be uncovered and hopes the grand jury will provide more facts. “I feel deep in my heart they will find hidden information if everyone under oath is truthful,” she said.
Chapter Three
December
The Thanksgiving holiday weekend came and went, and before I knew it December had arrived. With holiday business and private parties in the banquet room picking up, in addition to another one of Dad’s “spells” and his time spent in the hospital, I’d not had the opportunity since returning from South Beach to meet Rosabelle and Mae for dinner. I barely had any phone conversations with Rosabelle, except for our Sunday one p.m. phone calls. I knew both she and Mae were up to their armpits in Christmas at the gift shop. Christmas was closing in fast—only a week away. Yet it was a warm Friday afternoon, unusual for the season. The sun was shining, and the air was alive and fresh like a spring day. I stood near the kitchen entrance behind the restaurant and looked upon the valley in which my hometown lay, savoring the final moments before Friday’s supper rush.
Fort Sackville was first settled by French fur traders and became a spoil of war after American revolutionaries—during a surprise attack on the British—captured the town’s namesake. Landlocked, the community lay in a flat flood plain bordered to the west by the Wabash River, the town and farms to the south safeguarded by a levee. The rest of the community to the north and east was isolated from the outside world by a crescent ridge of highlands from which one could look down—as I was—upon the valley of sycamores, grain silos, and shining white church steeples.
Farming and God were two industries by which family fortune might flourish or fail in Fort Sackville.
Its townsfolk had, for the most part since the American Revolution, succeeded in isolating themselves from wantonness, even from the occasional nonsense—whores, queers, and politicians—that washed downriver or traveled Highway 41 from larger cities. Robbie Palmer’s murder twenty years ago was the exception. I had lived all of my life in Fort Sackville; most of the town ate in my family’s restaurant. Daniels’ Family Buffet was a benefactor of the industry, relying on its supply: farmers for food, God for customers—most especially the Sunday Christians and the Friday fried catfish Catholics.
Friday’s supper rush was a big night and, like Sundays, we ran with a full staff. The teenage bussers typically arrived around four-thirty p.m. to eat dinner before clocking in for their five p.m. shift. While standing outside, feeling invigorated by each breath of the warm winter air and enjoying the remaining minutes of quiet control—soon to be controlled chaos—I saw the familiar black vintage Corvette whip around the corner of the restaurant parking lot, pull near me, and stop. It was Daryl. Trace was sitting in the passenger seat. Why is Daryl bringing Trace to work? I thought. As I stood there, certain my expression registered my curiosity, Trace opened his passenger side door, grabbed his backpack, and stepped out of the car. Then, without hesitation, Daryl whipped away as fast as he’d arrived, barely a smile to acknowledge my presence.
“Isn’t that car cool?” Trace asked, approaching. “I’ve never ridden in a Corvette before.”
“Yes, it is. And I have. That same one years ago. It was his dad’s,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You and Pastor Daryl went to high school together. Were you guys friends?” Trace asked.
“You could say that.” I paused a moment, my eyes focused on Trace, as if searching for hints of Daryl there. “I’m curious, if you don’t mind my asking, why is Dar—I mean, Pastor Daryl bringing you to work?”
“My car’s in the shop, and Mother and Father are attending the Walk to Emmaus committee meeting at church. I had choral practice at school, and since this will be my last holiday event at Harrison before I graduate, Pastor Daryl wanted to attend after-school rehearsals.”
“Oh. When is the high school’s holiday event?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. That’s why I requested the night off. I am off work, right?” Trace asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes. Of course. I remember.”
“Are you coming to Christmas service at church next week? Trace asked. “I really do hope you all attend. Our youth choir has been working really hard.”
“So far it seems we’re going. I swear, I don’t know how you do it, Trace. High school and church choir? Work too? I’m surprised you can speak some days.”
“My voice is my ticket out. Don’t get me wrong, I love my hometown. I’m just ready for something more.”
“As well you should be,” I said. “Don’t do anything to compromise your dreams, though. And speaking of, have you gotten word on your applications yet? Any auditions arranged?”
“No, nothing yet,” Trace said, his face tight under the strain of waiting.
“Well, it’s only December. My experience is that universities don’t make decisions until the spring.”
“Yeah, it’s going to take forever. Well, I better get inside. I want to eat before I clock in.”
“Yeah, you do. With this warm weather I bet we have a busy night. I’ll see you inside,” I said.
Trace flipped his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed ahold of the kitchen door’s handle, and struggled a bit to open it. The door also served as the delivery and stock entrance; it was heavy-duty steel, thick and wide. As the door opened, I heard the whirl of the air curtain kick in, and then a thud as the door closed behind Trace. He was a good kid, kind, polite, and a bit naïve. The prospect of Trace forming a friendship with Daryl made me uncomfortable. A little over a month has passed since Daryl took the youth pastor’s position at Wabash Valley Baptist, returning with his family to Fort Sackville. What were his intentions? Was he just being a concerned youth pastor? Trying to accommodate his congregants’ needs? Offering a helping hand, perhaps? My gut said no. But I knew Trace’s parents well enough, and if they had any misgivings, suspicions, or if they sensed ill intent toward their son, they’d be all over it.
I stood there behind the restaurant, dreading the night’s rush and thinking about Daryl and his father’s black Corvette.
At Harrison High School, Daryl Stone had been a year ahead of me. I watched him move through the halls. He was smooth like Tom Cruise in Risky Business with his penny loafers and black Ray-Ban sunglasses. Yet it wasn’t until the following summer, during summer school PE, that I was granted access to his inner circle.
Harrison High curriculum required two semesters of physical education and offered an opportunity to take the class for credit during summer mornings. Most students took advantage of this, in order to participate in the various outdoor activities not offered during the school year. I took the summer option so I would not have to shower in the guys’ locker room during school hours. I was fearful of being naked in a room full of boys. And, unlike my grade school body, my high school body had been developing, my hormones were raging, and erections were something over which I had no control. Getting a hard-on in my high school locker room would be devastating. That would get me labeled a queer for sure.
On that first day of summer PE before my tenth grade year I ate breakfast at Daniels’ Diner, and then a few minutes before eight a.m. I rode my bike to the school’s football field. After locking the frame of my Huffy ten-speed to the bike rack, I spotted everyone gathered around Daryl. When I approached, I heard him say, “Dad bought it for me in Indianapolis.”
