staring out. When the teacher asked them to be seated, Jim parked in a desk directly behind Chase. The two boys spent lunch and recess together. After the final bell, they fast-walked side by side to the west entrance and pushed open the wide glass doors, slinging sunshine into the neighborhood.

Outside, bounding down the stairs, Jim Stuart sang, “From the land of sky-blue waters, comes the beer refreshing, Hamm’s, the beer refreshing.” He sang the beer commercial’s lines again, loudly, two or three more times during the walk home.

‡

On a warm Saturday, during the spring of that same school year, the fast friends marched a familiar route to the Coulters’ home: up the block behind Jim’s house and through the Whitmans’ shady backyard. There, on one of the two benches of the Whitmans’ glider swing, sat a neighbor—a bright high school boy named Ted Tolar—studying a book spread open on the opposite bench.

Curiosity slowed the boys’ march to a staring stroll. When Ted looked up, Chase asked, “Studyin’ for school?”

“No, kid,” Ted replied. “They don’t teach this stuff at school. This is all about human reproduction.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” Chase answered and stopped walking. Jim also stopped.

“There’s no intercourse course at Bloomington High, boys,” Ted said.

“No what?” Chase asked.

“Oh, nothin’, kid,” Ted answered. “Just jabbering.” He picked up a pencil from the crease of the open book and pointed the eraser toward them. “You know, though, there ought to be an intercourse course in school; kids ought to know the facts of life way sooner. Know what I mean?”

Neither boy answered.

“I mean, wouldn’t you boys like to learn the facts of life?”

“Well, what kind of stuff are you talkin’ about?” Chase asked.

“Just about the most interesting stuff in the world, kid. Like—how babies are born, an’ how a woman’s body works, stuff like that.”

“Uh, well,” Jim started to say, “we were—”

“Sure,” Chase interrupted, “I’d like to know about things like that.”

“Well, okay then.” Ted moved to the center of the bench seat. “Here, guys—come sit on either side of me—so you can see.”

Ted opened a second book and placed it beside the tome already open on the bench seat in front of them. The smaller book began turning its pages. “This one’s not going to stay open without help,” Ted said. He flipped two pages back and put one hand on each side of the open book. “Hold it for me”—he nodded toward Jim—“would you?”

Using textbook terminology, the photos and drawings in the small anatomy book and the Encyclopedia Britannica, Ted explained the not-so-simple human reproductive process. At times, he posed questions. “So, I’ll bet you guys are wondering how a man’s penis enters the vagina, aren’t you?”

“Uh, well, sorta, I guess,” Chase answered.

Ted held the pencil against his thigh with the eraser between his thumb and forefinger.

“Boys, when a man sees a naked woman or starts thinking about having intercourse, he gets excited, and his penis will stand almost straight up, like this.” With a fingertip on the sharpened lead, Ted raised that end of the pencil. “When it’s firm and standing up like this—that’s called an erection.”

Ted paused, leaving the pencil upright. “Either of you boys have an Erector Set?” he asked.

“Uh-huh, I got one for Christmas,” Jim answered.

“Well, one of these days, both of you boys are gonna have a brand-new kind of Erector Set—in your pants!” Ted laughed at his clever remark.

Neither Chase nor Jim laughed.

“It’s kind of a hard present to wrap,” Ted said. “Get it?”

Chase and Jim stared at him, expressionless.

“Okay, well, anyway, boys, look here.” With one hand, Ted formed a hollow fist, leaving an opening on both ends.

“Kinda make a spyglass with your fist and look through it—like this.” Ted closed one eye and put the hollow fist up to the other eye, pretending to look through the opening. The boys followed his example.

“Good. That’s good,” Ted said. “Now, look here.” He pointed at the opening formed by his index finger. “See this small hole?” He turned the hole in his fist for each boy to see.

“Imagine”—Ted put the fist between his thighs—“that hole is kinda like the opening between a woman’s legs, up in her crotch. Okay?”

The boys sat up straight, turned their heads toward Ted, and peered down into his lap.

“And now imagine.” Ted took the pencil in his other hand and slid one end of it into the opening in his crotch fist. “Imagine that the man’s erect penis slides up and in—and out and in—just like this.” He pulled the pencil almost out of his fist and then pushed it back in and repeated the action a few times.

“That channel, up inside my fist, is kinda like a woman’s vagina, but a vagina can open way, way wider than that, and that is very important. I’ll tell you why in a minute.”

The boys said almost nothing. From time to time, Ted asked if they had questions. They had few.

Jim asked, “Well, where does her pee come out?”

Chase asked, “So, uh, how do the man and woman use the Kotex?”

Ted did not laugh. Using a detailed drawing of a woman in the anatomy text, he pointed out for Jim the location of the anus and urethra and named them. To explain the menses to Chase, Ted pointed out ovaries, fallopian tubes, the uterus, its cervix, and the vagina. He explained the alternating descent of the ova and the flow of bloody waste in each menstrual cycle.

Finally, Chase also asked, “So, you’re saying, my dad did this? He put his standing-up penis into my mom—up between her legs—like that?”

“Yup, kid, that’s what I’m sayin’.” Ted leaned back in the glider, spread his arms wide, and grasped the top of the backrest. “Your daddy put his erect penis right up into your mommy’s slippery vagina.”

Chase was stunned.

‡

The two boys left the Whitmans’ sheltered backyard, walked in silence to the Coulters’ house, and shinnied up onto the rock wall in front of the old pony shed.

“Jim, you think your mom and dad did that?” Chase asked.

“Uh-huh. I know they do.”

“You know they do?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How?”

“One night, I was in bed,” Jim answered. “An’ I heard Mom making noises like ‘oh, oh, oh.’ An’ I went into their bedroom, an’ my dad was on her—doing innercourse.”

“He was?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Holy cow,” Chase said and was quiet a moment. “What did you do?”

“I thought he was killing her, an’ I ran over, yelling—Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

For a moment the boys sat in silence on the rock wall.

“Then what?”

“Oh, so, my mom put her arm around me and pulled me to the side of the bed. An’ she said, ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, it’s okay; it’s okay. We’re exercising. Daddy’s doing push-ups, and I’m doing sit-ups. Everything’s fine, honey. Go back to bed now, okay?’”

“It’s true then, for sure,” Chase said.

“Uh-huh,” Jim answered. “That Ted guy had the official books.”

They sat a long time before either boy spoke again.

Then, Jim said, “They lie—a lot.”

“What?”

“Parents,” Jim answered, “keep all kinds of secrets, and they lie a lot.”

“You think?” Chase asked. “About what?”

“Santa Claus, Easter Bunny,” Jim answered.

“Oh, uh-huh.”

“Tooth Fairy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Doing innercourse.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They lie about all kinds of stuff,” Jim said.

“Naw, not really.”

“Yeah, really, Chase. Pay attention.”

Chapter Two

Penures

October 1957—March 1958

Jim Stuart’s paternal grandmother died in the late fall of 1957, when the boys were in fourth grade. Chase tagged along on a few of the Saturday trips the Stuarts made to help Jim’s grandfather clean and reorganize his home.

In two back rooms, Jim’s grandmother, an enthusiastic but fickle hobbyist, had stored her sewing and craft supplies, filled every shelf and space with nested egg cartons, shoeboxes, coffee cans, butter tubs, and baby food jars. Over-the-door organizers, stuffed with more supplies, initially prevented the doors to those rooms from closing.

In the wide trunk of their Chevy, the Stuarts hauled away most of Grandmother Stuart’s craft supplies and mounds of her scuffed shoes, beat-up purses, and worn undergarments and stockings. The Goodwill store gladly received her good clothes: coats, sweaters, dresses, skirts, and blouses.

On a dreary January Saturday, Jim’s mom asked the boys to take down several shoeboxes from a high shelf in the back of the second, now nearly empty back room. Jim climbed a step stool, lifted one of the boxes, and turned to hand it to Chase. “Careful, bud,” he said, “this is pretty heavy.”

Chase placed the box on the floor, and Jim handed him three more.

“Jim, wow, look here.” Chase sat on the floor with a shoebox open, raking his fingers through emerald and amber colored glass beads. He scooped a handful and held them out for Jim to see. Tiny bubble-like imperfections inside the beads reflected light from the overhead fixture. “These are beautiful.”

Jim sat beside Chase and removed the lids from the other boxes. “These are loaded with lots of other colors,” he said.

“Mrs. Stuart,” Chase asked, “could I have some of these?”

“I don’t know; you’ll need to ask Jim’s granddad,” she answered. “What would you do with them?”

“Maybe make a bracelet, a necklace or something,” Chase said.

“They are pretty, aren’t they? For your mom or little sister?” Mrs. Stuart asked.

“Mm, no, probably for Becky Colavito,” Chase said.

“Aha.” Jim’s dad was packing a box in the next room but came to the door, smiling. “Becky Colavito, is it? Your girlfriend?”

“Not exactly,” Chase answered.

“What’s that mean?” Mr. Stuart asked. “She’s not your girlfriend, but maybe a pretty girl you wish was your girlfriend?”

“Uh-huh. And yeah, she’s really pretty. Don’t you think, Jim?”

“Uh, I guess so. Sure,” Jim said.

“You know, Chase, Colavito is an Italian name,” Mr. Stuart said. “And the Cleveland Indians have a really good outfielder named Rocky Colavito.”

“Dad, we know,” Jim answered. “Chase calls Becky ‘Rockette.’”

“Chase, I guess you know what the Rockettes are, right?” Mr. Stuart asked.

“Uh-huh, famous dancers,” Chase answered.

“Is she pretty?” Mr. Stuart asked.

“Dad, you asked that already,” Jim said.

“Well, she is, Mr. Stuart. She has shiny black hair and dark eyes. Italian girls must be the prettiest of all,” Chase answered, but he was already on his way out of the room to ask Jim’s grandfather about taking some of the beads.

Jim’s grandfather responded, “You can have ’em, son. Take ’em all, please. I’m never going to another damn craft show long as I live.”

The next afternoon, Mrs. Stuart taught both boys how to string the emerald and amber beads on doubled, khaki-colored thread and how to attach clasps.

‡

On Monday, Chase couldn’t keep from watching Becky Colavito, and Becky couldn’t keep from looking at her wrist. She held the bracelet out to catch the light and rested it on the maple desktop and the white paper in her notebook.

In Becky’s reactions and the eager questions of the girls gathered around her at recess, Chase and Jim saw the beads shimmer in a new light.

Over a weekend, after the purchase of additional clasps and heavier thread, the boys produced fifteen necklaces and matching bracelets—three sets in each of five color schemes. They settled on prices and cut out cardboard stands to display one of each of the five sets. On Monday, they took their displays and inventory to school. By the end of morning recess, they’d sold out.

The following morning, Richard Porter, the principal at Ridgeway Elementary, called Caroline Coulter. After a few pleasantries about Parent-Teacher Association activities, Porter said, “Caroline, I’m calling about a little problem with Chase and Jim Stuart. They’re in my office with me now.”

“They are? Is one of them hurt?” Caroline asked.

“Oh no, no, nothing like that. They’re fine.

“I presume,” Porter continued, “you’re aware the boys started a little jewelry business?”

“Uh-huh, they call themselves C & S Jewelry Merchants. Pretty highfalutin’ and a little funny.”

“Mm, well, the parents of some of their customers have been calling this morning, and I’m sorry to say they don’t seem amused. They’re particularly miffed about the boys’ timing.”

“Their timing?”

“On Monday, most of the children bring their milk and lunch money—to pay for the entire week.”

“Uh-huh, Chase does that.”

“So, you know the price of one lunch is a quarter, right?”

“Yes.”

“Coincidentally, a quarter is the price of a bracelet. A necklace costs two quarters.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right,” Porter continued. “Several girls went home last night with a lovely necklace and bracelet but only paid for Monday and Tuesday lunches.

“One father called to ask me if Chase Coulter was planning to buy his daughter’s lunch for the rest of the week.” Porter looked over his glasses at the boys. “I guess Chase was the salesman?”

“Of course,” Caroline answered. “They sold out, you know. He was so excited last night.”

“Caroline, you know how this works. We allow the Girl Scouts to sell cookies in the lobby. We collect for the March of Dimes. If parents sign a permission form, the children can order from the bookmobile. We send advance notices home about all those things. They require my prior approval and have to conform to district guidelines.”

“Oh, right, right. I’m so sorry. Are the boys in trouble then?”

“No, but I suspect some of their classmates were in trouble at home last night.”

“Oh, shoot. So, what now?”

“Well, the boys are out of business at Ridgeway. So far, Beth Thompson’s father is the only person who’s asked for a refund. Please help make sure that happens. I’ll call Mrs. Stuart next.”

After Porter hung up, he turned to the boys. “All right, fellas, you can go on back to class. There’s no need for you to stay for the other call.”

Jim rose and walked toward the door. Chase remained seated.

“What is it, Chase?” Porter asked.

“We could use the telephone,” Chase said.

“No, that’s really not necessary, Chase. I’ll talk to any of the parents who call.”

“I mean to sell. We could call the kids at home.”

“Don’t be silly, Chase, they’re all here at school.”

Chase leaned forward, grasped the seat of the chair with both hands, and spoke to Porter like an elementary school teacher annoyed with a slow pupil. “I mean, we could call...lay ter...from home...to sell.”

Porter tossed his pen onto his desk and also leaned forward. “No, you can’t. Not now and not later. Your business is closed, and, mister, you need to watch that smart mouth.”

“But we—”

“No, Chase,” Porter interrupted, “no more, it’s time for you to get back to class.”

‡

That evening, Will Coulter drove Chase to the Thompsons’ house to pick up Beth’s necklace and bracelet and refund her lunch money. Chase went to the door himself. When Mr. Thompson came to the door, Chase returned the money and apologized.

Mr. Thompson walked to the car with Chase to speak to Will. “Listen, I hope there are no hard feelings here, Coulter. Beth just has to learn to spend the money we give her for its intended purpose.”

“Right. Understood. No hard feelings at all,” Will answered. “Maybe you’ve heard of entrepreneurs. Ol’ Chase is what I’d call a bit of a penure. That’s a little entrepreneur whose deals sometimes don’t smell so good.”

The men chuckled. Will stuck a hand out of the open car window and they shook hands. Thompson stepped back. Will put the car in gear and rolled up the window as he pulled away.

“Dad.” Chase slapped the seat between them. “Don’t laugh! That’s not right!”

“What? What’s not right?”

“The beads don’t stink. They’re beautiful.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was talking about your business.”

“It didn’t stink either.”

“I meant that to be a little joke, Chase.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny. Dad, we were makin’ a mint, an’ we still have four nearly full boxes of beads. The girls in five other classes would probably buy.”

“Chase, I’m pretty sure Porter is not going to let that happen.”

“Mr. Porter is not the principal of Bloomington, Dad.”

“Chase, you need to let this go.”

‡

Jim Stuart was too uncomfortable to continue participating in the jewelry business and reluctantly gave Chase the boxes of beads in return for a small royalty from any piece sold. Despite Principal Porter’s edict and Will’s advice, Chase did not “let this go.”

Porter soon learned of CC’s After School Co. from one of the handwritten index cards Chase regularly distributed at school crosswalks. Porter was not amused or wholly powerless.

Chase and Jim decided earlier that term to begin trombone lessons together. Jim was asked the next spring to sit third chair in the school orchestra. In both fifth and sixth grades, Jim moved up one chair.

It wasn’t until sixth grade that Chase was invited to join the orchestra as the third chair trombone player, behind a fifth grader. Seems the principal confidentially shared with the orchestra director (a music teacher that split time between Ridgeway and another grade school) that Chase Coulter needed fewer distractions and a bit of remedial help with his schoolwork at a time interfering with orchestra practices.

Chase sited his jewelry production operation in the Coulters’ garage attic, hidden from Caroline and Will. The hard-to-enter attic, with steep stairs leading to an elf-size doorway, seemed an innocent clubhouse located an easy call-to-dinner distance from the Coulters’ back door.

‡

In the years that followed, Chase and Jim launched several outdoor business ventures: mowing, leaf raking, shrub trimming, and snow shoveling. Their indoor experiments with weather instruments and television antennas and their sometimes inspired moneymaking operations (among others: a casino, a baseball card and coin trading post, used toy sales, and a wasp nest museum) were lodged in the Coulters’ garage attic. The two boys also spent many warm weather days and, during junior high, many nights there.

Chapter Three

Acquainted with the Night

August 1961

Late on a mid-August night, between seventh and eighth grade, Chase sat on a sleeping bag on the garage attic floor, tying his tennis shoes. Nearer the east window, moonlight illuminated the youth bed, a sheet, and Jim Stuart like ghostly X-ray images.

“Jim,” Chase asked, “you awake?”

“Uh-huh, barely.”

Chase moved to the side of the window facing the Coulters’ house. Below and between the garage and the house, the shadows of four huge holly trees clouded a flagstone patio. The stucco walls of the house were the blue-white color of skim milk.

“What time is it?” Chase asked.

Jim leaned forward in the darkness and studied the luminous triangles on his wristwatch. “Uh, a little after one. Almost one-ten.”

Chase watched each window on the side of the house facing him. A night-light in an upstairs bathroom warmed the window shade. The remaining windows were dark. He saw no movement. “’Bout ready?” he asked.

“One more shoe.” Jim leaned back and skimmed his free hand along the floor behind the bed, feeling for the shoe.

The dark-haired boys wore blue jeans and dark shirts. When Jim joined Chase at the window, from below, outside, it might have appeared the window was bordered on each side by a dark curtain. The curtains watched.

“Still quiet?” Jim asked.

“Uh-huh. Let’s go.”

Once downstairs, the boys hurried across the moon-brightened driveway into the shadow of an enormous cedar tree. From there, they walked without speaking past the Whitmans’ home and two more blocks on the sidewalks under the night shade of the ancient elms. They turned right, went another block, and turned left, weaving through the sleeping neighborhood.

Several blocks from the Coulters’ house, they slipped into an alley. Chase led the way, up the middle on a strip of scraggly grass, avoiding the gravel. They moved with the soft tread of hunters. Crickets and cicadas sang to them from the shrubs and backyards.

A third of the way up the block Chase stopped, crouched, and held one hand down and back, like a relay runner ready to receive the baton. Jim crouched a few feet behind and for several seconds neither boy moved.

There, absorbing moonlight, on the other side of a short privet hedge stood clean laundry, two clotheslines full. The boys watched and listened. The crickets and cicadas didn’t pause, but their sounds were listless, like the breeze and the nearly exhausted summer.

Chase went through an opening in the hedge. Jim watched him move between the two clotheslines, unpinning and repinning garments. Suddenly, the insects were silent. Chase emerged from between the clotheslines, sailed across the yard, and disappeared into a line of trees.

Jim scanned the house, looking for light or motion. He rose, ready to run, when Chase reappeared in the alley thirty feet ahead.

Farther up the alley, the boys found shelter in the uneven shadows of an overgrown hedge. On the grass apron of the alley, Chase first spread a pair of big, dark underpants. Next, he held up a matching brassiere. This was no ordinary bra; it was huge—large enough to cradle cantaloupes.

Jim snorted, tried not to laugh. “Oh, my gawd,” he whispered.

Chase smirked, cocked his head, and raised an index finger to his lips. “Shh.”

‡

On their first night walks, earlier in the summer, Chase and Jim had scouted. They’d coughed and scuffed their feet to alert the neighborhood’s more excitable dogs. They’d noted homes where indoor dogs barked and awakened owners; they’d noted lights usually left on all night. After a few trial runs, successful night walks were silent and undetected.

Once, the boys had gone all the way to Pam Moore’s house to meet a group of girls sneaking out. Pam’s parents allowed her to host slumber parties in their finished basement. No breathless sneaking down a dark hallway past the parents’ bedroom was necessary. After Pam’s parents went to sleep upstairs, the girls slid open the wide, sliding glass door and exited the Moores’ walkout basement.

It had been intoxicating, delicious, to meet girls in the middle of the night. The girls brought rolls of toilet paper to TP the house of someone they disliked that week. They whispered loudly and giggled. Before they’d gone three blocks, their noise woke neighbors. Lights came on in several houses and the girls ran slapdash up the pavement, laughing and calling out to one another. Chase and Jim crossed the street, stepped into the shadows, and slipped away in the opposite direction.

‡

Now, in the uneven shadows of the overgrown hedge, Chase handed Jim the huge bra and underwear and gestured after you. Jim nodded and led the way. Only one other house on the block had clothes drying on a line. Work shirts and pants, white T-shirts, and boxer shorts filled that line. The boys passed by.

They worked their way up and down other alleys. A couple of blocks from the safety of the Coulters’ garage, they entered an alley they usually avoided. Inside two of the houses, nervous little dogs were ever-prepared to go yapping nuts at the least sound. Farther down the block an unpredictable old cocker was sleeping away his last years in an outdoor chain-link pen.

At the third house on the left, Jim stopped, crouched beside a fence, looked back toward Chase, and pointed at the fence.

Chase took a quick peek over the fence, then, wide-eyed and grinning, turned toward Jim and thumped the heel of one hand to his forehead. Here, truly, was a clothes orchard. Strung on stout metal T-bars, four parallel lines, running nearly the length of the yard, were full.

The organized laundress had arranged and divided her wash. A man’s slacks, sport shirts, and T-shirts filled the outer lines and provided a modesty fence for the woman’s clothing on the inside lines. Near the alley on those inside lines, like low-hanging fruit, lingerie, lots of it, inhaled and exhaled in a soft breeze.

Jim went to one of the interior lines and removed a small white brassiere; in its place he pinned the huge dark one. About ten feet down the same line, Jim removed two pairs of petite panties and filled their space with the one jumbo pair.

Jim danced sideways between the lines. He unpinned a short slip and dark brassiere before nervousness overcame him, and he hurried back to the alley. “Chase,” he whispered, “let’s get outta here.”

Chase gave Jim a disappointed eye roll but also nodded yes. They headed home and were almost under the Whitmans’ old elms before they lost their composure and sprinted the final block.

Inside the garage, downstairs, out of breath, they paused and listened. Down the alley they’d left, the old cocker spaniel scuffed his way to the fence, stared out into the moonlit alley, and produced three or four half-hearted woofs.

They listened—for a parent who might have wakened and come to check on them or a prison escapee or burglar sheltering in the dark garage.

Having heard nothing, Chase hustled up the stairs, pushed open the little door, and crawled through the opening into the attic. Jim followed, closed and bolted the door, collapsed, and rolled onto his back. They stayed there, stretched out, listening, savoring the success, letting their breathing return to normal.

“God, sorry, Chase. Sometimes I just can’t keep going.”

“No big deal,” Chase answered. “I was ready to quit.

“Oh my god, Jimbo, your last trade was the best.” Chase rolled onto his side and started laughing. “Can you imagine some little woman holding up those huge panties and sayin’ What on earth?

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Chase said. He stood, leaned away from the sloped ceiling, touched one of the beams and, ducking slightly, crossed the dark attic, brushing the slanted rafters with an outstretched hand as he went.

He found their little lamp, felt his way to its base, and traced the power cord to the switch. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Light pushed darkness into the corners of the attic and left the boys half blind and blinking.

Jim pulled the plain white brassiere from one pocket and gave it to Chase.

Chase studied the little tag. “32B,” he said.

“Must be more than one woman or girl there,” Jim said. He held out a black lace-covered brassiere. “’Cause look here—36C.”

“Nice,” Chase answered. “Really nice. What else?”

“This,” Jim said and held both ends of the waistband of a short white skirt. “What’s this called? A half-slip?”

“That,” Chase said, “or maybe a Pygmy slip.”

“What was it you got at that first place?” Jim asked.

“Not sure.” Chase dug into his front pants pocket and pulled out a short silky slip or underpants. He held the garment up.

“What are those?” Jim asked. “Are they pajama shorts?”

Chase turned the slick pearl-colored underwear toward the light. A blue satin ribbon was woven into the waistband. He pulled up the tag. “Tap pants,” he read. “Tap pants.”

“So, they’re for tap dancing?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to imagine some big woman doing a tap dance in these babies.”

“I s’pose. You think they’re sexy, Chase?”

“Uh-huh.” Chase swung the pants from side to side. “Big, round, and sexy.”

‡

Chase turned on the radio, waited for it to warm, and tweaked the sensitive old tuner to a channel playing Hit Parade music. He hid the lingerie in the back of the speaker cabinet, turned off the light, and stretched out on his sleeping bag.

Jim was asleep on the youth bed before Brenda Lee sang her hit song “I’m Sorry.”

Chase Coulter was awake and wasn’t feeling sorry. He wasn’t thinking about the wrongness of the thefts or the inconvenience, disappointment, and even violation the affected women might feel.

Not for a moment.

Chase listened to Brenda Lee’s every oddly articulated word. He felt the cooler darkness seep into the attic and watched Jim curl and close. He watched the moonlight dim and slip away and, finally, Chase also slept.

Chapter Four

New Mathematics

August 1961—Early October 1961

The morning after the lingerie escapade, the early sun found openings between the maples on the parkway and freckled the stucco on the garage wall. It first came from the low horizon through the east window of the garage attic, looking for boys, and spread itself on an angle across a portion of the sloped ceiling. It slowly climbed the trees. A bit before ten it found Jim in the little bed and warmed and uncurled him.

The light and Jim’s small movements woke Chase. He watched Jim a moment, then sat up and put on his shoes. “It’s today, isn’t it?” Chase asked.

“Uh-huh. Movers are supposed to be there shortly after noon.”

“We need to divide the stuff, Jim, so you can take your share. You’ll want one of the Playboys for sure.”

“Naw. I don’t know how I’d hide it.”

“Well, we could tear out the page with your favorite girl—the one in the black bikini.”

“I don’t want to do that, Chase.”

“Well, okay. Why don’t we run in the house? I’ll fix eggs and toast.”

“Oh, Chase, my dad said to be sure an’ bring home the mat and that little ball bearing for his roulette game. There’s still stuff at home to box up. I gotta pee and get going.”

Jim took his baseball cap, wedged his baseball mitt and the roulette items inside, opened the little door, sat down, and scooted forward into the stairway. Chase followed.

Outside, in the stable yard, hidden from sight, the boys peed on the rock wall. “Sure you won’t come in and eat something?” Chase asked again.

“Yeah, I can’t, really. I gotta go.”

The boys zipped up and stood awkwardly apart. Jim turned and, after a couple of steps, jogged toward the sidewalk. Chase managed an unseen salute that lowered into a half-hearted wave. It was the last time they saw each other.

‡

The boys wrote to each other for a short time that fall. Jim told Chase about his new school and the already chilly mornings in Minneapolis.

Chase wrote that he was “a lot harder in English—now that Mrs. Penn is my teacher.”

After reading Jim’s description of Minnesota weather, Chase reminded Jim that the first weeks of school in southern Missouri were hot and miserable. “Must be great to finally be up in the land of sky-blue waters, Jimbo. Have you seen that Hamm’s Beer Bear yet? Bet you wish you could be here with your sweaty ass stuck to your desk!”

In Jim’s final letter, he thanked Chase for the reminders—said he’d forgotten Minnesota was officially the land of sky-blue waters. He also said he was glad to hear of Mrs. Penn’s continued good health—“God bless her breasts.”

Chase intended to write again but didn’t. If he’d written, in the weeks and months that followed, he might have shared two worries: one involving Mrs. Penn and another involving a classmate named Curtis Pittman.

‡

Mrs. Penn was a young, attractive, newly married second-year teacher. She was also short, shorter than most of the boys, including Chase. A short, attractive female teacher may not seem particularly remarkable, but Mrs. Penn was also stacked. To eighth-grade boys, she was thoroughly captivating.

No matter how Chase tried to look at other things or concentrate on the material in his grammar book, he spent most of every first-hour class looking at Mrs. Penn’s chest. More than once when he looked up, Mrs. Penn made eye contact with him, stared directly into his eyes, frowned, and pursed her lips.

Chase knew her wardrobe better than any subject on his schedule. Most days she wore a belted dress or a belted skirt with a tucked-in, tailored blouse. The neatly buttoned blouses couldn’t contain her. Unless she occasionally tugged the blouse down at the waist, before the hour ended the fabric would gape between the upper buttons.

The blouses kept Chase attentive, watching for a shadowed white contour, but on the days Mrs. Penn wore the belted dresses, he was helpless. The tight slope of the fabric from her breasts to her narrow waist wasn’t exactly the plane geometry he’d learn to prove in another class. The slope of those lines, however, was truly the all-consuming new mathematics of his life. He memorized the angle and studied the fullness of her when she inhaled. It was a wonderful and awful hour.

‡

Near the end of a class period, Mrs. Penn walked down the rows of desks, returning graded essays. “Chase,” she said as she passed his desk, “I held on to your essay, and I’d like you to stay a minute after class, please.”

Before Chase could acknowledge the request, Mrs. Penn moved past him and continued distributing papers to other students.

Chase realized, after he turned in the essay, that his inspired and truthful work marched proudly down a forbidden side street. This request to stay a minute probably meant trouble.

“Joyce,” Mrs. Penn said, “I also kept your essay. Would you please see me after class?”

The bell rang, and the rest of the kids shuffled out. Joyce’s desk was nearer the front of the room; she arrived at Mrs. Penn’s desk before Chase.

“Are your parents coming to Parents Night next Monday?” Mrs. Penn asked Joyce. She turned slightly away from Chase to face Joyce and speak a little more privately.

Chase was left standing three or four feet from Mrs. Penn’s side. He closed his eyes to avoid looking at her profile. When he opened them, they were level with her neatly parted, shining brown hair. He would have liked to smell her hair. He leaned his head ever so slightly forward.

“Okay then, just bring it back tomorrow. It’s excellent work,” Mrs. Penn said and handed Joyce the paper. “Oh, and Joyce, would you please close the door as you go out? Thank you.”

Mrs. Penn watched the door swing closed, then turned toward Chase. For a moment, he was looking down, right into her brown eyes. He stopped breathing.

“Chase,” she said, “the thoughts in your essay were unusually mature. I liked that you drew a distinction between doing something and being something. That was very interesting.” She held his paper in one hand. He could see she’d written comments on the back page, but he couldn’t read them or see a grade.

“Oh, thanks,” Chase answered, relieved. Maybe what he wrote about innercourse was okay after all.

“I gave you a good grade, but I’d like to hold on to the paper. Do you know if one or both of your parents will be here for Parents Night?”.

“Yes, ma’am, both, I think.”

“Well, I’d like to show them your essay. What do you think of that idea?”

“Uh, well, I don’t know. I guess that would be okay. You, uh, you’re not upset then—about what I wrote?”

“Well, Chase, I was—no, I am—very uncomfortable about one part. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Uh.” Chase looked at the floor. “I suppose so, ma’am.”

“And what part am I referring to?” Mrs. Penn asked.

“Well, the part about innercourse, I imagine.” Chase blushed.

“That’s right. That part concerned me so much that I asked a teacher friend to read it. Do you know why I’d do that?”

“No. Uh, no, ma’am.”

“You don’t? Well, Chase, you wrote, in that part of the paper, that you thought you might get kicked out of school for what you were saying. Why did you think you might be punished?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing to say.”

“If it’s embarrassing to you, Chase, didn’t you think I’d also find it embarrassing?”

“I guess I didn’t think about that.”

“No, I guess you didn’t.” Mrs. Penn took a deep breath. “So, you were writing that to me—is that what I understand?”

“Ma’am?”

“Were you writing to me? You can answer that question for me or, if you prefer, you can answer it for the principal or your parents.”

“What? Wait—what? I don’t understand. Was I writing to you?”

“That was my question.”

“Well, uh, we write all our papers to you... I mean, for you. To the teacher, you know.”

“Chase, here.” She handed him the essay. “Just read aloud the section I’ve circled and the first of your three reasons.”

“Uh, oh my gosh.” He swallowed. “Okay, okay. Let me see. Okay—” He began reading from the essay. “‘...Anyway, why do I want to be a father? There are three reasons I can think up.’” His voice quavered. “‘One, maybe I’ll get kicked out for saying this, but I really want to have sexual innercourse with a grown woman you know. I’m thinking about this a lot.’”

Mrs. Penn held one hand up, palm toward him. “Okay, stop right there. To whom are you writing?”

“Well, you. I’m writing to you, but... Oh my god, wait, Mrs. Penn, did you think I was saying, uh, that I meant, uh, you know, that I wanted to...with you?”

“Chase, you stare at me, most of the hour, every day, and you’re not looking at my face.”

Chase tried not to look at her chest and failed.

“Chase,” Mrs. Penn asked, “what else would I think you meant?”

He couldn’t form a thought. “I—I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think when sometimes, in class, I stop talking and just stare at you?”

“I don’t know. Uh, well, you—holy cow, you aren’t thinking about, you know, with me?”

“Oh, for gosh sakes, Chase, no, I most certainly am not! I stare at you as a way to tell you—without making an announcement—to stop staring at my body.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Mrs. Penn. It’s kinda like I can’t stop.” Chase tried to think what more to say, but he couldn’t think.

“I guess I shouldn’t have written that, but it’s about wanting to be a dad someday. An’ you can’t become a dad if, you know... I mean, you’ve kinda gotta do it. Anyway, uh, I guess I kinda got carried away.”

“Yes, I guess you kinda did. How about this: I’ll talk to your mom and dad at Parents Night, ask them to read your essay. We’ll let them decide if what you wrote is okay. Okay?”

“Oh, uh, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“I think it’s best.” Mrs. Penn tilted her head, gave him a tight-lipped smile, and tugged gently on his shirt sleeve. “So, that’s what we’ll do.”

She turned and began gathering things from her desk. “Better get going or you’ll be late for homeroom.”

Chase was so weak in the knees he thought he might not be able to walk.

Chapter Five

The Sycophant

October 1961

The walk home after school each day was relaxed. The first half of the trip ended at a corner drugstore that also offered a pinball machine, soda fountain, and a candy rack. After a stop at the drugstore, several of Chase’s classmates would trail away along the sidewalk of the busy street. Chase and kids from his neighborhood crossed the busy street and ambled along a quieter, partially undeveloped one for several blocks before they peeled off onto their respective residential streets.

On Wednesday, the same day as Mrs. Penn’s conversation with Chase about his essay, Stanley Siwicki, a brainy, gangly kid from Chase’s neighborhood, shot past the drugstore, crossed the busy street, and hurried away. As the usual gang of guys moseyed across the street, Curtis Pittman jogged ahead of them.

After he’d gone half a block, Curtis bellowed, “Hey, Stanlee. Slow down! All the guys wanna walk with you!”

When Stanley did not slow, Curtis, in an exaggerated imitation of a mother’s voice, called, “Stan lee, Stan lee, swee tee, mommy wants you to slow down.”

Curtis jogged a bit more. Stanley slowed, and soon Curtis was directly behind him. Curtis was shorter than Stanley but ruggedly built, with wide shoulders and muscled biceps like the older guys who worked summers baling hay.

Five boys followed Curtis and Stanley. Three, including Chase, marching hurriedly, formed an uneven row, like the concentrating clarinet players in a junior high marching band.

Behind the clarinet row, farther back, were two other, less interested boys. One held a waxed paper cup to his lips, tilted his head back, and staggered a little as he tapped the bottom of the cup to dislodge the last bits of ice. The other boy finished a candy bar, licked the heel of his hand, and wiped a chocolate smear onto his jeans.

Curtis attempted to step on the back of one of Stanley’s shoes but missed. He took a quick look back to see if there were witnesses to his awkwardness.

Stanley never broke stride, but Curtis recovered and stayed a pace or two behind. “Siwicki, dammit, turn around an’ face me like a man!” Curtis punctuated the word “man” by giving Stanley a two-handed shove.

Stanley exhaled a shoved “Uhhh” and stumbled several half-running steps forward. He looked over his shoulder, saw he was a few yards ahead of Curtis, and broke into a run. Stanley reached his street, turned the corner, and ran for home.

“That’s okay, you cootie-covered pussy!” Curtis shouted. “Unless you move, we’ll all be walkin’ home with ya again tomorrow.”

Curtis slowed, let the clarinet row come to him, and joined them, walking. “Wanna know why I don’t like that kid?” he asked. “First thing—you can’t call him Stan. Nooo, he’s gotta be Stan- lee. That’s like some Robert you can’t call Rob or Bob.

“An’ he thinks he’s sooo smart. Teachers just love him. But you know what, boys? All that don’t mean shit ’cause I don’t like him. He’s nothin’ but a pussy.”

“You gotta give ol’ Stanley credit though,” Chase said to the boy beside him. “He’s one fast-walkin’ pussy.” The other boys in the clarinet row snickered.

“I heard that, Coulter,” Curtis said. “You makin’ fun of me?”

‡

After school the next day, Thursday, Stanley Siwicki put his walk in high gear and was almost a block ahead when the other boys left the drugstore, and he didn’t slow. Curtis Pittman and some of the others jogged after him, but Stanley was near his turn for home when Curtis, winded but close enough to be heard, shouted, “Okay, Stan-lee, you win today. It’s no fun...to have to run...halfway home to kick your ass.”

“He’ll catch ya sooner tomorrow and kick ’er then, Stanley,” Chase shouted.

Curtis turned. “What’s that, Chase? What’d you say?”

“That you’d catch him sooner and kick his ass tomorrow, Curt.”

Curtis turned to watch Stanley. “Ah, hell, I’m not gonna run after his skinny ass every day—that’s too much work.”

And that was it—for Thursday. Curtis Pittman and the marching band boys arrived home earlier than usual.

‡

Friday, after lunch period, as they passed in the hallway, Curtis grabbed Chase by the wrist and slapped a note into Chase’s hand. “Little message for you, Coulter,” Curtis said. “See you later.”

The bell for the next class hour rang. Chase stuck the note in his shirt pocket and hustled into Mr. Halliburton’s music classroom.

“Hello. Hi. Hello,” Mr. Halliburton greeted each student at the classroom door. His big, bumbling body was a little in the way. The kids turned sideways and held their breath as they shuffled past. “Go ahead, please, and take out the Songs for School Days book. We have a fun hour of singing ahead,” Halliburton announced.

The kids called Halliburton “Uncle Hal” behind his back. No one disliked the big, smiley, chubby bear, but he wore dentures. Before regular school hours, during band practices, as Chase knew, the dentures were no problem, but by this time of day, Halliburton’s horrid breath made it impossible to stand in front of him. “Uncle Hal” was short for Uncle Halitosis.

After Halliburton took roll, he got busy playing the piano and calling out song titles and page numbers in the song book. As Hal launched into “The Wabash Cannonball,” Chase slipped Curtis Pittman’s note from his pocket and shielded himself from Uncle Hal’s view—not that there was much chance Hal would notice.

The note said: Chase, not smart making fun of me, you little prik. I’m gonna stamp your ass. Hope I don’t have to chase you. Ha, ha! Curtis

Chase read the note again and felt sick.

Uncle Hal smiled happily and cranked up the preamble to his special rendition of “Bicycle Built for Two.” After the class began to sing, Hal looked his way, and Chase feebly joined the singing: “I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.”

‡

“Hey, Chase,” Mitch Gray called to him, “better get crackin’.” Already dressed for football practice, Mitch stood in the doorway leading from the locker room to the field. Chase, Mitch, and other football players, including Curtis Pittman, were assigned Physical Education the final hour of the school day.

“I’m in no hurry,” Chase replied. “Maybe if I piss off Coach Callison he’ll give me after-school detention.”

“You gotta be kiddin’. On Friday? That’d be terrible.”

“You think so? Look what I’ve got to look forward to on the way home.” Chase handed Mitch the note from Curtis Pittman.

Mitch tucked his helmet under one arm, leaned against the doorframe, and read while Chase pulled on a practice jersey.

“I didn’t make fun of him,” Chase said after he’d finished pulling the jersey over his shoulder pads. “I was making a joke; he was too stupid to understand.”

“Figures.” Mitch handed Chase the note. “He’s stupid all right. Can’t even spell prick and says he’s gonna stamp your ass. Hope he doesn’t lick the stamp first.” Mitch grinned.

“You can laugh. He’s gonna murder me.”

Mitch took hold of Chase’s shoulder pads and turned him toward the door. “Let’s get goin’. Who knows, maybe you’ll be injured in practice and have to go to the hospital.”

“I might need a hospital later.” Chase didn’t immediately head out and rapped his helmet on the doorframe. “Aw, hell, the way I acted toward Stanley yesterday, I probably deserve to have my ass kicked.”

Mitch gave Chase a friendly shove. “Sorry, bud.”

As they walked toward the field, Mitch said, “Listen, I’ve gotta get my math book from my locker after school. How ’bout I meet you at the east door? We can walk together to the drugstore.”

“That’d be good, thanks,” Chase said. “The pushin’ and shovin’ will start after that though.”

“Yeah, I heard what he’s been doing to Siwicki. Curtis Pittman’s a grade-A shitass.”

