Moon Was Cloudy

MOON WAS CLOUDY

Two boys not yet school age played in the sand pile. Their fathers were somewhere in a war and their mothers were worried and unhappy, but the two boys just played in the sand. The older by a year turned toward the younger. He pointed to a smooth place he had made in the sand with his hand and said, “Let’s race our cars”. They put the two wooden cars down at the beginning of the smooth place and gave a hard shove. The cars sank in the sand. Both boys laughed and played on.

***

Each and every time another thread disappeared into the socket there was a click, and each time there was a click a reflection bobbled across the chromed. Eric Walters looked down at the engine seeing for every minute of his time and every penny of extra money there was a shiny bit of metal that mirrored his face. It was with loving care that he tightened sparkplugs into place above the cylinders. As he made the final adjustments, he smiled at his younger brother, Don, who was trying to remove a grease spot from the white top they had put on the 1947 Mercury convertible the day before.

The wrench was flung upon the workbench. The crash caused Frank March to drop the Pepsi-Cola he sipped while attempting to picture a well-fitted hood on the car. The broken mess of a bottle on the concrete floor presented a new problem. Sliding off the workbench, he reached for the broom, but Eric stood pointing at the Ford hood that lay nearby. Frank had the glass in the scoop when he saw Eric motion for help in lifting the piece onto the car, so he dropped the scoop and the glass scattered across the floor..

The grimace remained firm on Eric’s face as they put the hood on the car. The glass splinters from the scoop glistened under the trouble light. The hood looked odd on the Mercury, as it was too short. Of course, it was somewhat better than the one that had been too large. This hood was the third in a long line of junkyard recoveries. Two short and one too large, and the large one kept sliding off when the car stopped. In fact, its downfall was the morning that Eric ran into it as it slid mid-flight and dented a fender.

The proud owner of the hot-rod popped in behind the padded wheel and turned the ignition. The engine started immediately. The noise from the mufflers drowned out all other sound. No one noticed Mike Bossler and “Kleebe” Cleverston enter the garage. Eric twisted the key; the engine gasped into silence.

Bossler walked to the driver side window after shoving Don out of his path.

Bossler was big. He was taller than Frank and Eric and quite a lot heavier. His puffy face wore a banner of acme down the left cheek. His eyes were small, set back over a short, upturned nose. Across his broad forehead bushy eyebrows shook hands and became one. His mouth curled into a well-practiced sneer.

“Why don’t you put down this dog, Walters? It must take a damn lot of biscuits to feed.” Bossler glanced around to see if his humor was appreciated. It wasn’t, with the exception of Kleebe, who snickered.

Kleebe nodded his head. A grin ate a gaping hole into his face. “Yeah, Walters, it looks so mean. Ain’tcha ‘fraid it’ll bite you.”

 “Yessir, Ericson, a real hound, woof, woof!”

 Eric pulled himself out of the car.

“Ahh, sit down and relax.” Bossler pushed Eric back into the car, where he sank into the spongy seat.

Eric scowled. “It’ll run rings around your heap, Bossler, wide rings.”

“Yeah, talk’s cheap, Bossler.” Don’s voice squeaked like C-over high C from across the garage.

“Ha, listen to fatso there. Talk’s cheap, eh? There’s any cheap talk around this place, it’s you, Walters. I dare you to race this pile of junk. What’d’ya say, huh?” Bossler looked around to see the reaction of the others.

“You’re damn right I’ll race,” Eric said. “Anytime, anyplace.”

A voice called from the door of the garage. “Mike, hurry up.”

The girl stood just inside the door. Greta Holland was fourteen and at the point of being interesting. Supposedly She was Eric Walter’s girlfriend, but she called now to Bossler. Kleebe rushed out of the garage. The girl looked at Eric still sitting in his car. His eyes widened. Frank March stared at Eric, watching his friend’s face turn deep purple.

Bossler lit a cigarette. He sneered through the smoke. “Yeah, that’s right,” he snarled, “She’s the stakes. He patted the girl on the rump. “Let’s meet at Y-Roads tomorrow night at...say, eight?”

Bossler put an arm around Greta’s shoulders and steered her toward the door. He paused and looked back. “Hey Ericson, ah sure as hell hope if you win her back she don’t have no big tummy.”

The girl blushed a bright red.

Bossler, giggling, shoved her out of the building. A moment later the stones of the driveway were scattered onto the lawn.

****

Four cars were parked along the Y-Roads and five boys kneeled nearby. Frank March was drawing a map in the dirt with a short stick. The others looked on with interest. Frank March studied the map before speaking.

“Look, man, what will one little drag prove?” Frank answered his own question without pausing for a breath. “I say instead make it a race to the Farmer’s Market in Wilmillar to prove who has the most skill on the road, then at the lot we run a drag for speed. Then you follow all this with a chicken run...voila! Best out of three’ll prove all around driver and car.”

Frank searched the faces.

Bossler spat, cleared his throat and spat again. “Okay by me.”

