In the Clearing (18 page)

Following the librarian’s directions, Tracy took a right at the end of the block. Rather than stay straight for a mile, however, she took the next right, then turned right a third time and slowed. She stopped behind the cottonwood, which the police vehicle had vacated. It was now parked in the spot where Tracy had parked, at the foot of the library stairs. A Stoneridge Police officer was shuffling up the concrete steps, hands on his utility belt.

Her presence in town had been duly noted.

She pulled from the curb and drove out past the elementary school, occasionally glancing in the mirrors, though she didn’t expect to see the police car. The officer didn’t need to follow. He’d know soon enough where Tracy was going, and why.

Orchard Way was a quiet street of barren trees and wires sagging between telephone poles, but no street lamps or sidewalks. It wasn’t unusual for the older towns. As residents moved farther away from the city center, they focused on essential utilities like electricity, phone, and gas and sewer. Street lamps and sidewalks were far down the priority list, and often never installed.

Tracy parked just off the asphalt, alongside a white picket fence that would need painting after another winter. The fence enclosed a narrow stretch of lawn, split in two by a concrete walk leading to a single-story A-frame home. A satellite dish protruded from the roof like one large ear.

She pulled open the screen and knocked, then closed it and stepped back. There was a window to the left, but no one looked out before the door rattled open. A woman Tracy estimated to be in her late sixties or early seventies pushed open the screen. “Can I help you?” Her voice was tentative—strangers did not likely come knocking often—but not unfriendly.

“I’m looking for Sam Goldman,” Tracy said. “Evelyn at the library gave me this address. She said he might be able to tell me about Stoneridge back in the seventies.”

The woman frowned, but not in a displeasing manner. “Well,” she said, “Sam would know.”

“Who is it, Adele?” The man who came to the door was no more than five six, with a head of curly dark hair, graying at the temples. He adjusted his sturdy black-framed glasses as he looked at Tracy with a bemused, curious expression that made his eyes sparkle as if he held the world’s biggest secret.

“Evelyn over at the library said you could help this woman,” Adele said.

Sam Goldman peered at Tracy. “What’s this about, friend?”

“I was hoping to get some background on Stoneridge—what it was like here in the seventies. I understand you’re sort of the town historian since the fire in the library.”

“September 16, 2000,” Goldman said, his voice becoming more animated. “A three-alarm blaze. We could see the smoke from our offices on Main Street. I thought Timmerman’s ghost had returned and the whole town was going up in flames again. Most excitement we’ve had since Dom Petrocelli punched out Gordie Holmes at a town council meeting in 1987.”

“I understand it wiped out all the back copies of your newspaper at the library.”

“Burned the copies and melted the microfiche,” Goldman said. “They were in the process of raising funds to scan and convert the microfiche to discs, but their dreams went up in smoke faster than the Pony Express.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tracy said.

“Old news,” Goldman said, grinning. “I have everything stored up here.” He tapped his temple. “Best computer north of the Columbia. Are you a reporter, hero?”

“I’m a police officer.”

Goldman’s eyes widened, along with his smile. He turned to his wife. “The plot thickens, Adele.” He pushed the screen door fully open. “Come on in so we’re not heating the neighborhood.”

The home was modest but tasteful, with well-used but clean furniture. Tracy noted that Goldman had been watching ESPN on a flat-screen TV. He reached for the remote control on the coffee table and shut it off.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tracy said.

“The only thing you’re interrupting is our forced retirement,” Goldman said. “We can rest at the funeral home. Have a seat.”

Tracy sat on the couch. Goldman sat in a cloth chair that swiveled to face her. Two folded TV dinner trays leaned against a brick fireplace beneath a painting of a coastline. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?” Adele asked.

Sensing that Adele wasn’t sure what to do with herself, Tracy said, “Tea would be wonderful, thank you.”

Adele stepped from the room, and Tracy heard her opening and closing cabinets and filling a kettle at the sink.

“Where do you want to start?” Goldman asked.

“How about the state championship game,” Tracy said, wanting to give his memory a point of reference, which turned out to not be needed, before diving immediately into Kimi Kanasket.

“Saturday, November 6, 1976.”

“What was it like around town back then?”

“Like Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one,” he said, animated. Tracy had clearly picked a topic that excited him. “The town was so puffed up it was bursting at the seams. Up until then, Stoneridge couldn’t have won a one-legged race with two legs. That was the start of it.”

“The start of it?”

“The championships. Football mainly, but also swimming, basketball, baseball, soccer.”

“So what happened? What changed?”

“Ron Reynolds rode into town like John Wayne in
Rio Bravo
. He changed the culture. The kids were used to losing, and content to do so. Reynolds put an end to that.”

“How’d he do that?”

“You paid in sweat to play sports for Ron Reynolds. If the kids weren’t playing games, they were practicing or conditioning. Initially, some parents moaned about the time commitment interfering with schoolwork, but Ron just charged ahead like Teddy Roosevelt up San Juan Hill. He didn’t care what people thought of him. The complaints stopped when the banners started flying in the gym and people started reading their kids’ names in my paper. Then a few started getting scholarships. Money talks, friend. The complainers got quieter than a nun in the confessional.”

“He was the football coach?”