“It’s been crummy. Ol’ Stanley’s an okay kid. Just acts a little too prissy and smart for his own good,” Chase said.

‡

After school, when Mitch met Chase at the east door, Curtis Pittman and a couple of his pals lingered a half block ahead, looking back, watching for Chase.

“He’s waitin’ for me,” Chase said and nodded in the direction of Curtis and company.

“Oh, uh-huh. Three on one, is it? Listen, I’ll stay with you after we leave the drugstore. It’s not much out of my way.”

“Thanks. I’m not lookin’ forward to going it alone.”

When they arrived at the drugstore, Mitch pulled open the wide screen door and said to Chase, “I’m gonna get a Coke. Come on in a second and wait for me.”

While Mitch went to the soda fountain, Chase walked around the store, staring stupidly at Ace bandages, footbath salts, and nasal aspirators.

As they left the store to cross the street, Mitch said, “Well, Chase, I think our boy Curtis is gonna try to stamp my ass instead of yours.”

“What? Why?”

“Aw, we had some words. He didn’t like me walking with you.”

“And he’s gonna pick on you for that?”

“Well, naw, I guess he didn’t like me calling him a piece of shit and telling him to pick on somebody his own size.”

“Good god, Mitch, why would you say that? You’re not his size.”

“Aw, Chase, he’s not half as big and tough as he thinks he is.”

About a block from the drugstore, Curtis and his two buddies came flying. The two guys stopped in front of Chase, and one said, ”Stand aside, Chase, an’ we won’t mess with you.”

Before Chase could answer, Curtis ran at Mitch. Mitch tossed aside his Coke cup, shrugged off Pittman’s attempt at a running grab, and assumed a boxer’s pose: biceps and upper arms tight to the body, forearms and fists up to protect the upper body and face. A wide circle of boys formed around the fighters.

Curtis turned and rushed—head down—at Mitch, trying to tackle him. Mitch turned sideways, like a matador, landed a quick, short jab, and stepped farther away as Curtis passed.

Curtis circled, and the onlookers could see his nose bleeding. This time, his head-down charge included an angry bellow.

Mitch took a full step aside and swung a roundhouse right. The boys could hear the crack as the punch connected. This shot caught Curtis squarely on the mouth. He staggered. Bloody lines drooled from the corners of his mouth and landed in wet splotches on his shirt.

Curtis circled again, wiped his bloody mouth with the back of a hand, and wiped the hand on his pants. The bloodiness shocked the onlookers.

Tears welled in both fighters’ eyes.

Curtis rushed again, but this time bent lower with forearms protecting his face. Mitch’s uppercut glanced off the forearms and Curtis kept coming. He wrapped his arms around Mitch, just below the waist, drove Mitch backward, and slammed him to the hard ground.

In the melee, none of the boys noticed a car pull over. A man came quickly from the car, pushed through the onlookers, grabbed Curtis by the collar, and yanked him off of Mitch.

Curtis tore himself loose from the man’s grip on his collar. “What the hell?” he said. Then, seeing the size of the man, said less aggressively, “Who are you?”

“Name’s Frank Rains, son. Who are you?”

Curtis Pittman stared at Rains and didn’t answer. Few of these boys had ever seen Frank Rains, but all of them knew of him. He was the Bloomington Police Department’s juvenile officer. He was also physically damn impressive—even in a white shirt and tie: fully six inches taller than Curtis and broad shouldered, a really big, fit-looking man.

Rains addressed the fighters. “You boys know who I am, don’t you?”

The two boys nodded and looked down. Mitch said softly, “Yes, sir.”

Rains took out a clean handkerchief and handed it to Curtis. “Here, son, hold this against your mouth.”

Next, Rains put a big, firm hand on one of each boy’s shoulders. “Now, both of you, just stand still. We’re gonna take a ride in my car, but I’ve got some things to say here first.”

Rains turned and looked around at the small circle of boys. “Fellas, this fighting on the way home from school stops—today. If I have to come back and break up another fight, anybody involved is gonna be in serious trouble. Understand?

“Look at this bloody mess. You guys are near grown-up. You fight now and somebody’s gonna get hurt—bad.” Rains looked again briefly at each of the boys in the circle. “Guys, listen, from here on in your lives, fighting’s gonna be done by professional boxers, military men, and criminals.

“You are not little boys anymore. Wanna box? Join the Boys Club. Wanna fight? Join the marines someday. If you fight on the street, that makes you a criminal, an’ we’re gonna come and haul you off to jail.

“There are plenty of good ways for men to solve problems with other men. You can’t figure out how to do that without fighting, you call me, and I’ll help you. Okay?

“I mean that now. Don’t be doin’ this anymore—okay?” Rains looked at the gathering again. “I want to hear each one of you say ‘Yes, sir.’

“Let’s start here.” Rains pointed at Chase. “You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Chase answered.

Rains nodded to each boy in the circle and waited for the response. When they’d finished, he said, “These two boys aren’t criminals, and they won’t be fighting on the street again. They’re going home. I’m-uh take ’em in my car and have a chat with them.

“That’s all, guys, but don’t forget what you saw here today or what I’ve told you.

“Mind your manners and get along home now.”

Over the coming years, Frank Rains would have the opportunity to influence the lives of lots of Bloomington boys. Much as he might have hoped, this would not be his last visit with some of these boys; Chase Coulter was not an exception.

Chapter Six

Parents Night

Later in October 1961

After an early dinner the next Monday evening, Caroline and Will rinsed the dishes and left for Parents Night at the junior high. Chase’s little sister, Julie, stretched out on the couch to watch television, and Chase slumped down into the big matching upholstered chair. He idly watched television but mostly worried about his parents reading the innercourse stuff in his essay and hearing Mrs. Penn talk about how he always stared at her chest.

One television program ended and another began. Julie and Chase both fell asleep.

Chase woke, confused and disoriented, during a loud commercial for laundry soap. Julie continued sleeping, made small smacking sounds with her lips, and spoke some mumbly sleepwords. Shortly afterward, Will and Caroline came through the front door and into the living room.

Will crossed the room and turned off the television. “Chase,” he said, “I’ll be right back. Stay put; we need to talk.” Then, Will hurried away to the bathroom.

Caroline helped Julie off the couch, up the stairs, into a nightgown, and into bed.

Soon Caroline and Will returned and sat together on the couch. Caroline perched at the front of the couch and held Chase’s essay in both hands in front of her, but Will spoke first.

“So, Parents Night, Chase, is pretty slick. They gave us a copy of your class schedule and had us hustle around to all your classrooms and meet all your teachers. Your English teacher, Mrs. Penn, was at the door to your first class. She asked us to come back after the class-by-class programs to talk about an essay of yours.”

“Well, we did come back,” Caroline said, “but during her visit with other parents she made a nice, enthusiastic presentation. She told us a school-wide writing program begins next week and that you’ll be writing short essays in all your classes.”

Will took the paper gently from Caroline’s hands. “Mrs. Penn also said she assigns lots of essays. At our later meeting, she told us she’d had a talk with you last week about this one.” He turned the essay toward Chase. “What day last week was that?”

“Uh, Wednesday or Thursday, I think,” Chase answered.

“So, you’ve known since at least last Thursday that she intended to talk with us about your essay, right?” Will asked.

“Yes.”

“Any reason you didn’t mention this to us?”

“I kinda hoped she’d change her mind.”

“Chase, why, if you thought you’d get in trouble,” Caroline asked, “would you write about wanting to have intercourse?”

“Well, uh, that, uh, was one of the first things—about why I wanted to be a dad.”

“She thought you meant that you want to have intercourse with her, Chase. It was so awkward,” Caroline said.

“Yeah, I guess she wasn’t flattered.” Chase failed to suppress a grin.

“This is not a joking matter, Chase,” Will said.

Will patted Caroline’s knee and said, “Let me a minute.” Caroline slid back on the couch. “In your paper, Chase, you wrote that you want to have intercourse with a grown woman you know. She’s certainly someone you know, and she thought you meant her.”

“Oh, uh-huh. I wanted this to sound like I was talking, you know. I guess I needed to put a comma in there.”

“Well, yes, a comma would have helped. But why’d you say you wanted to have sex with a grown woman? What were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking? For gosh sakes, Dad, fathers aren’t supposed to have innercourse with girls, are they? If I’m a dad someday, I certainly hope I’ll be having innercourse with a grown woman.”

“Oooh, of course,” Will answered. “The way you wrote that in your paper was confusing.”

“Not to me. I say, right in there, that I’m giving reasons I want to be a father.”

“Well, Mrs. Penn was obviously confused and embarrassed. I kind of hate to even mention this, but she also said you stare at her body most of every hour.”

“That’s probably true, Dad. She is the teacher. An’ you saw her—what else would I be looking at?”

“I suggest you look at her face, the blackboard, your book. You might consider looking down and taking notes.”

“Oh boy, Dad, thanks. I’ll start doing that stuff right away.”

“There’s no reason to be sarcastic; I’m trying to be helpful. And surely you can understand now why she might have misunderstood that part of your essay. Right?”

“Yeah, I understand. I’m not supposed to look at her body or say what I think. I should keep my thoughts to myself.”

“Chase, listen, words like sexual intercourse are pretty strong stuff. You know that people on television are not even allowed to say those words, right?”

“What’s the deal with that? They’re not swear words, Dad. And what about being honest—telling the truth? I’m just telling the truth.”

“There are better, more tactful ways to express those ideas, Chase.” Will paused to think of examples.

“So, basically,” Chase broke in, “when it comes to sex, we’re just not supposed to say what we think, and it’s really not okay to be honest.”

“I didn’t say that, Chase. Let me finish.”

“I thought you had.”

“I said there are more tactful ways to express yourself, and I was trying to think of examples, ways to do that.”

“I think I’ve got it, Pop.”

“Yes, you probably do. Listen, we liked your essay. Part of it brought tears to your mom’s eyes. Without those two careless sentences everyone would have been completely bowled over. Those sentences changed everything, didn’t they?”

When Chase didn’t answer, Caroline said, “So, we told Mrs. Penn we’d discuss the essay with you. On the way home, your dad and I talked about punishment.”

“About punishment! Seriously?”

“Wait, Chase,” Will said. “Be quiet. Let your mom finish.”

Caroline paused a moment. “Right, Chase, punishment for writing a good essay didn’t seem appropriate to us. We think you should revise it, remove the reference to intercourse, and turn it in again.”

“Oh, fine.”

“That sounded insincere, Chase,” Will said.

“It was. Could I just have it back now?” Chase asked.

“Of course,” Will answered, and handed Chase the paper. “There is one other minor thing, Chase. The word is not inner-course, like an inner tube; it’s in-ter-course, with a t.”

“Oh, okay.”

‡

Here is the essay Chase never revised and hid under his baseball card box on a shelf in his closet.

English- First Hour

Mrs. Penn

What Do I Want to Be When I Grow Up and Why?

You asked us to write about, “What do I want to be when I grow up and why?”

Most of the kids I know are writing about a job they might like to do someday to make money and support themselfs. That’s ok, but to me that seems like a do answer to a be question. Does that make sense? I’m not sure. Anyway, here’s my answer.

When I grow up I want to be a father. This is hard to explain. I am my father’s son and that’s what I’m supposed to be first.

That wasn’t meant as a religeous remark. Like what Jesus said as a boy about being his Father’s son. I don’t think I’m going about my father’s business or anything like that. I just mean my dad told me that when he was young he wanted to be a father. I’m a lot like my dad, inside. And you know, when I grow up, I just want to be a lot more like him.

Anyway, why do I want to be a father?

There are three reasons I can think up.

One, maybe I’ll get kicked-out for saying this, but I really want to have innercourse with a grown woman you know. I’m thinking about this a lot.

Two, some people need to bring up kids really well so there will be more steady people around in the future.

Three, my Mother and Dad are real good examples of how to be parents, so I think I could do this pretty well.

But, my Dad is the real reason I want to be a father.

He can fish and show you how really well. He sings a lot and can play a musical instrument. Everyone in my family knows how to like music. He can show you how to play any sport, like you can’t believe. He can build about anything. He never swears and isn’t mean to anybody. He is really nice to everybody. He has a good job, but he and his brother own a farm and Dad knows all about farming stuff. The way he acts, it is easy to tell he loves every member of our family.

Anyway, we are out of time, and you can see why I’d want to be a father I’m sure.

Chase Coulter

‡

The next week, Chase’s American history teacher introduced this quote from Thomas Jefferson: “Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.”

As part of the school’s new writing program, the history teacher asked his students to write a short essay titled “Jefferson’s Chapter Two.” He asked them to suggest an appropriate subject and title for the next chapter in Jefferson’s book of wisdom.

Chase titled Jefferson’s chapter two: “Dishonesty.”

The first paragraph of his essay began: “Like most adults, Thomas Jefferson knew that honesty was really just not possible for a parent. Even Jefferson repeated all the horseshit parents tell kids about Santa, the Easter Bunny, and sex, especially about things like sex.”

The history teacher returned Chase’s paper with the words horseshit and sex lined through and these marginal notes: “Chase, until you’re writing essays in college, instead of ‘horse poop’ you should probably use one of the following words: ‘nonsense,’ ‘bunk’ or ‘malarkey.’ Instead of the word ‘sex,’ I suggest you write: ‘making love’ or ‘intimate relations.’

“By the way, not sure Jefferson knew about the Easter Bunny.”

Chapter Seven

Tryouts

Late October 1961

At the junior high, the teachers propped open the tall, old, multipaned windows with their wooden muntins and, in spite of the bright sunshine and flaming maples outside, the fall breezes drifting in no longer left the exposed portions of the students’ arms and legs stuck to the shellacked surfaces of their desks.

Most days after school, Chase and Mitch Gray walked together to the drugstore before their paths diverged. Mitch took his customary route, and Chase walked home alone. The cool air, high blue sky, and the sun above the roof lines of the ranch houses buoyed his stride.

Caroline Coulter accepted part-time work assisting veterans at the Missouri Division of Employment, and Elizabeth Whitman, a high school senior and the daughter of Caroline’s best friend and neighbor Alice, met Julie and Chase three afternoons a week at the Coulters’ home and started the dinners Caroline planned.

This late fall day, Chase found his sister and Elizabeth Whitman bent over Julie’s math homework at the Coulters’ kitchen table. He stopped in the kitchen’s arched doorway.

“Am I interrupting?” Chase asked.

“Nope.” Elizabeth tucked a folded piece of notebook paper in the book and closed it with a pop. “We’re done.”

“What’s new with you, Beth?” Chase asked.

“A bunch. I’m a whole new girl!” She jokingly batted her eyes and tucked a strand of auburn hair behind one ear.

“Is that right?”

“Yep, I’ve changed my name. No more Beth.”

“Wow! A whole new girl with a changed name. Let me guess,” Chase said. “How about... Alice Junior? No, no. Maybe Wile E., like Wile E. Coyote. Wiley Whitman—that it?”

“No, and not Beep Beep the Road Runner either. It’s Liz.”

“Liz. Like Liz Taylor, Chase,” Julie said.

“Oh, well, la dee da. How come?” Chase asked.

“Thinking about next year. It’s a better name for a college girl. More sophisticated,” Liz answered.

“And next week she’s going to the prom and has a new dress and everything,” Julie said.

“Dad will have the most trouble with the change. He has about a dozen little-girl nicknames for me. You know, Beffy, Buffy, Buffstar.” Liz paused. “So, what’s new with you, Chase? Who’s the object of your affection this week?”

“No one,” Chase said. Then he looked away and shifted in his chair.

“That’s hard to believe. You’ve had more girlfriends than anyone, ever. There’s always someone.”

“Yeah, I’m just not ready to say.”

“Since when? Come on, Chase, who’s the lucky girl?”

“Mm, well, a girl asked me a question today before the start of our music class. Took hold of my arm.” Chase didn’t continue.

“And?” Liz asked.

“And what?”

“Are you gonna make me beg for her name?”

“Well, it’s Karen. She’s really cute, but I barely know her. I don’t even know if she’s going with someone.”

“The counselor’s door is always open,” Liz said. “Want some help?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“So, this Karen is in your music class. Any other classes together?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm, so, no chance to talk with Karen about assignments. Does she sing? Any chance you might sing with her?”

“Sing with her? I don’t think so. How would that work?”

“Well, you could invite her to do a duet. That could be romantic. You could practice together and everything,” Liz said.

“Come on, a duet? Are you kidding? Did boys and girls in your music classes sing duets or something?”

“Well, no.”

“Neither do we, Beth.”

“It’s Liz.”

“Oh, right. Got any other goofy suggestions, Liz?”

“Maybe. Would you prefer to take the direct or indirect route with her?” Liz asked.

“What’s that mean?”

“Direct is like going up to her and starting a conversation. Indirect would be to tell one of Karen’s friends that you’re interested in her and ask them to find out if she might be interested in you.”

“I could probably do either.”

“Most boys have a terrible time starting a conversation with a girl, but you’d have no problem doing that?”

“No, it’s easy to get anyone talkin’. You just ask questions. But you hit it. One of her best friends, Tammy, is in my homeroom—sits right in front of me, and we’re friendly.”

“Well, there you have it. You can tell Tammy you’re interested in Karen.”

“Yup, thanks. Listen, tryouts for the basketball team start this week. I gotta go.” Chase hustled upstairs, changed clothes, and went to shoot baskets in the Coulters’ driveway.

‡

“Where were you yesterday, Tam?” Chase asked the pretty blonde seated in front of him in homeroom.

Tammy Clark turned her head and shoulders so she could see Chase. She put the back of one hand perpendicular to the side of her mouth and whispered, “I had an unexpected visitor.”

“Family or friends in from out of town?” Chase asked.

Tammy dressed like the fashionable young women in Seventeen magazine and had an equally mature physique. Unfortunately, her laugh sounded like a series of hog snorts—like someone trying to clear blocked nasal passages.

Her response to his question began with a series of sharp, snorting inhalations that caused several students to turn their way. “No, silly,” she said, then whispered, “unexpected visitor is the polite way a girl can say it’s her time of the month.”

“Oh.”

“That’s like, when a girl’s slip is showing, you don’t just say that. You tell her, quietly,” she whispered, “it’s snowing down south.”

Tammy lifted her knees and spun on her tweed-skirted bottom to face him. “Is this the big week? Have tryouts started?”

“Uh-huh, yesterday.”

“How’d it go?”

“Pretty good. We’ll find out last hour today.”

“I’ll keep my fingers and legs crossed.”

“Thanks. Hey, Tam, I wanna ask a little favor.”

“Oh? What?”

“You’re good friends with Karen Wilson, right?”

“Uh-huh. Are you interested in her?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a guess. She’s cute.”

“I think so. We talked a minute, a couple of days ago, in the hall. I really like her.”

“Do you have classes together?”

“Just Uncle Hal’s Music Cavalcade.”

Tammy snorted. “Hal’s Music Cavalcade—you are so funny. Who uses words like ‘cavalcade’?”

“Cavalcade of Sports is on TV every Saturday, but that expression was invented primarily for your entertainment.”

Tammy snorted again. “Exactly what I meant, Chaser. It cracks me up when you say stuff like that.” Tammy then mimicked an older man’s voice: “‘That expression was invented primarily for your entertainment.’ You sound like you’re about thirty.”

“Thanks a lot. Sounding like I’m thirty isn’t likely to get me anywhere with Karen Wilson.”

“Mm.”

“Do you know if she’s going with anyone?” Chase asked.

“No, she’s not right now.”

“Would you find out if she’d be interested in me?”

“Well, sure, but Chase, she kinda goes for a different type of boy. Know what I mean?”

“Nuh-uh,” Chase answered. Then, imitating one of Tammy’s conversational tactics, Chase tilted his head, smiled, and said nothing until discomfort with the silence moved Tammy to speak.

“Oh, you know, Karen likes the tall, dark, and handsome type.” She paused. “But sure, I’ll talk to her for you.”

“Would you also find out some stuff she likes? Maybe favorite TV shows, sports she likes, her favorite song or group? Things I can talk to her about.”

“I know a lot of that already, but sure, I’ll ask.”

‡

Chase and Mitch Gray sat together on the bleachers in the gym with thirty-five other eighth-grade boys trying out for the East Junior High Basketball “B” team. Chase was not in a group with Mitch during tryouts and had not seen he had a black eye.

“Mitch, wow, that’s some shiner you’ve got,” Chase said. “I’d hate to see the other guy.”

“Not a scratch on him, bud.” Mitch slumped forward and hugged his knees.

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true,” Mitch said and turned to look at Chase. “I got sucker punched.”

“Damn, who did that?”

“Mom’s boyfriend,” Mitch said and looked away. “Bastard might even be my stepdad one of these days.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Where’s your dad?”

“Oklahoma, I think. Long story—and here comes Callison.”

Coach Callison blew his whistle as he crossed the court, but his appearance and the list in his hand quieted the group. The whistle echoed in the empty gym.

“If your name is on this list of twenty,” Callison said, holding the list up, “please be here, dressed-out, tomorrow and Thursday—same time. Oh, and fellas, the list is alphabetical; it’s not a ranking.

“After Thursday tryouts, I’ll post a list of about fifteen names. After Friday tryouts, I’ll post the team roster—twelve names. We only have twelve uniforms.

“If your name isn’t on the list today, I‘m sorry—that means you’ve been cut. Thanks, guys, for giving it your best. You’ve been a good group to work with.

“That’s all, boys. Thanks again.”

Callison went to the entry doors and pinned the list to the bulletin board.

There was no hurried rush of boys across the gym, no competition to be the first to see. Rick Chapman, a tall likely starter, and two other boys were the first to head across the gym.

Mitch took a deep breath and leaned toward Chase while they stood and waited. “We’ll get through this one,” he said.

When Rick Chapman turned to leave, he said to Chase, “Your name’s there, Coulter, right below mine.”

Chase and Mitch stepped forward to look. Both of their names were on the list, and Chase punched Mitch on the shoulder. “You were right, Mitch, no sucker punch from Callison!”

‡

The next day in homeroom, Tammy Clark studied a magazine. Chase tapped her on the back.

“Hey, Chaser,” she said, but she didn’t turn toward him. “Way to go. I heard you made the cut.”

“Only the first cut, Tam, two more to go.” Chase paused, hoping Tammy might say something more, but she didn’t. He leaned forward to talk to her back. “Uh, so, did you talk to Karen about me?”

“Uh-huh.” Tammy turned only her head and spoke over her shoulder. “Walked home from school together yesterday and talked on the phone last night.”

“And?”

“And what, Chase?”

“Come on, Tam, you haven’t forgotten our conversation yesterday. You have bad news for me, or what?”

Tammy turned a bit more toward Chase. “Karen thinks you’re real nice, and she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. She just doesn’t see herself with you. Know what I mean?”

“Mm, no, not really.”

“Tell you one thing I didn’t know,” Tammy said.

“What’s that?”

“I knew her favorite group is the Shirelles. She has lots of their records: ‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow,’ ‘Dedicated to the One I Love,’ and ‘Soldier Boy.’”

“Uh-huh.”

“But she doesn’t have her favorite—‘Mama Said.’”

‡

After the Thursday afternoon tryouts, Coach Callison jogged across the gym to speak to the twenty boys already changed, dressed in their street clothes, and waiting on the bleachers.

“He took a long time today,” Mitch said to Chase. “You think we’ll make it?”

“Not sure, but I hope so.”

“Man, me too. I gotta,” Mitch replied.

“If I’ve done my job properly, boys,” Callison began, “you probably know the fifteen names on this list already.”

“Pretty sure I’m there,” Mitch whispered to Chase.

Callison pinned the list on the bulletin board and turned back toward them. “If you’re on the list, be in the gym ready to go same time tomorrow.

“For the five guys not on the list: thanks for your hard work. Obviously you’re pretty good or you wouldn’t still be here today.

“That’s all, fellas.”

Several anxious boys hurried across the gym. Chase and Mitch trailed Rick Chapman and another likely starter. Chapman and his buddy studied the list, then turned to leave. Chase and Mitch stepped aside to let them through. As they passed, Chapman bounced a fist on Chase’s shoulder. “You’re still there, Colt,” he said. “Sorry, Gray, no cigar.”

The one other remaining group crowded in front of Chase and Mitch. When they moved away, Mitch and Chase stepped forward.

“Well, hell,” Mitch said as they studied the names. “Son of a bitch.”

When Chase turned to speak to him, Mitch ripped the list off the board, wadded it, and threw it aside.

“Hey, Mitch, other guys might want to see that.”

Mitch spun around. “What others? You see anybody else?”

“No. Sorry, but listen, Callison will be—”

“Fuck Callison, Chase, and fuck his list! Oh, well, wait,” Mitch said, seething. “You wanna save it for your scrapbook, to show your dad or something?”

“I don’t even have a scrapbook,” Chase replied, but he then shifted to a more sympathetic tone. “Mitch, I’m sorry, man, but what the hell?”

“You think I wanna go home after school? I’d be glad to hafta stay for practice. This is the shits, guy—just fuckin’ awful.”

‡

Friday afternoon, Chase’s name was not on the team roster.

At dinner that evening, Will Coulter asked, “You’ve been pretty successful in sports, made the all-star team in Little League and all that. Were you disappointed about basketball tryouts?”

“Well, sure,” Chase answered, “but Callison was fair. Four of us tried for the last slot. The other three guys are all taller. We raced; I was fastest. We took ten jump shots each; I only hit three. Then, we shot ten free throws and I made four. A guy named Taylor sank seven, an’ no surprise—he made the team.

“It was put up or shut up time, Pop. I’ve got nothin’ to complain about.”

‡

When Jackson’s Music opened the next morning, a clear, cool Saturday, Chase bought the record “Mama Said” and rode his bike a little over two miles to Karen Wilson’s house.

He climbed a set of stairs to a wide wooden porch, opened the screen door, and whacked the metal knocker on the interior door. He stepped back, closed the screen door, and waited.

A minute or so passed before a woman partly opened and peered around the interior door. She didn’t open the screen door. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Uh, yes, ma’am. Is Karen home?”

Without a word or nod, the woman turned and shuffled back into the house, leaving the interior door partly open. “Karen,” Chase heard her call, “some boy’s at the door askin’ for you.”

When Karen arrived, she also peered around the partially open interior door. “Yes?” she asked.

“Uh, hi, Karen, how are you?”

Karen did not respond.

Chase held the new record, still in its paper sleeve, in one hand behind his back. “Uh, well, Tammy Clark and I talked in homeroom last week.” He paused. “And, uh, she said you really like the Shirelles.”

Karen didn’t respond.

“And, uh, who doesn’t? I mean, they’re great. ‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow’ is a great song.” Chase paused again. “It was number one about forever, it seemed like.”

Karen didn’t respond.

Chase looked through the screen into the semidarkness, then looked down and patted his chest with the free hand. He tried to think of something, anything, less awkward to say or do.

“Well, anyway, Tammy said you really like the Shirelles. And she said you have lots of their records, but not your favorite—’Mama Said.’ So, I thought you’d probably like to have it. And, well, I got it for you. Uh, so, here.” Chase held the record toward the handle of the screen door.

At first, Karen didn’t say anything or move. Chase was about to turn away when she said, “That was nice. You’re a sweet boy, Chase.”

Karen eased the screen door open a few inches, reached out, accepted the record, closed the screen door, and said, “Thank you.”

After another brief pause, Karen said, “I can’t talk just now.”

That was all. “I can’t talk just now,” she’d said. Then, she stepped back and shut the heavy interior door.

‡

The next week, Mrs. Penn taught her English classes about irony, and she asked them each to think of an example.

Chase thought of standing on Karen Wilson’s wide front porch, feeling embarrassed and stupid after giving her the Shirelles’ record “Mama Said” and of riding his bike the two miles back home singing to himself, “Mama said there’d be days like this.”

When the class-ending bell rang before Mrs. Penn could call on him, Chase breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter Eight

Farm Time

December 1961

Winter descended on the Coulters’ corner lot. Passing cars ground the once red and yellow maple leaves into brown powder on the streets. Damp, black, matted leaves cupped in little depressions in the side yard and suffocated the grass underneath.

Several times a year, after work on a Friday, Will Coulter drove six hours from Bloomington, Missouri, to stay at his parents’ home in Red Oak, Iowa, and manage a farm he co-owned with his brother, Richard. The brothers had watched their father, Chris Coulter, successfully invest in the fertile farms in the region and the people living on them. He’d added value by installing grain storage, terraced and tiled the crop land, improved the driveways, homes, buildings, and equipment. The brothers had also seen consecutive years of unpredictable weather, blight, and inflexible lenders bankrupt their father, and he’d pressured the boys to educate themselves for other professions.

Caroline and the kids accompanied Will on most of the twelve-hour round trips to Iowa. One, during the first weekend in December of 1961, convinced her to investigate alternatives for the kids.

‡

Caroline packed sandwiches, fruit, and drinks for the December trip. They ate dinner in the car, watched night fall, and sang the family songs before a detour on a winding county road, south of St. Joseph, Missouri, rolled a motion-sick Julie into a corner of the back seat.

“Can we stop somewhere soon, Mom?” Julie cried out. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Will pulled quickly into a short farm-field entry road. Mother and daughter burst out of the warm car into the cold, and Caroline looped an arm around Julie’s waist as she bowed above a weedy ditch and vomited. The odor and Julie’s retching triggered Caroline’s gag reflex, and she also threw up.

After they cleaned up, Julie stretched out, shivering, under a blanket in the car’s back seat, and Caroline snuggled beside her. Chase joined Will in the front seat.

On these trips, after dark in the glow of the dash lights, Will talked and told stories. He explained all manner of things to his children: farming, the stock market, his childhood, even philosophic ideas. Will liked telling stories but this talking and talking also helped him stay awake.

“Rich will pick me up early tomorrow,” Will told Chase. “Your granddad has something planned for the two of you in the morning. Your mom and Grammer have cooked up a little belated birthday party for you in the afternoon.”

“Do you know what Gramps has in mind?”

“He didn’t say, but there’s always something,” Will answered. “Been that way since you were little.”

Small reflective highway markers measured a pause in the conversation.

“Watching you two, when you were a toddler, was heartwarming. When Uncle Rich’s family came for get-togethers, things could get a little rambunctious, and you’d go stand next to your granddad’s chair to watch. Pretty soon he’d hoist you up beside him and drape an arm around you. He was your shelter.”

‡

The next morning, after Will and Rich left to meet with their farm tenants, Grandpa Chris snapped open the blinds in the bedroom where Chase slept. “You’re in farm country, Chase—can’t sleep all day,” Chris said. Outside, bright sunshine sparkled on an inch of new, dry snow. “We’re headin’ to the Rainbow Café.”

When Chase was ready, Chris handed him a stiff broom and sent him to sweep a path to the pickup truck on the back driveway. Chris followed, started the pickup, and cleared snow from the windshield. They climbed in and eased a short distance down the drive but had to stop to let the defroster thaw openings on the glistening windshield.

At the Rainbow Café, Chris wound through the tables and introduced Chase to a few regulars. After they’d shed coats, tucked into a corner booth, and ordered breakfast, Chris asked, “Buddy, how’d you like to come stay with Grammer and me for few weeks next summer and make some really good money?”

“That sounds great.”

The waitress brought coffee for Chris. He thanked her and wrapped a big hand around the warm cup. “I’m thinkin’ you’re old enough and tall enough now to work on a detasseling crew.”

“This is something you do to corn, right?”

“Well, not all corn. Just corn being grown to produce hybrid seed for planting next year.”

The waitress returned to take their orders before Chris continued. “It’s hot, crummy work, but hundreds of kids all over the state get hired to do it. They work every day for two or three weeks and make a couple hundred bucks, sometimes more.”

“Wow, that’s a bunch of money...and it’d be nice to see you and Grammer.”

“You wouldn’t see us much, bud. This is no picnic. I’d drop you off early in the morning with a lunch pail. You and a whole crew of kids will come back later all hot, tired, and dirty.”

“If you think I can... Oh, uh, maybe I can’t. Evan Whitman asked me to work for him next summer, an’ he said it would be pretty much full-time. Not sure I could do both.”

“The Whitmans are your mom and dad’s real good friends, aren’t they?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, we’d like for you to come, but don’t let him down.”

Later, as they left the café and climbed into the pickup, Chris said, “The little birthday party for you later got me thinkin’ about when your dad and Uncle Rich were your age.”

As he drove away from town and turned on a farm road, Chris continued. “Like you, I think the boys were new teenagers, just turned thirteen, when they learned how to drive.”

“Thirteen? Could they get driver’s licenses at thirteen?”

“Oh no, no. They drove hay trucks and tractors out on farms and on country roads like these. Well, and ran errands in pickups like this one. Anyway, I was thinkin’ maybe you’d like to start learning how to drive. Would you like that?”

“Oh man, Gramps, sure! But, uh, on this snow?”

“This isn’t much, Chase, and driving on it will be good practice. The traffic out here is all just farm folks.”

Chris stopped in the middle of the gravel road and turned off the engine. He pulled the parking brake handle and seat adjustment lever and scooted the bench seat forward. “Slide on over here,” he said. “I’ll get out and go around to your side.”

Chris Coulter’s instructions included lots of practice without starting the engine. Over and over, Chase engaged the clutch and put the pickup in gear. Then, he’d let the clutch out while gently pressing the gas pedal.

An hour later, Chase drove successfully down a long straightaway, but as he slowed for a turn, clutched, down-shifted, and touched the brakes, the pickup’s front right tire caught the edge of a snowdrift. Chase hit the brakes but forgot to push down the clutch pedal. The slowing pickup slid sideways and started bucking. The impact with the back of the ditch whipped Chase forward, and his forehead whacked the steering wheel.

When the slide started, Chris braced himself with both hands on the dash. Unfazed by the jerking and sudden stop, he chuckled and said to Chase, “Turn and look at me, bud. You okay?”

“I think so.”

“Looks like you’re gonna have a lump on your forehead. You gotta remember to push that clutch pedal down when you’re stopping.”

“Should I start it up and see if I can back out?” Chase asked.

“Mm, we’re in pretty deep. Let’s have a look. Climb out and I’ll slide over and get out on your side.”

They stood behind the pickup, snow-blind and blinking. “Our ditches aren’t like yours, Chase. Up here, unless they’re frozen solid, they’re all mud. We’re stuck.

“Climb back in,” Chris said. “Someone will come along, and we’ll ask ’em to get a tractor and chain to pull us out.”

Chris didn’t idle the engine to run the heater while they waited. A steady breeze clouded, cleared, and again clouded the sky. Their breathing fogged the pickup windows.

Chase zipped up his jacket and huddled near the passenger door. Chris worked awkwardly to fasten the top button of his shirt. It was a tight squeeze around his neck. When he finally had the shirt buttoned, he turned the collar up, put on gloves, zipped up his coat, and leaned against the driver’s door.

“Your dad said your sis threw up on the trip last night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a long, slow ol’ drive to Red Oak, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Seemed really slow last night, but it goes faster when we play games or sleep.”

“Same reason your gram likes to read when we travel.”

“Yeah, I wish I could read in the car. Time would fly.”

“When you get older, Chase, the years will fly.”

“I’ve gotta write an essay for English class on a hard-to-answer question. Why time flies or goes slow could be good one.”

“That would be interesting. Folks say they’re killing time and wasting time. They say time flies and also say it creeps along. Ever hear the expression: What’s time to a hog?”

“Nuh-uh. That’s an odd one.”

“That one’s got me in hot water. I was helping your gram set up tables for a luncheon at church. Your grandmother and a really fat woman were setting out desserts.

“It was past time for the service to end, and the woman was complaining about our long-winded pastor. He sometimes says the same thing about five different ways—kinda hogs our time.

“Anyway, I made a little joke about him and I said, ‘Yeah, but what’s time to a hog?’

“The woman thought I meant her and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Yup, that kinda stuff sure happens,” Chase answered.

“Here’s comes a car,” Chris said. “I’ll wave ’em down.”

Not long after they’d been pulled out of the ditch, Chris slowed the pickup on a straight country road and leaned forward. He sometimes slowed, leaned forward, and looked up to point out hawks. Chase looked out the passenger window, scanning the tops of telephone poles and fence posts.

As Chase looked at the passing roadside, the pickup almost stopped and started bucking. Chase asked, “What are you seeing?” He turned toward Chris just as Chris slumped sideways onto the seat, unconscious.

“Gramps?” Chase said and leaned over Chris. “Grandpa?”

The bucking stopped and the pickup’s engine died. Chris was breathing but appeared to be asleep. Chase gently shook Chris’s shoulder; he didn’t respond. Chase looked out into the miles of empty fields. The nearest house was far away.

Chase shoved the passenger door open and bailed out into the slushy ditch. He hurried around to the driver’s side, opened the door, leaned in, pushed Chris over, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Chase could barely reach the pedals but engaged the clutch and restarted the pickup.

“I’ll get us to town, Gramps.”

Chris roused, turned onto his back in the seat, and slowly lifted the back of his head to prop it against the armrest on the passenger door. “Wait, Chase,” he said. He yanked the zipper of his coat partway down and struggled to unbutton the collar of his shirt.

Chase’s damp, icy shoe slipped off the clutch petal. The pickup bucked to a stop and stalled.

Chris fumbled with his shirt collar, yanked it down hard, and popped off the top button. He pulled himself a bit farther up and braced his shoulders against the passenger door. “Wait, Chase. It’s okay. Give me a minute,” he said.

“Gramps, let’s move the seat up. I’ll get us back to town an’ we can get you to the hospital or something.”

“We won’t need to go to the hospital, but you’re doing good. Let’s see if you can get us back to town.” Chris grabbed the dash to pull himself upright in the seat.

“Could we move the seat forward?” Chase asked.

“Let’s do,” Chris answered. “Reach down on your side and pull the lever. We’ll scoot ’er up.”

Chris dug around in the glove compartment, separated a cloth from a stack of maps, and pulled it out. “I’m a little shaky,” he said. He took a couple of deep breaths and wiped his face. “Let’s see if you can get us back to the Rainbow. I can probably take it from there.”

When they were back in town and safely parked, Chris explained that he’d talked with his doctor about these little spells. They were probably caused by reduced blood supply to the head...something like that. This was nothing to worry about, no need to tell folks or worry Gram.

‡

That afternoon, after lunch and cake and ice cream, Chase opened the belated birthday gifts from his grandparents: a towel with his name embroidered on it, white crew socks, and a jigsaw puzzle of a farm scene.

Grammer set up a card table, and they worked on the puzzle while Chris napped in his chair. The puzzling hours flew by.

‡

Chase and Julie shared the back seat during the return trip to Bloomington on Sunday. They both napped. Part of the time when Chase was drifting between sleep and waking, he relived the driving lessons and thought about his grandfather’s fainting spell. He considered telling his parents, but Grandfather Chris didn’t want others to worry about the fainting spells and, Chase thought, he would certainly not want to be told he shouldn’t or couldn’t drive.

The drive home seemed to take forever.

Chapter Nine

Farmed Out

April 1962

Caroline Coulter’s best friend, Alice Whitman, an introvert and a talented artist and sculptor, deferred most of her artistic pursuits to attend to the Whitmans’ home, a bit of social life, and the care of the Whitmans’ two active children. When John, the eldest child, began to visit colleges, Alice and her husband, Evan, created a plan for the resumption of her artistic endeavors. The plan excluded greater socializing and included construction of a studio.

Alice was unlikely to acknowledge, much less welcome, a new neighbor or invite one for a visit. Thus, seven years earlier, when the Coulters moved to their Bloomington neighborhood, it was an odd, inexplicable intuition that moved Alice to knock on the Coulters’ door and introduce herself to Caroline. Two hours later, Alice had left the Coulters’ home confident that in Caroline she’d found a forever friend. The two were simply simpatico. During the nearly seven years that followed, through coffee, wine, couples bridge, shared books and conversation, their friendship deepened.

In warm weather, the Coulter and Whitman families often stayed in neighboring cabins on Big Sugar Creek and swam, sunned, and fished together along the clear, spring-fed Ozark streams. When Caroline Coulter took a part-time job, the Whitmans’ daughter, Liz, became the after-school sitter for Julie and like an older sister for Chase. After John Whitman left for college, Chase increasingly became Evan Whitman’s yard guy. The families were happily, inextricably entwined.

John Whitman’s vacant room and absence, and the idea of Liz leaving for college in the fall, were an expanding emptiness inside Alice. She’d listened to Caroline’s tale about Julie’s motion sickness and the Coulters’ frequent long trips to Iowa and was pleased to offer to temporarily house either or both of the Coulter kids.

‡

Will left work early on a Thursday in April, the day before Good Friday, picked up Caroline, and they left for Iowa. After school, Chase and Julie walked half a block to the Whitmans’ home and spent the three-day Easter weekend with Evan, Alice, and Liz.