Frank suggested certain rules to be decided upon and got the approval of both parties. Frank would wave a handkerchief starting the race from a standstill. They would follow Old Creek Road to the highway, then to the market parking lot. Don and Kleebe left together to be at the market to judge the finish.

The two cars lined up side by side. Frank walked to the front and raised his right arm. A white handkerchief floated from his hand. It settled on the ground in a heap as roar echoed another roar. The piece of cloth swished upward into a circle, drifted to a field and died in the weeds.

Both cars left black marks as they squealed off the invisible start line. Frank waited until they were out of sight before walking down the road to his own car. His shoes echoed in the stillness of the late night. Only the restless leaves of dark trees made any other sound. Frank caught a glimpse of three shapes in the woods before something cracked into his skull with a dull thud. He fell to the ground and felt boot toes dig into his ribs. He rolled into a ball trying to prevent being kicked in the groin.

He blacked out after a jolt to the jaw as someone stepped upon his face. Frank March lay still with blood dripping from his mouth.

Gritting his teeth, Eric cut sharply around a bend in the back road. What a stupid route Frank had chosen, all twists and turns. He pulled the Mercury into a rare stretch of straight road and pressed all the way down on the accelerator. The Mercury leaped with power and pressed Eric deep into the seat. He glanced from the soaring speedometer to the rearview mirror.

Bossler was right on his tailpipe as he slowed for a sharp turn that went down a steep grade. Working, sweating, knowing he could take Bossler with pure speed, but all the curves on Creek Road kept that in check. He glanced in his mirror, saw his enemy taking chances. He watched the other car swerve back and forth across the road. Eric returned to concentrating on the winding route.

One jolt followed another. Bossler was hitting his rear bumper. The Mercury was hit again as he came to a horseshoe curve. Eric’s sweaty hands lost their grip on the wheel, not recovering until the car went straight through a guardrail to land nose down in a ditch ten feet off the road. A horn disappeared into the distance, on and on it blew.

****

Two lights canvassed the parking lot as the car, leaning to one side, turned into a lane. It dug into the gravel under the tension of new speed as the driver fed more fuel. It rushed up the drive toward the building that was a busy produce market during the weekends. Brakes burning, it skidded to a sideways stop.

The waiting boys ran up to the car, which was almost hidden in the rising dust. The door opened and closed on the driver’s side Out of the cloud of dust appeared Bossler. He walked to the others with a smile, which failed to hide his ever-present sneer.

“Well, did I beat Walters?”

 “Man, I’ll say,” said Kleebe.

Don was walking away, but a hand grabbed his neck, the fingernails leaving a dark red mark. Kleebe swung Don around to face Bossler.

“You don’t ride with us, kid,” Bossler yelped.

“I was only going to sit in the car to wait for Eric.”

“You can wait for your brother out here, though I feel that chicken won’t show. Guess you’ll have to hope March shows up. Kleebe and I have a date, so we got to cut out. If the turtle still wants that drag he’ll have to wait a day or so. Gee, I really do hope you don’t have to walk. It’ll be dark out there.”

“Go to hell,” Don offered.

The blow came and went. Don felt the ground stop his fall. Fumes arose around him as the two cars sped away spraying gravel. Don sat up watching the tail lights grow smaller. He crawled over to a log marking the border of a parking space and sat down to wait.

****

It was past one o’clock when Frank March started his car. His jaw felt terrible and a warm liquid was cooling on his chin. He leaned to one side against the door, wondering if some ribs were broken on his left side. He had waited for Don and Eric to return, but of course they hadn’t. Frank took a deep breath, feeling the pain like a small explosion in his side.

Grimacing, he turned the car around and headed down the road Eric and Bossler raced on earlier. Every bump and turn sent a coiled snake’s teeth into his flesh. He drove slowly, looking for what he didn’t know, but he came to the main highway and then to the market without finding it. What did he expect? They wouldn’t leave breadcrumbs for him to follow. As he pulled into the lot Frank saw a frightened-looking Don Walters running toward his car.

The sobbing explanation stabbed Frank’s eardrums, but stopped suddenly when Don saw his pale face in the moonlight.

“This has...developed into a... war. This idiotic petty rivalry...has included...me...and you, Don.” Frank’s voice croaked, but the pain was lessening. “Bossler holds as much against...you and I as he does against Eric...because Eric...overshadowed you and me so long...we are only...like an arm...of the main target...and you must wound the enemy as well as...kill.”

“Kill?” interrupted Don. “God, Frank, Bossler knew Eric wouldn’t show.”

Frank was again driving on the back road, only in the opposite direction. Half was up a twisting hill the headlights reflected off an object shining alongside the road. Don saw it, but Frank hadn’t noticed the flash. He was enjoying the sudden absence of pain in his rib cage. He was feeling confident that his ribs were all together.

“Frank...Frank, did you see that?”

 “What?”

 “Something along the road like a hubcap. Stop, Frank.”

“Ah, that’s probably all it was, some thrown hubcap.”

