Favorite Sons by Robin Yocum Read Free Book Online Page B

was me up there in the weeds that Adrian killed instead of him? Would you tell then?”
    â€œIt wasn’t you.”
    â€œThat isn’t what I asked.”
    â€œOf course I would tell someone.”
    He went back to staring at the fire and roasting his second hot dog. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
    We had just finished our hot dogs and thrown our roasting sticks into the flames when my mother and her friend Walter Deshay came out the back door and walked toward the fire. Walter was a widower who worked at an automobile parts store in Steubenville and kept a fishing boat on Catawba Island in Lake Erie. He had a round belly and thinning hair, and was forever pushing his wire-rim glasses up on his nose. They weren’t dating, my mother stressed on several occasions. Rather, they were just “seeing each other.” They had been playing bingo at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Mingo Junction and probably stopped for a beer or two at Foggy’s Tavern on the way home, as was their usual Tuesday night routine. “What’s this I hear about Petey Sanchez?” she asked when she got close enough that I could see her face illuminated by the flames.
    I shrugged. “They found him dead up on Chestnut Ridge, I guess.”
    â€œIt’s all over the radio. How’d he die?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I was grateful for the orange glow the fire threw upon my face, camouflaging the red I felt creeping up around my ears, a common side effect when I lied.
    â€œDenny Morelli told us about it after the game. He said someone might have shot him in the head,” Deak offered with a tone of surprising sincerity.
    â€œGood heavens,” Walter said, pushing up his glasses.
    â€œWhy are you two out here?” my mom asked. I didn’t understand the question. “Where am I supposed to be?” I asked.
    â€œInside. You don’t know who killed Petey. There might be some nutcase running around.”
    â€œMom, really?”
    â€œDon’t you ‘Mom, really’ me, mister. Clear up your stuff and get in the house. Dale Ray, you get in the car. I’ll give you a ride home.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do that, Mrs. Van Buren.”
    â€œI’m well aware of what I have and don’t have to do, Dale Ray. Get your butt in the car.”
    Mom and Walter walked back into the house while we picked up our trash and scattered the still-burning ashes with an old spade that I kept in the garden for that purpose.
    â€œReverend Timlinson called me this afternoon. They need another counselor at the fourth- and fifth-grade church camp out at Bergholz,” Deak said. “I think I’m going to go over and help them out for the rest of the week and get away from this.”
    â€œI think that’s a good idea. What about Saturday? Will you be back? We have a double-header against Mount Pleasant.”
    The engine on the Plymouth turned over and the headlights came on, illuminating the red brick street. He nodded. “I’ll be back Friday evening, but I’m amazed that with everything flying around us you’re still concerned about a baseball game.”
    â€œIt’s two baseball games,” I said, offering some levity.
    He walked to the car, shoulders stooped, without looking back.

Chapter Six
    Y ou didn’t sleep late in the home of Miriam Van Buren. Mom had grown up on a dairy farm and believed sleeping until 5 a.m. was a luxury. She didn’t have to be at the post office until 7 a.m., and it was only a two-minute walk from our house, but she would get up, shower, eat, read the paper, and work around the house until it was time to leave. She would call up the stairs at a quarter before seven. If I wasn’t in the kitchen by ten ’til, she would march upstairs, building a little froth with each step, grab hold of the little toe on my left foot, and twist it until my right foot was on the floor and I was hopping