Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 32, No. 13, Mid-December 1987

Fallen Leaves by Stephen Wasylyk

Side by side, the three graves were partially covered by the golds, reds, and browns of the withered leaves that had drifted down from the tall trees, now glowing amber in the setting sun like paintings in a gallery lighted to bring out their best.

Turnpike travel is a great time-saver, except when a major crash brings you to a halt with nowhere to go and nothing to do except wait, wiping out any anticipated time of arrival you may have had and leaving you thankful only that you hadn’t been involved in the accident.

Now that I was here, I knelt and brushed the fallen leaves away from the bronze ground-level grave markers. It seemed the least I could do.

I rose to catch the faint, acrid odor of leaves being burned illegally. There had been a time when we all grew up with that odor as the dependable harbinger of winter, but winter is only a step in nature’s inexorable cycle and spring always comes again.

Only in a man’s mind can winter remain beyond its allotted time. He carries its coldness with him, and at odd times in odd places memories trigger its chill and he wonders if he will ever be warm again.

Sam King and I liked to ride our bikes to the hill outside of town where we could sit on a stone wall, the valley spread before us and the houses like white chips clustered in a green bowl that was fractured by the ribbon of the river, and we would talk of all the things that fourteen-year-olds talk about, like girls, sports, girls, school, girls, parents, and girls, with an occasional discussion about women.

The wall was more than just a place to sit. Accidentally moving a loose stone one day, we had found a cavity inside that became the secret repository of our possessions, particularly those we didn’t want our parents to see.

The daily Greyhound came by, the driver waving. He’d once told us he’d instructed a new driver not to worry about not spotting the turn. Turn left when you see the two kids, he’d said...

The roar of the bus had scarcely faded when we saw the figure marching up the road; head up, shoulders back, his stride smooth.

He slipped the pack from his shoulders and dropped it on the grassy shoulder before us; young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, his dark hair long, his face burned brown, a hard fitness showing through the sweat-stained shirt.

“Hi. Know where I might get a drink of water around here?” He ruefully nudged a canteen strapped to the pack. “Sort of miscalculated somewhere along the line.”

I handed him the thermos I carried in the basket of my bike.

“We run into the same problem pedaling up the hill.”

He sipped and indicated the town. “You two from down there?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Where are you going?”

“Just walking, but about ready to quit for the day. Know a place where I can put up for the night? Cheap?”

I slid off the wall. “Sure. We’ll take you down.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

We hadn’t moved more than a dozen yards when a red Mustang convertible slammed into the turn and pulled up beside us, scattering dust and gravel. My sister had a habit of driving too fast. Maybe Donna thought it was mandatory for a pretty blonde behind the wheel of a red convertible with the top down.

She looked the man over before her eyes settled on me.

“Give you and Sam a lift, George. You can throw your bikes in the rear seat.”

The stranger was holding his backpack by one strap. His stride had been strong, but he appeared tired.

“How about him? He’s walked a long way and is looking for a room for the night. You can drop him off at Mrs. Thurlow’s.”

She looked at him coldly. “I never give rides to strangers.”

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.

I called down. “What happened?”

My father turned. “Donna had an accident. We’ll handle it.”

I didn’t know what it was about but I’d heard the conversation between her and Roy and it seemed to me that he was entitled to know she was hurt, so I crept upstairs and called him.

He was there in five minutes. My father talked with him on the porch for a long time before they came back in.

Roy walked up to Donna and gently placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

She shrank from him as though she was afraid and I thought that strange. My mother jerked her head toward the door.

He took two quick steps before my father caught his arm.

“That’s my job,” he said.

They stared at each other. Roy shrugged. “This is no time to argue about it. We’ll both go.”

My father turned toward the stairs. “I’ll be right down.”

I didn’t know where they were going, but I sure as hell was going along. I frantically pulled a pair of pants over my pajamas and thrust my feet into my sneakers as I heard a closet door in my parents’ room open, the rattle as a box was shifted, and I peered from the door until my father passed, a gleam of metal in his belt. I followed.

He turned once on the porch, his voice harsh. “You stay home, George.”

That was one time I had no intention of obeying and when the headlights of the car turned up the street, I leaped from the steps and began running.

The taillights were already fifty yards ahead of me but there were only two places for them to end up, at the mill or at Brady’s house, neither of which was very far away and a car couldn’t get there very much more quickly than a kid running hard.

I was running as fast as I ever had in my life when there was a low rumble and the sky ahead flashed as if from lightning and then there was another roar, louder, and the sky started to turn red, the glow blossoming slowly until it lighted the street before me.

Gasping for breath, my legs trembling, I arrived with the town’s one fire engine, along with the first of the crowd that piled up behind me.