“No, we gotta stop. Please, Frank. Stop.”

Don’s fat leg crossed the transmission hump and his fat foot stomped the brake. The car jerked under the two masters; one stopping it, the other pushing it ahead. The car stalled. A door slammed as Don dashed down the road, soon overtaken by Frank’s Ford driven in reverse. The hubcap lay on the shoulder like an evil eye. Beyond it was a broken guardrail and smashed down bushes. Frank pulled off the road and got out. Don and Frank walked to a shallow gulley where they found Eric lying unconscious across his steering wheel. Thankfully, only the battery was dead.

****

Early the next morning, Don Walters walked off the road, down the embankment, dragging behind him a long chain. The sun glittered off the links moistened by the morning dew. Getting down on his knees, he hooked the end around the Mercury’s cross member in back of the rear axle. From the car’s window Eric raised an arm. He lowered it slowly. On the road, a pickup truck at the other end of the chain pulled forward. Frank edged the truck across the road, turning to sit on the shoulder. Glancing back, he saw the Mercury was free of the gulley. Eric applied the brakes and Don exchanged the chain for a shorter one. This disconnecting and reattaching of chains to the car and truck soon had the Mercury back on the road.

Even after the dead battery was replaced, the car failed to respond; the motor had some kind of damage from the impact. The battered car was towed back to Eric’s garage. The boys left it and rushed off to school, which was half over for the day.

They left the principal’s office just as fourth period was changing. They hurried towards their classrooms. Half way down the hallway, Eric pulled Frank around a corner out of sight. Ahead in the main corridor were Mike Bossler and Greta Holland. She stood leaning against Bossler's chest.

“That serpent with blue eyes.” Eric looked into Frank’s bruised face. He stared with an odd expression before turning and walked down the side hall, motioning for Frank to go to class alone as he went.

Eric walked down the empty corridor. It led away from the main hall into a new wing being constructed. This section of the building was unoccupied and many of the boys went there to smoke.

He was halfway through the area when he heard them, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the members of Bossler’s clique. The next moment one of them stood in front of him. The boy looked Eric up and down, and then swung viciously. Eric fell back against a wall and shook his head. Everything went dizzy until he realized his plight.

He began screaming, “Come right up. Come right up! COME RIGHT UP!”

He pushed himself back into the center of the triangle. A skinny boy brought a foot up in an arc, his toe aimed at Eric’s crotch. Eric crossed his wrists in front and caught the foot in the crossing cradle. He spun the boy around, pushing him head first across the space into the concrete wall. The boy slumped to the floor. Catching his balance, Eric Judo-chopped another attacker on his right, but the third grabbed him in a full Nelson. Eric thrust his lower body backward and stooped over to catch hold of the boy’s pants cuffs. Standing, he raised the boy into the air and then fell back with him.  Eric’s back smashed between the boy’s legs. The boy whimpered as his arms went limp.

Eric wasted no time getting to his feet. He was surprised he had managed to thwart off harm. Now only one attacker still stood; the other two lay quiet at his feet. The skinny boy laid across the hall, stunned and helpless, while the other rolled in a rocking motion back and forth, the whole while gasping.

The last boy was deciding on a line of attack and as he waited Eric heard more movement coming. Four more boys appeared. The other boy pulled an object from his jeans. The click announced an introduction of a long blade.

Eric flinched. Things were getting a little too rough and tough. He danced past the knife wheeler and burst between the other four, surprise allowing him to elude their last-minute grasps.

Down the hall he ran, panting, “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kil...” Eric ran to the right, left, right, running blindly.

He bumped into Frank when he entered the main corridor. For a moment he looked blankly at Frank, then he started away continuing to say, “I’ll kill him.”

Frank grabbed Eric by both shoulders shaking him, telling him to snap out of it. Eric, his eyes glistening, knocked off the hands, turned on his heels and stomped away down the hall.

****

They sat on the bench in the garage watching Eric, who stood at the worktable. He held a whetstone in his hand, sharpening a knife clamped in a small vice. He whistled to himself as he worked.

The vice was loosened, the knife picked up and Eric swaggered pass the wrecked automobile and held the weapon up for the other guys to see. Its blade was razor thin. He turned from his brother and his friend, who only bowed their heads, not looking up until Eric left.

Walking through the night air, Eric kept a hand in his right coat pocket. A fierce determination commanded his steps. He turned down the next block toward the center of Wilmillar. The courthouse clock was chiming eleven times on the west side of town.

His heart thumped in his chest echoing the striking clock. A small drop of perspiration rolled down his cheek. It paused at his chin as if confused where to go.

The clock struck and the drop splashed to the sidewalk.

Bossler lived alone, adrift from his parents, in a small alley apartment just off the main street. The apartment was a room over the grocery store where he worked after school. The town was dark. There were no houses in this area, only stores and a couple of gas stations, all of which were now closed.