Chase bunked in John’s book-filled room on the second story. Julie started Thursday night in a nearby guest bedroom but padded down the hallway later and spent most of that night, and the next two, on a trundle bed in Liz’s room.

Liz’s bedroom faced east overlooking the Whitmans’ backyard and a tennis court between the Whitman and Tolar houses. A dazzling sun crested the roof of the Tolars’ recently vacated house and burst through her windows.

The bright morning woke Julie and she climbed in bed with Liz. They snuggled together and talked. Alice heard the girls chattering and laughing and came to join them. Their conversations roused Chase, and he wandered down the hallway. A glint of sun from the glass of a framed painting caught his eye. There were three paintings, charming portraits of Alice, Evan, and John. The artist’s neat tiny monogram in the lower right corners was “Liz.”

When Chase arrived at Liz’s doorway, Alice, Julie, and Liz stood in a line facing the windows, watching activity at the Tolar house. From his vantage, the sunshine turned them into dark silhouettes. Liz and Alice, wooly, auburn-haloed bookends, bracketed the shorter, light-haired Julie.

“Looks like this is a moving-in weekend,” Alice said. “They unloaded that station wagon several times last evening. He’s the principal at the new junior high. There’s a mom, and I’m not sure, Julie, but it looked like they have three daughters.”

Alice turned and saw Chase in the doorway. “Surprised to see you up,” she said. “When did you finally get to sleep?”

“A little after one.”

“Wow,” Liz said, “what kept you up?”

Alice answered, “Might have been your father and me. Your dad’s ill. He was back in the pantry looking for aspirin, and I was in the den making up a bed on the couch. We were talking, probably too loudly, and Chase came down to ask if he could help.”

“How’s Dad this morning?” Liz asked.

“He’s sound asleep on the couch,” Alice said. “Had chills and a fever last night. We should try not to wake him when we go down.

“Did you finish the book?” Alice asked Chase.

“Uh-huh, I got started and couldn’t stop.”

“What were you reading?” Liz asked.

“Catcher in the Rye.”

“Oh, that’s really good,” Liz said.

“Chase,” Alice said, “Evan was planning to do outside chores for me today. He suggested I ask if you’d start your summer job early. He’ll pay, and I can show you what needs to be done.”

“Oh sure, glad to.”

Chase spent the morning preparing the Whitmans’ back patio for warmer weather: hauled soggy firewood and stacked it next to a fence along the alley, trimmed leggy shrubs hanging over the patio’s brick retaining wall, swept and bagged the damp leaves, sticks, and trimmings.

Alice wiped down the outdoor table and chairs and served Chase an early lunch on the patio. She also brought a glass of iced tea for herself and sat with him while he ate.

“Mrs. Whitman, that’s one of your sculptures in the entryway, isn’t it?” Chase asked.

“Chase, I really prefer you call me Alice, and it’s okay to call Evan by his name, too.”

Chase took a moment to eat and drink. “So, is the sculpture in the entryway one of yours, Alice?”

“Yes.”

“It’s really big and, uh... Where do you work? In the basement?”

“No, for now, I’ve rented a small place where I can keep all my equipment and supplies. Evan’s promised we’ll build a cottage studio—right there.” Alice pointed toward the glider swing in a wide corner of the backyard. “Were you about to ask me something about the sculpture?”

“I was, but I wasn’t sure how.”

“Let me guess—you find it shocking, right?”

“Well, a little. It’s big, and it’s kind of... I don’t know... it’s kind of sexy but normal. I mean, the naked man and woman are, like, just normal. You know what I mean?”

“I love you, Chase.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“You saw them, not only that she’s naked and, oh my god, sitting in his lap facing him. You saw that their bodies are normal, like the not-so-great bodies of a middle-aged man and woman you might see at a swimming pool.”

“Uh-huh, she’s not a Playboy playmate,” Chase said.

“Right, and he’s not some muscular Greek god,” Alice said. “You know, Chase, that sculpture is apparently the talk of the town—a shameful scandal.”

“Oh, have you heard a lot of negative comments?”

“Oh no, god no! If it wasn’t for your mom, I wouldn’t know what people say about it behind my back.”

Chase nodded. “Uh-huh, figures, only behind your back.”

“You know, in spite of that, well, really because of that, I’m more determined than ever to create my work and be different.”

“Well, it is different. I’ve never seen a big naked sculpture just inside somebody’s front door.”

“Did you find it erotic?”

“Uh, I don’t know. What’s that mean?”

“Sorry, forget I asked that, please.” Alice paused, seeming flustered. “Its title is The Embrace. Do you like it?”

“Well, I like that you did it and put it right out front.”

“Chase, you can tell me the truth. Was that just a nice way of saying you don’t particularly like it?”

Chase bought a little time, finished his drink, and set the empty glass where Alice could reach it. “I do like it, but truth is—it’s kinda uncomfortable. I feel like I’m not supposed to even be looking at them, you know, because they’re naked.”

He moved his plate closer to her, too. “Well, and I certainly wanted to look at her and did...and you obviously don’t intend for people to ignore them. This make any sense?”

“Perfectly, and that’s a very refreshing response. When Johnny was in high school, he stopped inviting some of his friends to the house because of their childish reactions to it.

“I considered removing it,” Alice continued, “but when Liz became serious about her artwork, it had to stay right there. I’ve told her to feel free to express herself—even if her artistic choices offend some people.”

‡

It was late afternoon before Chase finished the work in front of the Whitmans’ house: trimming shrubs and bagging the trimmings and leaves he’d raked from under the shrubbery. He went home to shower and change clothes.

When he returned, Julie, Liz, and Alice were inside at one end of the Whitmans’ dinner table, and Evan, in his pajamas, sat at the other end, bent forward, holding a soda cracker in one hand, blowing into a bowl of soup.

“Well, yard boy, you really missed out today,” Evan said in a teasing tone of voice.

“Oh, I did? On what?”

“Well, while you slaved away out front, Alice hosted ‘The Girls’ Series’ on the back patio. The three new neighbor girls and Julie and Beth were all out back—had us a dugout full of cute girls.”

“Beth was out back, huh? Sounds like Dad Whitman may not be quite ready to stop calling his grown-up daughter Bethie,” Chase teased. “Am I right?”

“No, no,” Alice answered, “we both like the name Liz. It’s just force of habit. We both do that—call her Beth—sometimes.”

Chase turned toward Alice, unsure why she responded instead of Evan, and then looked toward Liz when she spoke.

“I think you’ll really like the Reynolds girls, Chase,” Liz said. “Ginny’s a year ahead of you in school, and Renee is a year behind.”

“Sally’s in my grade,” Julie said.

“If Evan feels better tomorrow morning,” Alice said, “Liz thinks we should invite the Reynoldses for a cookout.”

“Chase,” Alice continued, “after all your hard work and the late night last night, you must be tired. When you’ve had enough to eat, if you want to call it a day, you may certainly be excused.”

Chase felt full and warm and unsure if he’d stepped over some line by kidding Evan. “Thanks,” he said, “bed does sound good.”

Once upstairs, Chase pulled off his shoes. He selected a book of poetry from John’s shelves, stretched out on the bed, propped his head on a pillow, and promptly fell asleep.

‡

Chase woke early, in the subdued light of a gray Saturday morning, still dressed in his sweatshirt, jeans, and socks. He slipped into the shoes he’d left by the bed, picked up the book, a collection of poetry by E.E. Cummings, and went quietly downstairs. There were lights on in the kitchen.

“Morning, Chase. You look comfy,” Alice said. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Not really. It smells good though. Could I have a half cup?”

“Sure. Sugar’s on the table. Want some creamer or milk in it?”

“Creamer, please.” Chase took a seat across the kitchen table from Alice’s coffee cup and a folded newspaper.

“Take a section of the newspaper if you want,” Alice said. “Sports section is on top.”

“The Cardinals didn’t play yesterday. I’m just gonna look at this book.”

Alice turned from the kitchen counter and asked, “Are the Cardinals still undefeated?”

“Uh-huh, six wins in a row now. What a great start.”

Alice brought Chase’s coffee to the table and sat down.

Chase sipped the coffee and read quietly for several minutes. “You ever read E.E. Cummings’s work, Mrs. Whitman?”

“Yes, but it’s Alice, Master Coulter.”

“Right, right, sorry. Do you like his work?”

“I do. I think he’s a special poetic voice. Which one of his poems were you reading?”

“Oh, none yet. This first section is some kind of speech he gave. He’s talking about what it takes to be a poet. Very interesting stuff.”

“Very interesting, huh? What about it interests you?”

“Well, he says writing poetry is about being, not doing.”

“Oh? And why’s that interesting?”

“It’s just the difference, between being and doing, that’s always interested me.”

“Always, huh? All your very long life, right?” Alice said.

“Well, you can laugh, but one time I even wrote about that difference in an essay for school.”

“You did? So, what is it about the subject of being and doing that interests you?”

“Well, people all the time ask kids ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ And they mean—What do you want to do when you grow up, to make a living? What kinda job would you want to do to make money?”

“Okay. That seems right,” Alice answered. “And what’s so interesting about what Cummings says?”

“Well, I just don’t get it. How does Cummings think anyone can be a poet without doing something? This book proves”—Chase held the book up—“he wrote a ton of poems. That’s doing. I mean, come on, how does anyone get to be anything without doing something?”

“Good question.” Alice closed her eyes and held her coffee cup in both hands under her nose. “Don’t you think you get to be human, just by being born?”

“Oh, well, sure, but that’s not a choice. That’s kinda like whether you’re a boy or girl or a sister or brother.”

“That’s my point, Chase. Don’t you get to be all those things without doing anything?”

“Well, yeah, but that seems different to me. I don’t know.”

“Chase, maybe his notion is that you either are a poet or you aren’t. You’re either an artist or you’re not. It does seem that some people are born musicians or artists. You can give it a go, but if it isn’t in you—maybe he thinks you should do something else.”

“Liz painted those portraits in the hallway upstairs, didn’t she?” Chase asked.

“Yes, and she’ll be off to college in Illinois this fall to major in art.”

“They’re really good, true to life. She must have been born to be an artist or has the natural talent to be one.”

“You are so right about that.”

“But, see, that’s what I still kinda disagree with. The same thing goes for artists. If you and Liz didn’t do any work, you couldn’t really be artists.”

“All true, Chase. I’d have to read that speech, but maybe he simply means there are people who write poems but aren’t and can’t be poets.”

“They write poems but they aren’t poets? I don’t get that.”

“Well, maybe the person writes but doesn’t have a gift for the use of language. Maybe the stuff is dull, no good,” Alice answered.

“Oh, sure, that’s right,” Chase said. “That’s like teachers.”

“Like teachers?”

“Sure, you know, there are people who go to classrooms and stand up in front of students, but they’re terrible teachers,” Chase said. “They just don’t have it in them to be a teacher.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Alice agreed. “And others are naturally great at it. Perhaps that’s what Cummings meant.”

Chase closed the book and looked out the kitchen window. “Looks like it’s sprinkling. Good thing you had me get after the outside stuff yesterday.”

“Mm-hm. Drinking coffee and chatting like this is so nice. John and I used to do some of this. I miss him. You’re going to be what, Chase, about thirty on your next birthday?”

“Fourteen in November, Alice, but someone else said that to me recently, and sounding like I’m thirty is getting me nowhere with girls.”

‡

The rain didn’t continue, and the remainder of the day was sunny. Evan fully recovered, and Liz and Alice invited the Reynoldses to a late afternoon cookout. The oldest daughter, Virginia, known as Ginny, and Sally, the youngest, came over early to play tennis with Liz and Julie.

Chase sat in the Whitmans’ big glider swing. He read and watched the four girls on the tennis court. Ginny’s play was steady, smooth, and quick. She alternated her shots: hit harder ones to Liz, made Liz run a little, and easier ones to Julie.

Evan came out to light the charcoal and watched the girls for a few minutes. “Looks like Ginny Reynolds was a born tennis player,” he said.

Chase looked over the top of the book and watched Ginny. She really did look like a tennis player: athletic legs, flat stomach, firm rear, smallish breasts, warm-colored skin. Her shoulder-length hair, on the blonde side of brunette, was pulled back from a wide forehead.

“Well, she’s a good athlete for sure,” Chase answered.

When the flames subsided, Evan went back inside.

Not long after Evan’s retreat, Eldon and Viola Reynolds and their middle daughter, Renee, came, like a little caravan, around the outside of the tennis court’s high chain-link fence, into the Whitmans’ backyard. Viola, swaying side to side, with two hands under a casserole dish, was two steps in the lead. Eldon, carrying a carton of bottled drinks, walked beside Renee.

Eldon, Chase thought, if he was younger, might be Karen Wilson’s type: tall, dark-haired, and handsome. Viola wore a belted white cotton dress with large colorful flowers splashed across the skirt. Inside the dress was a body like Marilyn Monroe’s.

Chase realized he’d been staring, open-mouthed, at Mrs. Reynolds and tried to return his attention to the book.

“Chase,” Alice called a few minutes later as she walked with Renee across the backyard, “I’d like you and Renee to interrupt the tennis game, please, and ask the girls if they’d like a hot dog or hamburger and what they’d like to drink. We have iced tea, and Eldon brought a new kind of soda called Wink.”

“Sure,” Chase answered Alice, then he spoke to Renee. “Have you seen the ads for Wink?” He stepped off the glider and straightened up but suddenly felt dizzy and reached for one of the angled supports. “The company, Canada Dry, calls Wink ‘the sassy one.’”

Chase held on to the glider frame. He tilted his head and stared at Renee’s shining orange-red hair and green eyes. In the waning afternoon sunlight, her light pastel-pink complexion seemed somehow lit by her hair.

“Are you okay?” Renee asked.

“Uh, I think so. I was gonna ask you...what kind of company would be named Canada Dry?” He looked over Renee’s shoulder at Viola, but watching the flouncy movements of her flowery dress made him feel woozy.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Renee answered. “And who’d want sass from their drink?”

Chase was not okay. He stumbled as he started toward the tennis court, felt as if his face was on fire. The words Canada Dry, Wink, and sassy wobbled around him. He flopped down on the grass, braced his elbows on his thighs, and leaned forward with his face in his hands.

“Chase? Oh my gosh,” Alice called out. “Evan! Come quickly, please!”

Evan felt Chase’s forehead. “He’s burning up. Bet this is the same stuff I had.” He turned to Alice. “I’ll help him inside. Would you bring us a cool washcloth and some aspirin, hon?”

‡

Chase’s memories of the final eighteen hours of the Easter weekend at the Whitmans’ included fragments of conversations in John’s room, spoken by voices the color of Renee Reynolds’s firelit, orange-pink complexion.

“It’s okay. Come on in here,” Liz said and stepped into the room. Ginny and Renee Reynolds filed in behind her.

“We all hope you get to feeling better,” Ginny said.

Chase opened his eyes, awaking from a fevered dream, and found three girls in the room. “Just don’t eat any of the Easter candy. You’ll be fine. Fine—but not those big chocolate rabbits or those spongy yellow things, those Peeps, you know. Ugh. Okay, then,” he said and closed his eyes.

“He’s off his rocker,” Renee said to the other girls.

“Let’s let him rest,” Liz said and ushered them out.

‡

Much later, just before she went to bed, Liz came back into the room. Chase sat up and propped his back against the headboard. “Looks like you might be feeling a little better,” she said.

“Some.”

“So, how’d you like the Reynolds girls?” she asked.

“They made me sick.”

Liz laughed, then said, “Nuh-uh, Dad’s the one to blame.”

“Right, well, the girls seem nice,” Chase said. “And Renee, she’s—wow... I don’t know what she is—certainly beautiful.”

“You think so?”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

“That’s not true. I saw you staring at Vi-O—La-La Reynolds. What did you think about her?”

“One word.”

“What’s that?”

Chase rolled onto this stomach, faced into the pillow, and announced: “Ther-mo-dy-namic!”

“Did you say thermodynamic?”

“No, my butt did.”

“Very funny.”

“Okay, yes, I said thermodynamic.”

“That makes her sound like she’s something out of a science book.”

“It’s about heat an’ motion, isn’t it? Thermodynamic?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, she looks like heat in motion to me.”

“Is that good?”

“Not if you’re dizzy and have a fever. She really did about make me sick.”

“Mm. I’ve got to get to bed. Mom said she’ll be up shortly with water and another cool cloth. Night, bub.”

‡

Early the next morning, Alice and Evan came to check on Chase and found him drowsy, in and out of sleep.

“We should let him sleep, but one of us should probably stay home,” Evan said. “Someone will have to miss church. I volunteer.”

“Uh, no. You take the kids,” Alice answered. “I’ll stay here and start lunch.”

“I just hate for you to miss,” Evan said.

“Mm-hm, miss my little nap is all. Reverend Yeager Schnitzel, human sedative.”

Evan, attempting to restrain laughter, made little shushing sounds. “Shouldn’t say that kinda stuff, hon. God’s gonna get you.”

‡

Later, when Evan returned from church, he found Chase still in bed but sitting up and wide-awake. “You feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Good. We’ll bring up a little something for you to eat later.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for the yard work on Friday,” Evan said. “Looks nice. Looks like I made a good hire for my summer lawn guy.

“Oh, and speaking of summer work, you’re really going to be busy. We’re going to start soon on construction of an art studio out back. I’ll have some work for you on that project, too.”

Chapter Ten

Courtside Chats

June and July 1962

Once Evan Whitman determined Chase could competently execute almost any outdoor work without supervision, Evan’s list of projects on his untamed property kept Chase busy full-time.

Chase didn’t detassel corn during the summer of 1962, but he earned more money than he had time to spend. For the first time, he owned two pairs of tennis shoes. Most evenings he left the dirty, grass- and paint-stained pair airing on the back porch at home. He’d spent the warm days in prior summers wearing a baseball glove. Now he also owned work gloves.

The sun, his drifting thoughts, and, once in a while, one of the neighborhood girls were Chase’s companions. The neighborhood was full of girls—“a regular Girls Series,” Evan might have said. He provided Chase with a season ticket in a field-level seat.

By late June, unwanted vines had climbed to the top of the tall chain-link fence around the tennis court separating the Whitmans’ and Reynoldses’ houses. Evan assigned Chase to pull down the vines, dig out their roots, and create a concrete channel under the fence around the perimeter of the court.

‡

“Okay, Vi, let’s hear it!” Eldon Reynolds said. Viola stalked past him, out onto their patio. Eldon shoved the back door shut behind her and leaned against it. “What is eating you?”

Vi spun to face him. “Oh, like you don’t know!”

Chase was behind the tall fence, diagonally across the court from the Reynoldses’ patio. Seconds before, he’d been conspicuous—up a ladder, ripping vines out of the fence, causing the chain-link to slap and ring against the tall support pipes.

Now, Chase and a pile of vines sprawled on the ground, out of view. He was using a hand ax and small shovel to dig out roots, weeds, and grass at the base of the fence. It was quiet work and an awkward happenstance. The surface of the tennis court bounced the Reynoldses’ voices to Chase as distinctly as if he’d been seated in one of their patio chairs. Part of the time, Chase could see one or both of them.

“I’m not a mind reader,” Eldon answered.

“Oh really—then why’d you ask me to step out here?”

“For god’s sake, Vi, you were obviously fuming about something. You banged the pans on the stove and slammed the cabinet door.”

“Well, you didn’t have to read my mind to know I’m upset, and I’m sure you won’t have to think too hard to figure out why.”

“I really hate this little game.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Oh, you know. Now it’s time to play”—Eldon imitated a game-show announcer’s voice—“Vi’s little ‘I’m mad as hell and you have to guess why’ game.”

“You think this is a little game? When I get upset, you think it’s some kind of fucking game?”

Holy cow, Chase thought. Maybe he should whack the shovel against the fence a few times to alert them to his presence. Truth was, though, he was oddly fascinated. He stopped working and leaned a shoulder into the fence.

“I wish you wouldn’t use that word,” Eldon said.

“Oh, that offends you, does it? Why don’t you ask one of your principal buddies to call me to the office. This is not fucking junior high school!”

“Vi, please, stop shouting. Can’t we talk about this in some kind of rational way?”

“I don’t know, El, what are we talking about?”

“Here we go again.”

“That’s right, buster, here we go again. What do you think I’m upset about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re working on a doctorate up there in Columbia, Mr. Principal. Make an educated guess.”

Chase guided the hand ax without force into the dirt around a root, then stood its wooden handle upright and left it leaning against the fence.

“Is this about my being in Columbia again?”

“Isn’t that what it’s been about the last three summers? I’m stuck here with the girls, and you’re up in Columbia—out with who knows who.”

“I’m up there going to class and writing papers.”

“Oh really? Where were you last night when I called? Out writing papers?”

“You called last night?”

“About nine-thirty and again about ten, to ask when you might get home today.”

“Oh, so this is about where I was last night?”

“You’re quick, El, but not so quick about answering my question.”

“Do you have to be so angry and sarcastic?”

Wow, Chase thought, angry and sarcastic for sure. He tried to imagine his mom saying “this isn’t fucking junior high.” That seemed funny, and impossible; this was certainly not funny.

“Yes, and I’m getting madder by the second. How ’bout an answer?”

“Doing laundry.”

“What?”

“Doing laundry. You know—at a laundromat.”

“You were out, at ten o’clock last night, doing laundry? Pfft! You expect me to believe that?”

“No, Vi, I guess I don’t expect you to believe that.”

“Why would you do laundry when we have a perfectly good washing machine here? That makes no sense.”

“It wouldn’t, unless your wife had complained, ‘You only come home when you want someone to cook for you, do your laundry, and screw.’ Two weeks ago, that’s what my wife said.”

“So, you went out last night and did your laundry?”

“I brought home a suitcase full of clean clothes, Vi.”

“You did? A suitcase full...well, well.”

“I have to tell you, Vi, I’m sick of this. I hate feeling guilty about leaving when I’m just trying to get the education to earn a better living for our family.”

“You were doing T-shirts and underwear at a laundromat last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do your wash and wear slacks?”

“Yeah, but they’ll need a little touch-up ironing.”

“Oh, El.” Viola put her arms around him from the side and wrapped a leg partly around one of his. “You’re such good boy. I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes, Vi, if it wasn’t for the girls...” Eldon paused. “Well, I’m sorry, too. Sorry if you were worried.”

When he was sure the Reynoldses were back indoors, Chase resumed working, and his thoughts drifted. He wondered if his parents ever fought like that and if the Reynolds girls had heard their parents. To the list of things parents lie about and hide from kids, he might have added nasty, suspicious arguments.

‡

After Chase removed the roots and grass under the chain-link fence, he spent two July mornings digging an eight-inch-wide, one-inch-deep trench that Evan said they would fill with concrete (“they” being Chase). Evan took a quick look at the trench, however, and decided it should instead be three inches deep so the bottom half could be filled with gravel as a base for the concrete.

Thus, on a third blazing hot July morning, Chase was on the Reynoldses’ side of the court on his knees deepening the trench.

Ginny Reynolds pulled a lawn chair across their patio into a patch of shade, said hi, and watched Chase work.

“Hi, Gin.”

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.

“Collecting ants for Evan Whitman’s ant farm. Want some?”

Ginny ignored Chase’s flippant answer. “Aren’t you awfully hot and uncomfortable?”

“Oh, no, no, sweatin’ my ass off is a special pleasure.”

“Are you always so sarcastic?”

“Not always. I try though.”

“You do, and it’s not very nice.” Ginny stepped into the sun. “Would you like some help?”

“I’m getting paid, Gin.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t want to be paid or anything. I just thought you might like some company. I could dig, too.”

“Well, okay, sure, anything to get out of this heat sooner.”

Ginny took the hand ax, knelt, and started digging a few feet farther down the fence.

Chase tossed her a wooden ruler. “Evan’s particular. Trench should already be eight inches wide. Now, we’ve gotta make it three inches deep.”

Ginny got back to her feet. “I’m gonna get gloves and a spade,” she said and jogged toward the Reynoldses’ garage.

After Ginny returned and worked for a few minutes, she stopped, blew an upward breath, and pushed back the brownish-blonde hair sticking to her brow. “Don’t you think it would be better to do this earlier in the day, when it’s cooler?”

“It was a lot cooler when I started two hours ago, Gin, but thanks for your good suggestion.”

“You really ought to stop that, Chase.”

“What?”

“The sarcasm. That ‘thanks for your good suggestion’ remark.”

“I guess that isn’t funny?”

“No, it’s not. It’s unfriendly and kinda scornful, and you do it a lot.”

“Toss me the ruler, please,” Chase requested. He stretched out on the ground, stood the ruler in the trench, and looked over it toward Ginny. “Well, I don’t want people to think that I’m unfriendly or scornful. Really, I don’t intend to be.”

“Would you want to stop?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I could tell you when you do it and remind you not to.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Well, you just did it again. Saying ‘that sounds like fun.’”

Chase shoveled dirt from the trench. “I guess maybe I am doing that a lot.”

“So do you?” Ginny asked. “Want me to tell you?”

“Yeah, but maybe only like this—when there aren’t a bunch of people around.” Chase pitched the ruler back toward Ginny and began digging again.

“Okay, I will.” Ginny moved a little farther down the trench but turned to face him. “Would you do that for me?”

“Do what, Gin? You’re not sarcastic, are you?”

“I don’t think so. But I’d like to know when something I say or do makes me look naïve or stupid.”

“Oh...so you think my sarcasm makes me look stupid?”

“No, Chase, and you know that’s not what I meant. I just think”—she shoved the spade into the rocky soil—“it would be really nice to have a friend, somebody I trust, who could tell me things like that—things I might not know about myself.”

Chase took a washcloth out of his back pocket and wiped his face. “I don’t think most people want to be told that kind of stuff.”

“Well, I do,” she answered.

Chase pounded the hand ax several times into rocky ground, raked broken rock up out of the trench, stopped working, and looked at her. “You know, I think I do, too.”

Ginny didn’t look up from her digging. “I really don’t like being made fun of and called naïve. If I’d tell you things you want to know about girls, would you tell me things about guys?”

“Oh sure, that sounds great. Seriously, that would be great,” Chase answered.

Ginny watched Chase begin working again and looked directly at him. “So, Liz told me once that you’ve pretty much always had a girlfriend. Is that right?”

“Uh-huh,” Chase answered. “Since fourth grade.”

Ginny looked down into the trench. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“What?”

Ginny looked away, through the fence, at the tennis court. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. You’ve always had a girlfriend. Have you had lots of dates?”

“Well, some. I mean, I’ve invited girls to parties and asked girls to go to movies downtown on Saturdays. Not much else.”

“Okay. So, to you, what’s the most important thing about a girl?”

Chase looked at Ginny, who was obviously sincere and embarrassed, and he tried not to laugh. “Oh boy, Gin, you want me to tell you the most important thing about a girl?” He bent forward and put a sweaty palm on his forehead, pretending to hide a grin.

Ginny threw a little spade of dirt at him. “Come on, you know what I mean. Be serious. What causes you to be interested in a particular girl?”

Chase looked at Ginny and didn’t immediately answer. She was again looking across the court. A small pickup truck passed by slowly and stopped in the middle of the street.

“I’m just trying to understand boys better,” Ginny said and continued to watch the action on the street. “I thought you could tell me what attracts you. I mean, I’m not trying to get you to like me as a girlfriend or something like that.”

“Oh, well, what a relief. I’d feel terrible if you liked me or something like that.”

“That was sarcastic again, Chase. Stop that.”

“Okay, okay, but surely that was a little funny, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe a little.”

The pickup truck backed up over the curb and stopped near the chain-link fence. A man got out of the cab, lowered the pickup’s back gate, climbed in the bed, and shoveled a tall mound of gravel onto the grass. Then, without so much as a wave or a howdy-do, he slammed the pickup’s back gate, threw the shovel into the bed, climbed in the cab, and drove away.

“That’s ours,” Chase said. “Evan left a scoop shovel, and I’m supposed to put a layer of gravel in the trench.”

They both resumed working and Ginny said, “So, okay, I guess a girl’s looks, and especially her figure, are what attracts a boy. They, uh, boys I mean, really look, like, at her rear and her chest. Those are kinda the first, uh, attracters, right?”

“Well, sure, boys notice girls’ figures, but that’s not how they decide who they’ll try to get as a girlfriend.”

“Well, they sure do stare at...girls.”

“Right, right, boys do check girls out, and they talk to other boys about girls with good bodies, but most boys my age hardly even talk to a grown-up-looking girl, much less ask one out.”

“Is that right? You seem pretty sure.”

“Uh-huh. Tammy Clark, in my homeroom last year, has been, uh, you know”—Chase gestured with two cupped hands in front of his chest—“about stacked since sixth grade. One time, I asked her why she only goes out with older boys. She said none of the boys my age ever ask her out, not ever last year in seventh grade and only once all year in eighth grade. She says the boys our age barely talk to her.”

“You obviously talk to her. Why haven’t you asked her out?”

“I don’t know. Never given it a thought. She’s kinda out of my league, only goes out with older guys.”

“It doesn’t sound like she has a choice. I think that’s sad.” Ginny shifted position. “A girl who develops early, if she wants a boyfriend, is kind of forced to go out with older guys.”

Chase and Ginny both worked a bit and considered that idea.

“So, anyway,” Ginny said, “what does attract a boy? What do you especially like?”

“Listen, Gin, I’m not gonna lie. I don’t know a boy who wouldn’t want a nice-looking girlfriend. But there are all kinds of pretty and, Ginny, trust me, you are plenty pretty.”

Ginny was about to speak when Chase continued. “I guess, for me, the way a girl acts toward me is as important, maybe more important than how beautiful she is.”

“What’s that mean? How does a girl have to act toward you?”

“Uh, you know, if a girl is interested in you, she’ll smile at you. She’ll turn toward you when you come up to her. She might even come over to talk to you. You know, say a friendly hello, talk about a class, maybe even suggest you help her with an assignment, or talk to you about a teacher you both have—just stuff like that.”

“Oh my gosh, Chase, remember when I said I’m not trying to get you to like me?”

“Oh, well now, have you changed your mind?” Chase grinned at Ginny and batted his eyes.

“No, and stop kidding with me, please.” Ginny stopped working, pulled her legs in under her, and turned toward him. “Listen to this: I came out, said hello, offered to work with you, hurried to go get our tools, chatted, and, like this, turned toward you so we could talk as we worked. You might have misunderstood all that. I somehow knew I needed tell you that those things were not about trying to get you to like me as a girlfriend.”

“Oh, sure, that’s right, because that is how it works. Smart of you to realize.” Chase paused. “And, of course, you only hurt my feelings a little...that’s no big deal.”

Ginny didn’t have a chance to respond before Chase continued. “I’m guessing, Gin, this works in reverse. If a girl doesn’t smile at a boy or turn his way, doesn’t say hello or even try to talk to him about anything, chances are she’s telling him she’s not interested.”

“Okay, but what about shy girls?” Ginny asked. “They don’t do those things, do they?”

“Well, I’ve never been shy or a girl.”

“That’s certain.” Ginny smacked her dirty gloves together and looked down at them. “But I am, and I’m really shy. I don’t think I do any of those things. Maybe I’m accidentally sending an ‘I’m not interested’ message to boys. Maybe I’ve never understood how to invite a boy to like me. Good heavens.”

“Oh, come on, Ginny. You did all those things today, completely naturally. Surely there are boys you’ve been interested in and talked to.”

“Not hardly any, Chase.” Ginny paused. “Well, there was one boy, named Mitch, that I talked to nearly every day in sixth grade, but he already had a girlfriend. Mitch was kind of like a brother to me, even called me ‘sis.’”

“So, even though you’re shy, you could do these things.”

“It isn’t easy for me. I probably feel relaxed around you because, well, you’re younger and a neighbor. I see you nearly every day out here, and you always wave and say things to us—to me and my sisters.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m the kid who mows your neighbor’s yard. No way I’m boyfriend material. I’m more like a little brother, right?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re taking this all wrong. We’ve been talking about becoming, like, confidential friends. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I’m probably just being stupid. I kinda got myself humiliated last year by a girl who did lots of those welcoming things, and I thought she sort of liked me.”

“What happened? Was she teasing or something?”

“I guess not. We had a class together. I’d see her in the hall, and she’d smile and say hi. Once she even reached out and held my forearm while we talked. That was a clincher. I was head over heels for her.”

“Did you mean that as a pun?” Ginny asked.

“What?”

“She took your forearm and you said that was ‘a clincher.’”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean that as a pun.” Chase laughed. “That’s good though. Turns out, this girl does that with nearly everyone she talks to. I learned that after I’d already made a fool out of myself.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a boy when I’ve talked to him.”

“Well, don’t, unless you are really interested in him. That will really get a boy’s attention.”

“I wonder if a boy and girl can ever really be just regular friends,” Ginny said.

“I don’t know,” Chase answered, “but I’d really like having a girl friend who would tell me about myself—how girls see me.”

“I kinda had the impression that you and Liz Whitman might be friends like that.”

“We are, kind of. Our families are real close. She’s more like a big sister, an advisor.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind sharing some insights, being like a big sister, with some observant guy—someone like you.”

“Oh yeah, that’d be swell,” Chase said. “I mean, what guy wouldn’t like to have a couple of extra big sisters telling him when he’s being obnoxious.”

“That was sarcastic, Chase.”

“Well, it’s okay to be sarcastic with a sister, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

Chapter Eleven

Mr. Lucky

September 1962

The marching song “Seventy-Six Trombones” welcomed Chase as he came through the Coulters’ front door. It blasted from the family room where Julie Coulter and Sally Reynolds were marching and singing.

“Hey, who’s in there, in the big parade?” Chase shouted.

“Just us two,” Julie called back. “Mom’s workin’. Liz is in the kitchen getting dinner stuff ready.”

Chase hustled to the kitchen but stopped in the doorway. Elizabeth Whitman stood at the sink, peeling potatoes and dropping them in a pot of water.

“Hi, Liz. Wasn’t sure you’d be here,” Chase said. “When’s departure day?”

“Saturday, but Dad says I’ve already packed more than he can possibly cram in the station wagon.”

“Are you taking your easel and lots of art stuff?”

“The art department has easels, thank goodness.”

“Bloomington, Illinois, right? You’re going from Bloomington to Bloomington.”

“Uh-huh. Mom says if I ever go to grad school, I ought look first at Indiana U.”

“Is that in another Bloomington?”

“You got it.”

“Are you gettin’ excited?” Chase asked.

“Uh-huh. A little nervous. First week, though, sounds like mostly orientation, moving in, meeting people. How ’bout you, Chase, how’s school going?”

“The same. Some new teachers down from the high school.”

‡

After the baby boom exploded in Bloomington, the public school system added a fourth junior high school to the existing three and relieved overcrowding at the high school by having ninth graders stay at the junior highs. Thus, instead of experiencing an anxious freshman year at Bloomington High, Chase and his classmates at East Junior enjoyed a second year as the reigning elders.

‡

“One kinda fun thing happened today,” Chase said. “I got invited to a hayride.”

“Oh, that is fun! Do you know who you’ll invite?”

“I was invited, by a girl named Christy Campbell.”

“Oh, sure, this is the Campbells’ family deal, isn’t it? One of her older brothers, Tom, was a year behind me in school.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tom Campbell is a handsome guy,” Liz said. “How ’bout his sister?”

“She’s really pretty and popular. Her invitation surprised me.”

“Well, bub, you’re not a bad specimen. You grew about a foot this summer, and you’re all tanned from workin’ outdoors. So, this is a Sadie Hawkins deal—girls invite the boys, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Chase sat down at the kitchen table and watched Liz work.

“You’ll want to take a nice quilt or blanket.” Liz returned to the task of peeling and washing potatoes. “In the wind and blowing straw, the two of you will duck down under the blanket. Fun part is that you stay under there for most of the ride.”

“Uh-huh. I know, and there’s something I...uh. Lizzie, could I ask you for a really big favor before you go off to school?”

Liz turned toward him, holding a wet potato and peeler. “Sure. Well, maybe. How big?”

“Have you ever French-kissed?”

“Have I French-kissed?”

“Uh-huh, have you?”

“Well, yeah, a few times.”

“So.” Chase paused. “So, would you teach me how?”

“To French-kiss? I don’t know, Chase. You want me to French-kiss with you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, just to get the hang of it.”

“Right now?”

“Well, Mrs. Potato Head, it wouldn’t have to be right this minute, but before you leave town.”

“Well, I don’t know, bud. What would I get in return?”

“Hmm. Good question. Maybe Christy Campbell’s undying appreciation.”

“She won’t know she owes me. What else have you got for me?”

“I don’t know. What would you want?”

“Oh, wait, I have an idea. Mom and I went to art museums in Tulsa and Kansas City this summer. There’s an artist I really like. He’s famous for his paintings and sculptures of young girls, dancing. I’m thinking of doing a series of paintings of boys about your age. When Mom’s studio is complete, you could pose for me.”

“Well, sure, I’d do that. That’s a deal.”

“Okay then, bub, get yourself over here.”

“Right this minute? Right here?”

“No time like the present, kid, I get it. You wanna know how, an’ there’s a hayride comin’ soon. So, stand up here.”

Chase stood, took three short steps toward the sink, facing Liz, and leaned a little forward from the waist.

Liz draped one arm, with the potato peeler in hand, over his shoulder, and with the other hand pressed a damp potato against the back of his neck.

Liz grinned. “Okay, well, first, Mr. Potato Head, you’ve gotta close your eyes.”

Chase closed his eyes.

“Okay, now, open your mouth, not wide. We’re gonna just part our lips a little.”

She put her lips to his. They kissed and alternated pushing tongues in and then pushed against each other’s tongues.

Chase wrapped an arm around Liz’s waist and pulled her firmly toward him.

Liz sucked his tongue into her mouth, forcefully blew it out, and bopped him playfully on the back of the head with the damp potato. “Don’t get carried away, bub.”

“Wow,” Chase said. “Holy cow.”

“Wow! Holy cow for sure!” Julie shouted from the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing?”

Sally Reynolds, initially dumbstruck, peering over Julie’s shoulder, said, “Kissing, Julie! They were kissing—like crazy!”

“Wait, wait,” Chase said, and he moved quickly back to the kitchen table, sat, and turned toward the two girls. “I asked—”

“Julie,” Liz interrupted, “for so long, you and Chase have both been my good good friends—my second family. I am going to miss you guys so so much.” She knelt and held her arms out to Julie. “Get over here. Come give me a hug and a big smooch.”

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m gonna miss you so much.” Julie ran to Liz and hugged and clung to her.

“Now,” Liz said, “it’s your turn, give me a big goodbye smooch.” Liz and Julie kissed and snuggled.

‡

A few weeks later, on a Thursday, the day before the Campbells’ hayride, the skies turned gray and a chilly breeze tossed rain on the smaller panes of the huge wood-frame windows at East Junior. At lunch, Christy told Chase she’d have to let him know tomorrow if the hayride would be postponed.

By the first bell on Friday morning, the air had a pleasant cool edge, but the clouds were gone and bright sun was warming a sky-blue fall day.

Friday evening, when Will Coulter and Chase arrived at Christy Campbell’s house, a dozen couples already stood in the colorful leaf-strewn yard holding blankets and jackets. The slanting sun bounced from small puddles of rainwater along the edges of the street and the Campbells’ driveway.

A long stake-bed truck, with slat sides and the words Cal Campbell Lumber Co stenciled on the red cab doors, faced forward in the driveway. Mr. Campbell and Christy’s brother Tom were in the bed of the truck spreading a thick carpet of fresh, dry straw. They left two bales on the driveway behind the truck and another on top of those to serve as a stairway to the bed.

Chase took a yellow quilt from the back seat of the Coulters’ car and said to Will before closing the door, “Around ten, then.”

“I’ll be here,” Will answered.

Chase shuffled through the bright yellow, star-shaped sweet gum leaves to the small porch at the front of the Campbells’ house. Before he reached the stairs, Christy opened the storm door and looked at Chase’s blanket. “Wait a second, Chase,” she said, “be right back.” Christy backed up into the house and called loudly, “It’s yellow, Mom.”

A few seconds later, Christy came out with a brown blanket and handed it to Chase to hold while she slipped on a jacket. “I didn’t want our blankets to clash,” she said.

In the back of the truck in a hooded sweatshirt with bits of straw stuck in it, Mr. Campbell cupped his hands at the sides of his mouth like a small megaphone and announced, ”All right, riders—all aboard!”

Mr. Campbell grabbed one of the back railings and swung himself down from the truck bed and headed toward the house. As he passed, he said to Chase, “So, how’s Mr. Lucky this evening?”

“I’m fine, sir. How ’bout you?” Chase replied.

“I’m good, sonny. Just gotta grab my thermos, and we’ll be on our way.”

Mr. Campbell bounded up the porch stairs and went into the house. When he returned, he motioned to Chase and Christy and said, “You two go ahead and lead the way.”