The mill was more than a hundred years old, built beside the river, the offices facing the street at the front of the long building. Alongside was a paved area, both sides used for parking, a center aisle leading to the loading docks at the rear.

When automobiles first replaced horses and wagons, service stations were few and far between and the owner of the mill had installed a single gasoline pump at the front of the paved area as a company perquisite for his executives. It was a custom that disappeared very quickly elsewhere, but at the mill it had become a tradition that my father unsuccessfully tried to end every time the pump was updated.

I didn’t have to be there to know someone had done what my father had always been afraid of — swung too wide through the entrance gate and sheared that pump completely off. The car had ricocheted off the brick wall, spun, and wedged itself into the side employees’ entrance before exploding and spraying flaming gasoline and setting the entire building afire. Even though the interior had been remodeled many times, those century-old floors and beams burned too quickly for the sprinkler system and the one piece of fire equipment to handle.

The burning car told me who it had been. Brady.

With Brady’s car jamming the employees’ entrance, the people of the second shift were trapped inside. The only way out was through the windows on this side, those facing the river, or through the shipping doors at the rear. They were already open, people streaming out, smoke billowing above their heads.

I saw my father emerge from the confusion and, without thinking, ran into the yard after him. It was a hellish scene, lighted by the fire, two feeble spotlights on the engine, and the monotonous sweeping of the rotating red lights on the two police cars. The heat from the burning building was intense, almost unbearable, the noise deafening. I tugged at his sleeve the way kids do when they’re scared and want reassurance that everything will be all right.

Fear for me in his eyes, I could see him yell words I took to be get the hell out of here, George. Hurt, I stepped back. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders tightly, his face softening.

He glanced up at the burning building, the softness wiped out suddenly by a sad resignation and pain, hugged me fiercely, and said something I couldn’t hear. He pulled the .45 from his waist, slapped it into my palm as though passing on a baton or standard, and literally threw me toward the safety of the street.

I dodged through the firemen and turned to watch.

Through the smoke, I saw him at the wheel of his car, bumping over the fire hoses. He spun in a tight turn and smashed into the rear of Brady’s burning car, backed away and hit it again. And again. And cleared the doorway as the paint on his car began to blister.

The firemen immediately played a spray of water on the entrance and my father and Roy dashed in. They were out in seconds, each half-carrying a man the firemen hurried the rest of the way to safety. Neither hesitated as they went back into the flaming hell of the building twice more to carry men out, but no one defies the odds forever and what stays in my mind is that they had to know that and went anyway.

The third time the old mortar holding the brick wall together yielded to the heat and the wall collapsed without warning, sealing them inside.

My throat went too tight for tears and I knelt there numb; moaning around me, screaming around me, people sobbing, people choking, the heat on my face fierce even at that distance and then I saw Brady, slumped against a police cruiser, so drunk his head lolled, so drunk he was smiling and the only pleasure that night ever gave me was seeing the deep scratches running down the side of his face. Donna had fought well.

Six months later, my mother died, as much a victim of the fire as the people who had died in it, so the three of them were buried here together, Roy in one of the spaces my father had planned for either Donna or me when he bought the plot. Donna and I never discussed doing anything else. Roy had not only earned it, he had almost become one of the family, and we both knew we could never live our lives out in Monroe.

Donna and I went together to go through Roy’s things at Mrs. Thurlow’s. The backpack hadn’t held much. The most important thing was a folder Donna took. She never did tell me what was inside except that Roy had no next of kin, but a military chest ribbon slipped out and fell to the floor. The colors burned themselves into my mind, and years later I learned it was a Silver Star.

Nothing much was said about what Brady had done to her, the rape lost in the larger tragedy. No one outside the family was told except Sam. Sam was my friend. I told him everything.

Brady was tried and convicted on a half-dozen counts but never spent a day in prison because of his father’s money and influence. The mill was never rebuilt. Monroe, like many other one-industry towns, faded, and was only now beginning to recover because it was a nice place to live and newer, high-speed highways made commuting to work easier and faster.

That fall Donna left for the state university she had never intended to attend, while I moved in with Sam’s family until I finished high school. Donna came back once, for my graduation and because that was the year she turned twenty-one and there were papers to be signed at the family attorney’s office. We both left the next day, she in her car and well ahead of me as though she couldn’t wait to get out of town, me in mine following reluctantly because it was difficult to leave Sam, more like a brother now than a friend. We had the summer to settle in before I started my freshman year and she finished up as a senior.

She hadn’t been back since. I tried to visit the graves each year on the anniversary of the fire.

Headlights on, a police car crunched gravel as it slowly rolled toward me.

Sam stepped out, heavy in his chiefs uniform, and held out his hand.

“Good to see you again, George. When you weren’t here by noon, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it this year.”

“Ran into one of those turn-off-your-engine-and-take-a-nap tie-ups on the turnpike.”

