by Jim Guhl
“I guess.”
“My heartfelt congratulations on the achievement. I must say, you went into it as a considerable underdog, and yet you prevailed. Well done.”
“Sure, but what about Rhonda? She’s the one with all the talent. You saw her. You heard her. Gosh, Mr. Schirmer, if anyone in this school is a natural born actress, it’s Rhonda Glass. She should be Juliet. She deserves it.”
Schirmer’s smile disappeared as his forehead compressed into a geometric pattern of wrinkles. He lifted his hands together with each finger touching its mirror opposite. “Indeed, Miss Glass is a strong talent and perhaps she will find a leading role in a future production,” he said. “I’m hopeful that she will accept a minor role in this play.”
“She should be Juliet.”
“She simply wasn’t right for this role.”
“What do you mean, wasn’t right for this role?”
“The character of Juliet must project a certain appearance, a certain elegance. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
“You didn’t pick her because she’s fat?”
His eyebrows practically banged into the ceiling. “It was a factor in our selection.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Perhaps not.”
There it was, the plain truth. Fairness didn’t matter. Schirmer was just doing his job. He was casting the role of Juliet to fit a stereotype that the audience expected to see. The role of Juliet went way beyond talent. It demanded a slender beauty. Rhonda Glass never had a shot.
“Maybe I’ll quit. I’m the wrong size too, you know?”
“That’s your choice,” he shrugged. “There’s always Norwood Heckmeyer.”
I had one more thing to say, and it might have got me my second suspension of the school year. Somehow, I held it inside and walked slowly to homeroom. The bell rang. I was late again but didn’t care.
All day at school I looked for Rhonda. I saw Opal and Mark having lunch together and asked them if they had seen her. Neither had. After the final bell, I finally went to Miss Elmore, the school secretary.
“Excuse me. Have you heard anything from a student named Rhonda Glass today? I’m trying to find her.”
“She went home sick before first period.”
“What was wrong with her?”
Miss Elmore looked at me like I was a Russian spy. “Why do you care? Are you a relative? If not, then I can’t help you.”
“She’s my friend.”
“I can’t help you.”
“She’s my girlfriend.” Even I was surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth.
“Your girlfriend?” Miss Elmore gave me a stern look and folded her arms in disbelief. “What’s your name?”
“Del Finwick.”
“Oh yes,” she said with narrowed eyes. “I’ve heard about you.”
“I need to help her. She got some bad news this morning and I’m afraid she’s going to do something stupid. Something terrible. Was she crying when she came here?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Can I use your phone please?”
“Come to my desk.”
Miss Elmore looked up Rhonda’s phone number in a file cabinet and jotted it down on a slip of paper. She dialed the number and waited. She drummed her fingers on the desk and looked at me like I was a criminal. At last, a voice responded on the telephone.
“Hello, Rhonda? . . . This is Miss Elmore, the secretary at Shattuck High School. Are you doing all right? . . . Del Finwick is asking about you. Would you like to talk to him?”
Miss Elmore handed me the phone.
“Rhonda, are you okay?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“Will you be back in school tomorrow? I need to see you.”
“No.”
“Why not.”
The phone clicked off. Criminy!
I thanked Miss Elmore, ran for the door, and kept on running over a mile to the Emerald Gardens apartments. From the phone book and a map of Neenah, Grandpa Asa helped me figure out how to get to Rhonda’s house. She lived on the south side of town, pretty close to the big radio tower. We marked it on the map and I ripped it from the phone book. Asa handed me the truck keys and I was off at a sprint.
The engine groaned but finally started. I let it warm up for a minute, then killed it twice in the parking lot before finding the rhythm of clutch-shift-clutch release. At last, I got it moving and followed alongside the railroad tracks on Harrison Street. A stop sign at Cecil forced me to work the clutch again, but I caught it just right and even burned some rubber. With a left turn at the foundry, I saw the giant electromagnet lifting scrap iron off the rust-colored mountain. Through an open door the glowing molten iron appeared the same color as jack-o-lantern light, and a smokestack coughed up a cloud of sooty air.
Rhonda’s house was a little green bungalow with a couple pieces of wood siding missing and varnish peeling off the front door. I rang the bell and a dog barked from somewhere inside. After a minute, the door creaked open. Rhonda stood there in a frumpy gray sweatshirt and pajama pants.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” Her face was puffy red and her eyes watery. A stack of empty pizza boxes sat on the living room floor and the place smelled like rotten vegetables.
“Do you want to go to Robby’s?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Are you here all by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go somewhere so we can talk.”
She looked away.
“Please. Let’s just go for a drive.”
“Okay.” She grabbed her coat and army boots.
We cruised down Commercial past the Eagles Club and Red Owl. I zigged right at the Butterfly Bar and randomly wandered through the neighborhoods, past Horace Mann Junior High, Wilson School, and Green Park. We drove past the rocket-shaped climbing tower at Riverside Park and past the war cannon. Crossing the bridge to the island we rumbled by the hospital, Food Queen, Roosevelt School, and Atlas Tag. We drove past my house on Fifth, and I showed her where Opal lived and the home of Leroy Kazmynski, the Green Bay Packer who gave me the autographed football. Then it was on to Doty Cabin from a time when Neenah wasn’t even a city yet. I told her the story of how the governor got the name Neenah from the Indians, and Rhonda even smiled a little.