Chase and Christy held hands, climbed up the bales, and waded into the bed of the truck.

From the porch, Mr. Campbell, again through megaphone hands, boomed out, “All right, kids. All aboard! Let’s get goin’!”

“The middle is good, right about here,” Christy said, and she held two corners of the brown blanket out to Chase. She held the other two corners and Chase backed away until the flat blanket was suspended above the straw. They lowered it onto the straw, pinned it in place by kneeling on it, and patted it down.

“That’s good,” Christy said. She crawled across the blanket and stretched out on her stomach to look out through the slats.

“Get you to spread one more?” Mitch Gray said from behind Chase.

“Hey, Mitch. Sure. Haven’t seen you since school let out for summer. Where’ve you been?”

“Mom married Fenner; we moved to his place. We’re not a lot farther away, but I’m at South Junior.”

Mitch handed Chase two corners of his blanket, turned, and nodded toward his tall dark-haired date. “Do you know Jean Logan?”

When the boys had the blanket spread on the straw, Jean began walking on it and answered Mitch’s question. “No, he doesn’t, but glad to meet you, Chase.”

“Are you at South, too?” Chase asked Jean.

“Uh-huh, Christy and I are friends from church.”

“Well, nice to meet you, too,” Chase said.

Christy rolled onto her back and shaded her eyes from the last glinting rays of sun. The sun accentuated her brown eyes and eyebrows and her not quite fully blonde hair.

“Let’s use this as a pillow,” Chase said. He laid the folded yellow quilt on Christy’s stomach and stretched out on his back beside her. He locked his hands behind his head, did a half sit-up, and Christy tucked the quilt underneath his head. “Nice night,” he said.

Christy and Chase said hello to several other couples as they passed by and spread blankets on the straw. Then, she rolled onto her side next to him. “Sorry about my dad’s little jab.”

“His jab? I musta missed that.”

“Oh, you know, calling you ‘sonny’ an’ ‘Mr. Lucky.’”

“Huh, I just thought he meant I was lucky to have a date with his daughter. He mean something else?”

“Uh-huh. Oscar Thomas, a neighbor of yours, buys lots of lumber from Dad. They’re big buddies.”

“Uh-huh, and?”

“And Mr. Thomas told Dad you ran a casino.”

“Oh, so your dad was callin’ me Mr. Lucky—like on the television show.”

“Right. My parents never let me watch that show,” Christy said.

“Yeah, well, the casino on that show is called Mr. Lucky’s. The guy who runs it is really cool.”

“Well, Dad does not think you’re cool. He didn’t mean it in a nice way.”

Mr. Campbell drove the hay truck out of the residential area onto a county road and picked up speed. Straw blew around them, into their faces, and swirled out of the back of the truck. The blowing straw and the rush of cool evening air drove the couples under their blankets. Chase and Christy shook out the yellow quilt and pulled it up over them.

“This is cozy, isn’t it?” Christy said as they nestled together under the quilt.

Chase rolled onto his side to face her. “So, was that it? Does your dad think gambling is a sin or something?”

“No, but Mr. Thomas told Dad he wouldn’t trust you any farther than he could throw you. Said his kids lost a bunch of money at your casino.”

“Well, that’s not right. They maybe lost fifty cents, total—the two of them.”

“Oh. I remember now. Mr. Thomas said his kids lost all of their allowances at your casino.”

“That could be.”

“Aren’t the Thomas kids just like five and seven, something like that?” Christy asked.

“That sounds about right.”

“I don’t get this. What could little kids even do in a casino?”

“Oh, we taught Phillip how to bet on red or black, and odd and even, in roulette.”

“You had roulette? One of those wheels?”

“Uh-huh, Jim Stuart was my partner. His dad had a roulette game with a small wheel and everything, but Phillip and Melinda really liked the marble race best—played it almost the whole time.”

“A marble race? I’ve never heard of a marble race in a casino.”

“Uh, well, me either. My little sister has this marble race game. It’s, uh, this blue plastic tower with, like, a stack of four levels. You can set marbles on an incline on the top tier and let ’em go. They roll around until they drop through a hole. Then they roll around on the next lower level and drop through a hole there. The first marble to reach the finish line at the bottom wins. They’d pick a marble and bet on it to win.”

“Oh, well, sure, little kids would like something like that.”

“They loved it. And, maybe Phillip would bet a nickel on his marble. When it was Melinda’s turn, she’d bet a penny.”

“So, how come they lost all their money?”

“Well, three marbles ran every time: the person betting could pick one, Jim Stuart would run one, and the house had a marble.”

“Oh, so it was really two against one?”

“Yeah, and a couple of the marbles Jim used weighed a little more than the others. They’d drop through faster.”

“So, basically, the game was rigged and you cheated those little kids out of their allowances.”

“Christy, casino games always favor the house; that’s how casinos make money. Phillip and Melinda both won sometimes. They got really excited and had a bunch of fun. Melinda played way over an hour. You could say we entertained two kids for more than an hour for a very small fee.”

“Hmm, you could, but I wouldn’t. Anyway, Dad was telling Mr. Thomas about the hayride and mentioned I had invited a neighbor of his. That’s when Mr. Thomas said he wouldn’t trust you.”

“Have word. Will travel,” Chase said.

“Huh?”

“Oh, that’s from a TV show: Have Gun — Will Travel.”

“That’s another one my parents don’t let me watch.”

“Really? Wow.”

“So, what other games did you have at your rigged casino?”

“A craps table and a table where you could play poker or blackjack.”

“That’s just weird, unbelievable. It seems like a really odd thing to do.”

“What’s so odd about it?”

“Name me one kid you’ve ever known who ran a casino.”

“I don’t know any other kids who have.”

“Me either, ever. And I...uh, it feels like we’re slowing down.” Christy pushed the yellow quilt back, rolled onto her tummy, and looked out through the slats. The truck jostled them as it turned off the paved road.

“Oh, we’re already at River Park. Mother and Tom came by car to set up and light the bonfire. I’m supposed to go help them.”

Christy swept the quilt off them and crawled toward the back of the truck. When it stopped, she stood and looked back and said to Chase, “Just come to the bonfire in a bit and roast hot dogs for us. Okay?

“Sure.”

“Looks like we’ve both been ditched, Coulter,” Mitch said. “Jean’s headed to the bathroom with some of the girls.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Mitch said. “I’m gonna sneak a smoke.”

The two boys climbed down from the truck, sauntered down a gravel road until they were out of sight, and ducked into a picnic shelter.

Mitch sat on the table with his feet on the bench seat. He shook a cigarette partway out of the pack and clasped it between his lips. He leaned back to pull the cigarette out of the pack and to dig a lighter out of a front pocket of his jeans.

“Smoke?” he asked, and he shook the pack and held it toward Chase.

Two filter ends stuck up out of the pack. Chase pulled one cigarette out. “Thanks. You smoke a lot?”

“Not really. I prefer a pipe, but draggin’ a tobacco pouch and pipe on a hayride is too much trouble.”

Mitch clicked open his Zippo lighter and held the flame toward Chase.

“So, your mom got married and you moved?” Chase asked.

“Yup. Got me a step-turd this summer.”

“This the guy who gave you the black eye?”

“That’s the one.”

“This a bad deal for you?”

“You can’t imagine how bad.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Not half as sorry as me. Do you even know a guy can be raped?”

“No...what? What are you sayin’?”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out, Chase. The guy’s a stinkin’ pervert.”

Mitch spit a tiny piece of loose tobacco. They smoked and sat quietly a few seconds before he spoke again. “So, I was kinda eavesdroppin’ on ya. Heard you tellin’ Christy about your casino. That’s some fun shit, Coulter, pretty cool.”

“Yeah, well, it’s closed. I’ve got some new ideas for the garage attic when warm weather comes,” Chase said. “Think maybe I’ll try to rent ’er out by the hour as a make-out hideout. I’ve already got my sister’s youth bed up there an’ a little rug and bedspread. Looks nice.”

“You’re gonna rent a make-out hideout? That is unfiltered Kool, Chase. Who will you let rent it?”

“Oh, you know, guys like us—guys too young to drive.”

“I’m older than you, Coulter, probably get my license in April. But that’s hilarious—and you’re not kidding, are you? You think someone will really rent it?”

“Well, wouldn’t you pay to have some time with Jean in a nice private place with a bed an’ all?”

“Are you kidding? Hell, yes. It’s just, I don’t know, just so you: renting a make-out hideout. Next, you’ll probably install a rubber machine.”

Chase laughed. “That’s not a bad idea. Uh, but listen, Mitch, you’re gonna have to keep this to yourself. I don’t want to be shut down before I can start it up. So far, you’re the only person I’ve told, and have word, will travel. Know what I mean?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“We better get back,” Chase said. “I’m supposed to be roastin’ a weenie.”

“You might wanna warm your own weenie while you’re at it. Doesn’t sound like you’re gonna get anywhere with Christy Campbell.”

The boys tossed their cigarettes on the gravel roadway and ground them out.

After Cokes and hot dogs, back on the truck, back on the road, under the quilt, Christy was back on the subject. She sat up and tented the quilt above her with her head and one hand. She patted the brown blanket in front of her to suggest Chase sit there. They sat, facing each other, heads and shoulders supporting the little quilt tent.

“So, to me,” Christy said, “what’s even odder than running a casino is that your parents would approve—that they’d let you do that.”

“I don’t think they knew.”

“How could they not know?”

“We did this in the attic of the garage. It’s way away from the house.”

“Oh, so your mom wouldn’t notice kids coming and going from the garage?”

“Well, she might, but that would have been okay. We did all kinds of fun stuff up there. Had a weather station once. Garage sale another time. Neighbor kids were always coming and going.”

“Well, it just seems crazy.”

“Why? We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“You were cheating little kids out of their allowances. I’ll bet your mom would have stopped that in a minute if she knew.”

“Listen, Mom almost never came up except when we’d have something neat we wanted to show her—like our weather station. The stairs are steep and there’s this short, low doorway at the top of the stairs. You have to crawl under this stair cover just to get into the attic.”

“Oh, so?”

“So, it’s like a private clubhouse, like lots of kids have. You know—an’ there are things all boys do that they sure don’t tell their mothers about.”

“Uh-huh, like running gambling houses, and what else?”

“Well, like looking at Playboys. Uh, and I don’t know. Smokin’.”

“Oh, uh-huh, I noticed you and that Indian boy Mitch went off and smoked.”

“Indian boy? Mitch isn’t from India.”

“Indian, Chase, like cowboys and Indians. His dad’s a full-blood something or other. They’re all over Oklahoma, Indians are. How long have you smoked?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Two or three years, I guess.”

“So, probably since, what, about seventh grade?”

“Well, a little before that, but never much. We bought cigs to sell at the casino. You know, guys like to smoke when they gamble.”

“No, obviously I didn’t know. So, you sold cigarettes too?”

“Well, sure, but not whole packs, just one or two at a time.”

“Good grief,” Christy said. She stretched out on her back under the quilt and held one hand up to support the quilt and see him.

When Chase stretched out beside her, she turned only her head toward him and said, “If you ask me, you guys got away with murder.”

“No, we didn’t. Listen, Christy, you’re making a big deal out of this. We never murdered anyone and most of the stuff we did was just fine.” Chase turned onto his side to face her and propped his head on one hand. “We’d have little sales up there, trade ball cards—lots of ordinary stuff.

“Hey,” Chase said and touched a finger to her chin.

“Hey what?”

“Why don’t you let me ask you a few questions, okay?”

“Okay,” she said and crossed her arms over her chest. “But, no, I don’t smoke, or look at Playboys, an’ I don’t gamble.”

“Uh-huh, and you don’t watch Mr. Lucky or Have Gun — Will Travel, but what is your favorite TV show?” Chase leaned forward, slightly toward her.

“Bonanza. If you’re thinking about trying to kiss me, think again.”

“What?”

“If you’re thinking about kissing me—don’t even try. I don’t kiss on first dates. It’s my rule.”

“No kiddin’? Jesus,” Chase said and snickered.

“Don’t laugh, and don’t be using the Lord’s name in vain either, Mr. Casino Cheater.”

Chapter Twelve

Caged

Late 1962 to Early March 1963

Evan Whitman’s shoes crushed small, stray scraps of sheetrock as he and Chase walked through the newly constructed studio, inspecting the interior paint job. “I like the light shade of blue Alice picked,” Evan said. “Your work looks good, Chase, very professional.”

“Thanks. It took more time to tape around the doors and windows again than it did to give it the second coat.”

“The flooring guys come next week,” Evan said. “About all that’s left after that is a sidewalk. I’ll want you to haul some heavy boxes from the house for Alice, maybe rake the leaves and clean up whatever mess the construction guys leave behind.”

“Sure,” Chase answered. “Evan, have you ever heard of Principia College?”

“No,” Evan replied, and he rested a forearm along the banister on the stairs to the loft. “Are you thinking about colleges already?”

“No, my history teacher told us kind of a cool story about sidewalks last week. Want to hear it?”

Evan grabbed the handrail and lowered himself to sit on the stairs. “Sure, tell away.”

“Well, this college, Principia, moved out of a Saint Louis neighborhood to some land up on the bluffs above the Mississippi River, and they built a lot of new buildings.

“The guy who designed the buildings made them wait to put in sidewalks and plantings until after the students had been on campus. Then, they put sidewalks where the kids had made paths, and they put new plants where they wouldn’t be in the way.”

“That’s wise. Good story.” Evan smiled and stood. “It sounds like you think we ought to wait until Alice and Liz have tracked back and forth to the studio before we put in sidewalks and plants. Is that right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that makes sense, and Alice will love the story. I’ll tell her, and those two things can wait.”

Alice thoroughly planned the interior of the studio; Evan took care of the exterior details. An arched two-story window faced north to provide indirect light for both levels. The studio’s cottage look matched the architectural style of the Whitmans’ house, and the quarry that supplied stone for the exterior of the house delivered a near match for the studio. The next week, behind the studio, the builder stacked several pallets of flagstone matching the Whitmans’ patio. A flagstone walkway and plantings would come later.

‡

In late January, Evan called Will and Caroline to compliment Chase’s work and ask if would be okay with them if he offered Chase a part-time job at Scotty’s, the supermarket he owned. In February, Chase learned to punch a time card and sort various cola bottles into wooden cases for route drivers to pick up.

If his job had a title, and it didn’t, it could have been Bottle Boy-Trash Burner. The bottle sorting was performed outdoors, year-round, in a lockable fenced cage behind the store. The prior bottle boy quit some weeks before Chase was hired and a dozen or more ice-coated, bottle-filled carts cluttered the store’s unloading area. Chase’s first week required many extra hours of slippery, hand-numbing work.

At the end of the second week, as Evan left the store, he stopped at the cage and asked Chase how he liked the work.

Chase answered, “It’s fine, pretty simple, gives me lots of time to think. It’s kinda like lawn mowing without the noise.”

“Fair enough,” Evan replied, shook his head, and chuckled as he headed up the paved back lot to his car.

Around his schoolmates, Chase was appropriately humble—didn’t talk about the content of his job but, at barely fourteen, he was proudly employed and, at one dollar an hour, relatively speaking, suddenly wealthy.

Winter plodded through February with a frigid sameness. Chase found sorting cola bottles outdoors in a cage behind Scotty’s about as interesting as algebra, English grammar, and Latin in the cage called East Junior.

‡

The first day of March, a Friday, was finally warmer, and Caroline Coulter’s optimistic jonquils emerged. Chase walked home from work and was briefly alone in the Coulters’ house. A telephone call interrupted the quiet and, for Chase, emphatically ended the numbing sameness of winter.

“Chase, it’s Mitch Gray,” the caller said. “How ya doin’?”

“Well, hey, I’m fine. This is a surprise. How’ve you been?” Chase replied.

“Not good. Uh, listen, I want to talk to you about some private stuff—stuff I don’t want anyone to hear. Is there any way we could meet somewhere, soon, maybe this evening?”

“There’s nobody but me at home right now. Can you talk privately on your end?”

“Yeah, I’m by myself, too,” Mitch said. “So, uh, I need some help, and I wanna ask a big favor.”

“You’ve got one comin’. What’s up?”

“Uh, I’m gonna run away from home, Chase, and probably never come back. I need a place to hide out for a few days. Someplace nobody can find me—where no one would think to look. So, uh, remember when you told me about your make-out hideout? I wanna use it for a few days.”

“You want to hide out in our garage attic? Mitch, there’s no heat up there.”

“There’s a bed, right?”

“Well, yeah, but no water, an’ no bathroom either.”

“Bathroom’s not a problem.”

“Well, it will be if you don’t want anyone to know you’re there. I mean, you’d have to leave and go someplace.”

“Listen, Chase, that’s not a problem.”

“Right. So, you’re not peeing these days or what?”

Mitch paused. “Chase, I can bring a jar or two with lids—something to use during the day. I’ll just slip out late at night and get rid of them. Okay?”

“Oh,” Chase answered. “Yeah, I guess that would work.”

“So, what do you think? Can I use it?”

“I don’t know, Mitch. The attic has big windows on both ends; one of ’em faces the house. There’s no way you could turn on the light at night without being noticed. An’ what would you eat?”

“I won’t use the lights, Chase, I promise. How’s that sound?”

“Well, there’s only one light but, man, it’d be dark and cold up there.”

“Listen, I’ve got a good sleeping bag. I’ll bring it.”

“What about food? How long are you thinking you’d stay?”

“I’ll have to work on the food, but I’ll figure that out. What do you say, okay?”

Chase stuck a hand between the coils of the phone cord and wrapped the cord around his wrist. “I don’t know. It just seems—I don’t know.”

“Chase, listen, I’m gonna have to do this quick. I really need your help.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No. Well, not with the police or anything. Problem’s the step-turd, you know. He’s been gone all week on a sales trip, but it’s been bad, really awful. He did something to the handle on my bedroom door so I can’t lock it. He gets back late tonight—and I have to hope he’s too tired to mess with me.”

“Jesus, Mitch. I, uh, I guess it’d be okay. How long would you need to stay?”

“That’s great, guy, I really appreciate it. Uh, I’m thinkin’ I’ll need to hide a few days—maybe a week. First thing is though I want to just disappear—just poof! I don’t want anyone to have a clue where I went.”

“Uh-huh. I get it, but that’s not simple. You’ll really have to stay hidden.”

“Well, a big part of this will depend on you. You can’t tell anyone—I mean no one. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Jean Logan knows I’m thinkin’ about runnin’ away, but I haven’t mentioned anything, not a word, about you. No one is gonna know where I am.”

“I’ll know.”

“True, but now that we don’t even go to the same school, nobody will have a reason to think you’d know or ask you.”

“That’s probably right.”

“The first person anyone might ask is Jean,” Mitch said. “And, Chase, I’ve told her a flat-out lie. She thinks I’ll probably head for my aunt’s little farm outside Carthage.”

“So, if anyone asks Jean,” Chase said, “what she’ll know won’t help anyone looking for you. That’s smart.”

“Hadn’t thought of this, Chase, but if anybody did ask, you could say that, too.”

“Hm, I’d probably just say I have no idea where you’d go,” Chase answered. “What will you tell your mom? Will you leave her a note or something?”

“Oh, hell no. She made her choice when she moved us in with the step-turd. I’m gonna tell her I’m spending Saturday night with a classmate named Jay Ambrose. That’ll be useless—there’s no such person.”

“Well, unless your mom asks for their phone number.”

“Good point. I’ll make one up but, hell, Chase, she won’t ask. They’ll be glad I’m not gonna be home. Mom and Fenner hit the bars on Saturday nights. I just won’t have to listen to them giggling and screwing around when they come in.”

“So, after hiding a few days, then what?” Chase asked.

“Maybe I’ll hop a freight or hitch a ride and get way away. But, Chase, it’s better if you don’t know that kind of stuff.”

“Right. If somebody does ask me, I really won’t have any idea.”

“Uh-huh, Chase. That’s just better. Okay, so, listen, I’ll come over after dark tomorrow night. I’ll try not to let anyone see me even near your place. There are a few other things you need to know.”

“Okay, like what?”

“Well, if I get caught at your place or if anyone finds out that’s where I’ve hidden, I’ll swear you didn’t know I was there. You can count on that.”

“Man, it sounds like you’ve really thought a lot about this.”

“Had to. Listen, I do not want to be found. Don’t tell anyone anything. I’m hopin’ no one will ever know I came to your place but, no matter what, I am not going back home.”

“Okay, Mitch, believe me, I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thanks, bud.”

“Are there things I could put in the attic for you?”

“Well, jars with lids would be good. But, uh, don’t take chances and don’t leave anything out that anyone might see.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, hey, one more thing. We probably shouldn’t try to meet and talk. That’d be too risky, but we’ll need some way to tell each other stuff. At least I’d want to tell you, like ‘I’m here, I’m gone,’ stuff like that. Is there some place we could leave each other notes?”

“Uh, sure, up on the upper stairs. You can’t see them from downstairs in the garage. No one goes up there. I’ll leave you some notepaper and a pencil, maybe hidden under a mat.”

“Yeah, that’d be good, but Chase, listen, don’t take a note with you, just leave ’em there.” Mitch paused. “You understand why?”

“Uh, no, I guess not.”

“We don’t want your mom, doin’ laundry, to find one in your jeans or some goofy shit like that. I’ll get rid of any notes. Well, except maybe a last one that tells you I’ve left. Just tear it up, okay?”

“Sure. That seems pretty smart.”

“Fuckin’ A, right, Chase. So, okay, look for a note from me on the stairs sometime Sunday.”

After dark that same night, in the garage attic under the bed, Chase stowed jars with lids, toilet paper, snacks, water, a small notepad and a pen, and a few books. He also laid an old place mat on an upper stair. One thing Chase couldn’t supply and worried about—good weather—turned in Mitch’s favor.

‡

On Sunday afternoon, March 3, 1963, Chase slipped partway up the garage stairs and read Mitch’s first note.

“CC, I’m here. Thanks 4 stuff. Fold note—so I’ll know you saw. Leave it.”

Chase folded the note and left it under the mat. Damn, I never should have agreed to this, he thought. This is not gonna work.

Chase peered around the wide garage doors, tried to be certain no one saw him exit, and faked a nonchalant stroll toward the house.

Chapter Thirteen

Bed No Breakfast

March 1963

On Wednesday morning at East Junior, Christy Campbell spread the news of Mitch’s disappearance and the juvenile officer’s visit with Jean Logan the prior afternoon at South Junior.

Wednesday afternoon, Chase left Mitch this note: “Words out. Rains met with Jean yesterday. CC”

After school on Thursday, Chase retrieved a note with Mitch’s reply: “Probably lookin’ 4 me in Carthage. M”

The local news section of the Bloomington newspaper on Thursday morning had included this headline: “Search for Youth Nets Nothing.” Chase’s response to Mitch that afternoon said: “Newspaper today says Search for Youth Nets Nothing. You’ve disappeared. C”

Friday morning at breakfast, Chase read a bit of the morning news. A headline on the lower left side of the front page read “Youth Missing: Mother Frantic.”

The article included Mitch’s name and a photo. It mentioned Mitch’s disagreements with his stepfather, and it quoted Mrs. Fenner, who begged anyone knowing Mitch’s whereabouts to contact Frank Rains, the Bloomington juvenile officer.

Mitch was the subject of several student conversations that Friday at East Junior. Two boys who’d seen the article and photo asked Chase questions: “Mitch Gray was at East last year, right?” and “Isn’t he the guy who fought Pittman? Heck of a boxer.”

The questioners seemed to connect Mitch with Chase. Their questions made Chase nervous, and he answered both boys carefully and truthfully: “Uh-huh. Good guy. Haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Late in the day, Stanley Siwicki slipped across the room before algebra class and quietly asked, “Chase, I hear your Indian pal ran away. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

Chase frowned and replied, “Stanley, I don’t think Mitch Gray is from India and, listen, Mitch and I aren’t pals. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

At dinner Friday evening, Will Coulter cut a piece of pork chop and asked Caroline, “Did you see that sad article in the paper yesterday?” Before identifying the article or the sadness, Will put the meat in his mouth and began chewing.

Coulter family members did not talk with food in their mouths. Chase felt like he might jump out of his chair before Will finally continued. “Patsy Cline and some other Grand Ol’ Opry stars were in Kansas City Tuesday night for a benefit show. Patsy, her manager, another singer, and the pilot all died in a plane crash on their way back to Nashville.”

“Mm-hm,” Caroline answered. “There was also a short piece on the crash in the Wednesday paper. That article said she has two little children at home, a boy and a girl. That’s so sad.”

“Very,” Will said. “It reminded me of Buddy Holly’s death in that crash in Iowa. Those small planes must be risky.”

Saturday morning, Chase hurried through breakfast, grabbed his jacket, and was about to leave the kitchen to walk to work.

Caroline was reading the local section of the newspaper at the breakfast table and said to Will, “Sounds like that missing boy may have stolen a car.”

She held up the folded paper so that Will could see the headline: “Missing Car and Boy May Be Linked.” Chase came back to the table to see the headline, too.

Caroline laid the paper beside her plate, turned toward Chase, and summarized for Will and Chase the opening lines of the article. “Apparently, a car stolen in Bloomington last Sunday was found in Lebanon yesterday. What’s that—about a hundred miles north and east?”

“Uh-huh,” Will answered.

“So, the article says our guys have let the Lebanon police know to be on the lookout for the runaway boy from here.

“Chase, don’t run off after work this afternoon,” Caroline said. “Your dad and I are going out to dinner and a show tonight. I’ll leave food for you and Julie. You’re the sitter.”

“Oh, right, Mom. I’d forgotten.”

“Wanna read something really sad and bizarre,” Will said to Caroline. “Look at that story from Beaumont, Texas—on the page before. A mom paid her kid a dollar to kill her.”

Caroline opened the newspaper and read for a moment. “This is awful. It says she put the barrel of a shotgun in her mouth. The world’s gone crazy.”

“I’ve gotta get going,” Chase said. He left the kitchen and the house, pulled on his jacket, and hurried toward the garage before leaving for Scotty’s.

Chase soundlessly climbed the stairs and read Mitch’s latest note. “C Tired of peanut butter sandwiches. Can you get me food? Anything. M”

Chase left this answer: “Parents out tonight for dinner and show. Try to bring you something. C”

That evening, after Caroline and Will left, Julie and Chase had an early dinner, and Julie went to play at Sally Reynolds’s house. Chase took a glass of milk, bread and butter, and two leftover pork chops to the garage and climbed the stairs.

“Mitch. Hey, Mitch, open up,” Chase said. Mitch slid back the bolt on the little door and pulled it open.

Chase reached up, handed Mitch the glass of milk, and crawled into the attic. Mitch started drinking the milk before Chase held out the chops and bread wrapped in a napkin.

“Oh, man, real food. Thanks.” Mitch pulled away the napkin, bit into a pork chop and, still chewing, asked, “You hear anything about me at East?”

“Well, no, nothing other than Christy’s broadcasts after she calls Jean. The kids who knew you are curious though. There’s been lots in the newspaper.

“Today’s paper,” Chase continued, “said someone stole a car in Bloomington last Sunday and dumped it up in Lebanon. They’re on the lookout for you up there.”

“Oh, that’s good news. I been thinkin’ I might head southwest, try to find my dad. He talked about doin’ oil field work down in Oklahoma or maybe Texas. That’s the opposite direction.”

“I thought you weren’t gonna tell me those things.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Haven’t had anybody to talk to.”

“Have you stayed up here pretty much all the time?”

“Mostly. After the lights are out in your house, I’ve hiked over to the freight yards. I think that’s probably the way I can get a long way from Bloomington without being seen.”

“That’s just something else I’ll have to forget, Mitch. When will you go?”

“Soon. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Do you have money?”

“Almost five dollars.”

Chase reached into the front pocket of his jeans. “You’re gonna need more than that. We get paid on Saturdays; I cashed my check at the store.” Chase handed Mitch seventeen dollars: a ten, a five, and two ones.

“Damn, Chase, thanks. I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to pay you back.”

“Glad I can help.”

“Hey, listen, I’m filthy. Do you guys have a shower?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would really like to shower. What do you think?”

“Oh shit, I don’t know, man. You’d have to hurry. I don’t know when Julie might come back.”

“I can hurry, bud. Come on.” Mitch didn’t wait for an answer, grabbed the empty glass, sat and slid through the little doorway, and started down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to let Chase pass.

Chase leaned forward, peeked around the garage entry doors, and then hurried into the backyard. He started back toward the garage, but Mitch was already out, coming toward him.

The boys hurried across the backyard, through the back door and pantry into the kitchen. Mitch set the glass by the sink and followed Chase through the living room and up the stairs. Chase handed him a towel from the kids’ bathroom and pointed to his parents’ bathroom.

“There should be soap and shampoo in the shower,” Chase said. “God’s sake, Mitch, make it fast.”

Mitch went in the bathroom, kicked his shoes off, and was unbuttoning his shirt. “Why don’t you keep a lookout?”

“Okay,” Chase answered. “I’ll be at the bottom of the stairs.”

The shower seemed to take forever. Downstairs, Chase paced from the stairs to the front door and back to the stairs. On the second trip, he opened the heavy front door and stood, looking out through the storm door, watching traffic pass from both directions on the street. His pulse quickened each time headlights appeared from the west, the direction Will and Caroline would likely return.

The back door banged shut. “Chase?” Julie yelled from the kitchen.

“Yeah? In here,” he answered and hurried into the hallway between the living room and kitchen.

“Could I spend the night at Sally’s? I’ve been invited.”

“Oh, sure, that’d be fine.” Chase stood in the middle of the hallway from the kitchen to the living room and blocked Julie as she approached.

“I’ll need”—Julie leaned into him—“excuse me, to get some PJs and clothes for in the morning.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Chase said, but he didn’t move. “But, uh, let me go upstairs first. A friend of mine is taking a shower.”

“Right now? There’s someone in Mom and Dad’s shower?”

“Uh-huh, a classmate. Plumbing’s messed up at his house.”

“So? So what? I just want to go to my room—not the bathroom.”

“I oughta let him know you’re coming up is all. Wait a sec.”

Chase bounded up the stairs. The water was no longer running. Chase spoke loudly to his parents’ closed bathroom door. “Hey, Frankie, my sister’s home. She’s coming upstairs to get some stuff. Don’t come out naked or anything.”

In a softer voice, Chase hissed, “But hurry up, man!”

“I’m dryin’ off. I’ll get dressed as quick as I can.”

“Okay, but stay in there until I let you know the coast is clear.”

When Chase came downstairs, Sally Reynolds and Julie were both standing in the living room.

“It’s okay to go up, Jules. He’s about finished. But, uh, make it fast. He needs to get home.”

Julie ran up the stairs; Sally stayed behind with Chase. He went again to the storm door and spoke as he looked out. “How you been, Sal?”

“I’m good,” Sally said, and she joined him at the storm door.

Chase turned to look at the stairs. “You likin’ Ridgeway?”

Sally answered, “It’s fine. What’s going on out front?”

“Oh, nothing, just looking.”

“Me and Julie will be at East next year, you know.”

“You glad about that?”

“Uh-huh, we’ll walk together.”

Julie came down the stairs with PJs, a hairbrush, and clothes.

“That was quick,” Chase said. “What time should I tell Mom and Dad you’ll be home in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” Julie answered. “Sally, will we go to church?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, sorry, Chase, I gotta get nicer clothes, and shoes and socks.” Julie turned and started back up the stairs.

“Okay, but hurry, will you?” Chase urged.

Julie stopped halfway up and called down. “Sally, you want a Popsicle before we go?”

“Mm-hm, that’d be good,” Sally answered.

“I think we have some. We’ll look,” Julie answered, then went up the last few stairs and across the hallway to her room.

Chase brushed past Sally and hurried into the kitchen. He yanked open the refrigerator door and pulled down the door to the freezer compartment. “Ah, you’re in luck, Sal. There are two!”

Chase came back to the living room and handed the two Popsicle packages to Sally.

“Oh, grape and strawberry,” Sally said. She went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Julie, we have two. You want grape or strawberry?”

“Either is okay,” Julie answered from the upstairs hallway and returned to her room, but she promptly came back into the hall and shouted, “Do you like one better? Take the one you like best.”

“Either’s okay with me, too,” Sally shouted.

“Gimme the damn Popsicles,” Chase said. “I’ll break ’em apart and you can each have both flavors.”

Chase went to the coffee table, knelt, and placed a package against the table edge and split apart the two pops inside. He split the second package and handed both to Sally. “There you go.”

From upstairs, Julie called down to Sally, “You want me to get records?”

“That’d be good,” Sally answered. “Don’t forget—Popsicles melting.”

“Okay. I’m choosing ‘Alley Cat’ and ‘Goodbye Cruel World.’ What others do we want?”

Sally went to the bottom of the stairs. “Get Four Seasons.”

“Oh, good choice. Which ones? ‘Sherry’?” Julie asked.

Sally answered, “An’ ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry.’”

Finally, Julie came slowly down the stairs cradling a pile of clothes and shoes and shuffling a small stack of records.

“Julie, did you leave your brush?” Sally asked.

“Oh, shoot,” Julie answered, set the pile of things on the coffee table, and raced back up the stairs.

‡

Chase watched from a side window in the living room as the girls finally ambled onto the patio. Julie laid her clothes, PJs, brush, and records on the picnic table. The girls sat on the benches and picked at the wrappers on the Popsicles.

Chase shot up the stairs, three at a time, and called to Mitch. “They’re outside, but not gone. Let’s get downstairs.”

Mitch came out of the bathroom fully dressed. “What about this?” he asked and held a damp towel toward Chase. “I used it, and wiped things up pretty good.”

“Oh, right, good.” Chase took the towel and hurriedly hung it in the kids’ bathroom. “Follow me, but stay away from the windows.”

Chase stopped at a window along the stairs to watch the girls. Julie put a crumpled Popsicle wrapper on the picnic table, licked her sticky fingers, and gathered her things. The girls strolled off the patio in the general direction of the Reynoldses’ house.

Mitch followed Chase down the remaining stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. Chase held a hand out to stop Mitch there and went through the back doorway, a couple of steps into the backyard. Car lights bounced up the entry to the Coulters’ driveway.

“Oh shit, Mitch, my parents are comin’ up the driveway. Hurry.” Chase held the back door open for Mitch. “Just duck down in the alley.”

Mitch hurried out, through the back gate into the alley, and squatted behind the rock wall.

“They’ll park out front,” Chase said. “When the car stops, just head down the alley and come around the stable to the garage.”

‡

Chase recovered Mitch’s final note from the upper stair on Sunday afternoon; it said, “Woman met girls—saw me. I ditched. Came back late. I’m gone. Thanks. M”

Chase slid open the little door to the garage attic and crawled in. He figured the sooner he could remove any trace of Mitch’s stay the better, but two books on the stair cover, a pen, and an almost empty notepad were all that remained; even the bed was made.

After one last look around, Chase let out a long exhale and sat on the bed. He leaned forward, slipped the pad and pen underneath the bed, and stayed a moment, remembering some of the many times he’d been here with his long-ago pal, Jim Stuart. Jimbo, he thought, looks like, just maybe, the house won again.

Chase tore Mitch’s departure note into small pieces and, on his way back to the house, dropped those in the trash can in the alley.

Chapter Fourteen

A Brief Shower

Mid-March 1963

Shortly after lunch on a Monday, a full week after Mitch left town, a student runner came to Chase’s history class with a note and hall pass. The note instructed the teacher to send Chase to the main office. When Chase arrived, the school counselor, Mr. Markray, met Chase and said, “The police department’s juvenile officer, Mr. Rains, is here to see you. He’s in my office waiting. Go on in and just stay there when you’re finished. I’ll come back and write you a pass to return to class.”

“Okay,” Chase answered and opened the counseling office door.

Frank Rains was sitting on the front edge of Mr. Markray’s desk. “Come in. Come in. Have a seat,” Rains said, went behind the desk, and sat in Markray’s chair. Chase lingered in the doorway.

“Chase Coulter, is it?” Rains asked. “Come on in and sit down, son. I won’t bite.”

Chase sat across the desk from Rains in the only other chair.

“You know who I am?” Rains asked.

“Yes.”

“Have any idea why I’d like to talk to you, son?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I brought three folders from my files at the station.” Rains held them up and read from the tabs: “Siwicki, S., Pittman, C., and Gray, M.” He spread the folders in front of him on the desk.

“I suspect you know when and why I woulda made these folders. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and this boy, Mitch Gray”—Rains patted the Gray, M. folder—“are good friends, right?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“That right? What kind of friend is Gray to you—exactly?”

“He’s just a guy I know. Good guy. We had gym class together last year. I got to know him a little then. He moved last summer.”

“Oh, uh-huh. Well, these folders remind me that Gray and a guy named Curtis Pittman had a nasty fight last year. I’ll bet you remember that. Pittman was all bloodied-up, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“My notes say that Pittman picked a fight with this boy, Gray.” Rains first patted the Pittman file and then the Gray file. “This Gray fella was smaller than Pittman, but Pittman got himself way more than he bargained for—didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, see, I have notes that tell me why Pittman wanted to fight Gray, but those notes are kinda old. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d remind me of the details. Could you do that for me?”

“Probably, but this was more than a year ago.”

“Uh-huh. Well, just start in. I’ll make some notes.” Rains took a pen from his breast pocket, pulled the Gray file toward him, opened it, and looked up at Chase.

“Well, we were in the drugstore, King Drug,” Chase said, “on our way home from school, and Gray said some things to Pittman that made him mad. When we came out of the drugstore and started walkin’ home, that’s when Pittman tried to jump Gray and start the fight.”

“Uh-huh, that’s pretty consistent with my notes. You and Gray was walkin’ together. By the way, you know these guys’ first names, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“So, you and Mitch walked together that day—from school to the drugstore, right?”

“Yes.”

“And then, the two of you, you and Mitch, was together when Curtis came after Mitch, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, something in my notes says Mitch didn’t usually go this way home. What’s that about?”

“Mitch was walking with me because, before they had words in the drugstore, Curtis was plannin’ to beat me up.”

“Okay. So let me get this straight—you and Mitch Gray aren’t exactly good friends, but he’s going out of his way to walk with you because Curtis is planning to beat you up. That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Uh-huh, Coulter, excuse me, but that don’t seem quite right. Sounds like Mitch is or was a pretty good friend.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him in, like, maybe a year. He moved and goes to a different school.”

“Oh, uh-huh, but you were real good friends last year, right?”

“Well, not close. I mean, we didn’t hang out together or anything like that. We had gym class together, tried out for the basketball team at the same time. That kinda stuff.”

“I see. Well, I’m-uh come back to that, but let me ask you—you know Jean Logan, right?”

“Not very well, but I’ve met her.”

“An’ you know she’s Mitch Gray’s girlfriend, right?”

“Well, I guess she might still be. I don’t go to school with them.”

“So, how is it that you know her?”

“She and Mitch went on a hayride that I went on.”

“Oh, uh-huh. When was that?”

“Last September or maybe October. Last fall anyway.”

“Uh-huh. So that would be, what? Maybe six or seven months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I thought you said you hadn’t seen Mitch since maybe a year ago. That’s what you said, right?”

“Yes. I just forgot about seeing him at the hayride.”

“Uh-huh. Well, Coulter, I think you’re kinda jerkin’ me around here.

“First, you left out some pretty important details in the story about that fight. Then, I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that I’ve been talkin’ to Jean Logan, and Jean thinks you and Mitch are pretty good friends.

“Jean told me that you and Mitch had a good talk at that hayride her church friend, the Campbell girl, and her family put on. Uh-huh, she said Mitch thinks you’re really cool. What do you say to that?”

“Truthfully, Mr. Rains, I barely know Jean Logan.”

“Uh-huh, I like that you said that word—truthfully. I want you to be fully truthful. Tell me what you know about Jean Logan.”

“She was Mitch’s girlfriend last fall. He introduced us at the hayride. She’s pretty and she seemed nice. That’s about all I know, really.”

“You think she might be pregnant?”

“Uh, jeez, I have no idea.”

“Uh-huh. I kinda wonder if that could have something to do with Mitch disappearing, but I’m-uh get to the point. You surely know why I’m here and why I came to talk to you. Don’t you?”

“Well, because Mitch ran away from home, right? It’s been in the newspaper. If he’s why you wanted to talk to me, I can tell you a few things about him.”

“Let’s hear ’em.”

“Well, Mitch was thinking about running away from home as far back as the time of the hayride. He and his stepfather do not get along. He hates the guy. Name is Fenner. The guy gave him a black eye, sucker punched him, last year. Mitch came to basketball tryouts last year with a shiner.” Chase paused but did not continue.

“Is that it? That’s all you’ve got for me?”