Eric was sweating so freely his skin was slick. The evaporating moisture turned the sweat to a chill. All the while the clock struck its countdown. At a booth on the corner he made a phone call. His soft voice slid through the narrow wire and curled around the middle ear of Mike Bossler. Eric told him to be outside in ten minutes by the fruit stand. Bossler slammed the receiver down, walked out the door and down the steps to the street. “Why wait?” he muttered.

Bossler stood in front of the fruit stand to the right of steps leading down to the sub-basement shop. Walking around the corner a block away came Eric. He saw Bossler.

Amused, Bossler watched him come until Eric stopped just short of him. They stared at each other.

The end of chiming brought a dead silence. Eric leaped at Bossler, who stood ready for a charge. His arms encircled Eric’s waist, lifting the smaller boy off the ground with a bear hug.

“I’ll kill you!” Eric shouted.

Bossler snorted. Was this all the guy had, this weak oath? “Yeah, right, punk.” Bossler squeezed harder and laughed.

He didn’t notice Eric’s hand sunk deep in his right coat pocket. The hand came out and five inches of thin steel went into Bossler.

The arms went limp. Bossler dropped to the sidewalk. Eric’s watched his foe crawl on his stomach with the knife handle protruding as a long slash of blood trailed beneath him. Bossler crawled to the curb, where his head dropped over and his body quivered. Everything became still.

Eric was silent for a second, and then laughed a sick, high chuckle, which turned to moans and his moans became noiseless tears. He looked at the dead boy halfway in the street. Eric felt weak. He had an upset stomach. He reached back and leaned on the wooden rail along the steps to the basement shop. His legs shook. He let his weight fall against the wood for support.

****

The bodies were found at dawn.

A policeman on early store check saw Mike Bossler in a pool of drying blood. An ambulance was called and it’s siren led a sleepy-eyed crowd of town people to the scene. They came to watch the removal of the maimed. By the time Don and Frank arrived, they had removed Bossler’s remains and were bringing Eric’s broken shell up the steps. It was difficult to determine whether the cause of death was the broken neck or fractured skull.

Cameramen from the papers were taking pictures and people were giving their versions as to what had happened. Frank saw the knife being looked over by detectives. The razor-like blade looked rusted. He went to the broken railing and picked up some of the rotted wood. Letting it fall to the bottom of the steps. A cop yelled at him to get away. He walked back to Don. They departed the excitement, both silent. Frank listened to the noise grow where the people made speculations, but he saw clearly what had happened. The knife, the rotting wood: the braggart and the rotting mind. Frank was terrified by what he knew. Not the death, nor the action, but the truth. They had been born to inherit a world whose sky was under a mushroom cloud of death. How then could there be peace anywhere?

In the afternoon, the sun shined brightly on the small town street where people were shopping in the stores and men were talking about it in the barbershop.

Last night Eric Walters was on the same street.

Last night the moon was cloudy.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is another story I wrote when I was 15 years old. It is semi-true, based on an incidence with my friend Richard Wilson, except no bloodshed happened beyond maybe a bloody nose. We had moved from Downingtown to Bucktown in the spring of 1957 and that was when I met Richard. Richard was obsessed with cars and with girls. He bought a 1947 Plymouth for $40 and we spent hours working on it. It never reached the state of the Mercury in this story. Eric and Don Walters are based on Richard and his younger brother, Tommy. Frank March is always my alter ego in these tales.  Rich had a girlfriend at that time and a boy at school was cutting in on her. I forget his name, except it did start with a B. and he did come to the garage and insult Richard. Eventually they made some challenges, but these never resulted in anything except a fistfight.

This incident, oddly enough, inspired more than this tale. It also inspired characters in my play, "Ya-Ha-Whoey!' and my novel "Come Monday". The biggest inspiration was nother novel, "Forty-Dollar car", which was very autobiographical.

If I wrote the story today I would make some alterations. For one, I would cut the prologue about playing with cars in the sand. I never really developed that and even I am not certain who the two boys are supposed to be.  I also might have cut back on Frank, Don and Kleeve and kept the focus more on Eric and Mike. 

In the last couple of years of Junior High I fell under the influence of the writer Evan Hunter. His book Black Board Jungle became a popular movie, as did it's theme music, "Rock Around the Clock". The first Evan Hunder book I owned was "The Jungle Kids", the title used to gloom on the movie's success. It was a book of short stories.

I ws very much into juvenile deliquent fiction and hot rodder stories by then, so I had to write some myself.

Mother Carey's Chickens

by
Larry Eugene Meredith

Mrs. Carey led. She was well to the front with her chicks strung out down the street behind.

On the way between town proper and the junior high school was a large field with a few cows. A single strand of thick-gauge wire supported by far-flung posts surrounded it.

“I wonder how they keep the cows in?” asked Frank March.

“Sheer terror.” said Ruben Rayzel, known to his friends as Ray and Ru to all others

“What’s that ‘posed to mean?”

“You don’t know? I’ll show you.”