Eventually, we landed at Robby’s, the fast-food joint I had suggested in the first place. It was right there, on the island, just a baseball’s toss from Menasha. They served burgers, fries, and milkshakes in a little joint with chrome-edged countertops and a red-and-white tiled floor—better than five-star dining to a couple of sophomores.
Rhonda told me that she came from a long line of high school dropouts, and her dad wanted her to keep the tradition going.
“My dad said, ‘That theater bullshit don’t pay,’” she told me. Rhonda’s dad wanted her to hire on at the knitting factory, where she could sew the sleeves onto sweaters for the rest of her life.
“That’s grandma work,” I said. “Your talent is acting.”
“My dad says I’m kidding myself.”
“Your dad is full of crap! What do you think of that?!”
Rhonda tried to conceal a little smile. She twisted her face and took a sip of her milkshake, which I took as my signal to continue my rant.
“Not only were you the best actress in that audition, you’re probably the best in all of Neenah High School, including the juniors and seniors at Armstrong. There will be other opportunities, you know, and Mrs. Borger will always be on your side. So will I.”
“I tried,” she said. “I’m just not pretty enough.”
I paused, not sure what to say next. It was true. Mr. Schirmer said so himself. Juliet must project a certain appearance, a certain elegance. Yep. Those were his words.
What I did next I’ll never forget for as long as I live. I leaned over and kissed Rhonda Glass right on the lips. Yep, Righ
t there at Robby’s Hamburgers, in front of everybody.
“You’re prettier than you think,” I said.
She tried not to smile but couldn’t help it.
“Don’t give up, Rhonda. Don’t quit school.”
“I have to,” she said.
I needed a different tack. A message. Something powerful. Then I remembered what Pastor Olson talked about in church.
“Have you ever heard the story of John Akhwari in the Olympic marathon?” I asked.
We found our way to the bowling alley, where I spent my last dollar on Royal Crown Cola and popcorn. After that we took a drive to Kimberly Point and looked out at the lake with the moonlight reflecting off the ice. The truck cab was toasty warm as the engine blew a stream of hot air on our feet.
“Do you think I should turn down the Romeo role?” I asked.
“No quitting allowed,” she said. “Remember?”
“Will you still help me practice?”
She slid over on the truck seat, put her arms around me, and we started lesson one.
45
The week flew by. Rhonda returned to school and decided to accept the minor role of Lady Capulet in Romeo and Juliet. I was excited for her until I learned that her character sought revenge against Romeo and wished him dead.
On Thursday afternoon, I had Hoot Owls to deliver and flew out the side entrance by the cafeteria so I could hurry home and get a jump on them. I had taken my chances locking Eisenhower to the bike racks behind the East Wing and was glad to see that the dirtballs hadn’t vandalized anything. As my fingers touched the handlebar grips an arm reached out from behind the janitor’s shed and grabbed the back of my bike seat. I snapped my head around.
Damn! It was Larry Buskin.
“What’s new, Minnow?”
“Nothing.”
“The sheriff’s dead. That’s something.”
I turned and tried to walk away but Buskin wouldn’t let go of his grip on Eisenhower.
“I’ve got a message for you from the guy who killed your dad and Heiselmann.”
“What?” I spun around.
“He says you need to chill out. Knock it off with the protest marches and anything else that draws attention to the murders.”
I just stared into Buskin’s eyes and said nothing.
“The guy told me that if you keep digging into this thing, the next person to die could be you or a member of your family.”
“Yeah, sure. What do you know about anything?”
Buskin pulled a plastic bag out of his coat pocket. Inside were pills. Red, blue, white, yellow—a whole cornucopia of addictive junk. There were smaller baggies inside the big one. Some with white powder. Another with candy-sized bundles made of tin foil—Jeez!
“You’re a drug dealer?”
Buskin shrugged.
“And you have connections with the killer through drugs?”
He nodded.
“What kind of connections?”
“You promise not to rat me out? We’re both on thin ice, you know.”
With each word I felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. “I promise.”
Buskin looked around the parking lot and poked his head behind the shed.
“Okay, Minnow, listen up. You were right about the sheriff all along. There’s a drug supplier at the root of all the shit, and he’s not nice. If anybody gets too close, they die. Your dad must have known too much, so the guy killed him. Somehow, the sheriff got tangled up in it and was forced to protect him. He must have been blackmailed or threatened like he’s doing to us now.”
“The sheriff was protecting the killer?”
Buskin nodded. “He had to make sure the investigation didn’t lead anywhere. Then you got involved and it changed everything.”
“So I was right to suspect the sheriff?”
“Yeah. Then the killer decided to get rid of him too. And now? Shit. Now, I’m getting pulled into this mess. And to be honest with you, Minnow, I’m surprised that you’re still even alive.”
I nodded and thought back on the bullets that hit the ground right beneath me.
Buskin put his hands up, palms forward. “That’s all I got. I gave you the message. From now on, you and I gotta lay low. It should be easy. Just do nothing—understand?”
