The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

spoke in a naturally loud voice.
    “Well, who’s going to challenge me today?” He and the members of his posse looked around the room. At first, there were no takers.
    Then a tall, athletic-looking boy with his shirt collar turned up ambled down the aisle and said, “I’ll take you on.”
    Barney lost some of his confident demeanor. He said, “Are you sure you want to, Joe?”
    I remembered who Joe was. He was one of the boys Sylvia had pointed out to me. He was the quarterback and captain of the football team.
    “Sure I’m sure,” Joe said, depositing himself in the seat across the table from Barney with a thump. “Let’s see, what shall we have you do if I win?”
    Barney looked clearly uncomfortable. He remained silent, which I gathered was uncharacteristic of him.
    Joe drawled his words. “How about this? If I win, you have to run around the school. Naked. At lunch time.”
    There were scattered guffaws. I took a quick glance at the faculty tables. All of the teachers had left. I looked back at Barney. Surely he would refuse. But then a kind of gleam came into his eye.
    “All right,” he said.
    Joe looked a little surprised, but he recovered quickly and said, “What if I lose?”
    Barney hesitated. Then he said slowly, “You have to win Saturday’s game.”
    “Is that all?” one of Barney’s friends asked.
    Barney nodded and said, “Go ahead, Joe. You start.”
    Joe removed one of the cartons from one of the rows. Barney removed one from another row. I glanced at Sylvia. She was paying rapt attention to the game.
    I said to her, “Barney’s going to win.”
    “How do you know?”
    “That’s nim.”
    She looked at me. “Do you know how to play it?”
    “Sure.” My uncle taught me. He was a mathematician.
    “Could you beat Barney?”
    I hesitated. “I’m trying not to draw attention to myself.”
    Joe was forced to remove the last carton, making him the loser. He pounded his fist on the table, making the cartons dance. There were some good-natured jeers at his expense. I suspected that nobody had beaten Barney.
    One of the kids said to Joe, “Now you have to win Saturday.”
    Joe quickly recovered his composure and said, “I guarantee it.”
    He walked off with what I assumed was his usual swagger.
    “Can you teach me how to play nim?” Sylvia asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Class is about to start. I’ll tell you what. How are you getting to school?”
    “By car.” The 1949 Ford Ralph had been driving. The first model with the Cyclopean “eye” in the middle of the grill. It had a few years and a few miles on it, but it was a good-looking car and infinitely better than riding long hours on the bus.
    “Do you mind very much coming in early, say 7:30, tomorrow morning?” Sylvia put her hands together in supplication.
    “Why not?” It wouldn’t hurt to do a favor for Sylvia. She seemed to know everything that went on in the school. She might have more information about how Ralph had died. My curiosity was aroused, especially since Dr. Graves had shut me out. I was used to having adults shut me out. My father was an expert at it. As to Dr. Graves, it might give me a chance to get some of the information he wanted. Which would help keep me in school.
    “Meet me in the wings behind the stage, where we were today.”
    I looked at her in surprise.
    “It’s okay. Nobody will bother you. And at that hour there’s hardly anybody here, anyway.” As we walked out of the cafeteria, she said, “What class do you have now?”
    “Math,” I said, looking at my schedule. “I think it’s on the second floor. Room 215.”
    “Take the stairs to the right. It’s about halfway down the corridor.”
    “What do you have?”
    “Gym. I can’t wait to get into my bloomers.”
    “I’m sure you look good in them.”
    “I’m sure you’re a liar.”
    ***
    I had a hard time sleeping that night, my second at the farm. That’s what we called the home of Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jeff. It was a small farm, fifty-some acres, and they didn’t farm it—they leased the farmable land to a neighbor—but its fertile fields grew healthy crops of grain. It had a country lane with a fence on each side, and it had woods. It had farm buildings, including a big red barn. All in all, it looked like a farm.
    My father and Aunt Dorothy owned the farm together. It had been in the family for about seventy years. My father preferred living in the suburbs of Atherton, but I had spent a lot of time here as a