Ruben grabbed Frank’s wrist tugging him off the sidewalk. Frank was as thin as Ruben was heavy. It was like a cup tugging a spoon as they shuffled toward the wire. Roger Walters laughed to see such a sight.

Roger was walking a bit apart from his friends, but now he moved nearer chuckling. Frank, reaching for help, grabbed his arm just as Ruben dropped a hand on the fence.

Roger screeched, stood bolt upright before stooping toward the ground. He began hopping up and down as Ruben slid his hand along the wire. When the pasture ended, Ruben broke contact and Roger fell panting to the ground.

Ruben looked at Frank. “See, sheer terror.”

“You 'maphrodite,” yelled Roger getting back to his feet.

“What’s that mean?” snapped Ruben.

“If you don’t know, you’ll have to show us,” said Roger.

Ruben glanced at Frank with a shrug.

 “He’s sayin’ you’re a hermaphrodite,” explained Frank. “It means you...it means…”

“It means what?”

“It means you’re a perfect person.”

Ruben pumped a fist in the air. “I’m a ‘maphrodite,” he yelled, “I’m a ‘maphrodite.”

Nearby students heard and heads began turning down the line toward the school. At any moment Mrs. Carey would hear and come fluttering back clucking, demanding to know where Ruben heard such a word.

Frank waved a hand in the air, “No, no, not that kind of perfect. Like a plant, you know, like a flower.”

Ruben gawked at him.

“Perfect, y’know…both male and female.”

Ruben’s fist lower, and then shot forward to smack Roger on the shoulder.

“Know-it-all,” Roger hissed at Frank.

Mrs. Carey led her flock across a quadrangle of walks, through a side entry and down a corridor, through another door into the gymnasium. Waiting beneath the basketball hoop was another gathering of kids, behind which waited a small cluster of adults. They were the West Warders and their chaperones. Mrs. Carey joined these adults leaving her East Warders facing across at their sixth grade counterparts from the “bad side of town”. A moment passed in silence before a thin man slipped from the adult pack waving his arms for attention.

The man gave a brief smile, unused or uncomfortable doing so. His arms still waved, pulling his jacket up a little on his neck. He had a long nose, gray hair and slightly lopsided mouth.

Somebody giggled.

A teacher went, “shhh!”

“Good morning.” said the man. “My name is Mr. Maxilla. I will be your principal next year. I welcome you here. I expect in the three coming years, in fact am certain, you will bring to us much honor, much credit to Wilmillar Junior High. Meanwhile, I wish to make perfectly clear why you are here today.

“As you have probably heard, the school board, with my full agreement by the way, has long felt the transition from grade school, with its one teacher, one classroom tradition, to junior high school, with its many teachers, many classrooms technique, can be traumatic.

“Therefore, it is felt, and I agree, make no mistake about that, a gradual withdrawal from the elementary milieu is best. This visit allows you to obtain knowledge of your future and thus be better prepared to conduct yourselves with honor and dignity when you arrive full time next September.

“Now I must be about the important business of a principal. I leave you to your guides. Thank you for your attention, and good luck.”

With a nod, he rushed from the gym. In the next minutes, they counted off into groups of three. Each group was assigned to a seventh grader to guide them through the labyrinth of junior high. Frank March, Larry Brown and a west warder, one,  Cary John Masters had a guide named Doug Virgilson, a skinny, freckled youngster with floppy brown hair and sleepy eyes.

“The first thing, y’know,” said Doug, “is to see the locker set-up, y’know, and get my books, y’know.”

The lockers lined the corridors, great gray metal cabinets with combination locks. They were a foot wide and five foot high. Inside were bookshelves and clothes hooks. Doug had his books stacked on the locker floor.

“The thing is, y’know, is you sixth graders gotta carry my books, y’know.”

“Which ones?’ asked Frank, looking at the dozen or so stacked in the locker.

“Which ones?” said Doug. “All of them, y'know.”

There were twelve books and a notepad. Doug picked up the notepad. Divided between the three sixth-graders it was not too difficult to carry the load, but Frank wondered about next year when each would have their own twelve-book burden.

“Do you always haffa take all your books?” he asked.

“Hurry up,” said Doug. “Y’know, before the bell rings.”

Frank stooped and grabbed four books, handing them to Larry Brown. It was a lot easier in Sixth Grade where all books were kept in your desk. When you needed one you reached in and grabbed it. Frank picked up the next four to hand to the West Warder, but when Frank turned he saw Doug, Larry and Cary had gone down the corridor and left him alone at the locker.

A bell was ringing.

“C'mon,” called Doug, “if the second bell rings, you’ll be late, y’know.”

“Cary,” Frank called, offering the books to the air.

Cary waved a hand. “Next time,” he said disappearing around a corner.

“C’mon, man,” yelled Doug, and he too went around the corner.

