She took off in a spurt of gravel, but I couldn’t help but notice the interested glance she threw at him over her shoulder. His smile said he hadn’t missed it, either.
“Sorry,” I said.
“She’s right. She doesn’t know me. Pretty town. What is it?”
“Monroe, home of the finest woolen mill in the world, my father says.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t argue with him, but I’ve never heard of it. What brought you two up here?”
“Watching clouds,” said Sam. “Ever watch clouds?”
“Sure. I’m a cloud watcher from way back. Used to see how many shapes I could recognize.”
Sam glanced at me slyly.
“George says all the puffy ones look like women’s boobs.”
“At his age, so did I. What do people in town do after dinner?”
“Drink beer at the tavern but mostly just sit around and talk.” Remembering that glance Donna threw at him, I decided to shake her up a little. “If you like to do that, you’re welcome at my house.”
He grinned. “I’ll just take you up on that invitation, George. Your father can tell me why Monroe is the home of the finest woolen mill in the world, but since he’s sure to ask who the bum is that you invited over, you can tell him my name is Roy Jenson.”
I don’t know. Maybe if Sam and I hadn’t been on the hill that day, if it had been raining, if Roy had continued on—
There is no point in speculating. Perhaps nothing would have been changed because once all the ingredients for a tragedy are rolled into a tube like a firecracker, it doesn’t matter who lights the fuse.
The houses in Monroe, particularly in our section, were all painted white, had tall shade trees on the lawns, and were surrounded by white picket fences, which made sitting on the wide porches on cool summer evenings preferable to lounging inside watching the dullness of summer television with the air conditioner humming. The social practice of locking yourself away from your neighbors and the world was still in the future.
He came through the gate about seven and I introduced him to my parents. I could see my mother was a little doubtful, not quite certain whether she approved of a young man from Lord knows where, walking to Lord knows where, but when he shook hands with my father, I had the feeling that they were very much alike and that they understood each other immediately.
It was years before I realized why.
I had always known that my father had been somewhat of a hero during World War II. He never talked about it, but I knew that an ordinary shoebox on a shelf in an upstairs closet held his medals. I’d seen them once, along with a .45 automatic in a worn holster with the letters U.S. embossed into the leather.
He’d held the gun under my nose when I was six.
“I told your sister and I’m telling you. Don’t touch it. Ever. Not until you’re twenty-one and mature enough to take full responsibility for your actions. Understand?”
Even at six, the tone in his voice told me I’d damned well better understand.
Seeing Roy marching up the road, I should have known that he’d been in the service, and since Vietnam was going on at the time, I should have put the two together.
My father had — with one handshake. Perhaps it had been instinct.
That scene has remained in my mind all these years as the meeting of the warriors, my father’s hair thinning and his middle thickening while Roy was lean and hard, but both warriors, nonetheless.
About nine, Brady Wheeler stopped by to take my sister out.
Why she went with him, I had no idea. No one liked him very much, including me, but I suppose it was because his father owned most of the stock in the mill and it was a natural pairing — the son of an owner and the daughter of the manager.
I didn’t know the word at the time, but the reason no one liked him was that he was patronizing — the lord of the manor condescending to mingle with the peasants; polite, rude, sarcastic, overbearing, or obnoxious, depending on his mood or the amount of alcohol in his veins; and even though I wasn’t supposed to know about it, using seignorial rights in regard to the virgins of the town — which was why my father always managed to tell my sister in one way or another to be careful.
Brady was pleasant enough to Roy, asking him where he was from and where he was going, and Roy pleasantly enough told him little.
When I went to bed, he and my father were still talking and the next day I learned that he was taking a job at the mill.
I remember saying, “Hey, that’s great!”
My father smiled. “Just don’t bother him with a lot of questions. He’s staying because he wanted to know why I consider it the finest woolen mill in the world, so I suggested he find out for himself. Besides, I can always use a good man.”
“How do you know he’s a good man?”
“A few more years, and you won’t find it necessary to ask.”
He was right.
His face was straight when he said Roy stayed because of an interest in fine wool but I suspect he was chuckling inside because he’d seen Roy and his blonde daughter trying not to appear interested in each other.
It developed into what you would call a good old fashioned rivalry for the hand of the fair maiden, which the fair maiden thoroughly enjoyed while my parents worried. Brady had been taking Donna out for a long time and had established what he considered to be proprietary rights. The day my sister told him to get lost because she preferred Roy, which is what we were all hoping for, there was bound to be trouble. Brady wasn’t the type to kiss her gently on the forehead and wish her happiness.
One still October night, the odor of burning leaves refusing to move out of the valley, I came home from Sam’s, taking a route through all the back yards for the perverse youthful pleasure of setting the dogs to barking, vaulted over our fence, and headed toward the front door so that I could pretend I had used lighted streets.
I had reached the corner of the house when I heard voices. At fourteen, you don’t announce yourself when there is the possibility you might hear something you aren’t supposed to hear. I pressed close to the yew that marked the corner.
“Tell him tonight or I’m gone.”
I grinned. Give her the word, Roy.
Silence.
“You know I don’t want you to go.”
Well, all right! I had never heard such tenderness in her voice.
“Then tell him.”
Donna’s voice was worried. “If it were that simple, I’d have told him before this. It isn’t only me, you know. I have my father and you to consider.”
“Your father and I can take care of ourselves. Prolonging it isn’t fair to him. He has a right to know. If you’re concerned about how he will react, we’ll tell him together.”
“No. I’ll handle it.”
“I’ve heard things about—”
“I know his side of those stories. He isn’t like that at all.”
“All right. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Roy’s shadow moved down the walk and up the street.
A few minutes later, Brady drove up and my sister left with him.
I went in and up to bed and lay smiling at the ceiling. Roy would make a helluva brother-in-law.
I fell asleep just as the night breeze finally came up and wafted the lingering odor of the burning leaves from my bedroom.
The commotion woke me. I leaped from bed, ran to the stairs and started down, shock stopping me halfway.
Donna was seated on the sofa. Her face was bruised, one eye almost closed, blood trickling from her lip, her blouse torn. She was weeping silently, my mother holding her tightly — her face suddenly ten years older — and murmuring tenderly as though to a child while my father stood before them both, his face carved from granite.