We stood for a long moment, old friends clasping hands, grateful another year had passed without the news that we would never meet again.

He tapped my shoulder. “I see you’re a major now. Congratulations. Still flying?”

“When I can. A squadron CO has a great many things to do.”

“How is Donna doing?”

“Still the high powered New York bank executive. Dresses like an ad in the Times, walks fast, and yells at people a great deal.”

“Not married yet?”

“Not yet.” I didn’t say she probably never would be.

“And you?”

“I move around a great deal, Sam.”

He seemed to consider what to say next.

“I have something to show you.”

He brought a heavy object wrapped in newspaper from his car and handed it to me.

I unfolded the paper. Inside was a .45 automatic, crusty with a deep layer of rust. It lay heavy in my hand, recalling more memories.

“Where did you get this?” I tried not to sound too interested.

“Kids never change, I guess. The other day a couple of them found the loose stone of that hiding place in the wall we used to use for those Playboy centerfolds we didn’t want our parents to know about. Anyway, one of the kids poked his hand inside and there it was.”

I weighed it in my hand. “Why would anyone want to hide it?”

“It can’t be proved because it’s rusted solid, but since Brady was found in his car only a few yards down the road with a .45 slug in his chest, I’d say it’s the gun that killed him seventeen years ago. If I didn’t use it and hide it there, and you couldn’t because you left that afternoon for the university, who did?” He paused. “You didn’t even know Brady had been killed until I wrote you about it.”

He said it as though reassuring himself.

I shrugged. “Since kids never change, it’s likely that one found that cavity before we did. What are you going to do with the gun now?”

He rewrapped it carefully. “That’s a problem. It’s dangerous, you know. Probably loaded and there may even be one in the chamber. The shells won’t rust and are probably still live, which makes me worry. Old shells are very unstable. For all I know, a sudden jar could set one off and cause the gun to explode. I think throwing it in the river would be the safest thing for everyone concerned.”

“I’d agree, if it doesn’t get you into trouble. The state police lab might still be able to read the serial numbers, even though they’re not visible, because the molecules in the metal are rearranged when the numbers are stamped.”

“I thought about that but do you realize how long it would take? And even if I did get a number, it might not do much good. This could be a service piece, and a lot of the weapons brought home by servicemen were never registered, which means going through old army records while the gun sits around with the possibility of someone’s being hurt or maimed every time it’s touched.”

“Sam, I think you’re talking yourself out of doing anything at all with the damned thing,” I said slowly.

He leaned on the roof of the car with folded arms and stared across the river at the town. The street lights had come on in the dusk. The white houses were still the same, but there were many in the sections where the mill workers had lived which were boarded up and dark; that way now for twenty years. The fire had not only killed twenty people but had destroyed many more lives.

When he turned, the words came thoughtfully. “You’re a little out of touch, George, because you come back only once a year, so maybe you don’t realize that the town’s hate for Brady never faded. He didn’t rape only your sister that night, he violated all of us. Hell, the people here don’t give a damn who killed him. They just wonder why it took three years. If I held up this gun and told them it was the only clue we ever found to who killed that creep, and then threw it in the river, they’d probably applaud.”

I said nothing.

“Just wanted to straighten out a few things that may have been on your mind, George.”

He was telling me that he knew I’d killed Brady. He was generally more blunt, but I suppose it was a question of ethics. If he didn’t actually say the words, he wasn’t violating his oath of office.

He gently pushed me toward my car. “Let’s get moving. We’re late for dinner and the kids always look forward to your stories about the wild blue yonder.” He chuckled. “Sam Junior spends a great deal of time watching clouds. Do you suppose that means something?”

The odor of burning leaves still lingered as we pulled out of the cemetery.

Memories. Layered like fallen leaves. Those buried deep recalled only when something like the sight of a rusted automatic brushed away the layers on top.

“Whatever happened to Dad’s old .45, Donna?”

“Mother got rid of it. You know how she hated guns.”

Memories, withered and almost dead.

Of my last visit to the hill where Sam and I had spent so much time. Donna had been with me.

“You mean this is where you and Sam used to hide your little treasures? That’s very amusing, George, but let’s leave. Monroe may seem very pretty from up here, but it’s really an ugly little town.”

Of the day I left Monroe.

“You left three hours before I did, Donna. What happened?”

“I had car trouble and had to pull off the turnpike.”

And of the day I’d showed her Sam’s letter.

“I should have killed him myself.”

“You’re too young. You know Dad always said not to touch a gun until you are twenty-one and mature enough to take full responsibility for your actions.”

Happy Birthday, Donna.

When I get back, I’ll send you a cake with twenty-one candles on it.

Even though it will be seventeen years late, it may help to know that I understand.

So would Dad and Roy.