“Do nothing?” I repeated.
Buskin nodded slowly. Then he turned and walked away.
Jeez! Now what?
After my chat with Larry Buskin my head was all scrambled up with a confetti storm of thoughts. My Hoot Owl route couldn’t wait, so I hurried home and cranked it out. Once finished, I bombed back across the bridge and wheeled toward Emerald Gardens in the darkness. My stomach was barking by the time I finally locked Ike to the lamppost and rapped my frozen knuckles on 118. I could hear Grandpa Asa maneuvering slowly between stacks of newspapers and other junk. The door swung open.
“I was hoping it was you,” said Asa. I waded into the maze with my head still spinning. We talked about the weather. We talked about Neenah basketball and whether or not we were good enough to go to the state tournament again this year. We talked about world news.
“They signed a peace treaty in Vietnam,” said Asa. “It’s about time we got out of that mess.”
I nodded my head.
“Won’t bring back all those dead boys though, will it?”
I shook my head.
“Looks like some of those Watergate crooks are finally getting locked up. You reckon they’ll ever pinch Nixon?”
“I don’t know.”
Asa was so hungry for a visitor he might have talked all night. While he jabbered nonstop, my brain was stuck on the Highway 41 Killer and his threat to murder my family. For a second I thought about spilling it all to Grandpa Asa, but I quickly changed my mind. It was all on me to keep my family safe, and all I had to do was do nothing. Jeez! It sounded so backward that my plan was now to do nothing. Doing nothing was the coward’s way out. Doing nothing meant the bad guy had won.
“Is something bothering you, Del?”
“No—I just remembered some homework that I still needed to get done.”
“Well, you better run home then.”
“Yeah—but I also had another favor to ask you.”
“Spit it out.”
I explained Steve’s plans to build the Blue Jay Slayer and bomb the baseball field at Menasha High and asked if he would let me use the truck as a transport and getaway vehicle.
“You mean to tell me that after we all got busted for the volcano, you want to try another goofy stunt?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Do you realize that you could be suspended again?”
“Yes.”
“And you think I should get involved by letting you use my truck.”
“It would be a big help.”
Asa scratched his head and tried to look angry, but he couldn’t hold the look for long. “Okay, you can borrow my truck.”
“Just so you know, I still won’t have my license yet,” I said. “I won’t turn sixteen until May.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about a license. We’re on a mission, boy. We’re gonna bomb the Menasha High baseball field.” A trace of pink color came up in Asa’s cheeks and ears, and for a second I saw a fifteen-year-old kid behind those gray eyes.
It was almost nine before Asa finally hinted at ice cream. I scooped up two bowls full. Neither one of us had eaten any supper.
After finishing my homework in my bedroom, I walked downstairs and clicked on the Channel 2 news. For several days after Heiselmann was killed, the murders had been the lead story. They had made it sound like the cops were nipping at the killer’s heels, following clue after clue on the manhunt. It seemed like an arrest would be coming any day. Tonight the lead stories were about flu prevention and snowplow maintenance. Not a single peep about the murders or the Highway 41 Killer.
The cops were getting nowhere again, and what was I going to do about it? Not one damn thing.<
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46
I didn’t sleep well that night.
Do nothing. Do nothing. Do nothing.
Those words stung like a spear in my gut. I felt as weak and helpless as the first day of school, when I let Leon Dinsky spot out Opal and didn’t do a single, solitary thing about it. Whatever happened to the idea of finding some courage? And what about Pastor Olson’s sermon about “Finishing the Race”?
Criminy . . . I was so confused that I had become paralyzed—and that’s exactly what the killer wanted.
In homeroom, Steve surprised me by inviting me to go to the Neenah Rockets basketball game that evening with him and Mark. Apparently, we had been removed from his parents’ forbidden list—proof positive that they knew nothing about our bombing mission with a giant kite. Anyhow, the game was scheduled to take place at the Armstrong High Field House on the other side of Highway 41, and Steve even volunteered to drive, having just turned sixteen and passing his test. He would pick up Mark first, then me.
“Can you go with us?” he asked.
“Okay,” I finally answered. At least it would take my mind off my conversation with Larry Buskin.
We walked into the field house to the sounds of the pep band and at least a thousand noisy fans. Steve, Mark, and I each bought a box of popcorn and wiggled into the bleachers. Steve always picked on a player from the other team by shouting his number along with some sort of wisecrack when the band wasn’t playing. Mark almost got tossed out when his paper airplane landed on the court. Mr. Schultz came after him from the left aisle but Mark snuck out on the right. Steve and I watched the last five minutes of the game without him. The Rockets managed to beat the Kimberly Papermakers 54–47, keeping our hopes for another state tournament alive
Guess what I spotted in the parking lot after the game. A black Cadillac.
Was it the same car? Heck, there had to be a dozen of them in the county. I looked to Mark and Steve but they were too busy jabbering. Slowly my legs carried me off in the direction of the Caddy and then I saw something that stopped me like my feet were locked in cement. There it was, the melon-sized dent in the rear bumper. That was it! I had to find out who owned that Cadillac.