Another bell was ringing as Frank clasped the remaining eight books against his chest. He banged shut the locker door with his foot. From the side of his head he saw Larry Brown waiting down the hall. There was a final flutter and rush of students and when Frank spun around he stepped into the flight path of a tall girl. Her elbow catching his chest was like a pin erupting a balloon. Frank exploded into the air, books flying in every direction. The girl never paused. She skipped on, moaning a bit beneath her breath, but never looking back at the wreckage upon the floor.

Larry came to help retrieve the scattered books. Quickly they scooped up the fallen library. When the last volume was plucked from behind a water cooler they found themselves in a very empty hallway. Every door was closed.

“Where did Doug go?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. They went around the corner. I didn’t see what room.”

They hurried down the hall, peeking through tiny windows in each door. Each time every face in the room swiveled toward them, but none of the faces was Doug. In one room was Ruben, in another Roger – who waved at them. In a final room there was such a crowd of students they could not see to the rear. They had to press their cheeks against the glass and strain to see the back row of desks. They still did not see Doug, but they plainly saw the heavy woman looking at them. She wore rimless glasses and held a pointer before a map of Europe in 1848. She made a motion with her free index finger that they should enter the room.

They entered.

“Are you looking for someone of consequence?” she asked.

“We lost our guide,” said Larry.

“Oh, I see. Well, do you see your guide here?”

They looked. Doug was in the last desk by the inner wall. Cary sat before him.

“There he is,” said Larry, pointing.

She looked at Doug. The entire classroom looked at Doug. Frank looked at the class. They appeared unreal to him. They had turned pale and did not seem to breathe during this entire interrogation between the teacher and Larry. Frank became aware that he was not breathing either.

“Douglas James Virgilson,” said the teacher, her voice slowly fondled each syllable of his name, “I might have known. How you ever were selected as a guide is beyond me.”

She turned to Frank and Larry. “Has Douglas explained the bell system to you?”

Larry shook his head. Frank simply listened.

“That is to be expected from Douglas James Junior. It is a family trait. I had Douglas James Senior for a pupil many years ago. We must forgive Douglas some of his lapses for the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Doug slid down on his seat, no expression on his face.

“But surely you boys understand you must never be late for class. We frown on such immature behavior at Wilmillar Junior High School, do we not Douglas James?

Doug said nothing.

She looked his way and smacked the pointer across her other palm. “Do we, Mr. Virgilson, Junior?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, ma’am,” said Doug in a whisper.

The woman nodded, turning her attention back to Frank and Larry. “Please find a seat somewhere while I get my attendance book.”

A few desks were empty near the front of the room. They rushed into them.

She produced a small black notebook from her desk. She sat setting her pointer near at hand and picking up a pencil. Carefully she flipped the notebook open to an empty space.

“I would like your names, please,” she said. Looking at Larry, she tapped her pencil. “Suppose we have your name first.”

“Lar…”

“Stand up, please.”

He stood. “Larry Brown,” he said.

She peered over her spectacles at him.

“Your full name, please.”

“Larry Wilson Brown.”

She took a deep breath, laid down her pencil and interlaced her fingers.

“Your full name. Please.”

Larry blinked. He had no other name to give. He glanced at Frank, who shrugged.

“Larry Wilson Brown,” he repeated with a gulp.

Her jowls quivered. “It is the standard at Wilmillar Junior High School that we use our proper given name. Your proper given name is Lawrence, is it not?”

“Not. It’s Larry.”

One eyebrow danced above her spectacles.

“I understand,” she said in measured tones, “that you prefer ‘Larry’ in the company of your friends, but school is not your friend. Education is quite serious business. Here we have important, ernest rules, which must be obeyed without question. Remember, obeying the rules is the first and most important aspect of education. So in here you will be called Lawrence. Your parents gave you that name and you should be proud of it.”

“But they didn’t. They named me Larry.”

She rose from behind the desk, her large bottom flipping back her chair, which hit the wall with a bang. Spittle sprouted on her mouth.

Sweat embraced Larry’s upper lip.

“No intelligent parent would give their child a name ending in ‘y’. The ‘y’ is a diminutive meaning ‘little’. Such a child would go through life as Little Bill or Little Joe.” She glared at Larry. “You are not Little Lar, are you? It is Lawrence, and enough of that. We must return to the revolts of 1848.”

With the bell ending the period, Frank realized his own name would not be taken. He was glad to escape the fate of Larry, who ran pass him out of the room in tears. Frank did not see Larry the rest of that day. Larry threw up in the Lavatory and had to be taken home.

“My books, y’know,” said Doug as he passed Frank.

Frank turned to the tall pile. Cary stood nearby watching.

“Well?” Frank asked.

 Cary punched him on the arm. “Next time,” he said.

“Hey, come back here.” But too late, Cary was gone.

Frank picked up the twelve books and stumbled to the hall. Cary met him at the door and punched him in the arm again.

“Doug went ahead,” Cary said. “We’re due in Room 109,” and he punched Frank’s arm a third time.

Every few steps, Cary punched Frank. He would laugh, punch, laugh, punch, laugh, punch, a piston of annoyance. Room 109 was the length of the building from the room they had left. All the way Cary punched and laughed.

