by C. Ruth Daly
We headed up to bed but we didn’t go to bed. We were up for the next three hours full of excitement from caffeinated tea and the fact that someone besides the three of us thought Ned Hollis looked like Coach Moore from long ago.
TWENTY-ONE
“Do you think he’s still alive?” LBJ asked as we headed down the street in the direction of town toward the start of the Fourth of July festivities.
“Who’s still alive?” Glynda wanted to know. LBJ and I looked at her as if she had been asleep in Grandma Becker’s kitchen last night.
“The coach!” I reported with frustration. “Coach Moore. But guys, the most important question is why does he look like Ned Hollis? Is he a grandfather to Hollis, a dad, or is he an uncle?”
“Maybe he’s none of them.” LBJ reminded me. “You know how there’s suppose to be one other person on the planet who looks just like you.”
Both Glynda and I looked at each other is surprise. “How do you know that, LBJ?” Glynda ask inquisitively.
“My mom told me. Besides, can you imagine Thelma Carson would, you know, with an older man? That grosses me out. I don’t want to even think about it.”
It was a disgusting image to picture. Big, awkward Thelma Carson as a senior in high school wandering through the halls of Burgenton High. I could picture her clutching her books to her chest as she moved from class to class. And there in the dark recesses of a corner stood Coach Moore, smiling seductively at Thelma, who is lured into his arms ...
“Donna. Wake up!” LBJ snapped. “Look over there at Ned Hollis’s campaign quarters.”
We had reached downtown, having walked the four blocks from Grandma Becker’s house. The town square was full of people including the men from the American Legion who were handing out small American flags to anyone who passed by.
The weather was perfect with a blanket of warmth and no humidity. It was apparent Ned Hollis was enjoying the limelight and the adoration he was receiving as a few of the local businessmen hoisted him onto a hay wagon with sides lined with red, white and blue ribbons. On the back of the wagon was a huge copy of a photo of Ned Hollis, most likely taken by him, and beneath it were the words: Ned Hollis, a Man for Burgenton. We stood on the corner and watched Hollis, who was completely oblivious to our presence.
Turning to our left we meandered to the opposite side of the square where Robert Rolf was standing beside a similar hay wagon. On the back of Robert’s wagon was a sign which read: Rolf: A Change for Burgenton. Both Gil and Irish were standing together by Robert, who was surrounded by his wife and two small children. The farmers of the community had gathered around Robert’s wagon. The group included Mr. Miles, Evan’s dad, and a host of other rich leaders of the agricultural community. I noticed though, that Thelma Carson was not on the Hollis bandwagon. She had positioned herself at the Women’s Auxiliary bake sale along with other women from the Protestant churches of town.
“Hey, Glynda. Isn’t your grandma working the bake sale today?” I asked as I nudged Glynda to turn her attention to Thelma at the long display of neatly wrapped cookies, cakes and pies.
“Grandma said she was covering the noon to three shift, why?” Glynda looked over at Thelma. “Oh. I see why.”
“I wonder why she’s not with the Hollis campaign.” LBJ mentioned. “Well, let’s go see what we can buy to eat before the parade begins.”
The three of us wandered around the square taking in the wafting aroma of cigars, caramel corn, corn dogs and fried pork rinds. Nothing looked good to LBJ, but Glynda got some pork rinds and I bought a bag of caramel corn. Back around the square again and we found ourselves near the Hollis campaign wagon where we stopped and shared the delicacies between the three of us. Two of the campaign workers were passing out large suckers with the name Hollis printed on the wrapper. We slid by the mayoral candidate and each grabbed one, looking up afterward to make sure he did not see us.
“What kind did ya get?” Glynda wanted to know as she took the wrapper off to reveal a flat purple swirl. “Looks like I got grape. I bet Rodney would want one. Mom’s bringing him up later, but they might be gone by then. I think I’ll go back and get one.”
“Are you sure you want to do that Glynda? It was risky enough being so close to Hollis, what if he sees you this time?” I was nervous for Glynda. She still seemed awkward and fragile despite the warrior instincts that helped her survive in a household of brothers.
Glynda glided through the line of kids who were picking suckers from the fists of the campaign volunteers, expertly grabbing one from beneath the unsuspecting eye of Ned Hollis, then quickly regrouped with us. Next we lined the curb along the street to catch a good view of the parade. The floats were lining up by the bank while the high school band fell in order. Members of the city council were seating themselves above the back seat of convertibles. Ned Hollis and Robert Rolf also positioned themselves in the backs of the open cars.
“Not much of a parade this year.” I said.
“Yeah, looks like the same old crap.” LBJ added.
We stood and watched as the convertible cars and the single marching band passed by.
“Okay. I’ve seen enough.” LBJ remarked while throwing pieces of caramel corn into a sewer grate.
“Yeah. Let’s just go. Glynda, what do you think?” I asked.
Glynda nodded in agreement and the three of us headed back through the downtown strolling past the drugstore and the alley. When we reached the Opera House I noticed the chain on the door was loosely wrapped and the heavy padlock wasn’t completely closed. It looked as if someone had recently unlocked it as the chain subtlety swayed.
