Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2)

by Derek Ciccone

  She headed into the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans that hadn’t been used in years. The clanging was loud enough to alert Archie. Once she was in his sights again, she ran out the back of the cafeteria, and directly into the neighboring building, shutting the creaking door behind her. It was the auditorium, where the residents had engaged in music therapy, and would often put on performances for the Rockfield community. As if to say—see, it’s not so bad here. There’s music, not torture, you can’t believe those rumors.

  But when she came upon the caved-in stage and the remains of a piano, she thought of the legend she’d heard about the piano teacher who was so abusive to her “students” that they hung her by piano wire in this very room. Supposedly, if you listen closely you can still hear her playing “Camptown Races.”

  She didn’t have time for that tonight, and dashed out a side door. “You still there?” she shouted back at Archie, but the only reply she got was his heavy breaths.

  She continued the race until she came to Bethel Hall—one of three buildings clustered together in a triangle formation. They were once staff quarters, and even in their decaying state it was obvious that the accommodations were much better than the ones the residents were housed in.

  She stood in a living room area and waited until Archie burst through the door, breathing heavily. She doubted the chase had worn out this top athlete—it was his nerves that were getting the best of him tonight.

  “What took you so long?”

  “We could use you on the football team,” he replied, between huffs and puffs.

  “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the boys,” she said with the smile that normally turned male legs into jelly. But she was reminded again that Archie was not like the others.

  She approached him, getting as close as possible—it was imperative that he grasped what she was about to tell him.

  “I let you catch me, Archie. When people are after you, even the slightest slip will give them a chance to catch you. It’s important to never look back, and keep running. Do you understand?”

  He nodded that he did.

  She could feel the ghosts nodding along with him.

  Chapter 2

  With a kick of her bare foot, she broke the old, rotting chair in half. She carried the pieces to the fireplace and with one swipe of a match the room was lit up, and warming.

  “I thought Indians rubbed rocks together to make fire?” Archie said.

  “I hate to break it to you, but we’re just as helpless and reliant on technology as the white man.”

  This is where most boys would see the green light, and drag-race right to her, tires screeching. But Archie looked hesitant, and she detected a tremor.

  “So now that you’ve caught me … are you going to kiss me, or what?”

  He began to walk to her, his steps were timid and measured.

  “You really haven’t been with a girl, have you?”

  He stopped in his tracks. “I thought I told you …”

  “Don’t worry, it’s between us,” she said. “And when I’m done with you, you’ll be a legend in these parts. People will be talking about this night for years to come.”

  She strolled over to him, took his hand, and led him to a blanket she had placed in front of the crackling fire. She put her hands around his waist, and pulled his strong body close to hers. She then took off his jacket, forcing herself not to rush, and set it down beside the blanket. Ready or not, it was show time, and she planted a deep kiss on his mouth. It was mechanical and slightly awkward, but she’d had worse kisses.

  She pushed him down on the blanket, and climbed on top. She was about to go in for the kill, but sensed more nerves. She smiled down at him. “Wow—having me for your first time is like trying to hit a baseball first time off of Sandy Koufax. Straight to the big leagues.”

  “I’m impressed you know who Sandy is—most girls don’t know anything about sports.”

  “My father was a big Dodgers fan. He used to take me to the games in Brooklyn. But he was so mad they moved to California that we’re not even allowed to mention their name in our house anymore.”

  “Then I guess you don’t know that they won their World Series game today against the White Sox—three to one. Don Drysdale got the win.”

  “I said we couldn’t mention it, not that we couldn’t sneak a listen on the radio. And I don’t blame them for moving to California. I would too if I had the chance.”

  They now had two things in common. “Can’t beat sunshine all year and great beaches. And it seems like everyone isn’t hung up on the past like they are here. I’m thinking about going out there to play football at UCLA next year.”

  She held back her surprise. “Word around school is that you’re going to Syracuse and be the next Ernie Davis. Or maybe West Point.”

  “That’s what my parents are telling people. But I’m almost eighteen, and if I’m old enough to go to war, then I’m old enough to decide where I’m going to college.”

  Feeling that she’d calmed his nerves as much as possible, she ran her fingers through his blond hair and moved in to kiss him. She didn’t hear any bells on the second attempt at lip-lock, but she did hear the front door creak open.

  “I know you’re in here, Poca!” echoed the familiar voice of Woodrow Hastings.

  Archie tried to sit up, but she held him down and put her hand over his mouth.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” his voice grew closer. When they didn’t respond, he angered. “I said answer me! I know you came here with him.”

  Archie looked ready to fight, but she pushed him toward another room. “Shut the door and be quiet … I’ll take care of this,” she told him. He seemed hesitant to leave her, but followed her orders.

  Woodrow followed the crackling of the fire right to her. “Where is he!?”

  “Where is who?” she responded with a shrug, intensifying his anger. It didn’t fit with his preppy look of short-sleeved cardigan and cuffed trousers; his hair Brylcreemed into a pompadour like his hero, Elvis. But when it came to Woodrow Hastings, the outward image never really matched what boiled underneath.