“I think that’s, uh, well, no, that’s not all. Mitch also said Fenner is a pervert, an’ he said something like, ‘Bet you didn’t even know a boy could get raped.’

“Can that happen?” Chase asked.

“It can, but this guy Fenner obviously likes women. Have you seen or talked to Mitch since he left town?”

“Uh.” Chase paused and glanced over Rains’s shoulder at framed certificates on Mr. Markray’s wall. “No, sir.”

“Coulter, I’ve got a funny feelin’ you’re not tellin’ me everything. Do you know where he’d run to?”

“Well, when we talked at the hayride. He said somethin’ about a family member who lives on a farm—someplace.”

“Does Carthage ring a bell?”

“That sounds right, yeah.”

Rains paused and sighed. “You know, kid, Mitch’s mom is just worried sick about him. Nobody knows where he’s gone, and it would sure be nice if we could reassure her. Can you tell me anything about where he is or how he’s doin’?”

“No, sir, I can’t.”

Rains slid the file folders into a pile and leaned back in the chair. “Kid, I was told at the time of that fight that Pittman intended to kick your ass, an’ he got pissed off at Mitch Gray because Mitch stood up for you. Mitch Gray fought in your place. Isn’t that the way it really was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Son, that sounds like a damn good friend to me.

“I am trying hard to help this boy and his mom, an’ your answers seem kinda cagey, like you’re keeping something back. You better hope I don’t find out you’ve jacked me around. Isn’t there something more, anything at all, that you can tell me?”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. There’s just nothing more to tell.”

“I’m sorry, too, son, but I’ve got a not too funny feeling we’ll be getting together again.” With that, Rains slid the folders into a stack, picked it up, walked around the chair where Chase sat, and left the little office.

Chapter Fifteen

Spring Break

April 1963

A month passed. Chase heard nothing from Mitch Gray or Frank Rains. He was not, however, enjoying his too frequent dreams about Frank Rains showing up unexpectedly at school or crawling through the little door at the top of the stairs into the garage attic. Chase was having one of those dreams when Caroline woke him on the Saturday morning before Easter.

“Your dad’s ready to leave and waiting in the car, Chase. Liz got home from Illinois sometime yesterday; she’s downstairs. She has a telephone number where we can be reached, except for tonight when we’ll be at the ball game.”

“Okay, Mom,” Chase answered, rolled onto his side in the bed, and looked out the window. “Is it raining?”

“Sprinkling, but it’s supposed to be clear for the ball game in KC.”

“I hope so. The A’s clobbered the Twins last night.”

“Uh-huh. The final was something like six to nothing. The newspaper’s on the kitchen table. When do you work today?”

“I’ll go in around ten or eleven. Probably only work a couple of hours.”

“That’s good; you’re on the chore chart to fix breakfast this morning.”

“Oh, swell. Is Julie awake?”

“Not yet. She rolled over and went back to sleep after I told her goodbye. We’ll be back around four or five tomorrow. Happy Easter-egg.”

Chase rolled out of bed, went downstairs in a sweatshirt and track shorts, and found Liz Whitman having coffee at the kitchen table. Her overnight bag occupied the seat of one other chair; a raincoat and satchel hung from that chair’s back.

“Morning, Liz. Welcome home.” Chase spoke as he bent to read the chore list on the refrigerator door. He turned sideways, slouched, and flipped a mock salute to the posting. “It looks like Sergeant Coulter assigned me to be your short-order cook this morning, Liz. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, I haven’t been up long. Do I have choices?”

“You do indeedy. Mmm-hmm. Let’s see.”

Chase opened the refrigerator and studied its contents. “Bacon, and eggs that can be fried, scrambled, or boiled, and I make omelets. You can have toast, juice, and probably hash browns.” He pulled down the freezer door. “Yup—we’ve got hash browns, too.” He opened a nearby cabinet. “There’s pancake mix. I can do pancakes or waffles, but I’d rather not mess with the waffle iron.”

“Is that all?” Liz said.

“Well, there’s always cereal and oatmeal. But—I forgot to mention—my prices are kinda high.”

“I’m being paid to sit. I thought breakfast came with the job.”

“Nope. Nope, sorry, you’ve been deceived. But a round or two of French-kissing lessons will cover anything on the menu.”

“I see—new duties, but the same ol’ Chase.”

“Uh-huh. Seriously, what’ll you have?”

“Fix whatever you’d like, and I’ll have that, too.”

Chase began assembling items on the counter by the stove. Liz arranged three place mats on the table.

“So, wow,” Liz asked, “what’s with the chore list?”

“Mom’s working full-time now, and boy is she organized. She put Julie and me through a few weeks of chore school, taught us how to do all the household stuff—co-rect-lee.”

Liz studied the list. “I see. Well, tonight’s dinner plan lists my name. Sounds easy enough: boil noodles, warm French bread, and spaghetti sauce. Looks like you’ve also got laundry duty this morning, Chase. Good heavens, bud, you’re going make some girl a very good wife.

“Guess you also saw,” Liz continued, “the list says we’re going with my parents to early church and Sunday school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Chase answered, “good god, I’d rather eat bugs.”

Like a seasoned couple, Chase and Liz moved smoothly around each other: setting the table, pulling food from the fridge and a pan from a drawer below the oven, pouring juice, and chatting as they did.

“So, you’ve been on spring break all week, right?” Chase asked. “Where’ve you been?

“In Chicago with school friends.”

“You still really likin’ school?”

“Love it.” Liz waited for Chase to move and took flatware from a drawer he’d been blocking. “The first-year art program requires us to try all kinds of media and styles.”

A bit later, after Julie joined them, Chase served bacon, fried eggs, and toast, and the three of them sat at the table.

“When I got home yesterday afternoon, Ginny and Renee were playing tennis,” Liz said. “Ginny wants to get together to play today. Would you like that, Chase, after you get back from work?”

Before Chase could answer, Liz asked, “Oh, didn’t you use to kind of have a thing for Renee?”

“Uh-huh, an’ I still think she’s really pretty.”

“Well, she played tennis yesterday in last year’s two-piece bathing suit, and it’s too bad you missed that action.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. Last year’s cups runneth over.”

“I am very sorry I missed that, and looks to me like the tennis court’s gonna be way too wet today,” Chase said.

“Julie, what do you think?” Liz asked. “How ’bout I invite the Reynolds girls to come over here after Chase comes back from work?”

“I’d like that better,” Julie said. “Sally and I learned Monopoly. We could all play that.”

After Julie studied the chore list, she said, “Wow, Chase, I guess there’s no chore holiday.”

‡

After kitchen cleanup, Liz and Julie went upstairs to make beds. Chase sorted laundry in the kids’ bathroom across the hall and, inspired by the wildly popular First Family comedy album, was loudly offering his imitation of President Kennedy’s Boston accent.

“It, tuh, just doesn’t sheem, uh, right—separating coloreds and whites like dish-uh. We need the uh-tur-knee general. Get my brother, Bob-uh, on the phone...”

“Hey, Jack,” Julie yelled, “Liz wants to know if she should make your bed?”

“Yes-uh, now-uh, good question. Ahhsk not, what the sitter can do for you. Ahhsk, what the shitter can do for me. She’s, uh, welcome to make the bed or climb in and make me. But now—don’t, uh, don’t tell Jockie.”

“Oh, just shut up, Chase,” Julie called back. “We’re already making it.”

‡

By two that afternoon, Chase had returned from work, and the three Reynolds girls arrived and rang the Coulters’ doorbell. Liz opened the interior door and held the storm door open for them with an outstretched arm. Sally hurried under the arm into the entryway and slipped on the damp tiles. The lid of the well-worn Monopoly game box she carried slid halfway back: game cards spilled forward, playing pieces bounced on the tiles, and Monopoly money fluttered in every direction.

Renee and Ginny also ducked under Liz’s outstretched arm and went to their hands and knees in the entryway. Renee tossed a stenographer’s pad onto a nearby end table and began accumulating the loot. Ginny crawled this way and that, gathering Property and Community Chest cards.

Chase joined the girls on the floor and swept an arm under the couch and retrieved the Scottie Dog and Top Hat playing pieces.

“Good work, Coulter,” Renee said when Chase held up the Scottie.

“Glad to grovel for you anytime,” Chase answered.

“Yer not doin’ me any favors, Chase. I can’t stand Monotony. I brought my own activity.” Renee pointed at the steno pad.

Chase stood and picked up the pad. “A slam book. Interesting. Mind if I have a look?”

“Chase, no, that’s not okay,” Ginny answered. “It’s supposed to be confidential.”

“Oh, big deal, Gin,” Renee said. “It’s fine, Chase, be my guest.”

Liz slid a card table out of the living room coat closet. “Come on, girls,” she said to Sally and Julie, “let’s get set up in the family room.”

Chase sat on the couch with the slam book, turning pages and studying the categories: Best Dressed, Worst Dressed, Smartest, Most Boring, Most Popular, Most Stuck Up, Funniest, Biggest Spaz, Most Athletic, Best Figure, Nicest, Most Vulgar...

“Wow,” Chase said, stood, and hurried to a far corner of the living room to a small desk Caroline kept there for writing notes and paying bills.

Chase found a pencil and, from a stack at the desk, took two blank stenographer’s notebooks. He plopped back down on the couch, put his feet on the coffee table, and opened the slam book again.

Renee sat down, leaned against Chase, and looked down at the open book. “I’m pretty sure there’s no page in there for Nosiest Boy, Chase. What are you gonna do with the steno pads—take notes or something?”

“No, I’m thinking I could send around a slam book of my own.”

Ginny had started toward the family room but stopped. “I don’t think boys do that,” she said.

“Why not, I wonder?” Chase said. “I’d like to know some things.”

“Well, boys just don’t, and you already know that stuff,” Ginny said, “like who’s most athletic and popular.”

Liz paused in the doorway to the family room. She had intended to encourage Ginny to come along but also stopped to listen.

“Hmm, yeah,” Chase said, “but this collects what a bunch of kids think about others—sorta private like.”

“No, Chase,” Ginny said, “that’s the problem with slam books. They aren’t private and some of the answers really hurt people’s feelings.”

“Yeah, well, I thought slam books were a whole different deal,” Chase said. “I thought they asked questions about the person who passed around the book. That’s what would interest me. I mean, wouldn’t you like to ask what your friends and some other smart people think about you—how they see you?”

“Nope,” Renee said, “you can take me or leave me.”

“I’m not sure I’d like that,” Ginny said, “and I can’t imagine you’d get honest answers.”

“I don’t know why not.” Chase took his feet from the coffee table and slumped forward. “Well, okay, so maybe that’s not a good idea. People would just think I was weird.”

Chase set Renee’s slam book aside. “Well,” he said, “how ’bout making a book that’s funny? I could set up a First Methodist Church slam book. Maybe call it ‘The Holy Slammer.’”

“A church slam book sounds boring,” Renee said. “What would be funny about that?”

“Sounds like it’s time for us to go play Monopoly,” Liz said to Ginny, but both hesitated.

Chase turned to Renee. “Mm, for our church, the first category would be: Person most likely to fall asleep during Reverend Yeager’s sermon.”

Chase took one of the blank notebooks and wrote that heading on a page. “I’m sure I can come up with others.”

“Now, that sounds like trouble, with a capital T,” Ginny said.

“Well, I love it,” Renee answered. “Why don’t you go play somewhere else, Gin?”

“I am. I’m going.” Ginny went into the family room. Liz lingered, halfway in, halfway out of the French doors.

“Chase,” Renee said, “there’s an old guy in our church who falls asleep every week, and he snores, loud. I don’t think his wife even knows.” Renee started laughing. “She sits up there so nice and straight, and her ol’ hearing aids are just whistling away.”

“If my dad snored in church,” Liz said, “Mom would elbow him right out of the pew. Hey, are either of you two gonna play?”

Chase didn’t immediately respond or move, but Renee answered, “Count me out. I’m slam-bookin’. Maybe I’ll work with Chase on his Holy Slammer. That okay?” she asked Chase.

“Sure. Go on without me, Liz, I might start on something I have in mind for this other notebook,” Chase said.

Liz went out of the living room and closed the family room doors behind her. Chase took the two steno notebooks, Renee took her slam book, and they parked at the kitchen table.

“You were really studying the slam book, Chase. What did you think was so interesting?” Renee asked.

“Oh, I just misunderstood the whole idea. The way Ginny reacted, I thought there would be way more revealing stuff in it.”

“Like what? What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not like it asks Who’s the biggest queer? Or Who’s most likely to lose her virginity. There’s nothing like that.”

“Oh my god, Chase, you thought those would be questions?”

“It’s called a slam book. I didn’t know. I did see that two girls wrote your name on the page for Best Figure.”

“Uh, don’t expect me to be unhappy about that.”

Chase smiled, leaned back in his chair, and appraised Renee’s profile. “Hmm. Sorry I missed seeing you in your two-piece tennis outfit yesterday.”

“You heard about that, did you? Well, that’ll give you something to look forward to this summer.”

“Damn, Renee, you’re pretty saucy these days.”

“I’m tryin’. An’ I’m pretty sure Mom thinks I’m trouble with a capital T.” Renee grasped his forearm and nodded toward the second steno pad. “So, what’s your idea for that one?”

Before he spoke, Chase stared at Renee’s forearm grasp. “I just want to write down some questions about church and religion.”

“Like what?”

“Well, talk about trouble. These questions are a sure way to get some.”

“Really? That sounds good. Let’s hear one.”

“Okay, here’s a simple one: Was Mary really a pregnant virgin or, uh, just a knocked-up, scared girl telling a crazy story?”

“Uh, yeah,” a wide-eyed, grinning Renee said, “that would get you a lot of trouble. Good god, Chase, if that was simple, what would be a complicated question?”

“Have you ever read Genesis?”

“Not all, just some of the creation stuff at the beginning.”

“Uh-huh, I haven’t read it all either. But at the beginning, God decides to make man an’ He says something like ‘Let us make him in our image.’ I wanna know who the heck God is talking to. He hasn’t made Adam or Eve yet.”

“Who is he talking to?” Renee asked.

“I don’t know, that’s my first Genesis question.

“Then,” Chase continued, “when he’s makin’ Adam and Eve, the Bible says something like ‘In the image of God, He created him, and male and female he created them.’ That really confuses me.

“So, I guess,” Chase continued, “boys look like God or maybe we both do. Or maybe you girls look like some of God’s pals.”

“Aha, Chase, maybe there were heavenly hostesses!”

Chase laughed. “That’s good, Renee, really funny. I always thought Adam and Eve were the first people, but it sounds like God and his pals were kind of the models for people.”

‡

The light rain and gray afternoon suffused the Coulters’ home. Liz and Ginny took a break from Monopoly, came to the kitchen to make root beer floats for everyone, and returned to the game.

Renee and Chase did not play Monotony in the kitchen. When they weren’t flirting like mad, Renee wrote in her slam book. Chase changed the name of his Holy Slammer notebook to the First Methodist Hall of Fame and invented categories.

Later, the doorbell announced a damp-haired Viola Reynolds, standing under a small umbrella on the Coulters’ front porch.

“Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, hello,” Liz said. “Come in, come in an’ join the party.”

Viola did come in and strolled across the living room, collapsing her umbrella and bending and peering from the living room toward the interior doorways. “I just came to check on my girls,” she said.

“Ginny and Sally are in here with Julie and me,” Liz said, gesturing toward the open French door leading to the family room. The three girls there, visible to Viola, waved.

“Renee and Chase have a project going in the kitchen.” Liz pointed toward the arched doorway and hall.

Viola didn’t pause. She hustled past Liz and through the short hallway to the kitchen.

“Well, hello,” Chase said, and he awkwardly pushed his chair back to stand.

“What little activity am I interrupting here?” Viola asked.

Renee closed the slam book and answered, “We’re decoding secret messages from the Soviet Union.”

“I’ll bet,” Viola answered. To their surprise, she didn’t ask what they were doing with the notebooks. Instead, she focused on a newspaper, behind them on a counter, and immediately picked it up. “Oh, uh, I hadn’t thought...” she started to say.

Viola separated the local news section from the rest of the paper, folded it in half, and asked, “Chase, have you seen today’s paper?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, there’s a picture here.” She held the flat folded section for him to see. “A photo of that boy who’s missing.”

“Oh, uh-huh. Mitch Gray.”

“You know him?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

“Uh-huh. He used to go to school at East, before he moved.”

Ginny and Liz came to the kitchen and stood in the doorway.

“Ginny tells me she knew him real well,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

“You showing him the picture of Mitch?” Ginny asked her mom. “We were good friends in grade school,” she told Chase. “We were in the same class, three straight years.”

“He was in my class at East last year,” Chase said. “He was in classes with you? He’s your age?” Chase asked Ginny.

“Uh-huh, in sixth grade his mom and dad had a big blowup and divorced. He missed a whole lot of school and got held back.”

“Jabber, jabber, jabber,” Viola said. “Chase, I saw this boy, the one in this photo, walking down the alley behind your house. This was, mmm, I’m not sure how long ago. I was coming to meet Sally and Julie.”

“Huh,” Chase answered. “That picture has been in the paper before.”

“Well, I’ve never seen it.” There was an edge to Mrs. Reynolds’s voice. “I said to the girls—do you know that boy? But, before they could turn, he hurried up the street, away from us.”

“Huh,” Chase said.

“This was weeks ago, but the article says to call the juvenile officer if you’ve seen him. Have you seen him, Chase? Did you?”

“No, but this was weeks ago, you say?”

“Yes, but I doubt he’d be there,” Viola said, “the juvenile person, on Easter weekend, probably not. What do you think, Chase? Should I call?”

“I don’t know. I kinda think you might be mistaken; you might have seen another friend of mine.”

“I saw this boy,” Viola said, and she held the paper aggressively toward Chase’s face. “He’s an Indian kid. Ginny knows him. I saw this boy, Chase.”

Chase tilted his head slightly and turned the palms of both his hands up facing her. “Okay, okay, if you say so. What makes you think he’s an Indian?”

“Look at him, Chase.” Viola sounded irritated. “It’s obvious.”

“Well, sorry, I’ve never noticed,” Chase answered. “You should call if you want, but if this was weeks ago, it might not be much help.”

Viola didn’t acknowledge Chase’s final remark. “Girls,” she said to Ginny and Renee, “your dad is going to move his grill out under the carport and fix burgers and hot dogs. Shall we invite the Coulters and Elizabeth?”

“That’s kind, thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” Liz answered, “but we’ll need to eat here. Mrs. Coulter left dinner for us, all carefully planned.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Viola said. “Ginny, tell Sally it’s nearly time for dinner. Renee, you’ll need to finish whatever it is you’re doing here and head home soon.”

‡

After the Reynolds girls left and Julie had gone upstairs, Liz said to Chase, “I hope you didn’t mind that I turned down the invitation for dinner. Mrs. Reynolds is not someone I like very much.”

“I’m glad we aren’t going,” Chase said.

“She kinda jumped on you. What was that all about?”

“I’m not sure, Liz.”

“Come on, Chase, she thinks you know something about that guy. I’m your advisor—you can tell me.”

“Someday, Liz, if I can, I’ll tell you. I really don’t want to talk about it, okay? Why don’t you like her?”

“Oh, she’s two-faced. Like today, kind of nasty and suspicious, then all sweet—inviting us over. Behind our backs, she says stuff about Mom and me.”

“Is she one of the people who doesn’t like the sculpture?”

“I guess. She seems to think we’re both weirdos or nymphomaniacs or something.”

“Well, why would she be saying things about you?”

“Uh, hello, Mr. Potato Head. I think Sally was pretty shocked by our French-kissing practice session.”

“Ah, so you think this was a case of have word, will travel.”

“Indeed, my young friend, indeed.”

‡

The satchel Liz brought to the Coulters’ included a paperback book of poetry and a poem she’d written, items she intended to share with Chase. She told Chase she’d help Julie get to bed and hoped they’d have a time to talk before sleep.

Liz called her mother to arrange an Easter morning wake-up call and helped Julie set out church clothes and get ready for bed.

Liz was assigned Will and Caroline’s bedroom. She showered in their bathroom, put on her nightgown, and slipped into bed.

Chase bathed in the kids’ bathroom, dressed in his track shorts and a sleep shirt, and, when all was quiet, knocked softly on his parents’ door.

“Hmm? Come in,” Liz said.

She was, when Chase opened the door, under only a sheet, eyes closed.

Chase sat on a bench seat at the foot of the bed. “Were you sleeping?”

“Mmm, just drifting.” Liz reached above her, grasped the top of the headboard with both hands, straightened and tightened her body and legs, pointed her toes, and stretchspoke, “Your parents’ bed is sooo comfortable.”

Liz opened her eyes, discovered Chase staring, and realized too late she’d provided a neatly draped shape-show. “Oops,” she said and rolled onto her side.

“There’s a comforter,” she said, “folded on top of the cedar chest; let’s put it on the bed.”

Once that was done, Liz slipped partway under the sheet and comforter and sat with her back against the headboard. She put the satchel in front of her and removed a thin paperback book.

Chase sat again on the bench seat.

“To look at this together, you’ll need to come up here.” Liz tilted her head and gave a sideways nod. “Come on, it’s okay.”

Chase crawled up from the foot of the bed. “Getting in bed with you,” he said as he turned to also put his back against the headboard, “seems a little forward.”

“Uh-huh, well, you’re on the bed, not in it, bub. Just pretend I’m your older sister; I’ll act like you’re my little brother.”

“Well, shoot, I was hoping you might offer lesson two in the Liz Whitman ‘Be a Better Lover’ program.”

“Uh, no, and certainly not on your parents’ bed.”

“Well, Liz, aren’t you learning some valuable lessons outside of your college classes?”

“Uh, yes, but that’s between me and someone else, okay?” She put the slim book in front of them. “So, this guy’s poetry is really popular with my friends at Wesleyan.”

The slick cover of the thin paperback displayed a black-and-white photograph of a carnival and Ferris wheel at night. The book’s title was A Coney Island of the Mind.

Liz opened the book to a page she’d marked. “I think this poem may remind you a little of your mom’s Christmas reading, the one she does with the carols playing.”

“Oh, from Peter Marshall’s ‘Let’s Keep Christmas’ sermon?”

“Uh-huh. This one is titled ‘Christ Climbed Down.’” Liz read the entire poem for him aloud, slowly.

“Isn’t that fantastic, Chase?” Liz asked.

“I loved it. That’s great stuff.” Chase turned the front of the book toward him to see the author’s name. “Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Would this be in a bookstore here?”

“I don’t know, but you won’t need to look. This is a gift for you.” Liz handed him the book.

“Oh, thank you. What a nice surprise. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I knew you’d like it.”

Liz yawned and stretched. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?”

“I thought you might have found playing Monopoly with the little girls and Ginny kind of boring,” Chase said.

“It was really nice to spend time with Julie. What a good kid—such a kind heart. When Sally was out of cash and landed on Julie’s properties, Julie would say, ‘Oh, that’s okay, you don’t have to pay this time.’

“Chase, I’m sorry, I didn’t get much sleep in Chicago. I’m exhausted. Maybe we can talk a little more tomorrow?”

“Oh, okay, but you brought a poem of yours, too, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was hoping we might read it.”

“Well, I don’t want to follow Ferlinghetti; know what I mean?”

“Oh, sure. So, how ’bout a goodnight repeat of the French kiss lesson?”

“No, bud. Is that always on your mind?”

Before Chase had time to answer, Liz said, “Hey, I’ve gotta tell you—it sounded to me like Renee Reynolds might like a chance to fulfill some of your kissing requests.”

“She’s got a boyfriend, Liz.”

“Well, she might have, but the girl obviously has a mind of her own. You show an interest, and she might just forget him.”

“You think so?”

“Uh-huh, I do. Now, seriously, Chase, your mom told me where to find the goodies Julie and I are supposed to put in your Easter baskets, and Julie expects me to wake her up early so we can be the Easter bunnies. It’s time to say good night.” Liz pushed on his shoulder to encourage him to leave the bed, and he did.

Chapter Sixteen

Slammin’ Some Methodists

April 1963

The telephone in a niche in the Coulters’ upstairs hallway rang several times before Chase heard a bedroom door open and Liz’s soft “hello” and drowsy responses. He listened as Liz woke Julie, and they pushed aside clothing hanging in his parents’ closet to retrieve hidden Easter baskets and a grocery bag of supplies. The girls hurried downstairs, sifting Julie’s excited words and the rattle of a kraft sack into the stairwell.

Chase turned his head toward the window. Outside, dark trees stood motionless against a sapphire sky. He felt a slightly quickened, holiday pulse stir in him, and he smiled.

He followed the girls downstairs and set out a few simple do-it-yourself breakfast options on the kitchen table.

Liz and Julie filled two large split-cane baskets and a smaller one for Liz with shredded, green plastic grass. Into the grass they poured pastel-colored candy eggs the size of outdoor Christmas lights; bright-yellow, sugar-crusted marshmallows molded in the shape of chicks; milk chocolate balls wrapped in silvery foil; jelly beans and Sugar Babies. They stood a syrup-bottle-size, cellophane-wrapped, hollow chocolate rabbit in the two large baskets and tied ribbons and a bow on the basket handles.

After breakfast and a little dessert candy, they dressed for church and walked to the Whitmans’ house. Evan and Alice were waiting, ready to leave. In the chilly back seat of Evan’s Oldsmobile, the bare skin of the girls’ arms and legs was covered with goose bumps.

At church, a half-dozen green and silver, foil-wrapped pots of Easter lilies decorated the narthex. The front of the program of worship, distributed by the junior deacons, displayed color photographs of too perfect, trumpet-shaped lilies.

Evan Whitman led his expanded family across the back of the carpeted sanctuary, down an aisle, and motioned them into a pew with his program: Alice first, then Julie, Chase, and Liz. Evan sat nearest to the aisle, next to Liz, and stretched his legs into the aisle. As they settled purses, programs, Bibles, and bodies into the pew, faint lines of color from the antique stained-glass windows also settled over and around them.

Julie swung her legs rhythmically beneath the bench, took a pencil from the pew rack in front of her, and began to fill in the blank spaces of closed letters on her copy of the program.

The organist began the prelude and a side door near the front of the sanctuary opened. The Reverend Dr. A. Paul Yeager entered and strode toward the pulpit, holding a black-robed forearm against his chest to still the movement of the white satin stole. He sat in the elevated pastor’s chair, crossed one leg over the other, straightened his robe, and smoothed the stole so the elaborately embroidered initials IHS faced the congregation.

Chase watched Yeager’s prissy bearing and slid a notebook from under the Bible he brought to conceal it. He flipped back the notebook’s cover and thumbed to a blank page. Liz watched as Chase penned an abridged version of the action.

“Hear ye, hear ye, the Rev Doc A P Yeager enters the court. There he is Sanc-tu-aria. There he is your ideal.

“RDAPY smoothes robe. Studies fingernails. Cleans one with teeth. Ugh.

“Bows head. Eyes rove. Checks attendance. Checks watch. Should have checked dandruff—it’s snowin’ on the black robe!”

Liz placed a hand over Chase’s writing hand. When he turned to look, she pursed her lips, set them tight, closed her eyes, and shook her head from side to side.

Chase closed the notebook and put it back under his Bible.

‡

The folding chairs in Chase’s Sunday school classroom were arranged in an uneven circle. Five or six of the dozen ninth graders were already seated and others were filing in. Charlie Watkins sat with his back to the door; Chase took a seat next to him.

“Dr. Yeager stopped me in the hall,” Charlie announced to the small group. “He’ll be a few minutes late; he’s greeting new members in Fellowship Hall.

“Were we supposed to bring something for class today?” Charlie asked Chase.

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, what’s the notebook for?”

“Oh,” Chase answered, “just something for fun.” He slipped the notebook from under the Bible and turned the cover so Charlie could read the title: First Methodist Hall of Fame.

“In fact, Charles, you can be my first interview. I’m taking nominations for some prestigious awards. I’m gonna call the recipients the First Methodist Grand Slammers.”

“What?”

“Let’s get started, okay?” Chase ceremoniously flipped open the notebook. “First nomination will be for the award Worst Singer in the Congregation. Charlie, this can be someone who sings way off key or someone just too loud and proud of his voice.”

“What? This is for a Hall of Fame?” Charlie laughed loudly and some of their classmates turned to look. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

“Deadly serious, Charles. Let’s hear your nomination.”

“Worst singer. Well, what other categories are there?”

“Now, Charles, don’t get all excited and try to jump ahead. Focus now—worst singer.”

“Oh god, Chase, no contest. Old Mrs. Patterson is really loud and way off-key.”

“Why, thank you, Charles.” Chase wrote pretentiously in the notebook. “That will be one nomination for Old Mrs. Patterson. Now, excuse me, but would you happen to know her first name? Old Mrs. might look kind of shabby on her trophy.”

“Sheesh.” Charlie tried to talk, not laugh. “Oh, lordie.”

“O’Lordie Patterson?” Chase feigned confusion. “That’s an unusual name. Irish, I’d guess. Are you sure that’s correct?”

“No, no, uh, I think it’s Priscilla.”

“Well done, my friend. That will be one nomination for Priscilla Patterson.” Chase wrote a correction in the notebook. “She’ll thank you for this someday.

“Okay, Charlie, let’s see here. Next category.” Chase turned a page in the notebook. “Ahh, here we are. Person most likely to snore during Dr A Paul’s sermon.” Chase grinned and looked at Charlie.

A classmate across the circle began waving her hand at Chase. “Wait your turn, dear. Take it easy there,” Chase admonished her.

“Now I know, Charlie, we have a congregation full of choices. Take your time; give this some thought.”

The Reverend Doctor A. Paul Yeager had arrived, still dressed in his black clerical robe, and stood stiffly behind Chase and Charlie. “I strongly suggest, Charlie, that you not give this any further thought.”

Chase quickly closed and tucked the notebook beneath his Bible.

“And Chase,” Reverend Yeager said, “I suggest you give me that notebook this minute.”

Yeager reached over Chase’s shoulder to take the notebook but was too late. Chase had leaned forward, tucked his shoulders inward, and pressed both books tightly against his thighs, far from the pastor’s reach.

“Chase.” Dr. Yeager straightened up. “I’m going to ask you nicely, just once, to give me that notebook.” In his right arm, Yeager cradled the class materials near his chest. He held out toward Chase the upturned open palm of his left hand.

“Dr. Yeager”—Chase looked over his shoulder to answer—“I’ll tell you nicely, sir, as often as necessary, the notebook is mine. It’s confidential, and I’m keeping it.”

“Chase, I mean it. Give me the notebook.”

“I also mean it. The answer is no. No, sir.”

Chase again glanced over his shoulder, expecting Yeager to make a grab, but Yeager’s empty left hand didn’t seem to know what to do. It went to Yeager’s forehead and flicked a clump of greasy hair off his brow. It performed a half-wave and dove to his hip but didn’t stay. Finally, he let it help his right hand clutch the class materials against his chest.

For a moment, Chase remained slightly bent forward, and Yeager stood behind him, flabbergasted, hugging the course materials. The other students did not move or speak.

After an awkward pause, Yeager bent slightly forward, turned, and slid his feet in a shuffling skate-walk around the perimeter of the seated students.

Directly behind Yeager, on a wall, was a reproduction of a famous painting by Sir Henry Raeburn and an illuminated gold plaque identifying it as The Reverend Robert Walker Skating in Duddingston Loch.

In this odd frozen moment, Chase watched Yeager sail past the painting of the Skating Reverend in tuxedo tails, and he coughed and snorted in a failed attempt to stifle laughter.

Yeager skated halfway around the circle of chairs, spun around, faced Chase, and said, “I fail to see any humor in this.”

“Reverend Yeager, you’re right, this was certainly not funny. I am honestly, terribly sorry. I apologize.”

When Yeager did not immediately respond, Chase continued. “You know, though, the class is waiting for you to prepare them for communion.” None of these words seemed to Chase to be his own. He had no idea where they came from. “Shouldn’t you begin?” he asked.

It took his classmates and the silent, blinking Yeager a moment to process Chase’s remarks. After a brief pause, Yeager cocked his head sideways and spoke, nodding repeatedly. “Well, right, yes, precisely, we should—should begin.”

Reverend Yeager sat in a chair directly across the circle from Chase. “Please bow your heads, class. Let us pray.”

Yeager inhaled a deep breath, exhaled a gust, and began. “Most gracious heavenly Father.

“From time to time, each of us will encounter difficulties—trials and tribulations—things we do not understand. Forgive us, Father, for our trespasses and forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

“Father, please guide these young people. Lead them all to a fuller understanding of the communion, death, and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ.

“In his name we pray. Amen.”

‡

In the car on the way home from church, Evan Whitman asked, “Okay, gang, what did you learn in Sunday school or from the church service this morning?”

In the back seat, Chase and Julie looked at Liz. She said nothing and began staring out the window beside her.

“Okay, let’s try that again,” Evan said. “Elizabeth, what did you learn in church today?”

“I forgot to warn you,” Liz said to Chase and Julie, “he does this every Sunday, and he will keep asking until we tell him something, anything, we’ve learned.

“I learned,” Liz answered, “Reverend Yeager makes me sleepy even when he preaches about an emotional subject.”

“Not exactly the kind of learning we might hope for,” Evan said, “but thank you for the insight.” He paused. “It so happens, your mother feels much the same way about the good doctor’s sermons. Perhaps, Alice, the kids would enjoy hearing your nickname for Reverend Yeager?”

“I don’t think that would be the least bit appropriate,” Alice answered. “Perhaps we’d all enjoy it, if you’d change the subject.”

‡

Shortly after they finished the bountiful Easter lunch Alice prepared, Sally Reynolds came to invite Julie to play, and the two girls left. A line of dark clouds gradually formed along the western horizon, and Liz decided to walk to the Coulters’ to collect her overnight bag and satchel. Chase went with her.

While Liz went upstairs to gather her things, Chase sat in the cool, shaded light of the living room. At a slight flicker of lightning, he automatically began to count aloud: “One, one hundred; two, one hundred; three, one hundred.” The sound of distant thunder stopped his count at six.

Before Liz came downstairs, the afternoon darkened further. A stiff, steady southwesterly breeze pushed into the Coulters’ trees and pulled the lightning nearer. The next burst of much cooler wind threw random splats of rain on the warm brick porch. Chase stood and watched through the glass of the storm door as the rain arrived.

Soon the wind began to drive rain and throw it in sheets at the house. The storm door rattled and flexed in its frame. Lightning startled the trees and sent a booming cavern of sound over the Coulters’ house.

Liz came down the stairs, put her case and satchel on the couch, and came to stand behind Chase and watch the storm.

Chase opened the storm door, perhaps a foot, no more, and held it there. The damp, gray afternoon rushed inside and around them. He did not know if the cool air brought her to him, but she came to rest, her front against his back. They could taste the smell of warm, wet brick. One cool back and one warm front, his and hers, standing together, sheltering in the breeze in the partially open doorway.

“So, stay very still,” she said to the back of his neck.

For Chase, those warm, sibilant words spoken against the back of his neck, near his ear, would forever after be the living form of the word sensual.

He did not move and continued to hold the door open and let the cool, damp breeze keep them together.

Liz placed her lips where Chase’s neck curved into his shoulder. “Stay very still,” she said softly, then kissed his neck three times. Each light kiss and her warm breath moved slightly farther up his neck until she was breathing in his ear.

“That,” she said, “was lesson two,” and she stepped backward into the living room.

Chase waited, prayed she’d return and the lesson would continue. He stood for what seemed a long time holding the storm door open, but he finally turned and saw Liz sitting on the couch.

“Nice, huh?” she said.

“Thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“Looks like we won’t be going anywhere for a bit,” she said. “Come sit down and I’ll read my poem for you; it fits the day.”

They sat, side by side on the couch, in the cool, dimly lit living room. She read aloud to him, and he read silently from the page as she did.

Her poem was about spring, the arrival of robins and their delight in rain.

“Nice images,” he said. “And nice rhymes, too.”

Chase was alert. Their shoulders were touching; his right arm and her left were warm together. Their hips were touching.

“Two things, though,” Chase said, “have always kind of put me off about robins.”

“Oh, what things are those?”

“Well, they really don’t have red breasts at all, do they?”

“No, not really, but the poem doesn’t mention red breasts.”

“Yes, thank goodness. Well, and second thing, do you know the scientific name for a robin?”

“No.”

“Turdus migratorious.”

“Not really. Did you make that up? Is that a joke?”

“Nope, that’s it, really, Turdus migratorious.”

Liz stood, walked across the living room, pulled the Coulters’ huge dictionary from the bookshelves, and set it on the back of a chair. She thumbed through several of the near transparent pages in the R section, found the word robin, and read aloud. “‘A North American songbird (Turdus migratorious) having a rust-red breast and gray and black wings and upper plumage.’

“Sure enough, smart guy,” she said, thumped the big book closed, and stuck it back on the shelf. “Sure enough. I sometimes forget how really juvenile you are.”

Liz stuffed her poem into her satchel, slung the satchel over one shoulder, snatched up her little overnight bag, shoved open the storm door, and stomped home in the pouring rain.

‡

Chase remained on the couch. Sometimes, he thought, instead of sharing your brilliant sense of humor, saying “thank you” would be wise.

Chase, with a smile, reminisced about having learned the facts of life, as a second grader, from Ted Tolar. Knowing facts about the parts of a woman’s body, he thought, is like knowing a car has wheels and seats but not knowing about the ignition.

Chase began reading the Sunday paper. Minutes later, his parents and Julie arrived from the Whitmans’.

“Hey, hi, did the storm catch you on your trip home?” he asked.

“Only for about the last twenty miles,” Caroline answered. “Alice said you guys had quite a storm here.”

“We did,” Julie said, “lots of wind and rain.”

“How was the trip and ball game?” Chase asked.

Will answered, “The Athletics beat the Twins again yesterday; it was a good game. We listened to today’s game on the radio coming home and they won again.”

“Better enjoy it while it lasts,” Chase said.

“Well, it’s sure fun for now,” Caroline said. “Kids, your dad and I had a good talk on the way home, and there’s something about church we need to tell you.”

“How was church this morning, Chase?” Will asked.

“Same ol’ Yeager, Pop. Just a snoring, boring, dandruff shower.”

“Chase,” Caroline said, “that’s so unkind.”

“Oh, Mom, you know that’s true. Why on earth is he in the ministry?”

Will answered, “Reverend Yeager has a doctorate in divinity, and I imagine he had to work long and hard for that. He’s as sincere as can be. I’m sure he felt called.”

“Well, God musta got the wrong number on that one,” Chase said.

“That’s so not nice, Chase,” Caroline said.

“Well, it’s just the truth, for Christ’s sake...” Chase stopped his response, a little too late

“Chase,” Will said, “that mouth is gonna get you in real trouble one of these days.

“Listen, your mom and I talked about our church affiliation on the way home. I met the pastor of the Community Church last week, a man named Jeff Jennings. He’s fascinating. I really like him, and we’ve decided to try his church for a while.

“Chase, I was relieved you went to early church and didn’t join the church at the main service. That might have made our departure a little more awkward.”

“Yeah, well, with communion the early service lasted forever. I must have had too much time to think. I’m probably not gonna join any church or even go to church anymore, anywhere.”

“Well, Chase, we’ve not made going to church optional, but why? What were you thinking?” Will asked.

“About communion for one thing. I mean, having everybody pretend to eat the body and drink the blood of Christ. Holy cow, Dad, what a weird idea.”

“That’s just symbolism, Chase. We can talk about that another time. For now, we’re going to continue going to church as a family, at least for a few months, and I want you to give Jeff Jennings a chance.”

Chapter Seventeen

Another Rainy Day

May 1963

“Frank Rains is here to see you, Chase,” the school counselor, Mr. Markray, said. “He’s gone a minute—to the restroom, but you’ll be meeting in my office again. Would you want me to put another chair in there and stay with you this time?”

“I don’t know,” Chase answered. “You think I should have someone with me?”

“I don’t know what he’s asking you, Chase, but I’m willing to be there, if you’re uncomfortable.”

“It’s probably okay, thanks. Will you come back, like last time, to write me a pass?”

“Yes, of course. You might as well go on in and wait for him.”

‡

Four of Frank Rains’s folders and a telephone message slip sat on Markray’s desk. When Rains returned, as he walked around the desk, he picked up the message slip, spun Markray’s chair around, and sat.

“So, we meet again, Chase Coulter,” Rains said.

Chase didn’t respond.

“This paper”—Rains held the paper up—“records a call a neighbor of yours made to the station. The dispatch officer took this message over the Easter weekend.” Rains reread the slip silently.

“April 14, it’s dated,” he said, “that was Easter Sunday. I was out of the office that day and all of the following week. Apparently, the message got buried under other papers. I saw it for the first time a couple of days ago.”

Chase sat quietly and focused on a framed certificate on the wall behind Rains.