The corridor was full of hustle-bustle as kids ran the mid-bell gauntlet and Cary’s punches sent Frank stumbling into oncoming throngs. His burden of books would jab his ribs after every jolt to his flesh. When rounding a corner a vicious punch sent Frank into a flying wedge of giggling girls. The books scattered beneath their feet to be trampled and kicked down the hall. The final straw was broken.

Frank spun toward Cary, startling his tormentor in such a way that Cary covered his head with both arms in fear.

Frank hit him in the stomach.

Frank laughed when his fist sank deep into soft flesh, hearing the explosion of air, feeling the warm whoosh on his face. Cary bent over and fell backward into the lockers with a bang and a shout, his howl echoing down the halls. Holding his pained anatomy, Cary staggered off into a nearby classroom.

Frank began retrieving books. He had nearly completed this task when someone grabbed his upper arm. Guessing that Cary had recovered, Frank came up swinging, but his fist dropped limply to his side when he discovered a beefy, pig-faced man clutched him. The man had a brush haircut and wore a baggy suit.

“What homeroom are you in?” asked the man.

“N-none.

“You have to be in one.”

“I...I don’t go here yet.”

“You’re one of the visiting sixth graders?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you do at your grade school, but don’t expect getting away with this rowdy behavior here. We do not punch people at Wilmillar Junior High School.”

“No, sir.” But where were you when I was being pummeled?

“I’m glad you understand, young man. However, just to be certain you do remember, I shall report this incident to your principal. Which Ward do you attend?” He pulled a pen and pad from his coat pocket.

“Uh...West Ward,” Frank mumbled with head down.

“West Ward?”

“Yes.”

“Then your principal is Mr. Dreiblebist, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your name?”

Frank peered up from the floor briefly and glanced about. The hall was clear except for him and this man. He lowered his head again. “Cary. Cary John Masters.”

"Spell that.”

“M-A-S-T-E-R-S.”

“All right, Cary, you may go. But don’t think for a moment you will go unpunished. I shall report this matter to Mr. Dreiblebist, and I understand Mr. Dreiblebist is a very strict disciplinarian.”

Frank had heard before that Mr. Dreiblebist was a strict disciplinarian, even mean. It was rumored the kids at West Ward lived in sheer terror of his wrath. Every kid at East Ward was glad not to be at West Ward. Mister Dreiblebist would indeed act upon this pig-faced man’s report

Frank smiled at Cary as he entered Room 109. Cary smiled weakly back. Cary took this to mean all was forgiven between them for after the period he grabbed his share of the books, and did again after the third class.

After third period was lunch, and then the Sixth Graders were to attend an assembly.

Lunch was served in the basement cafeteria. Doug showed Frank and Cary where to store the books. They all got into one of the two great lines looping around the sides of the room. Being guests, the Sixth Graders were entitled to a free meal. Frank was not hungry. There was too much noise, confusion and shoving about him. The seating area was chaotic. Conversations buzzed about his ears like angry bees. Occasional words would sting him and leave an itchy impression. He saw the West Ward principal seated at a table and Cary said, “I see Mr. Dribblepiss is here.

At the table, bread flew pass Frank’s nose as food flew from kid to kid.

“Hey, Frank,” shouted Doug above the ruckus.

“What?”

“My friends here, y’know,” Doug point to two leering boys with thin cases of acme sitting at the next table. “They was wonderin’, y’know, what you did, y’know, when you were home alone, y’know? Play with yerself?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“You mean you play with yerself?”

“Sure, when I can’t find anyone else to play with.”

The two other boys laughed, bending to grasp their sides. Doug smirked. Frank didn’t see anything funny. What was the joke? Something evil about their snickers told him he was being made the fool. He had no appetite. He got up and found his way outside. In the parking lot behind the building he saw Ruben sitting on the fender of a pickup truck.

“Hey Frank,” Ruben called, “how’s it goin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you have some lady named Hurle?”

“I don’t know. What did she look like?”

“Like a witch, with a B. She was fat and wore rimless glasses half down her nose.”

“I think I had her. I didn’t like her.”

“Yech! I hope we don’t get her for anything next year.” Ruben sighed. “Maybe we could find out where she lives. Then we’ll go there at midnight and kidnap her and tie her to the electric fence.”

“You better be careful somebody doesn’t tie you to that fence after this morning. You shouldn’t have done that. Somebody could have gotten hurt.”

“Ah, Frank, you gonna start that stuff again? You’re gettin’ to be a real bird of bad omen.”

“I’m not startin’ anything. I’m just givin’ fair warning. Things even out in life. You bring trouble on your own head when you do a friend dirty. And I think when we get to this place next year, we’re gonna need our friends.”

“Roger wasn’t hurt. It was just a little joke. A little thing like that you can bet God kept no record.”

Ruben jumped down from the fender accompanied by a concert of ripping cloth. He looked at Frank wide-eyed.

“I think my pants tore on something. Look and see if they ripped.”