“Hey, guys...” I had stopped and my hand lifted the draping chain as Glynda and LBJ already ahead of me turned to see what I wanted.
“What did ya do, Donna? Break the lock?” Glynda asked with innocent sincerity.
“No. Look.” I said opening the lock of the pad lock and releasing the chain. The door creaked open a crack.
“Donna! That’s private property.” LBJ exclaimed in her arrogant tone of civic duty voice.
It was too late for my conscience to pick up the warning in her voice. I was inside the entry way while LBJ and Glynda peered in from the outside. I mouthed to them to come inside and motioned with my hand. Glynda looked up and down the street to see if anyone was looking. I also scanned the crowd through the hazy view of the window to see a little boy about four-years-old standing with his thumb in his mouth while his hand held fast to his mother’s. Her solid back faced us as she gabbed with a shorter lady in front of her. The little boy’s eyes watched our every trespassing move as Glynda slipped through the partially opened door, and LBJ with a reluctant glance down the street bolted in after us. I slowly pushed the door to a close. The door’s latch clicked solidly unlike the last time we sneaked in after the Valentine’s dance. We were inside.
The air was pungent with the scents of cigar smoke, fried pork, and caramel corn from the parade wafting through where the warped door left a one inch crack between the frame and its top. It was a nice change from the stale and musty air that awaited us. The three of us stood looking up into the stairway as late afternoon shadows robbed the upper stairs of daylight.
“C’mon, guys. Let’s see what’s up on the stage. I heard James Whitcomb Riley wrote his name on the back wall.”
“When did he graduate from Burgenton?” Glynda looked at me with a blank stare.
LBJ rolled her eyes. “Glynda, he’s a famous poet. Don’t ya know? He never went to Burgenton.”
I continued, “James Whitcomb Riley traveled to Burgenton and performed on the stage, Glynda. He read his poems up there. We really need to go and explore it. C’mon...there’s nothing else to do.”
Side by side we crept up the stairs and reached the last steps where evening’s shadows rested. At the top we turned to the left and with our feet, felt up the stairs to the entrance of the Opera House, found the door and pushed on its warped wood hanging on ancient hinges. It wasn�
��t as clumsy as the first time we were there after the Valentine’s Day dance. The early evening sun filtered through the long, narrow windows on the western side facing the courthouse, giving us enough light to get a good look at the tall ceilings with its old fashioned lighting. The stage was now splattered with teenage graffiti across the back wall, defacing any hint of history left behind by the famous Indiana poet.
I stood and stared at the desecration. “What a crappy thing to do.” My remark filled our void of silence.
Suddenly I heard a rustle from behind the stage and jumped back. LBJ and Glynda were now behind me, and we all looked in the same direction. The familiar voice spoke again. “Is that you, Donna McNally? I know that’s you.”
I swallowed hard as my breath came fast from my dry throat. Reaching behind me I felt for my two friends and the three of us grabbed hands and made a line for the Opera House door, stumbling over the randomly placed seats and protruding floor boards.
Thelma Carson’s voice repeated in my head—or was Thelma really calling out to me? I heard her voice again and again as the three of us instinctively made our way down the steps.
“Get away from me!” Thelma shouted again as we rushed down the steps and reached the door. Her plaintive cry was muffled and distant, but no concern for Thelma crossed our minds as we stepped on the landing toward our own safety.
Glynda turned and reached for the doorknob. “I want to get out of here, guys. Let’s go back to Grandma’s.” She turned the knob, but it only moved slightly back and forth without disengaging the latch. We were stuck.
LBJ and Glynda both stared at me. I was the one to open the door; I was the one to close it, and now I had to get us out. I grabbed the knob and rattled the handle, but it did not move. Again, I shook it while forcing my weight against the double doors. The parade had wound down an hour earlier, and no one was on the sidewalk to notice our problem.
Thelma’s cry came again, but only heavier and more sorrowful. It was not a threatening tone, but one of despair. I looked at LBJ and Glynda, who stared at the stair top. The three of us gave each other a knowing look, and without fear, climbed the steps to check on Thelma.
It was a pathetic sight to find Thelma with a bottle in one hand and the other placed over a signed heart on the wall. Thelma said little to us as we asked her if we could help. The voice that was rough and mean was now whimpering sobs as Thelma’s back heaved with her every breath. We carefully helped Thelma up and then down the stage steps and to our surprise, she knew another way out from the back of the stage exiting down and out into the alley.
There we were in the alley with a drunken Thelma and no where to put her. This wasn’t the adventure we had hoped to find in the Opera House. Thelma motioned in the direction of the gas station where her white Nova was parked. The three of us escorted her for the half-block and helped Thelma slide into her car. LBJ took Thelma’s car keys and placed them on the floor of the back seat while I unrolled the driver’s window and we left Thelma to sleep off her stupor—or for someone other than us to come along and help her get home.