  “Archibald! I know you came up here with him. They told me …”

  “It’s none of your business what I do, or who I do it with.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell the police that he took a freshman girl up here to do perverted things to her, and he’ll end up in jail.”

  “And so will you, when I tell them what we did. Or was I not underage when we were together?”

  “I’m a Hastings—the police will slap me on the back and congratulate me.”

  “You are a Hastings—and that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That in public I was beneath you, but behind closed doors you tell me you love me. If you want me to be your girlfriend, then prove it—take me back to the group and tell them we’re going steady. If not, leave me alone!”

  “You know it’s complicated, Poca.”

  “And it’s about to get more complicated.”

  “The lady said to leave her alone,” Archie shouted as he ran into the room. He’d morphed into a completely different animal from the scared boy she was just kissing.

  A lopsided grin appeared on Woodrow’s face. “Hasn’t your family tried to harm mine enough … now you think you’re going to steal my girl?”

  “I’m not your girl. Archie is proud of me. He doesn’t treat me like a streetwalker and hide me away in a closet.”

  “Yeah, some romantic getaway he brought you to—a deserted loony bin.”

  “I brought him here.”

  “You cheap prostitute!” he shouted out, and slapped her across the face.

  Poca responded with a closed fist to Hastings’ lip, knocking him backwards. His initial surprise changed to rage. He cocked his fist, and was about to launch it into her nose, when Archie grabbed his arm. “You need to leave before someone gets hurt.”

  Woodrow
faced him, and pulled out a knife.

  “Oh my God … no,” Poca screamed out.

  Woodrow grinned. “Don’t worry your pretty little head—if he gets himself murdered tonight, it isn’t going to come from me. You two came up here for some hanky-panky, so I’m going to make sure he follows through on the dare.”

  He flashed the knife in front of Archie’s face. “Go ahead … that’s why you came here. Get to it!”

  Archie remained still.

  “I guess if you’re too chicken, then I’ll have to take care of business for you,” Woodrow said. “This is a real-man’s sport, so step aside.”

  He pushed Poca down onto the blanket and climbed on top of her. He ran the knife softly over her bare shoulders and then slowly dragged it down her body until he reached her legs. There was little she could do—he was a Hastings, and she was just an Indian girl, even if she was the chief’s daughter. Everyone understood the pecking order in Rockfield.

  He cut the dress off her like he was opening a mail package. This time she tried to fight him off, scratching anywhere she could—face, neck, arms—and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Hastings tore the dress away, leaving her naked on the bed. He grinned again, holding the knife just under her chin. “Why don’t you lay back like a good squaw, and enjoy it.”

  Just as the words left his mouth he bent over in agony, and fell off to the side, as the steel fire poker blasted into his midsection. Archie swung again, breaking another rib. Woodrow rolled over and groaned, dropping the knife. Archie raised the poker once more, ready to finish the job … but Poca stopped him.

  She struggled to her feet. “What did I tell you about running, and not looking back?”

  He looked overwhelmed, so Poca grabbed his hand and began to pull him away. Archie grabbed his letterman jacket and draped it over her naked body. He was a man of honor—the complete opposite of most she’d come across in this town—and she was briefly saddened it had to come to this, and that Thomas Archibald’s life was about to end. But there was no turning back now.

  They ran, hand in hand, across the dark grounds. They didn’t even stop when they passed the gang, who were still hanging by The Tower, waiting in anticipation for some salacious details. It seemed like hours before they reached the area along Zycko Hill Road where they had parked their cars. They hopped into Archie’s fire-engine red Studebaker Lark, and sped away up the winding hill. But when they neared the bridge, he slammed on the brakes, and the car came to a skidding stop. They both spotted the figure about fifty yards away. He or she was wearing only a bathrobe, and it was impossible to make out the face.

  They shielded their eyes as a bright light shot at them. Archie pulled Poca down below the dashboard. “I need you to get out and run back to the others.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, but they both knew there was no other option but to face this head on. He just nodded.

  She swung the heavy door open and began to run. She never looked back, her bare feet feeling like they were hammering nails into the pavement, until she reached the others. When they returned to the bridge, Archie and his car were gone, and there was no sign of any mysterious figure.

  Chapter 3

  Rockfield, Connecticut

  Friday before Labor Day—present

  Mark Twain once famously referred to golf as a good walk ruined.

  But a much less heralded writer, and former member of the traveling news circus, JP Warner, thought it would be better described as an aggravating hike through rugged terrain in search of another errant shot, with the reward for its discovery being further torture.

  My too-tight golf shoes crunched branches, and the sun disappeared from sight, as I again entered the woods in search of my ball. Back on the eleventh hole I decided that if I survived the day without a severe case of poison ivy or a rattlesnake bite, I would consider it a win, no matter what my scorecard read. The only saving grace was that this was the final hole.