“Got any idea who might have called on Easter Sunday and what that person wanted to tell me?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, no need to wonder. The message is from a Mrs. Eldon Reynolds. I called her yesterday and we chatted. First name’s Viola. And you probably do know what she told me, don’t you?”

“Some of it, I imagine.” Chase took a long slow breath, trying to stay calm.

“I couldn’t get this figured out at first,” Rains said. “She calls on Easter Sunday. Leaves a message. She feels sure she’s seen Mitch Gray in an alley several weeks before. She doesn’t get a return call, and she doesn’t call again.

“When I called her, she spent half the time telling me she just cannot figure out exactly when she saw the boy. Any of this make sense to you?”

Chase shook his head, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Not really.”

“So, she said she didn’t realize she’d even seen Gray until his photo was in the newspaper—the Saturday before Easter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh, what, Coulter?”

“That’s what she told me that Saturday. She asked if I thought she should call you. And I told her she probably should.”

“You did, huh? Well, she told me some other things,” Rains continued, “but she seemed a little scatterbrained. Kept tryin’ to remember the date she saw Gray. Would you know when that was?”

Chase leaned forward, looked down, and then back up at Rains as he spoke. “No, but I just thought she was probably mistaken.”

“Oh, really? Mistaken how? In what way?”

“Well, I thought maybe she’d seen another fellow,” Chase said. “A classmate of mine.”

“You did, huh. An’ what would this classmate’s name be?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

“Oh, really? This boy had a plumbing problem at his house—wanted to use your shower. That’s what your little sis told Mrs. Reynolds. And you’d prefer not to tell me his name?” Rains set the slip on the desk. “Come on, Coulter, you can do better than that.”

Chase sat silently, arms still crossed, and stared at a clock on the credenza behind Rains. Time was crawling.

“Your little sister told Mrs. Reynolds this guy had a plumbing problem. And that’s what you told your sis, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? That’s not a guess. That’s what you told her, right?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh, but your sister didn’t see this mysterious classmate, right?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“And you don’t want to tell me his name. Really?

“You know what I think, Coulter? I think your unnamed, top secret classmate was Mitch Gray. And you know what else? I didn’t have any trouble figuring out when Mrs. Reynolds thought she saw him. It was Saturday, March ninth. And, for now, I’m not going to tell you how I’d know that exactly.

“You feelin’ a little uncomfortable in that seat?”

Chase scratched at a small food stain on his jeans and didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question. You feelin’ a little uncomfortable?”

“I guess.”

“Well, I guess you oughta feel uncomfortable, son, an’ you know why, don’t you?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, really?” Rains opened one of the four files on Markray’s desk. “This is my Coulter, C. file, son. And my notes in here say I met with you, in this very office, on Wednesday, March thirteenth. Now why would that make you uncomfortable?”

Chase did not answer. Instead, he looked at a framed photograph on the credenza. In it, Mr. Markray was grinning, wearing an apron, and standing at a sink holding up a soapy dish. Chase thought of the many nights Will happily did the dinner dishes while Caroline read Chase and Julie bedtime stories.

“Coulter, excuse me, I asked you a question. How ’bout you pay attention and get honest with me now, okay?” Rains tossed the pen he was holding onto the desk. “I think Mrs. Reynolds saw Mitch Gray in your alley because he’d been in your house taking a shower—hadn’t he?” Rains asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Well now, that’s a nice honest answer.” Rains ran a finger down a page in the file. “Just a few days later, on Wednesday, March thirteenth, when I asked you if you’d seen or talked to Mitch, you pretended it had been over a year since you’d had contact. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, you lied to me.” Rains rocked back in Markray’s chair. “You looked right at me and told me lies. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that? And, son, do not give me more of your bullshit, okay?” Rains braced his forearms on Markray’s desk and said quietly but firmly, “Why did you lie to me?”

Chase clenched his jaw, looked at Rains’s arms, and let out a long exhale. “Look, Mitch hates his stepdad...calls him the step-turd. I already told you what I could about him.”

“You lied to me.”

“Jesus, Mr. Rains, the stepdad is a, uh... I don’t know what. Mitch told me Fenner messed with his bedroom door so it couldn’t even be locked anymore... He didn’t want to go back to his mom and stepdad’s place—ever. He wanted to go find his real dad.”

Chase stopped talking, but Rains didn’t respond.

“He asked me not tell anyone I’d seen him, not to give him away.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, so he came to your house. Why?”

“Oh, uh, he called. Said he was really hungry and scroungy. Asked if I could help him. My parents had just gone out—for dinner and a movie. I told Mitch if he could come quick, I probably could. Help him. He, uh, must have called from a gas station, or somewhere close anyway. He came real quick, an’ I gave him some leftovers, an’ let him use my parents’ shower. He hurried out just as my parents got home. Mrs. Reynolds must have seen him going down our alley.”

“Okay. So, where had he been, and where was he going?”

“I don’t know. He said he wanted to go where he thought he might find his dad.”

“Where did he think that was?”

“Oil fields, he said. I don’t think he knew where.”

“I’ll tell you this, Coulter. I’ve talked to his dad and he hasn’t seen Mitch or heard from him. When his dad left Bloomington, he worked on a pipeline repair crew for a company in Tulsa, but they had a bad year and laid him off.”

“Do you know where his dad is?” Chase asked.

“Yes, I do. Turns out, I also know some of his dad’s friends—Indian guys he stays in touch with. If you hear from Mitch again, an’ I’ve got a feelin’ you will, you tell him to call me. I know how to get a hold of his dad.”

“Okay.”

“I’m-uh tell you this, too, since we met, I’ve had a chat with another friend, Cal Campbell, who took you kids on that hayride. His daughter was your date, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, Cal don’t like you too much, and I’m coming around to his way of thinkin’. You’re maybe not as clever as you think you are. Why don’t you just tell me the whole story here? What else should you be tellin’ me?”

“Nothing.” Chase had been near tears but no longer, and he was suddenly angry. “I’m finished talking.”

“Uh, no, son, you’ll be finished when I say you are.” Rains paused and then closed the file in front of him.

In a calm voice Rains said, “Chase, lying to me is not smart. Dammit, I want to help your friend. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, here’s my card.” Rains slid his card across the desk. His voice was hard. “You see Mitch Gray—you better give it to him. You hear from him—you give him my number, you hear? You tell him to get in touch with me.”

Chase picked up the card. “I want to go back to class.”

“You do, do you?” Rains rocked back in the chair. “Okay, Coulter, so go; I’m finished with you for now.”

Chapter Eighteen

Welcome Inconveniences

One Wednesday, late July 1963

On summer nights, an attic fan in the upstairs hall pulled steady streams of warm air from the Coulters’ bedroom windows across their beds. As the temperature dropped during the night, cooler currents eased the sleepers down into body-warmed sheets and light blankets.

A timer on the fan’s powerful motor shut it off automatically between three and four in the morning, and clattering louvers below the fan closed. In Chase’s dream, yellow leaves of a poplar trembled in a breeze, but the sawing sounds of insect life in nearby tall grass hushed and the leaves stilled. Chase stirred in the now becalmed bed, flipped his pillow to its cool side, nestled a cheek into it, and settled back into the dream. A shimmering stream ran beside bright, motionless poplars.

A few hours later in the still dark, Will came into the room. Chase’s bare wrists and ankles poked out of the sheets and blankets, as if he’d outgrown them. Will sat on the end of the bed and grasped one of Chase’s ankles.

In his dream, Chase sensed danger, knew he should run but couldn’t. His leg was caught, tethered to something.

“Chase,” Will said. “Chase, it’s time to go.”

“I can’t.” Chase drew the leg up, tried to pull away. As he came up out of the dream, he said, “Oh, Dad, my leg was caught.”

“Just me, buddy. Time to wake up. Time to go.”

“Oh, yeah, right, great. I’m awake. Be down in a minute.”

Chase wasn’t working on Wednesdays, and Will had scheduled a vacation day. The prior evening, Will and Chase loaded the car with their fishing gear, towels, and a change of clothing and shoes. Will even left the car in front of the garage facing toward the street.

Chase made a bathroom stop, brushed his teeth, pulled on cut-off jeans, a T-shirt, and worn-out basketball shoes, and he hurried downstairs.

Will wiped a small smear of grape jelly from the kitchen table, tossed the sponge into the sink, put a long, narrow box of waxed paper in a cabinet, and handed Chase two paper sacks. “Breakfast’s ready,” he said.

Will wore old swimming trunks, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. His straw fedora and two blue, long-sleeve chambray work shirts hung on the back of a kitchen chair. “It’s chilly,” he said, and he handed one of the shirts to Chase. “Is your bed made?”

“Oh, crap.” Chase set the sacks and shirt on the table, turned, and raced back upstairs.

Will slipped into one of the shirts and took a quart carton of milk from the refrigerator. He scanned the counters, tucked matches and a package of cigarettes into his breast pocket, put on his hat, and gathered the other shirt and breakfast sacks.

Chase and Will crossed the dark patio to the dew-covered car. In the sudden light, triggered by opening the car doors, a lethargic mosquito rose and bumped upward on the inside of the windshield. With a quick backhanded flick, Will stuck a mosquito stamp on the glass.

In town, along the business route, no other cars moved. Neon signs at the three motels buzzed the word vacancy, and a few dew-covered, dripping cars stared toward their masters’ doors. Out of town, slicing down the highway in the dark, their headlights lit the soft sides of ground fog drifting from ditches.

“You ready to eat?” Will asked. “I’d rather drink the milk while it’s cool.”

Chase unwrapped a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for each of them, handed one to Will, and opened the milk carton. After a few bites, Will set his half-eaten sandwich on one of the sacks on the seat and reached an open hand toward Chase. Chase passed the milk carton. They ate and passed the milk without conversation. When they’d finished the first sandwiches, Chase unwrapped two more.

“Let’s go in at Gordon’s,” Will said. “Won’t likely be many campers on a Wednesday. After we have minnows, we’ll head upstream.”

Chase wadded the waxed papers and one of the sacks, stuffed them into the remaining sack, and slipped it onto the back floor.

Will patted his breast pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

“It kinda makes me carsick.”

“Right, right, I can wait. You’ve smoked some, haven’t you?”

“Uh-huh. You know we’re allowed to smoke at high school, right?”

“Yes, but I wish you wouldn’t: shortens your wind and stunts your growth.”

“Uh-huh,” Chase answered, slumped in the seat, and planted his basketball shoes against the glove compartment.

“Chase, you mind?” Will pointed at Chase’s shoes.

Chase put his feet on the floor and sat up.

“Are you looking forward to high school?” Will asked.

“Mm—some ways yes, some ways no.”

“In what ways yes?”

“Well, mostly bein’ able to smoke after lunch.” Chase grinned and watched for Will’s reaction. “Of course, there’ll be lots more kids, from all over town, more clubs and things to do.”

“You’ve definitely decided to quit the trombone and not play in band or orchestra?”

“Uh-huh. I’m tired of practicing and havin’ to go in early. An’ ya just don’t see many rock ’n’ roll trombone players.”

“Well, that’s true, but you may wish you’d continued when you hear the jazz band at high school.”

“Could be.” Chase turned toward Will. “Ask you a question, Pop?”

“Sure.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Uh-huh, I do. I like my job.”

“Yeah, I didn’t ask that right. I’m more wondering if, uh, what you do is, like, what you think you were supposed to do? I mean, do you think you are what you were meant to be—in your job?”

“Interesting question. I don’t want this to sound negative, Chase, because I do like my work, but no, bud, an industrial engineer is probably not what I was meant to be.”

“So, what were you meant to be?”

“A musician.”

“Oh, sure. I should have known that. You think you could have made a living as a musician?”

“Maybe, but I didn’t really have the chance. History kinda got in the way.”

“You mean the war?”

“Uh-huh, but before that, the Depression.” Will paused and pointed to a dark bird sitting on a fence post on Chase’s side of the road. “That’s the third hawk this morning.

“When I was a kid, Chase, people were having a tough time just makin’ ends meet. They weren’t thinking so much about what they were meant to be.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

“During high school, I threw papers about this time of morning, and I had a part-time job at a grocery store.”

“I didn’t know you worked at a grocery store.”

“Mostly part-time, doing deliveries. Are you liking your job?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I really like having money.”

“Evan says you’re doin’ great, and that his guys say you’re a hard worker.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Uh, but, so, you were telling me about history getting in the way of you being a musician.”

“It’s a long story, Chase. Your uncle Rich was already in college when I graduated from high school. Money was tight, and your granddad asked if I’d mind living at home and going to junior college for a couple of years.”

“Oh, hm, I guess I thought you went straight to Iowa State.”

“No, but it was fine with me. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to study anyway. Then, during those two years, I was asked to join a dance band. We traveled all over the state—playin’ on Saturday nights, sometimes Fridays. Even though times were tight, we made pretty good money.”

“Playin’ clarinet?”

“That and sax.” Will grasped the top of the steering wheel with both hands, straightened his arms, and leaned back to stretch. “Those times, I felt like that was what I was supposed to be.”

Will pushed open his wind wing. Chase opened the wing on his side to equalize the pressure and reduce the wind noise. “You’ve got some great records, Pop: Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, the Dorsey Brothers.”

“Yeah, that’s my music. Did you know Glenn Miller was born in Clarinda? We pass there on our Iowa trips. His band was a huge success. I thought I might create a band like that someday.”

“I’m kinda surprised you didn’t try. What stopped you?”

“I’ll tell you, but you can’t repeat this, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Rich wanted to be a doctor. Your grandfather said he’d pay for Rich’s schooling—for whatever kind of doctor Rich wanted to be. Dad told me I should be a lawyer or an engineer, and he’d pay for my schooling—for whatever kind of lawyer or engineer I decided to be.” Will stretched again. “Being a lawyer didn’t interest me.”

“Well, but you were making money as a musician, right?”

“I was, but here’s the story you can’t repeat.

“I’d about decided music would be my career. We were all sitting out on the front porch on a Sunday afternoon. Your grandfather was in the porch swing. I was sitting on the front edge of the porch, dangling my legs down. An’ I turned and said I thought I’d like to study music when I went up to State. Play in dance bands and maybe lead one someday.

“Well, Dad”—Will shook his head and exhaled three little half-laughs—“just bounced up out of the porch swing, came across the porch, and kicked me, and I mean booted me—hard! I fell off the porch an’ ended up, bent over, in the yard.”

“Wow. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. The kick caught me on the tailbone, and it hurt like the dickens. I stood there, blinking back tears. And Dad said, ‘I’m sending you up there to be an engineer, and we aren’t going to talk about this again.’ An’ you know what? He was right; we never did.”

“Holy cow, Dad. You didn’t try to buck him or anything?”

“No, Chase.” Will shook his head. “I’m sure it’s hard to understand. It was a very different time.”

“That’s kinda sad.” Chase shifted in the seat, stretched, and yawned. “Maybe you should open a music store as a sideline.”

“That’s the kind of thing you’d do, Chase. Maybe someday, when you kids are grown, I’ll moonlight in a dance band.”

Will paused and also yawned. “Your yawn was contagious. So, what brought on your question—about what I wanted to be?”

“Oh, some guys in my class are bused over to the tech school part of the day. They take, like, auto shop, drafting, welding—stuff like that. They have some idea how they might make a living—I don’t. If I did, it might help me choose what courses to take. Anyway, I just wondered how you figured it out.”

“You’ve got lots of time, but it’s good you’re thinking about it. I have a friend who says—when somebody asks a good question, like yours—‘I’ll give that some soak time and get back to you.’

“I’ll give this some soak time, and we can talk about it again.”

‡

Little Sugar Creek wound north from Bella Vista, Arkansas, up and over a long-abandoned mill dam at Havenhurst, Missouri. Big Sugar Creek ran, east to west, across McDonald County, Missouri. Both of the clear, spring-fed Ozark streams were bordered, here and there, by rocky beaches and craggy bluffs. Near Pineville, Missouri, the streams merged and formed Elk River.

Will drove across the highway bridge at Pineville and turned west on a gravel road. About a mile downstream, he turned again and stopped at the fenced entrance to a farm. Chase printed their license number on an envelope and stuffed it, with their payment inside, into a locked metal box on a fence post, and they bumped along a rutted road to a rocky Elk River beach.

One car, a closed tent, and a burn-blackened, rock fire ring nestled in a nearby grove of trees. Before getting out of their car, Will nodded toward the campsite and said, “Let’s try not to wake ’em. If you’ll go set the trap, I’ll bring our gear down.”

Chase gathered the glass minnow trap and a box of crackers and, as quietly as he could, crunched across the rocky beach to the river. Along the way, he picked up a wide, heavy rock to anchor the trap.

At the water’s edge, Chase knelt and tied the rock to the trap’s anchor cord. He opened the trap lid, crumbled crackers into its glass belly, closed the lid, gathered up the ready trap and anchor, and waded into shallow, flowing water.

Chase slowly submerged the trap with one hand, the lid facing the current, and secured the anchor upstream. He rocked the trap to cause the remaining air bubble to escape and pushed down until its four wire feet felt firmly planted in the riverbed. Then, he backed away and watched as a thin stream of softened crumbs swirled into the clear current behind it.

During his trips from the car with their gear, Will stopped briefly and watched Chase set the trap. The two next assembled rods and reels, threaded lines through the eyes in the poles, and tied leaders, swivels, and hooks to the lines.

Before Chase readied an older backup rod and reel, he went to watch the trap. Three or four minnows swam furiously inside, ripping and churning the remaining cracker crumbs. The crumbs that swirled out the back paused a fraction of a second and then disappeared into a dark flag of minnows whipping and straightening in unison behind the trap’s entrance.

“Won’t be long,” Chase told Will, and soon, inside, the trap appeared nearly black.

Once they’d emptied minnows into wading buckets and locked unneeded gear in the car, they slung the straps of the buckets over their shoulders, picked up their poles, and strode side by side up the beach. Will took off his fedora and held it for Chase to see inside. In the sweatband he’d tucked their fishing licenses and packages of extra hooks and swivels.

A hundred yards upstream a long narrow island of washed rock split the river into two fast-flowing streams. Will looked ahead at the brightening sky and, before stepping into the fast current, said to Chase, “Never gets old, does it?”

“Nope.”

Will made a tight-lipped sucking sound and grinned at Chase as they leaned into the knee-deep cold water and waded to the island.

Farther upstream, the island and its rocky beach ended and the river widened. For several hundred yards the only practical way for them to fish was to wade in the stream.

Immediately to their left, green reeds poked up out of shallow water, and beyond the reeds the bank sloped sharply upward to a meadow. Spring floods in prior years cut into that high meadow, washed the earth out from under trees, and sucked those trees down into a rushing current that eventually swung them parallel to the bank. The trunks of several half-submerged trees lay on the surface of the stream and rested on heavy limbs stuck firmly into the river bottom. The downed trees and deep water along that high bank were home to families of previously undisturbed smallmouth bass.

Near the opposite, tree-lined shore, in the shadowed, shallower water, Will and Chase each hooked a lively minnow to a line and began a slow wade upstream, towing the minnows behind them in the water. When rising sunlight shattered on the breezy center of the river, they waded toward its warmth.

Chase worked upstream to cast toward the first of six downed trees; Will stayed slightly downstream and let his line drift past another downed tree. Will’s minnow soon surfaced, swimming hard but slowed by the hook and line, and was snatched from below and pulled into deeper, faster water. Will snapped his rod up and back to set the hook and reeled in the first catch.

Goose fleshed, they stood, Will waist-deep and Chase chest-deep in the stream, and waded slowly, quietly downstream into the welcome warmth of the rising sun. From above, in the high meadow, came trills, chirrs, and chatter of morning birdsong.

They landed several keepers and, as they moved downstream, gradually exhausted the supply of minnows.

Will cast his last, less energetic minnow toward the reeds. A charging largemouth bass immediately swallowed the minnow’s small splash and leapt out of the water. Will set the hook, kept the line taut, and swung the big fish away from the reeds into the center of the stream.

“Chase, this feels like a really big one!” Will sang out.

Unlike their smaller catches, which swam with the current, this one ran straight up the middle of the stream. Will’s line tightened and the drag screamed. He released the drag and line peeled off the reel. Fifteen yards upstream, the fish cut toward the deeper water and downed trees.

“Uh-oh, I don’t think so, big guy,” Will called. He reset the drag, kept the line taut, and waded as fast as he could toward the shallower water on the opposite side of the stream. Will’s steady pull kept the fish from reaching the trees, and the tight line finally caused the fish to turn. As the big fish flashed downstream, Will reeled fast and continued backing toward the shallow water.

“Anything I can do, Dad?” Chase shouted.

“I’m stumbling on my stringer. Could you come get it?”

When Chase splashed up and grabbed the stringer, Will said, “I’ll try to ski him down onto the rock beach. See if you can give me a hand there.” On the next pass, Will guided the tired fish toward the shore below him. “This is why some guys bring nets!”

“Uh-huh, and before now we’ve never needed one,” Chase whooped, and he laughed. He grabbed Will’s line and helped slide the fish onto the shore, safely away from the stream.

Chase had already opened one of the buckles on a stringer and now slipped it through a gill of the big bass. “Oh, my gosh, Dad. It’s three times the size of the others.” He held it up for Will to see. “He’s gotta be at least five or six pounds!”

Downstream, well below where campers might swim or picnic, Chase and Will cleaned their catch and left the remains in a backwater for turtles to consume. Later, at the Twin Sugars Café, they’d buy ice, pack the fish in a chest, and celebrate with a lunch of cheeseburgers and milk shakes.

‡

At the café, after he’d tucked the ice chest into the car’s trunk, Will said, “I’ve been pondering your question, Chase, and I have some ideas for you.”

Inside, they scooted onto facing bench seats in a booth and ordered cheeseburgers, Suzie-Q’s, and shakes. The waitress returned promptly with napkins, utensils, and glasses of water.

“Are these ideas about what to be?” Chase asked.

“No, these are ideas for how you might figure that out.”

“Oh, let’s hear ’em.”

“Well, first, I’ve got a few questions for you,” Will said. “Chase, you’re a night person, right? You like staying up late, but you’re not much of a morning lover.”

“That’s true, but if you’re gonna suggest night work jobs, that kinda misses the point of my question.”

“Chase,” Will said, took a drink of water, and set the glass down slowly.

“What?”

“Be a little patient, would you? I want to explain my thought process. Just answer a few questions for me, okay?”

“Okay. So, yes, I’m definitely not a morning person.”

“You can even be a little grumpy and uncooperative, but this morning you popped right out of bed and got ready to go. You seemed almost excited—right?”

“Right, and your last catch explains that.”

“That was fun, but I want to stay with the questions. We were up two hours before dawn. It was dark and chilly. We drove an hour, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast. And never was heard a discouraging word, right?”

“Oh, that’s really corny, Dad, but, yes, that’s true, too.”

“Chase, just imagine if I’d told you I’d drive you to school, but you’d have to get up two hours before dawn, wear old clothes, take a long chilly car ride, and eat a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. That would sound pretty crummy, right?”

“Right, I’d hate that, but I do like fishing.”

The waitress returned with their shakes and drinking straws. Will paused, thanked her, then continued his explanation. “So, next, even before sunrise, you waded into cold water to trap minnows. All this happened when you’d normally be in bed, asleep.”

“That’s true, Pop. But, listen, I’m certainly not going to be a fishing guide or host some dopey TV show about fishing.”

“Chase, I’m not suggesting that or anything else yet. Just stay with me. I’m trying to explain something.”

“Okay, but it’s taking you a while to get to the point.”

“My point is—we’ve been doing a bunch of things that would normally seem objectionable. And, think about it, we were happy, or at least more than willing to do those things. Isn’t that true?”

“Pretty much. I was happy and kind of excited.”

“So, store those thoughts. Now, how long have we been fishing?”

“Maybe four hours or so.”

“No, no, sorry, I meant, over the years, how long have we been going fishing?”

“A long time. Since I was five or six, with cane poles.”

“That’s right—a long time—probably ten years. And you still like doing it, true?”

“True.”

“And, over those years, you mastered a bunch of skills. This morning you rigged poles, set the minnow trap, baited your hook with live minnows, caught, strung, and cleaned fish, and lots of other not so simple tasks.”

“True.”

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but you gladly did all the learning that made it possible for you to do those things, right?”

“Well, I don’t remember a lot of it. I got frustrated sometimes—over reels with backlash, snagged lines, an’ stuff like that. But, okay, overall, I liked it. I just really wanted to fish.”

“I think you wanted to become, to be, a fisherman.”

“Okay, sure, but probably there are lots of things I want to be but I wouldn’t want to do to make a living.”

“That’s right and that’s fine. What I want you to remember is— you spent years learning a lot of mundane things and mastering the skills to become a competent fisherman.”

“Okay.”

“Then, this next insight hit me like a ton of bricks as it was happening. When we set off up the beach, we still hadn’t even wet a line, and I said to you, ‘it never gets old, does it?’ And you agreed, right?”

“Right.”

And then what did we do?”

“We went fishing.”

“Nope, Chase, we went wading, into a fast current. An’ I thought to myself: it’s not dawn, the gravel in my tennis shoes is killing me, the water is ice-cold. This should be terrible. But I’m grinning and telling you it never gets old. I’m also thinking—this seems crazy.

“That’s when it dawned on me. Get the pun—it dawned?”

“Is this some kind of long, weird joke, Dad? I mean, ’cause really, spare me.”

Will looked down and bounced the straw up and down in his shake. “No, and sorry about the pun. This is no joke. Think of all the kind of negative things we’ve done this morning but that we didn’t mind doing. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yes, Dad, it is.” Chase’s voice expressed tired impatience.

Will ignored Chase’s tone and continued. “And the thing we came to do required a lot of learning, over years and years. And you liked doing that, or at least it was okay with you, right?”

The waitress delivered their food. Will thanked her, again, took a ketchup bottle, and tamped a red pool in the basket beside the Suzy-Q’s.

“Right, Dad, all that was at least okay,” Chase answered. “So, do you think you’ll to get to the point sometime today? If not, at least pass the ketchup.”

“I’m getting there.” Will handed the ketchup bottle to Chase. “Listen, one of these days, you’ll maybe love a woman so much that you’ll do things just like we’ve been talking about.”

“Huh? Say what?”

“You’re likely going to love someone, someday, so much, that you’ll get up early, drive halfway across the country, eat crummy food along the way, be uncomfortable—and not give a hoot about the inconvenience, because you want to be with her.”

“Uh, well, okay—if you say so. But what does this have to do with how I’m going to make a living?”

“That’s just a big bonus. I’ll come back to making a living.”

“Oh, there’s no need, Pop, I think I’ve got this figured out. You’re thinkin’ I might become a writer and stay up late to write a book titled Fishing for Girlfriends.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fair...and funny. Listen, I think this will be worth hearing me out.

“Next, I want to remind you about a couple of our conversations during our drive to the river. One was about me wanting to be a musician, and the other was about you deciding not to play the trombone.

“I told you that in junior college I played in a dance band and we traveled all over the state. What I didn’t tell you was that on many Saturday nights the band guys would have liked to go out with their girlfriends but couldn’t. We all piled into one car with our instruments and drove two or three hours in all kinds of weather, and sometimes we missed dinner.

“The places we played were usually smoky and almost always uncomfortable. Some of the folks we played for were sloppy drunk. We’d get home at two or three on Sunday morning, totally exhausted.

“And, remember, to be good enough to play in a dance band, I took lessons and practiced, and I was in school bands—all that kind of stuff—for years and years. I’ll tell you though, I didn’t mind any of that. Is this sounding pretty familiar?”

“Yup. And I told you, when you asked about me playing in the high school band, that I didn’t want to get up early or have to practice anymore. Which, Dad, pretty well covers why I’m probably not meant to be a musician and you were.”

“Exactly. That is exactly right, Chase.

“I think,” Will continued, ”you’ll find things you want to do in life to make a living—things you like and interest you enough that you’ll really want to study and learn about them. You’ll enjoy it. There will be things you want to do and be so much that you’ll stay up late studying and not eat right. You might even work so much that your friends and family will worry about you, but you’ll go right on doing it.

“What do you think about that?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. It seems kind of amazing. There’s nothing like that for me now.”

“I’m betting there will be. So that’s the concept, Chase. Hidden in plain sight, in our conversations about music and fishing, is a way to identify things you may want or not want to be and do. You think you could explain all that to somebody?” Will asked.

“Well, yeah, I guess if I’m interested enough in a subject—or a person—that I’d be willing to get up early, stay up late, maybe miss meals—just do a lot of inconvenient stuff—if I’m willing, maybe even happy, to do those things, that’s a good sign.

“Uh, and...it might take years of study and practice to master, but I won’t mind that too much either, right?”

“Uh-huh, you got it.”

“Huh. That’s kinda cool, Dad. I guess I might be waiting a long time to figure it out.”

“That’s true, and patience may not be the most natural thing for you. Chase, along the way, you may jump into a few things that you abandon because they’re not what you thought they’d be like. Lots of people have to do that as part of figuring what they really want to be and do.”

Chase and Will both sat quietly for a minute, finishing lunch. A waitress brought the check. Will went to the counter, paid, and bought two peanut butter bars. He handed one to Chase.

“Thanks,” Chase said. As they went outside, blinking in the sunshine, he added, “That you came up with all that while we were fishing is kinda neat, Pop. But, Jesus, it’s also kind of weird.”

“Chase.”

“What?”

“I’d rather you not use the Lord’s name—”

“Oh, I know, Dad,” Chase interrupted, “I know.”

Chapter Nineteen

Higher Education

September 1963

In the fall semester of 1963, Chase and his sophomore classmates hiked the long hallways at Bloomington High, but it was impractical for Chase to hike from home to the distant high school or to walk after school to his job at Scotty’s.

Weather permitting, Julie Coulter could walk with Sally Reynolds to East Junior, but weather would not always be permitting.

Caroline’s and Will’s full-time jobs required they arrive and depart at times compatible with the clientele but not necessarily at times compatible with school schedules.

Liz Whitman, the Coulter kids’ summer sitter and transportation provider, expected to leave in early September for her sophomore year at Illinois Wesleyan, and her departure would soon be a problem. With pleasure and some amusement, Liz Whitman proposed the solution.

“Ginny Reynolds,” she told Caroline, “is your girl. She has a driver’s license and—unlike me—has never had a ticket or wreck. Her parents provide a reliable car, which she will use to drop Renee and Sally at East on rainy days; it would be no problem to add Julie to that stop. And, of course, since she’s headed to Bloomington High anyway, she could take Chase.

“I am also pleased to tell you, Ginny complies with every rule and law, every school assignment, and every parental expectation. She’s a paragon, good golly, a regular sister of mercy. She’d be a responsible, dependable afternoon sitter for Julie. And, she’s assured me, she will gladly take this on if you offer it as a paying job.”

Caroline offered and Ginny Reynolds accepted. Already a friend, Ginny soon became Chase’s new Liz—a very good friend, sometime advisor, and confidante.

‡

Chase plunked a notebook and book down beside him, slammed the passenger door, and slouched forward on the scorching front seat of the car. “Oh, she-it, Gin, it’s so hot!”

Ginny Reynolds tucked her purse beneath the seat, buckled her seat belt, adjusted the rearview mirror, struck her driver’s education pose—arms raised, both hands on the steering wheel, eyes forward—and started the car. “It certainly is.”

“What a joke,” Chase said. “I thought high school was going to be more interesting.”

“Long day?”

“Uh-huh. Awful and just hot as hell. I’ve got civics and study hall the last two hours. What a waste of time. The civics teacher, Mr. Ash, does nothing.”

“Nothing? Not really.”

“Oh, he breathes, but there’s no teaching. We read a chapter in the textbook during class, and we write answers to the chapter review questions. Then, we exchange papers and check each other’s work.

“While we start reading the next chapter, Ash sits at his desk and puts check marks in his grade book to credit us for finishing the review questions. Then, he gives back our papers. We can even look at them when he gives the chapter quiz.”

“How ridiculous,” Ginny said. “At least nobody fails, right?”

“Mo Clark might. He fell asleep today, head down on his desk, sound asleep. He didn’t have a paper to turn in. Ash asked the girl behind Mo to wake him up. Ol’ Mo sat up with this big red splotch on his face and a line of drool hanging down.”

“Yuck.”

Chase stared at the opening in Ginny’s sleeveless blouse and followed the brassiere line around to the front. “Hey, Gin, what’s the deal? Everybody was red-faced and sweaty today. You look like you did this morning—all neat and fresh.”

“Well, thank you. Maybe I shoulda gone home and wrinkled something to wear.”

Chase laughed and swatted the book beside him in appreciation of her clever remark. “Seriously—how come you look so fresh?”

“I spend my last two hours in the yearbook office and the journalism conference room; both have air conditioners. And, by the way, your homeroom friends are on The Spectator staff with me.”

“My homeroom friends?”

“Jack, Janet, and Mike.”

“Oh, they are? I didn’t know.”

‡

At dinner that evening, Will was behind Chase, working his way around the kitchen table with a tea towel, wiping condensation from the table and iced tea glasses. “How was life at BHS today, Chase?”

“Boring and hot as you know what.”

“It wasn’t any better at East,” Julie said.

“Well, the breeze and the food choices are refreshing, Caroline. Thanks,” Will said.

Caroline had closed doors and windows throughout the house, all but the back door leading to the kitchen, and turned on the attic fan upstairs. The fan now drew evening air across the diners. Dinner was cold fried chicken, chilled cantaloupe slices, and a spring salad.

“Man,” Chase said, “high school is nothing like I thought it would be. It’s like a big junior high. Really boring.”

“Maybe you’re signed up for the wrong classes,” Will said.

“Everything I’m taking is required, Dad, and some of my teachers are just doing nothing. And we’re baking—it’s like an oven.”

“Chase, you know what? I sure don’t like hearing this kind of nonsense from you.”

“It’s not nonsense, Pop. I’m not kidding.”

“I’m not kidding either. A couple of people I work with, adults, spend all day complaining. I’m sorry to hear you doing it.”

“Well, I’m not gonna make up some happy story about a day like today. Want me to just keep quiet?”

“No, Chase, I want you to do something differently.”

“Like what?”

“Like think. I mean, here we are. Your mom fixed us a nice cool meal. We’re sitting in a breeze, drinking iced tea. Could you tell us something, anything, good that happened today?”

“Oh, boy.”

“Surely there was some part of a class today or some interaction that you enjoyed. Just lean back in that chair, take a sip of that iced tea, and think. Tell us something good.”

Chase pushed his chair back a little and was quiet. “Well, homeroom is a waste of time, but it was pretty good.”

“What did you like about it?”

“Uh, we’re in an art room, no desks, just round tables. We can sit wherever we want and talk all we like as long as we’re not too loud. I have three smart, nice tablemates that I didn’t know before this year. So, I’ve already made three new friends.”

“That was certainly a good thing.”

“Dad, I didn’t say there weren’t any good things happening, but it’s hot and we’re wasting so much time.”

“Okay, I give up. Could you at least be specific? Tell me about one class that really seems like a waste of time.”

“Easy, the worst is civics. The teacher hardly speaks—just sits at the desk all hour while we read.”

“Do you think you could ask her why? Maybe there’s a reason.”

“It’s a he, and I doubt he’d appreciate being asked.”

“Well, okay, maybe that’s not a good idea. How about this? Tomorrow night at dinner, I want you to tell us one way you could increase the amount of learning going on, in any class, or tell us one interesting thing you learned. Consider that an assignment.”

“Oh, brother, like I need another assignment.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like they’re working you to death.”

‡

Chase’s tablemates and new friends in homeroom were Janet Connor, Jack Johannes, and Mike Sparks. After Mr. Short finished roll call the next morning, Chase opened a notebook and asked, “Could I get you guys to answer a question for me?”

“Maybe,” Janet answered. “Your notebook says Methodist Hall of Fame. What’s this about?”

“Oh, uh, this is an old notebook. My question has nothing to do with Methodists.”

Jack put down the book he’d opened, and Mike turned to listen as Chase read his question. “Name one way to reduce wasted time or increase good teaching at Bloomington High.”

“What? Wait. Who wants to know this?” Mike asked.

“Just me.”

“But who’s gonna hear our answers?” Mike asked.

“Well, just us, and maybe my family,” Chase said.

“So, this is entertainment for Chase and family, is it?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, kind of.”

“I’ve got one,” Jack answered. “This”—he made a sweeping gesture to the room around them—“homeroom could be eliminated. The once-a-week announcements on the PA could be done at the beginning of the first- or second-hour class.”

“Yup,” Chase answered and wrote Jack’s suggestion in the notebook. “That would save a couple of hours of wasted time every week.”

“Well, and Jack’s right,” Mike said, “there’s no education going on in here. Oops! Maybe I’m wrong.” He lowered his voice and bent toward the table. “Don’t turn around, but I think Richie Johnson is looking up Jackie Gant’s skirt.”

Janet, already faced in the same direction as Mike, also leaned forward and whispered, “Oh, Mike’s right.”

“That Johnson,” Mike said, “what a thirst for knowledge.”

Jack pushed aside his book. “I’ve got another one, Chase.”

“Oh, good. Okay,” Chase answered and prepared to write.

Jack turned toward Janet and Mike. “Chase and I spend the last two hours together in civics and study hall.

“Big time-saver here, Chase, and it’s simple: fire Ash.”

“Oh my god, yes. This guy does nothing,” Chase said to Janet and Mike, then turned toward Jack. “We can read the damn book and answer the chapter review questions without Ash. He doesn’t even grade our papers.”

“You know what they say about Ash,” Mike said. “He’s a pile—the fire’s out.” None of the tablemates responded. “You all got that, right? Fire’s out—he’s Ash.” No one responded.

“Okay, bad joke,” Mike conceded. “Seriously, Coulter, why are you doing this?”

“Oh, it’s been so damn hot and slow in class. It’s too easy to just complain.”

Well, so, how about you, Chase?” Janet asked. “Let’s hear one of your bright ideas.”

“Mmm, how about we have students grade teachers on their teaching?”

“That could be entertaining,” Jack said. “How would that work?”

“Well, every hour, teachers take roll and put an absence slip on a clip outside their door. At the end of each hour, kids could fill out a little rating form and clip it there, too.”

“Makes sense, Chase. I guess we’d be grading that day’s lesson,” Jack said.

“Well, right, we would be. Uh, and if we graded their lessons,” Chase added, “there are lots of English and history teachers. If one teacher got As on some lessons and another one got As on something else, they could rotate and present their A material to several classes.”

“That might actually work,” Jack said. “And maybe teachers with lots of A grades could actually get bonuses or be paid more and shitty ones could be asked to find other work.”

Mike mugged a big smile. “Yes, and this would make it possible at quarter-end for the deans to send out unsatisfactory notices to the lousy teachers’ parents.”

They all laughed. “Now, that was funny, Mike,” Janet said. “This seems like kind of a good idea, Chase.”

“Well, really,” Mike said, “your idea doesn’t have a prayer; the teachers wouldn’t stand for it—not for a minute.”

The bell rang, and as they stood and gathered their books, Janet said, “Chase, you should write an article about your question and some of the suggestions and submit it to The Spectator. I’d support it.”

“Oh, right,” Chase said, “Ginny Reynolds told me you guys are all on The Spectator staff. I didn’t know that.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike said, “that’s why we sat together.”

“Spectator staff sounds like something I’d like,” Chase said.

‡

That same afternoon, in the civics class, after Mr. Ash took roll but before he sat down at his desk, Chase raised a hand and was recognized.

“Mr. Ash, uh, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Chase said. “But every day we read from the book and answer the review questions. And every day, you sit, uh, quietly at your desk. Will you be teaching at all?”

Some of Chase’s classmates shifted in their seats. “Uh-oh,” someone said.

“I’m glad you asked...”—Ash scanned down his seating chart to find a name—“Coulter.”

Ash removed a laminated paper from the lap drawer of his desk, stood, and put the sheet on the rarely used lectern. “I’d like all of you to listen, please. I have four things to tell you.”

The class remained quiet and became attentive.

“First, the objective of this class is to assure you learn how our federal government functions. The twenty-two chapters in this book”—Ash held the civics text aloft—“explain those functions succinctly. When I used to lecture, we never came close to finishing the excellent information in this book.

“Second, I used to assign students to read and answer the review questions at home. About forty percent of my students failed on multiple occasions to do that, and some even failed the course.”

Ash strolled to a long shelf under the windows, placed his textbook on top, and gestured to the empty shelf below. “I now keep a single set of the textbooks, the ones you’re using, right here. All five of my civics classes use them. I have extras to check out if you’re absent or fall behind. This saves the school district a ton of money.

“In class, I have you read the text and answer the chapter review questions at a prescribed pace. When this class ends, you will have read an entire book about how our federal government functions; very few people have done that, and you will have written two hundred and fifty answers to questions about our government. That will reinforce what you read.”