We walked in silence toward home. None of us knew what to say. The situation was weird, but not weird for the way our lives had been going. LBJ and I still had all of our stuff at Rita Brennan’s apartment and Glynda had the key. We decided to head back to Grandma Becker’s to rethink our plans for the remainder of the day.
We trudged up the stairs back to the apartment, marched to the bed by the window which overlooked the Hollis house, then plopped down. Glynda quickly fell into a reclining position. I sat with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, staring out the window. LBJ stood up and started batting at the window blind.
“What is there to do in this town?” LBJ asked. “The plays don’t start for another hour and there’s nothing to do here. Except, well ... we could head back uptown to look for some boys ...”
LBJ left the idea open to suggestion. Maybe she was right, I thought. Maybe we should just go back to town and look for kids from school. After all, this whole Hollis thing is probably just a joke. Just my imagination getting carried away.
“Yeah, why not, LBJ. There’s nothing else to do.” I imagined myself following in the steps of Irish. I would find some Burgenton boy, get pregnant, get married and live and die in Burgenton. That was the way it was suppose to be. I looked over at LBJ standing before the dresser mirror surveying her silhouette.
“Do you think my boobs have gotten bigger over the summer?” LBJ asked as she gave them a little push from underneath.
“I don’t know. I didn’t bring my tape measure.” I answered wryly. “Besides, LBJ, speaking for myself, I don’t go around checking out your boobs.”
“Ooooh ... neither do I!” Glynda exclaimed from her reclining position. “You look good Lori Bell. Then there’s me who’s waiting for my boobs to grow past my gut. Maybe I could just push some of my stomach under my bra.” Glynda grabbed her belly and tried to coax it to her chest. “Ouch! That hurts too much.”
I shook my head at the two of them and looked out the window to see a tan sedan pull up in front of the Hollis house. Two men in suits got out and stood on the sidewalk. They looked up and down the street and then strode to the door.
“Guys. Look out the window at Hollis’s house. I think it’s the FBI.” I said as I reached over and shook Glynda’s leg.
“What do you mean, the FBI?” Glynda wanted to know as she pulled herself up from the bed. “What would the FBI be doing here?”
LBJ was still staring at herself in the mirror. “What are you talking about, McNally. Why do you think it’s the FBI?”
“Come and see for yourself, Lori Bell.” Glynda blurted.
The three of us sat there and watched as the men rang the doorbell and then knocked on the door. After a couple of minutes they looked at each other and walked to the north side of the house where we couldn’t see them.
We sat in silence once again viewing Hollis’s house through Ethel Becker’s window as if it were a TV tube sending signals from another part of the world.
“What do you think they’re doing?” I whispered.
“McNally, you don’t need to whisper. It’s not like they’re going to hear us when they’re all the way across the street.” LBJ spoke in a hushed tone.
The two men came back around the corner of the house and stood by their car.
“What do you think they’re going to do next?” Glynda wondered aloud. As if they had heard her, the two men turned their heads in our direction.
“Shut up Myer!” I whispered. “Somebody turn out the light!” We were frozen in our seated positions when the men planted their eyes upon us. “They can see us. What should we do?”
LBJ whispered, “Duck!” as Glynda slammed her back on the bed and I hit the floor. LBJ dove to the right of the window and the two of us lay silently on the floor. We waited for the sound of car doors to slam and an engine to start. We heard nothing. Then a series of knocks rained on the front door of Grandma Becker’s house. LBJ and I locked our terror-filled eyes. Then Glynda answered our prayers.
“Grandma said not to answer the door unless it’s someone I know.” She whispered.
We remained still like animals instinctively eluding a predator. Lying there waiting for the next move. Will they break down the door? Thoughts rang in my head. Why are they knocking on Ethel Becker’s door? What have we done?
After what seemed like an eternity but was really five minutes, the car doors slammed and the engine turned over. Tires dug into the pavement and wheeled down the street. LBJ, Glynda and I stood up to see the two men in suits and the tan sedan turn left, then head down the street toward town.
We stared at one another each knowing what the other was thinking and we bolted down the stairs back toward the town square.
I was in the lead followed by LBJ while Glynda trailed us by a block yelling, “Wait for me!” I reached Tom’s Shoe Hospital and slowed my pace. LBJ caught up with me as the two of us stopped
and scanned the crowd for the two suited men and Ned Hollis.
There was a breathless voice from behind us and we turned to see a red-faced Glynda puffing. “Why don’t you guys wait? My fat butt can’t move like yours.” Glynda placed her hand on my shoulder and we waited a minute while she caught her breath.
“Okay. I’m ready to move ahead. Do you see them anywhere?”
I scanned the crowd and spotted Hollis, now back on his hay wagon and standing beneath a now lit street light, waving mechanically to folks passing by, a wide toothy grin plastered across his face.
“There he is.” And I pointed in his direction. “Do you guys see the two suits? Maybe they’re not even coming down here. Maybe they’re not even who we think they are.”
Then the two men who had just been at Ethel Becker’s door were making their way through the crowd toward Ned Hollis. The three of us stood and watched. We waited. The two men in suits stood and watched Hollis. They waited.