Ruben turned around. There was a great gap down the seam with little hope of closing. A bell rang. Those loitering about the lot began drifting into the building. Ruben backed against the truck.

“What’ll I do?” he looked at Frank.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t go inside like this.”

“I’ll find Mrs. Carey and tell her.”

Frank hurried into the building. He saw Doug waiting by the bookracks.

“Hey, there you are. I though I’d have to carry my books myself, y’know.”

“Where’s Cary?”

“Don’t know, man. He disappeared, y’know.”

“I’m not carrying all those books," said Frank.

“No?”

“No. Why should I? I haven’t noticed anyone else I know toting books. Why should I carry yours?”

Doug grabbed Frank’s shirtfront and cocked a fist. He pulled the smaller boy close. “Need I show you why, y’know?”

“No,” said Frank.

Frank silently trailed behind Doug to the auditorium. Outside the doors was another bookrack where he piled his load. A crush of students was shoving its way through the doors. Frank decided to wait awhile. As he waited he finally saw Mrs. Carey, but before he could move, a woman stopped her. The woman took Mrs. Carey aside and gestured toward the Nurse’s Office. Frank saw Ruben waiting by the door, a great towel wrapped about his waist. He looked glum.

“I’ll drive him home,” said the woman as she left Mrs. Carey.

Frank waved as Ruben was led away, but received no wave back. Frank was certain Ruben saw him. He had looked directly into Frank’s eyes for a moment, but then looked down, studying the floor.

The crowd had thinned. Frank went into the auditorium. His East Ward classmates were seated together on one side with their guides. Frank had to take a seat directly in front of Doug, who was busy whispering with his friends. Mr. Maxilla stood center stage ready to lead the flag salute and singing of the National Anthem. After singing, he motioned the audience to sit.

Frank was a bit slow.

There was an explosion beneath him, a terrible cracking, splintering of wood. He leaped to his feet. Every eye turned to watch him, except for Doug, who had his head down giggling. Frank saw Doug’s feet jammed between his seat and the chair back. Doug looked up, bowed his head mockingly and slowly removed his feet. Frank sat and seethed.

Mr. Maxilla’s speech rambled. Frank’s attention waned and wandered. He examined the stage, the walls and the ceiling. There was handwriting on the walls, words carved in the border beneath the ceiling.

JUSTICE IS THE CONSTANT DESIRE AND EFFORT TO RENDER TO EVERY MAN HIS DUE.

“And we look forward to your coming back next fall for a longer visit,” concluded Mr. Maxilla. There were a few chuckles from the teachers present. “Now is the time for you to take leave of us today. The West Warders will leave to the left and the East Warders to the right.”

The East Warders gathered in the hall while Mrs. Carey counted noses. Ruben and Larry were missing, but accounted for. Mrs. Carey marched the group out to the sidewalk. Frank slipped to the rear of the parade and joined Roger. They passed the cow pasture in silence.

Frank knew now how they kept the cows in – sheer terror. He understood everything that had happened today and what it meant for tomorrow. He was deep in thought about survival when Roger tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” said Roger, “where did you get all the books?”

“What?” Frank glanced down, suddenly aware of the weight tucked under both arms. He had carried them so often he had automatically picked them up from the bookrack as he left the auditorium. He took a glance at Roger and then stepped off the sidewalk to carefully pile the books on the ground. He shoved them as far as he could to the other side of the electric fence.

There were clouds darkening the sky.

“It’s going to rain,” said Roger. “They’ll get wet.”

“Yes,” said Frank.

It had started to drizzle.

Frank found a stick and used it to knock the pile of books over. They scattered across the grass, loose papers blowing out of the pages and across the meadow.

Roger looked at him.

“Thus it is written, ‘every man his due’” said Frank.

Roger said nothing.

“Don’t dawdle, children,” called Mrs. Carey, “hurry before the rain gets worse. You have no resources.”

And Frank smiled.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this story in 1954. I was 13 years old at the time. Though slightly fictionalized, this tale is basically true. I am represented by two characters in the story, Frank March and Larry Brown. Frank March would become my alter ego in my writing. Larry Brown was created because in real life I was the Larry the teacher attacked for my name. The other characters were based on real life people. I even used a real name for one, Mr. Dreiblebist, who was the principal as West Ward in Downingtown, the place Wilmillar represents. 

The background for this story was each year the sixth graders were taken for a day at the Junior High School they would be attending for seventh grade. The idea was to acquaint us with the difference between elementary school and junior high. We East Warders were marched across town, about a mile, by our sixth grade teacher, who was also the East Ward principal, to a day at the junior high. The incidences described all did occur, although not all on that one day. Some happened, such as Cary punching me down the hall, during the coming year. I compressed time for dramic effect.

The photograph is of "Mrs. Carey's Chickens", taken in 1953. "Mrs. Carey" stands before the blackboards on the left side. I sit not too far from her in the second row of desks, the second boy from the rear. I didn't wear glasses yet in sixth grade.