Ash picked up his grade book and held it aloft. “Now, third, you’ve probably heard my class is an easy A or B. I sincerely hope that’s true.

“My job is to assure you learn and remember how our government works. My regular short tests are based entirely on the chapter review questions. You are welcome to have your written answers to those questions on your desk during the tests. This helps you remember the information and do well on the tests.

“I measure my success by your success. Every year now, I happily give about ninety percent of my students an A or B.

“Fourth, and finally, some students find this learning process boring, but I think the information you’re reading is exciting and interesting. I hope you’ll at least try to be interested.

“If you wish to discuss something in the text or cannot answer one of the questions, I’ll be sitting right here. You are welcome to come to my desk and quietly seek my assistance.

“Thank you for asking, Mr., uh”—Ash looked at the seating chart— “Coulter. Did that satisfactorily answer your question?”

“Uh, well, yes, yes it did. Thank you.”

The assigned chapter and the page number of the review questions to be answered were already displayed on the chalkboard when the students arrived for class. Mr. Ash pointed at the board, sat down at his desk, and did not speak again during that period.

‡

On a cooler drive home, a few weeks later, Ginny Reynolds said, “Hey, Chase, your name came up in The Spectator staff meeting today. Janet Connor and Jack Johannes suggested you’d be a good person to add to the staff next year.”

“Oh good, I think I’d like that. Did they mention my idea for an article about reducing wasted time and improving teaching?”

“Well, yeah, briefly, but the juniors and seniors pretty much killed that. They’ve got their feature articles assigned and the subjects for the first several issues are all set.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that nice? I’m glad they were so receptive and flexible.”

“Chase, that was kind of sarcastic.”

“It was meant to be,” Chase answered. “So?”

“Remember, I’m supposed to remind you, in private, about being sarcastic?”

“Oh, right. I forgot. But, Gin, you know, in this case I really don’t give a shit.”

“Aren’t you a bundle of fun today?” Ginny answered.

They didn’t speak again until they neared East Junior and Ginny said, “Sally and Julie are attending an after-school pep club program. They’ll walk home later. We’re just picking up Renee.”

When they pulled up at East, Renee looked in the front passenger window and said to Chase, “We’re not dropping you off at work today, right? Scoot over, guy, I want the window.”

Chase slid over next to Ginny. Renee shut the door and draped an arm around Chase’s shoulders. She leaned into Chase and turned toward Ginny. “Hey, Gin, boy sandwich! After-school snack.”

“Gotta pay attention to my driving, Renee. Besides, Ol’ Chase isn’t much fun today; he’s all yours.”

“Yum!” Renee said and bit Chase’s shoulder.

“Oh, guys,” Ginny said, “Dad came by the house an’ took Mom to a dentist appointment. I’m supposed to drop you off and go get her at the dentist’s.”

After Ginny dropped Renee and Chase at the Coulters’ driveway and pulled away, Renee grabbed Chase by his shirt sleeve and pulled in the direction of the garage. “I’ve been wanting to see your famous garage attic; is this my chance?”

“Sure,” Chase answered. “Follow me.”

At the bottom of the narrow stairs to the garage attic, Chase stepped back and scooped his right hand in front of him. “After you,” he said. “At the top, just push the little door open. You’ll have to bend down really low or crawl in.”

When Chase crawled through the door, Renee was standing by the near window, looking toward the Coulters’ house.

“’Scuse me,” Chase said and gently grasped Renee’s hips and pulled her back from the top-hinged window. Chase stepped around her and swung the window open into the room, pushed it up, and latched it to a hook on a ceiling beam.

Renee stepped forward to look out. Chase went to the other end of the attic, raised and latched the window there, too, and then rejoined her. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Oh, your house, the holly trees and patio. Just lookin’.”

She turned toward the interior of the attic. “This is pretty nice, not like I pictured, but you didn’t make your bed.”

Chase went to straighten the yellow quilt on the youth bed. As he smoothed the quilt, he saw, tucked behind the bed, a tightly rolled sleeping bag and small gym bag.

Renee went to the opposite, east-facing window and was looking down into the little rock-walled stable yard below. Chase tried to ignore his jangling nerves and questions: Was Mitch back in town? Did he stay the night recently?

“So, this is where Sally and Julie run their summer nursery school, right?” Renee asked. “They call it Moms’ Mornings?”

“Uh-huh,” Chase answered, and he joined her at the window. “They go around and pick up little kids in the neighborhood three mornings a week. The moms love it.”

“This looks too small for horses. Why do you guys call this a stable?”

“We don’t really know what it was for. Maybe the original owners had ponies or something.”

Renee turned toward the room. “You’ve got a little table, a little lamp, and a nice little bed. What’s the big wooden box?”

“A speaker cabinet. There’s an old radio inside.”

“Does it work?”

“Uh-huh.” Chase lifted the lid and turned on the radio to let it warm. It was tuned to a local popular music station. They listened to the concluding words of Peter, Paul and Mary’s summer hit “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and another song, “If You Want to Be Happy for the Rest of Your Life,” began.

To the tune of the second song, Renee sang, swung her shoulders, strolled to the bed, and sat. “Chase, did you really rent this for making out?”

“Not successfully; only once for money. Where’d you hear about that?”

“At East. Some of my friends see me gettin’ in the car with you, and they’ve wanted to hear all about your casino and your make-out hideout. You’re still kinda famous.”

“Mm, the right word is probably infamous,” Chase answered.

“Famous, infamous, it’s all the same to me.”

Chase adjusted the volume on the radio, returned to the window, and leaned back against the sill. “Famous or infamous, neither is a good thing for me. Do me a favor, Renee, don’t talk to people about coming up here.”

“I don’t see why not, but okay. Uh, so, I thought this was, like, your big make-out place. Are you just gonna stand over there?” Renee patted the bed beside her.

“Oh, uh, yes... Well, I mean, no,” Chase stammered. He went quickly to the bed, sat next to Renee, and hesitated a moment before putting an arm around her. “But you have... I mean, don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“I do, at school, but not a steady. Chase, listen, Dad won’t let me date high school guys. I’ve asked. This is kind of our only way...” Renee’s voice trailed off.

“Oh, so you’re okay with us, uh, together?”

“I am,” Renee said and tapped his forehead with her index finger. “Hey, guess what? Ginny gets Seventeen magazine, and last night I read an article titled ‘How Much Kissing Is Too Much Kissing?’”

“Oh, uh-huh.” Chase grinned. He leaned in and kissed her neck, then promptly leaned back to ask, “So, how much kissing is too much kissing?”

“I don’t know. Wanna work on that question?”

“Yes, I do,” Chase said. “Like to stretch out?”

Renee slid behind him onto her side on the little bed. Chase turned and stretched out, facing her. She watched him a moment. “Your eyes are brownish-green,” she said, then smiled and closed her eyes.

Renee proved Liz Whitman right. These French kisses were like questions and answers. Pushing in, okay? Uh-huh. Pushing back. Exciting, isn’t this?

Renee slipped the open fingers of her free hand into his hair and Chase reciprocated. Next, she slid her free hand slowly down the bumps of his spine, and he imitated her gesture.

As they listened to the music, Chase rocked his hips a little with the beat.

Renee held her free hand open and pressed firmly against his back. She placed her other hand on his shoulder and treated him to a chest-forward slow dance.

“This,” Renee said and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, “is sooo fun,” and with her middle finger she circled one of the clavicle bumps at the base of his neck.

“My god, yes,” Chase whispered, “it is.”

And Ginny Reynolds shouted from downstairs, “Nice music, Coulter! Renee, Mom’s home, and you better get there—quick!”

As Renee hurried to the little doorway, sat, and started to scoot forward onto the stairs, she turned and said, “That was not too much kissing.”

Chapter Twenty

Burying One God

Late November and Early December 1963

Jack Johannes arrived in the half-filled civics classroom, slipped into his seat across the aisle, and turned toward Chase. “Have you heard?” he asked. “We may be heading home.”

“School’s closing?” Chase asked. “He’s dead; it’s unbelievable.”

“Ginny said to tell you, if we are headed home, she’ll wait for you in the Spectator room,” Jack said.

In the early afternoon of Friday, November 22, 1963, while he rode beside his wife, Jackie, in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas, John F. Kennedy, the forty-six-year-old president of the United States, was assassinated.

The news of the assassination left staff and students at Bloomington High School, like most people across the country, shocked, confused, and sad.

Schools were dismissed, most businesses closed, and the Coulters, like other families, made their way home.

Before Air Force One left Dallas that afternoon, Federal Judge Sarah Hughes climbed aboard and administered the Presidential Oath of Office to Lyndon Johnson. The plane then sped Mrs. Kennedy, John Kennedy’s body, and President Johnson and his wife, Lady Bird, to Washington.

The reports of the transfer of power, the details of the assassination, and news of the search for the assassin preempted all other programming on television.

As never before, for the remainder of Friday and the following three days, citizens of the nation, almost as one, watched on televisions the somber, dignified, sometimes shocking reports.

Sunday morning, reporters photographed the shooting of Kennedy’s alleged assassin during a jail transport. Across the country, citizens hurried to televisions to watch, over and over, as a man with a handgun stepped forward to shoot and kill the alleged assassin.

Around noon that same Sunday, John Kennedy’s body was moved to lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda. The three major networks cancelled or postponed almost all scheduled programming. All afternoon, as television cameras rolled, Americans watched tens of thousands of mourners file by Kennedy’s flag-draped casket.

Monday, November 25, Chase’s birthday and the beginning of a three-day Thanksgiving workweek, the nation closed for the day. Americans watched a solemn walking procession down Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House to St. Matthew’s Cathedral for Kennedy’s funeral. And later, they watched and wept during the graveside ceremony in Arlington National Cemetery.

Tuesday, school resumed. The previously inactive Mr. Ash arrived early and inspired, and he stapled a construction paper timeline across the civics classroom bulletin boards. He asked his astonished students to clip and bring newsmagazine photos of the historic events and announced he’d contrast those with the story of an earlier historic assassination.

For the rest of the semester, a photo of the handsome presidential couple watched the students from the back of the civics classroom. A gorgeous color photo, taken shortly after the Kennedys arrived in Dallas, showed them departing Air Force One, smiling and squinting into the morning sunshine. Handsome Jack Kennedy was waving, and lovely Jackie, in an exquisite pink Chanel suit and matching hat, held an armful of red roses.

Other photos on the timeline included a stunned Jackie Kennedy in the bloodied pink suit standing next to Lyndon Johnson in Air Force One; the assassin’s contorted face as his body bent over the murderer’s bullet to his belly; long lines of mourners passing a flag-draped casket in the Capitol Rotunda; a riderless horse being led down Pennsylvania Avenue, boots backward in its stirrups; a hillside in Arlington National Cemetery with seemingly endless rows of perfect white crosses; and, also in Arlington, the president’s two small, solemn children, Caroline and John, holding their mother’s hands, walking silently and sadly into history.

And, finally, unbelievably, after two days of an early December week spent documenting and hearing about history, a spent Ash sent his students back into their textbooks, faces down, to read the next chapter and the next and next, answer the tedious chapter review questions, and check each other’s vapid answers.

‡

A few days later, about midafternoon on a sunny but cold December Wednesday, the wind shifted and became a sustained northwesterly force. In the civics classroom, Chase looked up from the text and watched as the wind drove a line of gray snow clouds toward him. He didn’t notice a student quietly enter the room and hand a note to Mr. Ash.

“Coulter,” Ash said, “bring your books and come up, please.” He gestured come here to Chase with a hall pass. When Chase arrived, Ash handed him the pass and said softly, “They’ve asked that you report to the main office and indicated you’ll not be returning today.”

On his walk to the office, Chase thought he’d likely find Frank Rains waiting. He wondered now, too late, when Mitch might have returned to the garage attic and what new things Rains might know. To his surprise, however, Alice Whitman stood in the hallway outside the office.

“Chase,” she said, “your mom asked me to come get you and to let Ginny Reynolds know you won’t be riding home with her. She’s in the yearbook office; they’re running a note to her now.”

“This does not sound good,” Chase answered.

“It’s not,” Alice answered. “There’s been a car accident involving your grandparents in Iowa. I don’t have any details, but your mom’s picking up Julie. You need to go grab your coat.”

‡

When Alice pulled into the Coulters’ driveway, Caroline was standing behind the storm door, watching for their arrival. She pushed the door open as they approached.

“Want me to stay or should I go?” Alice asked.

“Will’s on the phone with his brother. Come in and wait with us, okay?”

In the living room, Julie sat near one end of the sectional sofa. She and several of her girlfriends had recently started wearing overalls, flannel shirts, and saddle oxfords. Caroline had braided Julie’s dark brown hair in pigtails the night before. Chase sank into the couch and snuggled against the vulnerable-looking, little country girl. Alice sat beside Chase, reached across behind him to Julie, and pulled both of them closer: Chase to her and Julie to him.

On long-distance calls, particularly those with family in Iowa, Will spoke in a distinct, louder voice, one trained by the rural telephone connections of his youth. As he stood in the hallway between the living room and kitchen, his voice informed the quiet gathering in the living room.

“Okay, that makes sense. Right. That’s fine with me. Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow. Uh, by four I’d say, no later. Uh-huh, at Dad’s house. Oh, we will—and you, too, Rich. Bye-bye.”

Will joined them in the living room and sat beside Caroline. “You okay?” she asked and patted Will’s knee.

“Yeah,” Will answered, but his shoulders sagged and he leaned a little forward.

“Can you tell us?” she asked. “Are you ready?”

“Uh-huh.” Will looked at Chase and Julie and spoke. “It got cloudy and cold here this afternoon. It was even colder and started snowing in Iowa this morning. I guess the roads were pretty bad, and your grandparents were in an awful accident.”

Will looked down and swallowed a couple of times before he looked back up. No one spoke or asked a hurried question. He looked at Alice and then Caroline and then continued.

“We don’t know exactly what happened. They were on the highway, coming home from Council Bluffs, maybe ten miles north of Red Oak. It was windy and snowing, and either they were trying to pass a truck or it was trying to pass them. The truck driver reported that Dad swerved. The truck driver tried to pull away from the car, but when he did the truck jackknifed.” Will paused, his eyes welling.

“Any...way, the truck slid into them and over their car. I guess Mother was killed nearly instantly. Dad was still alive when the ambulance arrived, but he died before the guys could get him out of the car.”

This time, Will paused a little longer before speaking. Caroline put her arm around him and gripped his opposite shoulder.

Will took a few deep breaths and spoke again to the kids. “We, uh, your Uncle Richard and I...made some arrangements with the funeral home. Rich and your Aunt Nan and your cousins will leave for Red Oak soon, and we’ll drive up first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I talked to the junior high office staff when I picked up Julie,” Caroline told them. “And, Chase, when we called the high school to let them know why Alice was coming to get you, we told them you’d be out all of this week and maybe Monday and Tuesday.

“There’s a system for collecting your books and assignments,” Alice said to Chase. “Ginny can go see your homeroom teacher and pick up the things he’ll collect for you. I’ll walk over to the Reynoldses’ later and let Ginny know what she’ll need to do. One of us will bring over your books and assignments when you’re back.”

Chase went upstairs, stretched out on his bed, and stared at the ceiling. The sudden drop in temperature, leaving school early with Alice, his dad’s explanation—all seemed unreal. After a few minutes, Chase went into the closet and dug under his sports gear to locate the stenographer’s notebook he’d started with questions about Christianity. He flipped back to a blank page.

At first, he stared at the blank lines and whacked the pencil on the page. Then, he wrote: “Nice going, God!”

About halfway down the page he continued, “So, we’re supposed to praise you and give you credit for creating everything and making all the good stuff happen. Seems to me you ought to get credit for all the bad stuff too: murder, starvation, rape.

“So, thank you, God, for all that, and thanks so very damn much for taking such good care of my grandparents. With a God like you, who needs enemies?”

At first, Chase stuck the notebook under his pillow. A minute or two later, he hid it again in his closet and stretched out on his back on the bed.

Will knocked on the door and asked, “Chase, okay if I come in?”

“Sure.”

Will sat on the end of the bed and asked, “You alright?”

“I don’t know,” Chase said and then sat up to look at Will. “Not really. How ’bout you?”

“I’m okay.”

“You are? You’re not upset or angry or anything?”

“What is, is, Chase. Anger can’t change it. Of course I’m sad. Sorrow’s only natural, but I’ll search for the positives.”

“The positives? Gram and Grandpa got killed, Dad. What could be the positives in that?”

“Are you angry, Chase? You sound almost mad.”

“Damn right I am.” Chase paused, a little shocked at what he’d said. “Sorry about the swearing.”

“It’s okay, Chase. It’s okay.”

Chase wanted to scream: Jesus Christ, Dad, get real—let’s be mad or cry or something! But he didn’t. What he said was “I probably should just take a little time by myself...try to kinda sort things out. I’m so sorry, Dad.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“You think Dr. Jennings could be any help—sorting things out?” Will asked. “I left a message for him to call me. I’m scheduled to do the chancel reading Sunday. He’ll likely call back in a bit. Want me to ask if he could visit with you?”

Jefferson Jennings was the pastor at the Community Church and someone the Coulters all admired and liked.

Chase surprised himself by saying, “You know, I think so. Maybe I could go and meet with him. You think?”

“I’ll ask him,” Will answered.

Dr. Jennings did call within minutes. Will told Jennings, whom he usually called Jeff, about the deaths, Chase’s anger, and the suggestion that Chase might find it helpful to talk. About an hour later, Will drove Chase the ten blocks or so to the church. “I expect,” Will said, “Dr. Jennings may offer you a ride home, but if not, I’ll be glad to come get you.”

“Oh, okay. I might just walk,” Chase replied.

Dr. Jennings’s car was the only one in the church lot. Jennings watched for Chase from inside the front entrance and pushed open the tall door as Chase neared it. Once Chase was inside, out of the cold, Jennings suggested, “Let’s go in the library; it’s quiet and comfortable.”

Chase followed, a step behind Jennings. They were nearly the same height. Jennings wore dark slacks and a comfortable-looking bulky sweater. He flipped the light switch in the library and went across the carpeted room to two wing chairs near tall bookshelves and the windows.

“Your dad said you’re pretty angry.” Jennings motioned for Chase to take a seat, then seated himself in the front half of a wing chair.

Chase stood behind the other wing chair and leaned his forearms on top of the backrest. “Uh-huh, at first it was like I couldn’t figure out what to say or feel. Then, after a few minutes, I just got madder than, uh...really mad. I’m not sure I’ve calmed down yet.” Finally, Chase went around the chair and sat.

“Do you know why, Chase? Why you’re so mad?”

“No, that’s just what came out.”

“Do you want to talk about that, the anger, or something else?”

“I don’t know what I want to talk about, exactly. I thought you might be able to help.”

“I hope I can. Would you like to pray?”

“No thanks,” Chase answered. Then he quickly added, “Is that okay?”

“Yes, I just thought there might be some things you’d like to say in prayer.”

“Well”—Chase shifted to a softer voice—“uh, like what?”

“I don’t know, Chase. Often, when there’s a death, folks ask me to pray with them. They talk to God about all kinds of things, including their anger.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to bother Him.” Chase suddenly didn’t care to block his sarcasm. “I’m sure He’s been really busy. He kinda missed the little snowstorm in Iowa this morning. I mean—that’s totally understandable. There are always lots of folks getting plowed into—gettin’ crushed by trucks—and dying.”

Dr. Jennings whistled—a single, slow descending note and nodded. “So...you think God was absent in Iowa this morning.”

“Well, if He was there, He sure wasn’t watchin’ out for my grandparents.”

Jennings didn’t respond.

“Come to think of it,” Chase said, “no, I don’t think He must have been there. How about you? You think He was there?”

“Chase, everyone has a little different idea about what form God takes. God, for me, isn’t like Superman flying around everywhere to direct traffic.

“I mean, there are, what...maybe thirty or forty thousand auto accident deaths every year in the U.S.?” Jennings took a note card and pen from his pocket. “Let’s say there are thirty-five thousand. Divide that by three hundred sixty-five days in the year. Mmm, three-sixty-five goes into thirty-five thousand, uh, eight times.”

Chase watched the little pastor scribbling numbers on the card and wondered why he’d thought Jennings might be helpful.

“No,” Jennings said, “it goes nine times into that...then five. Anyway, sorry, must be more than ninety-five auto accident deaths a day in the U.S. That’s, what, almost four every hour? And that ignores all the other countries in the world.

“I don’t see God like some guy flying around the country to either stop or cause three or four fatal car crashes every hour,” Jennings said. “I don’t envision Him hurrying into all the operating rooms to guide surgeons’ hands. I don’t imagine Him showing up at nursing homes every day to decide which grandmas and grandpas will head off to heaven.”

“Oh,” Chase answered. These were odd, new notions to him.

“I just don’t think of God,” Jennings said, “flying around everywhere like some twenty-four-hour-a-day death-traffic director.”

The last phrase struck Chase as funny, and he exhaled a little series of staccato breaths through his nose and, nodding slightly, smiled a sad half-smile.

“It is kind of sad and funny to think of God that way, isn’t it?” Jennings nodded and smiled a sad half-smile, too.

“Uh-huh, well, let’s say He’s not flying around everywhere directing death traffic. Does that mean He doesn’t control things?” Chase asked.

“Mm, Chase, what I’m going to tell you is my understanding of God but, remember, lots of people see this differently. There’s a scriptural basis for my view, but there are others. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think God resides inside each and every one of us—as a presence,” Jennings said and then sat quietly.

“Okay,” Chase said into the silence in the library. Then he continued, “So, do you think He’s, like, millions and millions of little gods? One in each of us...hanging around inside us or something?”

“No, that’s not what I believe,” Jennings said in a gentle tone of voice.

“So, how’s it work? What’s God?”

“The one I know is a presence...a small voice.”

“And you hear it?”

“Well, no, I feel it.”

“Where do you feel it?”

“Mm, I’m afraid I’m leading you in the wrong direction with words like seeing, hearing, and feeling. Let’s just say there’s a place in all of us for God, and today, right now, that’s a place you’re having trouble finding. You’re wondering, where the heck is God? Does that seem right?”

“Yes, but I really wasn’t looking for Him, whatever and wherever He may be.”

“But you were, and still are, just mad as hell at the flying-around-everywhere God, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good, Chase.”

“It is?”

“Sure, that idea of God doesn’t work for lots and lots of folks—me included. So, what do you say, let’s kill that one.”

“Pfft, what?” Chase answered.

“Let’s just bury that notion of God. I mean that—it didn’t make sense to you anyway, did it?”

“No.”

“That was a God you couldn’t imagine...a flying-around God that let you and your grandparents down, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, then, could you just say goodbye to that notion of God...just bury it? Could you do that?”

“Yep, no problem. I don’t think I believe in that kind of God anyway,” Chase said.

“Okay, so the God that you felt so angry toward, he doesn’t really exist. Let’s just say: he’s gone. Okay?”

“Okay,” Chase answered.

“Do you want to look for another one? One that can be more helpful?”

“Is this the one inside you...the one you believe in?”

“It could be, Chase, but it’s more important that we find one inside you—or wherever—one you can believe in.”

Chase was quiet, waiting. The room was very quiet, waiting.

Finally, Jennings inhaled, audibly, and exhaled a long breath and said, “Your trip to Iowa will be a good, quiet time to open yourself to God’s presence.” He paused, then added, “I’d just have you know that God connects us.”

Jennings was again silent.

“What?” Chase asked after a brief delay. “What’s that mean?”

“I believe God connects us to others: living and deceased. During your trip and during the services and the times with family, see if you feel connected to the people you love and those who loved your grandparents. Maybe, as folks talk about your grandparents, you’ll even feel a little connected to them and to something inside you. It’s pretty subtle. Just stay really quiet. You may find God present in you and connecting you to others at those times.

“One other thing, I believe God comforts us. You may feel God’s presence in that way, too.”

The room was again quiet and finally Jennings spoke. “That’s as far as we can go tonight, Chase. We’ve maybe gone too far already.” He paused. “We, uh, we buried one God...and started your search for another. That’s a lot.

“Would you like me to say a prayer before we go?” Jennings asked.

“I don’t know, maybe. Uh, on second thought: yes, sure, please.”

“Heavenly Father, they’re a wonderful mystery, our lives and deaths. We have many things to wonder about, to ponder.

“Please help a quiet Chase Coulter look inside himself to find you.

“But, Father, if it’s too soon for that discovery, please comfort Chase and connect him to those he loves. That will be a blessing.

“Thank you, Father, for your love and comfort and your son, Jesus, for it’s in his name we pray. Amen.”

Chase and Dr. Jennings stood, shook hands, and Chase thanked him, sincerely. As Chase left the church, a man and a woman, members of the choir, were arriving for rehearsal.

On the walk home, Chase wept some. The tears ran down both cheeks. When he arrived home, he walked from the sidewalk, up through the yard, across the driveway into the empty garage. He put a forearm against the rough interior wall, leaned his head gently forward, and cried, and cried until no more tears came.

‡

Winters in Iowa were always cold. The temperature the December morning of the funeral was in the teens, far below freezing, and the sky was a numb, diffuse gray. The iron railings and frost-bitten hurricane glass lamps along the church walkways were decorated with pine wreaths.

Into the Red Oak Presbyterian Church filed friends, neighbors, and churchmates in heavy coats. The cloakroom pegs and hangers filled, and the cloakroom radiators cooked up a warm, wooly smell and pushed it into the sanctuary. The sanctuary altars and banisters were decorated with pine wreaths bound with festive red ribbons and adorned with gold and silver balls.

The soon-to-be-celebrated birth of Christ, forgiveness, and life everlasting were the minister’s themes.

Following the service, a long caravan of slow-moving automobiles, headlights on, made its way from the church to the cemetery. The few oncoming vehicles turned on their lights, pulled to the shoulder of the road, and waited for the procession to pass. The Will Coulter family’s car was second in line behind the hearse.

Chase looked out at the gray day and the lights of the line of cars behind them. “Dad,” he asked, “do you remember the night, a couple of years ago, when we went with Granddad to the football game in Shenandoah?”

“Sure.”

“We were in a long caravan of cars with their lights on, kinda like this, only we were near the back of the line,” Chase said. “I was just remembering that night, watching that long string of car lights and taillights headed up a hill on the highway.”

“That’s a neat memory. There’s a bit of irony in it though.”

“What’s that?”

“The Red Oak Tigers lost that game about thirty-five to nothing. It turned out to be a little like a caravan to a cemetery. We got killed and buried over there. Some folks left at halftime. There was no caravan going home.”

The funeral procession slowly filled the narrow gravel lanes in the cemetery. From several directions, out of warm cars, the mourners came—imprinting the brittle, straw-colored Bermuda grass with shoe forms, of all shapes and sizes, pointing in the direction of a rectangular tent with one side open.

Inside the shelter, the older family members sat in two rows of chairs facing the two caskets sitting above the open graves. Other family members and a few close friends, shoulders hunched, collars up, huddled close together in the back of the tent. An older cousin, Jody, Uncle Rich’s college-aged son, stood in the back with one arm around Chase and the other around Julie.

Outside, as near the open side of the tent as practical, about two dozen mourners stood, shivering. Gusts of wind snapped the tent flaps, blew over displays of taller flowers, and kept the words of the minister mercifully brief.

Following the graveside service, the mourners hurried to their cars and departed quickly. The sad loss and services were endured. There was no return caravan to town.

‡

Before leaving their grandparents’ home the next day, each grandchild received a keepsake. Julie received a small, heavy, half-globe-shaped glass paperweight filled with a clear liquid. Mounted on the base, inside the glass dome, was a small house bordered by tiny pine trees. When the paperweight was turned upside down and quickly righted, snow swirled in the liquid and settled on the little house and pines. Chase watched Julie turn the globe over and over and imagined the snow falling silently on a jackknifed truck and his grandfather’s crushed car.

Chase was given his grandfather’s gold pocket watch and chain. He nodded, said thank you, and smiled wistfully. He recalled his grandfather telling an embarrassing story about using the expression “What’s time to a hog?”

‡

Over the next few days at school, four friends mentioned the deaths to Chase. Janet Connor said, “Chase, I’m so sorry about your grandparents’ accident.” Ginny Reynolds said, “I’m so sorry about your grandparents’ passing.”

Chase asked Ginny, “So, why would you and Janet Connor want to apologize for my grandparents’ accident and deaths? I mean, those things certainly weren’t your fault.”

“What?”

“Why would you say ‘I’m sorry about your grandparents’ deaths’? Neither of you have any responsibility for the accident.”

“Chase, we’re expressing sympathy. We’re saying—I was sad to hear of your loss. I care about you.”

“Oh, well, why not say that? Saying ‘I’m sorry’ seems odd—it’s like apologizing. Seems like something only a girl would say.”

“I’m sorry, but what on earth does this have to do with being a girl?”

“Ginny, you just did it again. You said: ‘I’m sorry, what does this have to do with being a girl?’”

“Yes, Chase, I was sort of apologizing—for not understanding. I mean, haven’t you ever just said to someone: I’m sorry, I don’t understand?”

“I don’t know. Offhand, I can’t remember doing that—probably I have.”

“Haven’t you ever just misunderstood something or done something you regretted and said ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Well, sure.”

“Okay, so tell me something you were sorry for, maybe something you apologized for.”

Chase paused. “Uh, well, I’m certainly pathetically sorry for bringing up this topic.”

“Chase, seriously, try to answer my question. It seems like you’re having trouble coming up with something you’ve ever felt sorry for.”

Chase looked away and didn’t respond.

“You’re having trouble thinking of something you’ve felt really sorry for, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Chase, I’m your friend. It felt almost like you were picking on me. What’s going on here?”

“Maybe we can talk about this some other time, Gin. Believe me, there are things I am really, really sorry about. I knew something about my granddad that might have caused their accident. There’s nothing I can ever do about that now.”

They stood apart a moment before Chase spoke. “You’re right though—there was no reason to be picking on you, Gin. I’m sorry.”

Mike Sparks said, “I heard your grandparents had a really bad accident.” Then, he asked, “I guess the car was totaled, huh?”

Chase answered, “I don’t know. I guess so.”

Jack Johannes said, “I heard your grandparents got killed in a car wreck. Man, that’s terrible. How old were they?”

Chase answered, “Uh, about seventy-four and seventy-three, I think.”

“Well, at least they weren’t young and they went together,” Jack said. “I guess that kinda makes it not so bad. My grandmother is sad a lot; she really misses my grandfather.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The Imp of the Perverse

Day of April 17, 1964

The assassination of John Kennedy numbed the nation’s Thanksgiving and Chase Coulter’s fifteenth birthday. The sudden deaths of Will’s parents subdued the Coulter family’s normally joyful Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. January slipped into Bloomington as neatly as a casket into cleanly cut, hard winter soil.

The Beatles’ appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show in February drew a national audience nearly equal to the one that witnessed the Kennedy funeral and was a gust of excitement in Chase’s life that helped blow away some of the lingering sorrow.

‡

By mid-March, contempt for Wayne Wise, the teacher assigned to the boys’ eighth-hour study hall, simmered. As the last of the waning-winter days gave way to warmer April days and the first evidence of spring appeared, the simmering pot boiled over.

Wise, perceiving himself a handsome gift to women and more specifically to high school girls, would, after his daily flirting in the hallway, spend the first minutes of each study hall performing a laughably transparent ritual. While seated at a desk in the front of the room pretending to grade papers, Wise would slyly open the lap drawer of the desk to check in a cosmetic mirror the condition of his hair and teeth. Then, watching in the mirror, he’d feign a thoughtful, faraway gaze, gently place the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand on the opposite corners of his mouth and draw them slowly around to the center of his lower lip.

After Wise completed grading his face and hair and contemplating God knows what, he’d stand and perform what the boys dubbed the “WW Stroll.” He’d first smooth his shirt, stretch, and rooster across the front of the room, to and through a door to the library, as if something in that room required his attention. The return leg of this strut was equally debonair.

At the conclusion of the outbound leg of the stroll, when Wise was a few feet inside the library, two senior boys took turns producing, from difficult to pinpoint locations, a loud, mule-like laugh. (To replicate this sound one hoots UH HUGH UL and then twice repeats the last two syllables: HUGH UL...HUGH UL.)

The mule laugh ceased, of course, a split second before Wise could return to identify the producer. As Wise hurried back into the study hall, the mule-laughers would raise their heads, mouths slightly agape, feigning amazement.

By Thursday of the first week in April, the mule laughs and Wise’s hurried return had become a comic drama. The mule laugh would bring the fifty or so boys in the study hall to the snorting edge of laughter, and Wise’s impotent reactions would send them howling, unstoppably, over the laughter cliff.

It was all way too much fun.

This lovely April day, Wise’s calculated first step into the library was instead a feint-and-whirl tactic. The mule-laughers did not bite, and Wise, his right hand attempting but failing to grasp the doorframe, posed before them like someone who’d waved at a friend and discovered, too late, that the person receiving the wave was not, after all, anyone he knew. The roomful of boys, most only pretending to study, could not stifle sporadic snorts, oh no’s, and choked laughter.

“All right, all right,” Wise said, waving his left arm up and down, much as one would pat a child on the head, “let’s quiet down in here.”

After a brief return to the desk and an irrelevant rearrangement of something there, Wise, ever the creature of habit, reran the WW Stroll from the beginning. This time, however, he went a full two steps into the library and was treated to an extra loud “UH HUGH UL...HUGH UL...HUGH UL.”

His hurried return to the study hall was greeted by the uncontrolled laughter of fifty-plus co-conspirators.

Wise, red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, stormed to the desk and glared at the room full of delighted boys. “I just wish,” he spat, “one of you chickenshits would have the courage to do that to my face!”

The boys were quiet and cowed. With the exception of their coaches, no teacher had ever said anything as vulgar.

“Uh-huh, I thought so...you brave little bastards!”

And then, without warning and beyond understanding, the offending mule laugh came, perfectly imitated, “UH HUGH UL... HUGH UL...HUGH UL.” And it came from a different part of the room, from a sophomore kid named Chase Coulter.

Wise stared a moment in disbelief and scanned the equally disbelieving class. “That,” he said, “was outstanding.”

Wise bent forward, pointed at Chase, and near-shouted, “AND YOU, DUMB-ASS, can haul yourself”—Wise pointed to the rear door of the room—“right on down to the main office and explain your stupidity to the Dean of Boys—who will be so pleased to see you!”

Chase gathered his books, left the disbelieving room, and made the short walk down the hallway, around a corner, and into the main office. On one side of that office was the Mourner’s Bench, where students in trouble were temporarily assigned or waited to speak with the Dean of Boys or Dean of Girls.

Minutes later, Albert Hallett also came into the main office. “Are you waiting to see the Dean of Boys?” he asked Chase.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you found him.” Hallett stuck out his right hand. “Albert Hallett, and you are?”

Chase shook Hallett’s hand. “Chase Coulter, sir.”

“Oh, aha, I’ve seen your name twice already today. Interesting name—Chase; where’s that come from?”

“My mom’s maiden name,” Chase answered.

“Well, Chase Coulter, I’ve been approving altered schedules for next year. You applied for what: maybe the yearbook and Spectator staff?”

“Spectator and the literary publication.”

“Well, both were approved and the faculty sponsors have been notified. Is that what you’ve come to ask about?”

“Uh, no. No, sir. I’m in trouble.”

“Oh, well then, Master Coulter, we better step into my office.”

Hallett led the way into his office, turned partly sideways to shuffle around a desk that consumed most of the floor space, pulled his chair back from the desk, and sat. Chase sat in one of two padded metal chairs across the desk from Hallett.

“Well, what have you done?” Hallett asked, and he took a pen and small pad from a desk drawer.

“Something really stupid. Something I can hardly believe I did.”

Hallett wrote a couple of words on the pad and said, “Okay, that’s an unusual start. Let’s hear what brought you here.”

“Well, I’m in Mr. Wise’s last hour study hall...” Chase paused.

“Uh-huh, and...” Hallet made a rolling hand gesture to encourage Chase to continue.

“And, uh, the last week or so, when Mr. Wise steps into the library, a couple of the guys have done a big horse laugh.”

“A big what?”

“A horse laugh. Well, I guess it’s kinda more like the sound a mule makes. They go”—and here Chase performed a softened, quieter version of the laugh—“UH HUGH UL...HUGH UL...HUGH UL.”

Hallett’s eyes flicked up and to the right; a crooked half-smile crossed his lips in the same direction and disappeared. “I don’t suppose you were one of these mule-laughers were you, Coulter?”

“Well, uh, a couple of the older guys have been doing the laugh, until today. I did one today.”

“You did? That wasn’t smart. So, who were these older fellows—the ones giving Wise the business?”

“Uh, I couldn’t really say, sir.”

“Oh? I suspect you could say. Do you mean you don’t want to say or you won’t?”

“Uh-huh. Yes, sir, I meant—I won’t.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. There has to be more to the story, let’s hear that. Go on, please.”

With frequent prompting and a necessary waiver of formality from Hallett, Chase told the entire tale, including Wise’s anger and challenging vulgarities and, finally, Chase’s sudden inexplicable response.

“Oh boy. Why on earth would you do that?” Hallett asked.

“I don’t know. It was like Mr. Wise was challenging us to fight. That’s just what came out of me.”

“Hm, did the other boys have a big laugh over your response?”

“Oh, no. I think everyone was about as shocked as me.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly what Wise said, but it was something like ‘That was outstanding, dumb-ass, you’re outta here.’ And here I am.”

“Yes, well, here you are. And you said it at the beginning. That was about a world record for stupid.”

“Yes, sir, it was.” Chase looked down, and for some equally weird reason, could not suppress a snort and slightly stifled laugh.

Chase’s laugh was apparently contagious, because Hallett snorted once before bursting into a series of belly laughs. That ended with Hallett rubbing his face and saying, “That’s all gotta be true, Coulter. You couldn’t make that up. But, jeez Louise, why would you do that?”

“I have no idea.”

“So, are you gonna tell me the names of the older mule-laughers?”

“Uh, no, no sir, I won’t. I’ll just take whatever punishment I’ve gotta take.”

“Well, you’ve surely been honest and you’ve never been in trouble before, that I know of. Wise won’t expect you to return tomorrow. So come here eighth hour for the rest of the week and sit on the Mourner’s Bench. Bring your books and do your homework.

“With Spectator duties, you won’t have a study hall next year: so, no chance of a repeat performance then. No matter what Wise says or does, you keep your mouth shut in there for the rest of the year. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, one more thing. As a junior next year, Coulter, you’ll have American Lit. There’s an Edgar Allan Poe story you might find quite interesting; it’s titled ‘The Imp of the Perverse.’”

“We’re allowed to go to the library during study hall. I could probably read it next week.”

“Reading, quietly, in the library, sounds like a very good idea.”

Hallett wrote the name of the story, tore the page from his notepad, and pushed it across the desk to Chase. “Okay, Coulter, that’s it.” Hallett sat quietly for a few seconds, and Chase didn’t move. “I meant, you can go now, Chase.”

“Oh, thank you. I wasn’t sure. I’m to sit on the bench for the rest of today’s period, too?”

“Right.” Hallett looked at his watch. “There’s only about ten minutes left. And, Coulter, try not to be so stupid in the future.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Finally, Freedom

Evening of April 17, 1964

Mike Sparks, Jack Johannes, and Chase would all turn sixteen in 1964, but it would be late November, and Chase would be a junior at Bloomington High, before he was eligible to take the driver’s test. Having had a casino and the rumors of his make-out hideout might have earned Chase cool-guy status among his freshman peers at East, but at Bloomington High that meant less than nothing.

Sparky celebrated his sixteenth birthday and passed the driver’s test in March. By early April, he had permission to car date and go for Cokes with friends in the family car. He picked up Jack on the first warm Friday evening in mid-April. When they swung by the Coulters’, Jack scooted to the middle of the front seat and Chase rode shotgun.

In the self-assured pose of a longtime driver, right hand lightly gripping the top of the steering wheel and left arm bent at the elbow and resting in the open window, Sparky guided his parents’ white Chevrolet Impala south, away from Bloomington, into a warm, early spring night. Chase affected a similar nonchalance—right foot resting against the glove compartment and right arm bent at the elbow, propped in the open passenger’s window.

When the radio, tuned to a rock ’n’ roll station, cackled with the Halloween-like laughter introducing the Surfaris’ hit “Wipe Out,” Sparky turned up the volume and Jack unleashed a two-hand, double-time, dash drumming solo. The Impala’s headlights carved the night, and the three Bloomington boys breathed the inrushing air of freedom.

“Damn, this is so great!” Sparky shouted. “I’d love to drive away and just keep – on – drivin’! That was some serious drumming, Jack. We can all sing. If you get a guitar, Chase, we oughta form a group.”

“Roll your window up a second, Chase,” Jack said and waited. He bent forward to light a cigarette, took a first drag, and leaned back in the seat.