  I used my club to push back bushes and shrubs, without any luck. Then came a lifeline from my fellow hiker and bad ball-striker, Lewis Hastings. “Right there,” he said, pointing at the white ball that was sitting beside a cedar tree, like he’d just located the final egg at the annual Easter egg hunt.

  I’d always thought of Lewis Hastings as a self-indulgent, pretentious jerk, who was born on third base and thought he’d hit a triple, or whatever other cliché fit the stereotype. He was four years my senior, and was part of a clique that used to pick on us younger kids back in the day. He might not have been the leader or instigator, and granted, I’d barely come in contact with him over the last twenty years, but you don’t forget things like that.

  But the funny thing about journeying eighteen rolling hills of golf with someone is you get a certain insight into them, and it seemed as if Lewis and I had a few things in common. For one, we both sucked at golf. This was a little surprising in his case, since his family owns this golf course, along with most of the property on the north side of town.

  Another commonality is that we, along with our siblings, were named after historical figures. My mother, the resident town historian, named my brothers and me after accomplished people who were born in our home state of Connecticut. I was named after John Pierpont Morgan, who also went by JP. My brother Ethan was named after the revolutionary war hero, Ethan Allen, and my late brother Noah was the namesake of Noah Webster.

  Due to their mother’s influence—the French model Monique Diaw—Lewis’ oldest sister, Louisa, was named after one of the many King Louis’ who had ruled France, while her twin brother, Nap, took his name from Napoleon. In contrast, Lewis was named after Jerry Lewis.

  Now I know that for some reason Jerry Lewis is a big deal in France, but when firstborn children are named after rulers and kings, you are establishing expectations. So being the namesake of a quirky comedian relegated Lewis to the court jester from day one in the Hastings kingdom. He runs the Hastings Inn and the family farm in Rockfield, along with this golf course, while his globetrotting siblings were given the keys to the much more glamorous movie production business. He was still better off than most people, but in his world he’s the black sheep, and as the day went on I developed a dose of empathy for him.

  “I’d go with a 5-iron,” Lewis suggested as I lined up my shot. He knew golf a lot better than he played it.

  “I’d probably be better served using a weed whacker,” I replied, and got a laugh back. He seemed to loosen up once we entered the woods, as if he was able to leave behind the outside world where his every word was monitored.

  I followed his advice, and took out my frustrations on the unsuspecting golf ball with a violent swing. The ball took off like a rocket, whistling through the small opening between the trees and reentering the sun-filled day. I shaded my eyes as I watched the white dot majestically rise, before falling softly onto the green, where it stopped no more than a foot from the pin.

  “Dammit!” I yelled.

  Lewis looked confused. “What are you mad at? That’s one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.”

  “I always hit one great shot like that, right after I vow to never play golf again, and it brings me back the next time.”

  He nodded with a knowing grin.

  After Lewis took a more pragmatic two-shot approach to the green, we walked up the fairway together—golf survivors united.

  It wasn’t all doom and gloom. After a year where my body served as a human piñata, my health had returned for the most part—the damaged knee felt sturdy, and all the lingering symptoms from my concussion had ceased. And while my game left a lot to be desired, I still looked the part. A newsboy hat and knickers, along with a neon orange Polo shirt. I didn’t win “Most Stylish News Personality” eight years running for nothing. I was even nicknamed J-News, since it looked like I belonged on the cover of the J-Crew catalog, rather than in the buttoned-up television news industry.

  We were greeted on the green by our fathers, who had spent much less
time bonding in the woods. Longtime, and soon to be retiring Rockfield First Selectman, Peter Warner, proudly patted me on the back after I tapped in, adding, “Great shot, son,” as if the first ten shots I took on this hole never happened.

  Woodrow Hastings, his tanned face contrasting with his senatorial white hair, joined in the congratulations. Before we teed off on the first hole, he asked me what my handicap was, to which I replied “my swing.” He laughed the phoniest laugh I’d ever heard. At that point, it became clear that I was the reason we were here today, and I had a pretty good idea why.

  Chapter 4

  The one hole I’ve mastered in golf is the nineteenth.

  We moved inside the cozy tavern, located next to the clubhouse. It was dedicated to the memory of Joseph Hastings Sr., Woodrow’s father, who was credited with turning their family into the most prominent in Rockfield.

  My father and I ordered ice teas. Since I was doing the driving I stuck to sweetened, while he went with the Long Island variety. Woodrow had a scotch, which seemed to fit. And Lewis stuck to a mineral water with lemon—he’d mentioned his “recovery” on a couple of occasions during our ventures into the woods, but I never furthered the subject.

  Woodrow announced that since he had the best score of the round, the drinks would be on him. Very generous, being that he owned the place. He then made a toast to my father. “To Peter—on his retirement … again. May this one last longer.”

  It was a good line from a skilled politician, even if he never held political office—the best politicians never do. And after we clanked glasses, he continued, “But in all seriousness, you truly are irreplaceable, Peter. The best we can hope for is to find someone who loves Rockfield as much as you do. I was never able to fully replace my father, but because I had the same passion for the town, we’ve been able to carry on.”