Chase opened the passenger’s wind wing and aimed it to push smoke toward the driver’s window. “Hey Spark, if you’ll turn right on the river road,” he said, “we’ll pass right by where we lived when I was little.”

“Will do,” Sparky answered.

“I mean you’ve gotta turn right, right here,” Chase said more emphatically and pointed to a fast-approaching, dark, downhill road to their right.

Sparky barely slowed, yanked the steering wheel to the right, and the car slid into the turn. “Easy enough, now what?”

“Stay on this road,” Chase answered. “It goes by our old house, then straight uphill. It winds around and drops down to where they’re building the new interstate bridge over the river. If you just stay on it, Spark, it comes back into town on the west side.”

“Got it. I’ll take it all the way to town,” Sparky answered.

“So, Chase,” Jack said, “we were talkin’ behind your back. We heard you caused a ruckus, laughed in Wise’s face or something, and got tossed out of study hall today. That right?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you about it some other time. It was just stupid, but you can’t flunk study hall, boys.”

“Well, that’s true, but we both wanna hear the story sometime,” Sparky said. “I can’t stand that stud-duck. One other thing we heard was that they named the new Spectator staffers for next year, and you’re gonna join us!”

“That’s true, too,” Chase said. “And I probably owe you guys a big thanks.”

“Man, Chase, that’s great news,” Sparky said. “You, me, Jackie-boy, Janet, and Ginny—all of us together every day.”

Jack put his cigarette in a corner of his mouth, elbowed Chase in the side, and swung his right arm around, offering to shake hands. “Congratulations, bud,” he said.

“Thanks,” Chase answered and shook Jack’s hand. “So, guys, see the little gray house on the right? That’s where we lived until I started second grade.”

“Wow, you were way out here,” Sparky said. “Country Coulter!” he bellowed. “That’d be a good name for a professional wrestler or country singer. If you get a guitar, Coulter, you gotta promise not to sing any uh that twangy shit.”

“I promise.”

“Jack tells me, Chase,” Sparky continued, “your parents are out of town. Left tonight for Iowa, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your dad and mom both?” Sparks asked.

“Uh-huh, Mom keeps him awake while he drives.”

“So, who’s keeping track of the Coulter kids?”

“My little sis will spend a couple of nights at a neighbors’. I work tomorrow, so I’ll just stay at home.”

“So, nobody’s gonna be at your house tomorrow?” Sparky asked.

“Probably not, why?”

“Oh, I’m thinkin’ it’s time to try out your ol’ make-out hideout. That be okay with you?”

“I guess so,” Chase answered. “But you, uh, maybe should pull your car into the garage, so neighbors won’t see it.”

“A drive-in make-out hideout. I can handle that.”

“I can’t guarantee my sister won’t...” Chase stopped speaking and turned around as a patrol car went by in the opposite direction.

“What’s he doin’, Spark?” Chase asked.

Sparky watched in the rearview mirror. “He’s turnin’ around. Have we passed a speed limit sign?”

“I don’t know, but it’s probably thirty-five all through here,” Chase said.

“Oh good, I’m pretty sure we’re okay,” Sparky said. “Well, hell, now he has his lights flashing. Damn it, the last thing Dad said was ‘Don’t get a ticket on your first night out.’”

The officer, now directly behind them, strobe lights flashing, turned on his siren.

“Well, that’s real helpful, motherfucker,” Sparks said. “You can see there’s no place to pull over.”

The officer flashed his headlights two or three times.

“Keep your shirt on, dipshit. I’m goin’ five miles an hour,” Sparky growled.

Finally, Sparks spotted a downhill gravel drive on their side of the road and slowly pulled to a stop a short way down it. The patrol car turned in behind them and parked, slightly sideways, blocking any return to the paved road.

The officer turned off the siren but left his strobe lights flashing and stayed inside the patrol car. They could hear bursts of static as he talked on a two-way radio.

“Should I get out and go back there?” Sparky asked.

“Mm, better sit tight,” Jack answered and turned to see what the patrolman was doing. “Let him come and tell you what’s up. Looks like a county sheriff’s department car.”

As the officer came from his car, he switched on a powerful flashlight and shined it first at the license plate, then into the back window. From the side of the car, he pointed the light down and swept it across the back seat and back floor.

When he arrived at the driver’s open window, he turned the blinding light directly into Sparky’s face. “Let’s see your license and registration, son.”

Sparky dug out his billfold, nervously removed his temporary license papers, and handed them to the deputy. “Chase,” Sparky said, “in the glove compartment there’s a plastic folder—would you get it?”

The officer trained his light on the glove compartment. Chase opened it, found a clear plastic keeper with an envelope inside, and handed it to Sparky. He held it out toward the officer.

“Take them papers out, son.”

Sparky fumbled with the plastic cover and the envelope, handed those to Jack, and handed the registration to the officer.

“Sparks, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You live in Bloomington?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got your license just a couple uh weeks ago, did ya?”

“Yes.”

“What brings you boys out in our neck of the woods?”

“Just takin’ a drive, sir,” Sparky answered.

“Got nothin’ better to do up in Bloomington?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not out here to visit anyone?”

“No, sir, but my friend over here used to live in Silver Stream.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Coulter. Chase Coulter,” Sparky answered.

“Never heard of any Coulters.”

“We moved to Bloomington almost ten years ago,” Chase said.

“Son, ”the officer leaned forward and shined the flashlight into Chase’s face, “if I wanna hear from you, I’ll ask you a question.” He resumed his study of Mike’s paperwork.

“Sparks, you boys been drinkin’?”

“No, sir.”

“You know our speed limit out here, son?”

“Thirty-five?”

“That’s right. An’ how fast you think you was goin’ back there?”

“Right at thirty-five, I believe.”

“You believe you was goin’ thirty-five? Uh-huh. An’ what if I was to say I disagree?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t? Well, would you say I was wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you boys have better, more fun stuff to do up in Bloomington?”

“No, sir, we just wanted to take a drive on this nice eve-nun.”

“Well, no harm in that, son. You boys seen those ’mergency lights down by the river?”

“No, sir,” Sparky answered, but the boys now looked toward the river. Far downstream, under tall concrete supports for the new highway bridge, several red lights flickered through a grove of trees. “Lots of flashing lights down there.”

“Uh-huh. We’ve got us a serious sit-she-ation down at the bridge construction.”

“Accident?” Sparky asked.

“More serious, and none uh yer bidness, son.”

“Somebody drown?”

“What did I just say?” the deputy asked.

“Serious business?” Sparky answered.

“No, son. I said, none uh yer bidness.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to drive right by there. I’m just wantin’ to know what’s up.”

“Just go slow, son. Road’s open. Construction boys found somebody’s maybe buried a hobo down there.”

The officer handed Sparks the temporary license papers and the registration. “Go slow now, and get on back up to Buh-loom-in-ton.”

“Been nice talkin’ to you,” Sparky said and smirked.

“Don’t get smart with me, Sparks, just get gone.”

The deputy strolled back up the road and sat in his patrol car. They could again hear the static and voices from his radio. Finally, he backed up onto the dark roadway and drove away in the opposite direction.

Sparky stuck his head out of the open driver’s window, backed up the gravel road, bounced onto the paved roadway, and started toward the construction area. “What uh prick.”

“Well, what if I was to say I disagreed with you on that, son?” From the dark, on the other end of the front seat, Chase did a near perfect imitation of the deputy’s voice and speech mannerisms.

“Well, then, I might say, perhaps I’m mistaken—maybe you’re a plain ol’ asshole, sir,” Sparky answered.

“A asshole, huh?” Chase continued the imitation. “You boys got nothin’ better to do than come toolin’ around down here and call an officer of the law a asshole?”

“That’s right, sir, we got nothin’ better to do. In fact, that’s the very thing we like most to do,” Spark said.

“Is it? Well,” Chase went on, “I thought maybe you boys mighta come down here to chase a little poontang.”

“Chase poontang?” Sparky shouted. “Oh, god no; no sir-ee.”

“Oh, you Buh-loom-in-ton boys think yer a little too good for our girls down here, do ya?”

“Oh no, sir, we’d love to sample us some country poontang.”

“I just bet you would,” deputy Chase said. “Well, that ain’t uh-gonna happen tonight, sonny. When we’re done here, you’re gonna haul yer bidness straight back in-duh town. Unner-stan?”

“Yes, sir. Why is it that you stopped us?”

“Oh, I gist seen you boys back a piece, an’ dittun have in-uh thin’ funner to do than jack you around. No harm in that now—is there, son?”

“No, no, sir. We’ve found you a most entertainin’ country cocksucker.” Sparky laughed and slapped the steering wheel in delight.

“Uh-huh, well, maybe I should knock those purdy teef uh yers right back in yer smirkin’ mouth,” deputy Chase said. “Ask you a question, son. Just one more?”

“Anything, sir, be my guest.”

“You got a license to be drivin’ that mouth? Cuz yer runnin’ ’er way over the limit.”

“Boys,” Jack Johannes said, “sounds to me like The Spectator room is going to be very entertaining next year.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Chastened

May 1964

Will’s brother, Richard, co-owned a farm with Will as an investment; he was not interested in managing it. After their parents’ accident, the brothers also co-owned their father’s farm and, with Richard’s blessing and encouragement, Will temporarily inherited its management, too.

Will organized a work space in a corner of the Coulters’ family room. Inspired by the artistic efforts of her friend Alice Whitman, as a gift for her Iowa-raised husband, Caroline shot, enlarged, framed, and hung two photos: one of deep green, tall, perfect rows of late July corn and another of golden and purple-tinged autumnal soybeans, both crops beneath gigantic cumulus clouds suspended in a blue sky.

Will was seated at his Iowa desk, a smooth, flat door on sawhorses, with a view, through the family room’s open French doors, of the Coulters’ front door. When Chase arrived from work on a late Monday afternoon, Will called to him.

“Whatcha need?” Chase asked and walked toward the family room.

Will stood and, after Chase joined him in the family room, closed the French doors. “Have a seat, bud, we need to talk. How’d school and work go today?”

“Fine, both fine. Great weather,” Chase answered.

Chase sat on the padded window seat. Will returned to his desk chair and swiveled to face the window.

“Chase, I had a long telephone conversation this afternoon with a man named Frank Rains. He told me you’ve met with him at school twice previously, and he wants to meet with the two of us, as soon as practical. You don’t work after school tomorrow, do you?

“Nope.”

“Good, I told him we’d come to his office right after school. Let Ginny know I’ll pick you up at school tomorrow.”

“Oh boy,” Chase said in a tone implying this isn’t good, leaned forward, feet on the floor in front of him, braced his forearms on his thighs, and looked at Will. “Did Rains tell you what he wants to talk about?”

“Good Lord, Chase, he told me a raft of things—thirty or forty minutes’ worth—all things I didn’t know.”

Chase took a deep breath, audibly exhaled, and looked down.

“Seems they’ve located a runaway kid named Mitch Gray,” Will said.

Chase raised his head and asked, “Is he back in Bloomington?”

“Officer Rains didn’t say. He said Mitch is a close friend of yours, and he wanted to know how well I knew him.”

Will leaned back in his chair, laced his hands together, and brought them slowly up near his chin. “I told him I’ve never met the boy or heard you talk about him.”

“Uh-huh. Did he seem surprised by that?”

“Not that I could tell. Rains started our conversation very politely—said he’d heard about your grandparents’ accident and offered his condolences.” Will unlaced his hands and stroked the surface of the desk.

“But when I told him I’d never heard you mention Mitch, he was sarcastic. ‘Oh, I’ll bet that’s true,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Mitch and Chase are good friends.’ He also said I need to pay closer attention to your activities—that you’re a secret keeper and a slick little liar.”

Will lightly gripped the edge of the desk. “Are those things true?”

“Well, some of them no, some yes. He thinks Mitch and I have been big pals since junior high; he’s wrong about that. He thinks I’ve lied to him and kept secrets about Mitch from him—and he’s right. I’ve kept secrets about Mitch from a lot of people for a long time.”

“If Officer Rains met with you twice at school, you’ve also kept those facts secret from your mom and me.”

“That’s true, Dad, but what does Rains want? It’s been at least a year since I met with him the last time.”

“That’s interesting. He didn’t mention how long ago he met with you. What he wanted was for me to try, before we meet tomorrow, to get you to tell me anything and everything you did to help Mitch when he ran away.”

Will turned to look at a handwritten list and ran a finger across a line near the top of the page.

“He suggested I might ask you first about Mitch’s bloody fight in junior high.” Will slid his finger to the next lower line. “And he thought I should ask why you lied to him about when you and Mitch had a very personal chat on a hayride.”

“Hm. Okay.”

“So, what’s important about the fight and your hayride conversation?”

Chase turned sideways, backed up against a built-in bookcase, and put his feet in the window seat. He gripped his knees and looked over his shoulder at Will. “I don’t know, Pop.” Chase looked away—out the window.

“Wish you’d take your shoes off the pad, bud. Well, why do you think he suggested I start with those things?”

“I guess because he thinks I lied to him about both of them. I don’t know. Maybe he wants to prove to you that I’m a liar.” Chase spun around and put his feet back on the floor.

“Okay,” Will said, “so maybe those would be good places to start. He told me that a tough guy, a bully, wanted to beat you up after school and, instead, Mitch insulted the guy and fought him. He said Mitch kind of took the guy on for you.”

“There’s more to it, but that’s all true.”

“Rains thought that sounded like you guys must be really good friends. Why don’t you explain why that isn’t true, but maybe give me a short version; your mom will have dinner ready soon.”

“Okay, uh, Mitch Gray’s a good guy. We’ve always gotten along fine, but we’ve never had any classes together. Well, one year we had a gym period together—with about fifty other guys. And, uh, we both tried out for the basketball team about that same time; neither of us made it. But, anyway, Pop, I’ve never been over to his house—we’ve never done things outside of school or gone anywhere together. You’ve met most of my good friends. So, Rains can think what he wants, but he’s wrong.”

“Rains said you guys both went on a hayride—that wasn’t at school—and Rains thinks you lied to him about that. Why’s that?”

“Oh, that’s simple. I told Rains I hadn’t seen Mitch in over a year, but I just forgot that Mitch and a date went on Christy Campbell’s hayride. The hayride was only, like, six months earlier. I didn’t lie. I just forgot about seeing Mitch and talking with him at the hayride.”

“Well, you can understand why Rains thought you’d lied. He also said Mitch told you some very personal things about his relationship with his stepdad. He thought that was more proof of your friendship. What did Mitch tell you?”

“Terrible stuff, Dad. Stuff I told Rains, but I don’t think he believed.”

Chase bent down and began untying his shoes. “Listen, Dad, Mitch hates his stepfather. The guy, his name is Fenner, is some kind of pervert.” Chase removed one shoe and held it. “Mitch asked me if I knew a boy could be raped, and I’m sure he meant himself. Good god, Dad.” Chase whacked the sole of the shoe on the palm of one hand. “I think his stepfather raped him.”

Will leaned back in his chair. “You’re right, Chase, that’s awful. Didn’t Rains offer to help?”

“No, he didn’t. Oh, but he couldn’t have. That first time Rains came to see me at school, Mitch had already run away. Rains mostly wanted to know if I knew where Mitch had gone.”

Will stood. “I better find out how dinner is coming,” he said and left the room. He returned with a soft drink for each of them. He put one for Chase on a coaster on the end of the desk near the window seat. “Your mom and Julie are going to go ahead and eat. She’ll put our dinners in the oven on warm.”

They both took a drink. Chase had untied a second shoe and put it with the other, beside him on the window seat.

“Rains doesn’t know, and I sure didn’t tell him, Pop, but probably that hayride conversation was important because that’s when Mitch found out there’s a bed in our garage attic.” Chase tugged his socks up and smoothed his jeans down over them. “That’s probably when Mitch began to think our garage attic might make a good hiding place if he ran away.”

“Well, you surely understand why Rains would see that conversation as evidence of a good friendship—right?”

“I guess so, but this stuff is all a waste of our time.”

“Well, Officer Rains certainly didn’t think learning the details of those incidents would be a waste of my time, and I’m inclined to think he’s right.”

“Dad”—a bit of impatience leaked into Chase’s voice—“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think Rains knows half of what I’ve done for Mitch. I’ve kept way more important stuff from him—secrets I’ve never told anyone.”

“Well, and obviously these are secrets you’ve also kept from your mother and me.”

“That’s true. Boy, Dad, when we meet with Rains tomorrow a bunch more important stuff, things I’ve done, may come out. I’m thinkin’, a lot of time has passed since Mitch ran away, it’d probably be okay and better for you to hear this stuff from me.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Chase?”

“I don’t know, Dad. I guess there might be some law against what I’ve done; I don’t know.”

“Well, this sounds serious. Let’s hear it—secrets and all.”

“Phew...okay. So, uh, Dad, Mitch called me in March last year, not this year. Things with his stepdad were terrible. The guy jammed the lock on Mitch’s bedroom door so Mitch couldn’t keep him out.”

Chase moved his shoes from the window seat to the floor. “He was going to run away, and stay away, forever if he could.

“First, he wanted to just disappear, to hide out several days where no one could find him. He called because he wanted to hide in our garage attic.” Chase picked up one of the shoes and fiddled with its lace.

“Did he do that, Chase?”

“Uh-huh, for a week.”

“He hid in our garage attic for a week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, but Chase, there’s no plumbing, no—”

“Dad, please”—Chase held the shoe up, sole toward Will—“I told Mitch those things. He had figured out ways to handle that kind of stuff. Talking about that is just going to keep us from getting to what’s really important.”

“Okay, okay, so go on.”

And Chase did go on, and on. He told Will about Mitch’s age and his parents’ divorce. He told Will about Viola Reynolds seeing Mitch in their alley and her call to Rains.

It was twilight before the entire tale was nearly complete.

“That second time Rains talked to me,” Chase said, “he’d located Mitch’s real dad. Rains has friends, Indian guys down in Quapaw, guys that know Mitch’s dad.

“Pop, before he ran away, when Mitch called, the one thing that worried him most was being discovered and being made to go back to live with his mom and stepdad. I’m hopin’ maybe Rains has cooked up some way for Mitch to live with his dad.

“Anyway, Dad, I promised Mitch I wouldn’t tell anyone his plans. If they worked, no one was ever going to know how he’d disappeared. The last evening he was at our place, the night he left town, I let him come in the house and shower. I gave him some leftovers and money.

“That last night, while he was in the house, you and Mom came up the driveway from dinner and a show just as Mitch hurried out the back door. I haven't seen or heard from him since.”

“That’s quite a story. Are there more things I need to know?”

“Well, in that second meeting with Rains, he was angry and frustrated with me. By then, he knew I’d lied about not having seen Mitch after he ran away, and he suspected I hadn’t told him the whole story.”

“He certainly had good reasons.”

“Yeah, and he was right, but listen, Dad, just listen a minute more.

“I’ve kept these secrets a long time. It’s been what? A year and a couple of months, and it’s been like living with a cornered animal—one that could come snarlin’ out at any time and bite. I have dreams about it.

“Now that he’s located Mitch,” Chase continued, “I don’t know what else Rains may know. The whole thing makes me feel sick.”

“Well, you shouldn’t lie about any of it, anymore. It’ll help you to get all this—”

“Wait, Dad, please, wait one more minute, let me finish.

“Crummy as this is—and how sick I feel—I am not one bit sorry about helping Mitch; I’m not. He’s a good guy. And all he needed was some safe shelter and somebody he could trust.

“Dad, you gotta understand—knowin’ what I knew then—I’d do all of this again.”

‡

The next afternoon, after school, Will and Chase approached the dispatcher’s desk at the Bloomington Police Station. The desk officer, busy on a phone, pointed to a row of empty chairs and gestured for them to go there and sit down.

With its carelessly mopped, grimy tile floor, the smoke-stained walls scuffed by the backs of the cheap molded plastic chairs, and a day’s supply of disposable cups scattered here and there—cigarette butts floating in cold coffee—the waiting room could have been mistaken, with the addition of pinball machines, for an ill-kept bus terminal.

After the desk officer finished his call, he waved them to return to the desk, stubbed out a cigarette, blew his nose, took their names, and called Rains.

Rains came to the waiting area, introduced himself to Will, said Chase’s name and gave him a nod, and led them down a hallway to his office. Rains eased himself into in a squeaking office chair, swiveled left and right, and rolled back. Will and Chase sat in wooden armchairs across the desk from him. In the center of the desk, a zippered, bulging, yellow-leather pouch rested on top of several file folders.

“Mr. Coulter,” Rains began, “were you able to get your son to tell you about his role in the Mitch Gray runaway story?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe he was truthful and reasonably complete in the telling?”

“Well, some of this happened, actually all of it happened over a year ago, but, yes, I think he tried.”

“I hope you’re right. That would save us lots of time. To date, I’ve not been able to get a complete or fully truthful version of anything from him.”

“Well, Chase admitted that he’s dodged some of your questions and that he lied to you about his contacts with Mitch.”

“Well, he’s lied about more than that,” Rains said. “Listen, fellas, turns out I have to be in court on another matter, by about four-thirty. So, I’m-uh need to move this meeting right along.”

Chase took a deep breath and tried to remain still.

Rains patted the leather pouch on his desk. “Chase,” he asked, “do you recognize this?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No.”

“Well, it has three sections: one for tobacco, another for a pipe and pipe tool, and a third for a lighter.”

Rains picked up the pouch, unzipped a section, extracted a pipe, and held it up. “You recognize this?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay.” Rains tucked the pipe back inside the pouch, unzipped a second section, removed a lighter, and held it for Chase to see. “How about this?”

“That looks like a Zippo lighter. Last I knew, Mitch had one.”

“Well, tucked in here with the tobacco”—Rains unzipped the third section—“there are six little notes.” Rains fished in that section of the pouch with his index finger and spilled loose tobacco and several small, folded notes onto his desk. He ignored the tobacco, unfolded four of the notes, and studied them. He refolded three and held one open with both hands.

“I’m-uh read this one to you. ‘CC, I’m here. Thanks 4 stuff. Fold note—so I’ll know you saw. Leave it.’”

Rains folded the note and set it aside, separate from the others. “Do you recognize that note, Chase?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you tell us who CC is, and when an’ why this note was written?”

“CC is Chase Coulter, me.” Chase looked at the other notes on the desk. “Mitch wrote that note to tell me he’d arrived and was in the attic of our garage. Uh, he would have written it on a Saturday night, and I would have read it the next day, Sunday.”

With his index finger, Rains slid a second note toward him on the desk and opened it. “Okay, now, this one says ‘Words out. Rains met with Jean yesterday. CC.’

“So, this is a note from you to Mitch,” Rains said, “and it tells him that I’d met with Jean Logan, his girlfriend, the day before, which was a Tuesday. That right?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you may recall, Chase, you told me you did not know if Jean was still Mitch’s girlfriend. Oh, whoops! That would be one more lie you told me. What else is new?” Rains flipped the note onto the desk near the first one he’d read. “One more lie you told me—is that right, son?”

“Yes.”

“And, just curious, Chase, how’d you know I’d talked to Jean?”

“A friend of hers, Christy Campbell, pretty much announced that at East Junior the next day.”

“Oh, okay. I’ve met with Jean several times. She’s never mentioned having contact with you after the Campbell’s hayride.”

“That’s true. We haven’t spoken since the hayride,” Chase said.

“Well, we don’t need to read all these notes. As you can see, Mr. Coulter, there are four more.” Rains pinned the remaining folded notes with the fingers of one hand, slid them into a row on the desk, and spoke to Will.

“These notes, Mr. Coulter, establish that Mitch Gray was housed in the attic of your garage, hidden there, on your property, for a week. Did you know that?”

“Not until last night, when Chase told me.”

“So, Chase has shared the details about Mitch’s stay in your garage?”

“He didn’t mention an exchange of notes,” Will said. “So, not all the details, but Chase did tell me that Mitch stayed in our garage attic for a week.”

“Chase,” Rains said, “I don’t know why I bother to ask, but I assume you’ve not had any further contact with Mitch since his stay in the garage?” Rains paused. “That was a question, son.”

“No, I haven’t but he’s probably been in the garage attic again. His sleeping bag and a small gym bag showed up there sometime last year. Last I knew, they were still there.”

“So, Mitch was back, left things in the attic of your garage, but he didn’t call or talk to you?”

“No,” Chase said, but he paused. “Well, I didn’t see or talk to him. If he tried to call, we didn’t connect. I also don’t know when he was there, and it didn’t look like he’d stayed. I can’t be certain.”

“Did he leave you a note?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look for one.”

“Okay, well, I’m-uh think about that. In the meantime, do not touch or move the things in the garage attic.”

“I looked in the gym bag, several months ago,” Chase said. “There are T-shirts and underwear and a can of tobacco in it.”

“Don’t touch those things again, understand? Anything else in the gym bag?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When did you first notice those things?”

“Mm, last year. I was up there. Uh, fall. Weather was warm. Late September, maybe October—before chilly weather.”

“So, you did not have a chance to give Mitch my card or encourage him to call me?”

“No.”

“And, of course, you didn’t call and let me know his things were there, did you?”

“No, but you said—if I had contact with Mitch—I was to give him your card or your number and encourage him to call you. I didn’t have any contact. I couldn’t do that.”

“Maybe that’s true. And certainly you’re just a regular little hairsplitter. This is just another example of you keeping information from me.” Rains shook his head and blew out a frustrated breath.

“So, Officer Rains,” Will said, “when you called yesterday, you said you’d located Mitch. I’m sure Chase is concerned about him. How’s he doing?”

Rains inhaled, bent his head to one side, breathed out, and slipped a thin file folder out of the stack. “That’s why I asked you to meet with me.” Rains opened the folder and read silently.

“Listen, fellas.” Rains looked up and spoke directly to Chase. “I have horrible news. Mitch is dead. His body was found at a bridge construction site south of town last week.”

Rains did not look down at the file. His eyes locked on Chase. “The coroner’s prelim says Mitch was likely beaten to death. The body was decomposed, probably had been there, buried, for months.”

“This”—Rains pointed at the leather pouch—“was in perfect condition, inside a plastic sack in a jacket beside the body. Chase, I have a few more things to say to you, but I’m-uh let you catch your breath a minute.”

Rains took a little time gathering the folded notes and pushed them into a section of the pouch, zipped it, and placed the pouch on top of the files.

“Kid, I don’t suspect you had anything to do with Mitch being beaten. I do think, if he was in town, he would have called or talked to you if he could. If you know something, if you saw or talked to him, spent any time with him, or had any message or contact of any kind with him when he was in town, you’d better tell me—right now.” Rains paused, stared at Chase, and waited for an answer.

“He was beaten to death and buried out there?” Chase asked, his eyes welling, and met Rains’s stare with a stare. “Good god, what? What did you ask? I’m sorry, what was your question?”

“I asked if you had any contact of any kind with him when he came back to town. Maybe he had someone call or contact you. If you had any contact of any kind with him, son, you better tell me now.”

“I haven’t...haven’t had any contact with Mitch or from anyone else with a message from him. But why would you believe me?”

Will put a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Chase, you answered his question: that’s enough.” Will faced toward Rains. “Let me ask you, Officer Rains, do you know if there will be any sort of service for Mitch?”

“I don’t,” Rains answered and swiveled to face Will. “If there will be, it’ll have to be several days, maybe weeks, from now.”

Rains looked at his wristwatch. “Boys, I’m-uh hafta leave. The next contact from the department won’t come from me. A couple of detectives handle anything that looks like homicide—which this does. They’ll be in touch.”

Rains swiveled the chair and, ignoring Will, looked directly at Chase. “I have more to say to you, Chase.”

Rains put his left fist on the desk in front of him, covered it with his right hand, and leaned forward. “Over and over, kid, I asked what you knew about Mitch’s whereabouts. If the timeline I’ve put together is correct, he’d left your place before we talked that first time, so maybe you really didn’t know where he went.” Rains shook his head.

“But I find out, now, that he’s probably been back in the area, left stuff in your garage attic, and of course you didn’t call to let me know.” Rains’s voice was full of disgust, but he paused and twice bounced his locked-together hands on the desk.

“I’m not sure what difference it would have made if you’d told me the truth about Mitch hiding at your place, but we’ll never know—because you didn’t tell me—you just lied.

“And I don’t know if you’d called me last fall about finding his stuff in your garage attic that that would have made any difference either—it might have.

“But, dammit, son, you let me and his mother down. I want you to understand”—Rains lifted his right hand, thumb up and index finger pointed like a pistol at Chase—“I count you as a contributor to Mitch Gray’s death.”

Rains grasped the stack of file folders with both hands, the pouch still atop, turned sideways, and dropped them from desktop height into an open lower desk drawer and shoved the drawer shut with the sole of his shoe. He removed another folder from an upper drawer, rolled his chair back, and stood. “I need to leave, boys, and that’s all I have to say to either of you.”

Rains started toward the door, and Will spoke to his departing back. “Well, mister, you’ve certainly said enough.”

‡

For most of the drive home, Will gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Chase looked at the front floor of the car. Neither of them spoke.

A few blocks from home, Will relaxed his grip, thumped the palm of one hand against the steering wheel, and said, “Well, that was nasty,” and paused before he spoke again. “I’m sorry, Chase. Rains told me on the phone that they’d located Mitch—not that they’d found his body.” Will paused again.

“Maybe he wanted to watch your reaction to the news—I don’t know—he sure did watch you. Whatever his reasons—he was obviously angry and in a hurry.” Again, Will paused.

“I want to tell you some things, Chase. I’m just too upset right now. We can talk later, maybe tomorrow—okay?”

“Okay.” Chase turned without focus toward the passenger window and stared at houses they passed and cars parked along the streets.

When Will pulled to a stop in the Coulters’ driveway, Chase climbed out, slammed the passenger door, and ran straight toward the garage.

Will pulled himself quickly up and out of the driver’s seat and stood beside the car. “Chase,” he called out, “don’t mess with anything up there. You know what Rains said.”

“I’m just gonna check something.”

Chase climbed the stairs to the garage attic, sat on one of the upper stairs, lifted the dusty forgotten mat, found a note, and began to read.

“Chase, don’t,” Will called from the bottom of the stairs. “You probably shouldn’t even touch that.”

“It’s to me, Pop,” Chase answered. “It’s to me.”

“Well, put it back, Chase. Leave it there. We better play by the rules. Come on down.”

Chase reread the note and put it back under the mat.

A few minutes later, Will called the police dispatcher and left a message for Rains. It told him that after their meeting, Chase discovered a note from Mitch under a mat on the stairs to the Coulters’ garage attic and that Chase read it and put it back under the mat.

‡

Rains called Will the next morning to ask if he’d grant permission, or if the detectives would need a warrant, to search the garage.

Chapter Twenty-four

Bullshit!

May 1964

Later in the evening, after the meeting with Rains, after a dinner without meaningful conversation, and after the dishes were done, Chase retreated to his room and closed the door. Julie only understood something was very wrong and hid in her room to read.

Will and Caroline tidied the kitchen counters, turned off the lights, and adjourned to the family room. After a lengthy conversation with her, Will taped a folded notecard on Chase’s bedroom door. On the front it said: “Please tell Ginny I’ll pick you up again tomorrow after school. We’ll go somewhere and talk.”

Inside the folded notecard, in his neat engineer’s lettering, Will had written: Experience is a hard teacher. She gives the test first; the instruction follows.

‡

Will picked Chase up at the high school the next afternoon.

Chase climbed in the front passenger seat and said, “Dad, could we run by the store? I wanna move the bottle carts out to the shed and let someone know I’ll be at work tomorrow.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to take off today?”

“Uh-huh, I can work Wednesday or Thursday, whichever is better for me. This will only take a few minutes.”

Will parked near the loading doors behind the store. Chase went in and soon came back through those doors to unlock the gate to a long chain-link cage nestled against the back of the building. Chase shuttled in and out several times, rolling cola-bottle-filled carts into the cage. Finally, he locked the gate, returned the key to a hook inside, and rejoined Will in the car.

“There are concrete picnic tables above the river in Silver Stream Park,” Will said. “It’s a nice afternoon. What say, we run down there to talk?”

“Sounds good,” Chase said and looked out the passenger window. “Are you still angry, Pop?”

“No,” Will answered and steered the car into an opening in traffic. “And I’m glad I didn’t try to talk with you last night. I talked to your mom and she helped me calm down. I also had time today to call an attorney friend.”

“Do we need a lawyer?”

“Probably not, but I certainly needed legal guidance.”

On the drive to the park, Will explained some of the legal niceties about harboring a juvenile runaway and lying to the police. The essence was, first, that had Will known about Mitch’s stay, he would have been obliged to advise the police. And, second, if Chase was older, lying to the police would be a crime. It was unwise at any age but, at Chase’s age, and under the circumstances, it seemed unlikely any action would be pursued, but only time would tell.

The mild spring day and the passing views of blooming redbuds, dogwoods, and forsythia seemed to seep gradually into the vehicle and its passengers.

After they left the car and as they brushed twigs and leaves from a concrete tabletop, Will asked, “It’s been what, Chase, maybe six months since President Kennedy was killed?”

“Close. It was Friday, November twenty-second,” Chase answered, “three days before my birthday.”

Chase stepped up onto the concrete picnic bench, turned, and sat at one end of the tabletop with his feet on the bench below.

Will sat near the other end of the tabletop and turned toward Chase. “Seeing Jackie in Arlington Cemetery holding hands with those two little children was heartbreaking.”

Chase bent forward, forearms on thighs, fingers intertwined, and looked down.

Will continued, “And, only two weeks later, your grandparents were killed. What a sad time. You and your granddad had a sweet relationship.”

“Their funeral,” Chase answered, “in the church all decorated for Christmas, was really hard.” Close to tears, he looked through the budding trees to the river below sparkling in late afternoon sunshine.

After a short pause, Will said, “And yesterday, Officer Rains, in a hurried, callous way, told us that a friend of yours—someone you’d tried to protect—was beaten to death.

“Man, that’s a lot of death...a lot of hard stuff, Chase. If you’re feeling shell-shocked and confused, that’d sure be understandable.”

“Funny, I’ve been thinking about those deaths today, Dad, all of them. An’ I’ve had the strangest thoughts.”

“You want to tell me?”

“Uh-huh, but it may sound pretty weird. Remember when we watched the Academy Awards—there were nominations for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor?”

“Sure.”

“To me, President Kennedy, Gramps, and Mitch were all in leading roles. Sort of like central characters in their worlds. Does that make any sense?”

“I think so. Go on, Chase, I‘m following you.”

“So, Jackie and Gram were kind of in supporting roles for JFK and Gramps.

“Dad, seems like, when Mitch ran away—he decided he had to take the lead in his life. But, uh, who?” Chase’s voice got stuck on that word. “Ah, darn it, sorry.” He was trying to suppress anger and not cry. “Who played a supporting role in the story of his life?”

“I didn’t know him or his family, Chase. What do you think?”

“I’m thinking nobody, nobody did. I kinda did, a little, but if I was his big buddy, you’d think I’d feel terrible; I haven’t even cried.

“Dad, I cried over Kennedy’s death, and just like you, that scene, with Jackie holding hands with Caroline and little John-John, made me feel terrible.

“An’ I cried like a baby, a couple of times, after Gram and Gramps died. Someday I’ll tell you a scary story about Gramps—someday, not now.”

“You were really angry at first when your grandparents died,” Will said. “Are you angry about Mitch’s death?

“Oh hell yes, and I still am. I still am.

“Dad, when we left the meeting with Rains, you were obviously really angry. I gotta tell you, that’s just breaking my heart.” Chase winced and his eyes welled.

“You can’t blame... Wait, why’s that breaking your heart? What Rains said is breaking your heart?”

“Oh, I can live with Rains being angry. He’s just doing his job.”

“Oh, Chase, no. Do you...did you...think I was angry with you?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Oh, no, Chase. No.”

“No?”

“No. I was upset—just furious with Rains.

“Chase, the other day, when you talked about sheltering Mitch, you asked me, a couple of times, to give you a minute to finish what you wanted to say. You did a really good job explaining yourself.

“There are two things I planned to tell you today—would you give me a few minutes to explain some things to you?”

Tears continued to well in Chase’s eyes. “Sure,” he said.

Will paused a moment. “JFK had Secret Service guys trying to protect him. That’s because being president comes with serious risks. John Kennedy knew that and he had to weigh those risks against the value he thought his leadership could bring.”

Will slipped down from the table and picked up a small, forked branch and returned with it to his perch on the table.

“Your grandfather also took a risk, but it was a small one. He’d driven to Red Oak from Council Bluffs many times. There wasn’t much snow, and Iowans drive on snow a lot.” Will snapped the forked twig off the branch and tossed the twig aside.

“There’s a small risk in lots of the things we do every day. A few people die in accidents on the way to and from work. Dad’s risk was more like that. Heading home to Red Oak that morning was an easy decision.

“Mitch’s risks were not everyday stuff: hiding out, trying to hop trains, maybe hitchhiking. Just running away—being a kid out there on your own—is a high-risk deal.” Will snapped the stick in half and gripped the two pieces. “I suspect Mitch didn’t feel he had much of a choice.”

“That’s right, Dad. He felt like he had no choice.”

“Chase, have you ever heard me swear?”

“No.”

“Not ever, right?” Will flipped the two sticks aside.

“No, not ever.”

“Well, buddy, I know how, and I was really tempted to swear yesterday afternoon at the police station. And not at you, Chase, not at you.”

Will reached behind him, took an acorn from the table, and hurled it, hard, toward the trees below. He watched it ricochet off limbs and bounce down the hillside.

“Well, I’m gonna swear now, and I’m gonna do it for a good reason.”

Will turned toward Chase. “I want you to remember that the only time you ever heard your dad swear was after Frank Rains said you were somehow partly responsible for Mitch Gray’s death.

“That...is bullshit, Chase...just total bullshit!

“It was wrong and unfair of Rains to say that. I understand he was frustrated about your lies and lack of cooperation and that he was in a hurry.

“But, listen to me, here’s the truth—you got a lot of things right in what you told me Monday.

“Mitch Gray took a risk trusting you, and he picked the right guy. You gave him safe shelter—you hid him, helped him, and fed him. You did what you could to protect him from real harm.

“The lying part of what you did, Chase, plain and simple, wasn’t good and that almost never is, but you did it for the right reasons.

“You risked getting in trouble, but you obviously felt preventing harm to a good guy was worth the risk to you. And you know what? I agree with you. I’m proud of you. You were a fine, loyal friend, and it sure wasn’t easy.

“If you ever doubt what you did, read that little saying I taped on your door last night.

“There was no way you could prepare for this experience. But you passed the test—you darn sure passed the test.

“Any crummy lessons you have to face in the days and months ahead, and there may be some, won’t change that. And, buddy, I’ll be there for you.

“You were not and you are not responsible for Mitch Gray’s death, no matter what Frank Rains says—now or ever. You got that?”

Tears spilled down Chase’s cheeks; he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He pressed his lips tightly together, breathed in deeply, and answered, “I got it.”

Chase bent forward, hands clasped behind his head, unable to stop the tears or the agonized throaty sounds that accompanied the quaking motions of his head. Eventually, he calmed, looked up at Will, and said, “I got it, Dad.”

Chase bowed his head again and closed his eyes. “Thank you...so much.”

“You are certainly welcome,” Will said, and he stood, bending toward Chase to put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

About the Author

The author, John Hale, was born, raised, and public schooled in Joplin, Missouri, near the geographic heart of the USA. Following his Illinois Wesleyan University graduation, he taught American Literature and Creative Writing, and was later employed as a salesperson, civil servant, human resources manager, and corporate executive.

A husband, father, and grandfather, a conservative-liberal idealist, Hale's writing is, like his life, multliayered.

Table of Contents

- Preface
- Thanks and Dedication
- Chapter One: Awakening
- Chapter Two: Penures
- Chapter Three: Acquainted with the Night
- Chapter Four: New Mathematics
- Chapter Five: The Sycophant
- Chapter Six: Parents Night
- Chapter Seven: Tryouts
- Chapter Eight: Farm Time
- Chapter Nine: Farmed Out
- Chapter Ten: Courtside Chats
- Chapter Eleven: Mr. Lucky
- Chapter Twelve: Caged
- Chapter Thirteen: Bed No Breakfast
- Chapter Fourteen: A Brief Shower
- Chapter Fifteen: Spring Break
- Chapter Sixteen: Slammin’ Some Methodists
- Chapter Seventeen: Another Rainy Day
- Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Inconveniences
- Chapter Nineteen: Higher Education
- Chapter Twenty: Burying One God
- Chapter Twenty-one: The Imp of the Perverse
- Chapter Twenty-two: Finally, Freedom
- Chapter Twenty-three: Chastened
- Chapter Twenty-four: Bullshit!
- About the Author