“They hired him as the football coach. They made him the athletic director, and he stayed on thirty-five years. They had a big retirement party for him in the school gym a few years back.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Lives in the same house he bought when he moved here.”

“I read in the paper they’re naming a stadium after him.”

“That’s the son’s doing. His company’s providing the material and labor. The town isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Tracy wasn’t much of a football fan. She’d grown up listening to Mariners baseball games with her father, but sensing Goldman’s excitement for the topic and hoping to establish a rapport, she asked, “You covered the championship?”

“They would have lynched me and burned the Sentinel building if I hadn’t. The town was all caught up that year in the Four Ironmen.”

“The Four Ironmen?”

“Eric Reynolds, Hastey Devoe, Archie Coe, and Darren Gallentine.”

Tracy recognized the names Devoe and Reynolds from the recent articles in the newspaper. “Why were they called ‘the Four Ironmen’?”

“Never missed a down in three years of varsity football, and they played both ways.”

“Played both ways?” Tracy asked.

“Offense and defense,” Adele said. She’d entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot and ceramic mugs. She made a face that conveyed,
You’d be surprised what you learn after fifty years.

“Reynolds was the all-American,” Goldman said as Adele handed Tracy a cup of tea. “He was the straw that stirred the drink. Without him, they don’t win. Devoe opened the holes on the offensive line, and Coe and Gallentine ran through them. Coe was fast and shifty. Gallentine was the hammer. On defense Devoe played nose tackle, Gallentine played linebacker, Coe was the cornerback, and Reynolds was the free safety. He had five interceptions his senior year.”

Tracy took a sip of her tea, which had a mint flavor. She set the cup on a coaster and retrieved the file from her briefcase. “I saw a photograph in the paper.” She showed Goldman the picture of the four young men hoisting the trophy into the stadium lights, and this time noted the names in the caption.

Red Raiders senior cocaptains and Ironmen Hastey Devoe (far L), Eric Reynolds (L), Darren Gallentine (R), and Archibald Coe (far R) hold aloft the Washington State 2A Championship trophy.

“I took that,” Goldman said. “I got the four of them together right after the game; didn’t see the steam rising off their heads until it was developed in the darkroom.”

“It’s a great shot,” Tracy said. “Sounds like the whole town was wrapped up in the winning.”

“They filled the stadium every home and away game. It didn’t matter if you had a kid playing or not. That trophy belonged to every man, woman, and child in Stoneridge.”

“I know how that is,” she said.

“Where’re you from?”

“Cedar Grove. It’s in the North Cascades—a thousand people on a good day.”

“So you do know what it’s like.”

Feeling as though she’d made a connection, Tracy turned to the reason for her visit. “So I’m wondering—what impact, if any, did Kimi Kanasket’s death have on the celebrations?”

Goldman smiled, and the glint returned to his eyes. Tracy could almost see the wheels spinning inside his head. He pointed a finger at her. “I figured you’d get around to her eventually.”

“How come?”

“I figured a cop who didn’t know what ‘both ways’ meant wasn’t here to relive the glory days of the local football team.”

Tracy smiled. “Do you remember the story?”

“Kimi? It was my story.”

“What do you remember?”

“A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Everyone knew Kimi. She was a track star. In the fall she ran cross-country, and in the spring she ran the high hurdles and the one hundred—back then it was still called the hundred-yard dash. She finished second in the state her junior year and was the odds-on favorite to win both races senior year.”

“What kind of kid was she off the track?”

This time Goldman didn’t hesitate. “Great kid. ‘A’ student. Polite. She worked at a diner just outside of town to earn money for college.”

“The Columbia Diner.”

“That’s the one. The family didn’t have much. Kimi was going to be the first to graduate high school and go to college. I intended to do a feature on her.” Goldman sighed. “Like I said, a real tragedy.”

“I noticed the diner is closed—”

“It went the way of the dinosaur long before I closed the
Sentinel
.”

“What about the people who owned the diner—are they still around?”

“Lorraine and Charlie Topeka, spelled like the city in Kansas. Charlie was the cook. Lorraine was the boss. They made a go of it for many years.”

“You know where I might find them?”

“Charlie’s playing pinochle with the worms. Lorraine, I’m not sure. Heard she moved south somewhere with a daughter. She’d be pushing eighty.”

“Mr. Goldman, you strike me as a pretty intuitive guy.”

“I’ve fooled a few people in my day. And call me Sam. I’m old enough. I don’t need to be reminded.”

Tracy smiled. “Fair enough, Sam. Let me ask you straight up. When you heard the news that Kimi Kanasket killed herself, what was your first thought?”

“First thought?” He paused, eyes closed.

“We couldn’t get anyone to talk to us,” Adele said.

“She’s right,” Goldman said, opening his eyes. “Facts were tucked away as tight as a pound in Churchill’s knickers.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“People didn’t talk about those types of things back then.”

“They didn’t want to spoil the mood,” Adele said before catching herself. “But I’ll let you two talk.” She went back to sipping her tea.

“So what did you think, Sam? What was your first thought?”

“I guess my first thought was the same as everyone else’s,” Goldman said. “I was shocked. Kimi didn’t strike any of us as a kid who would do that. The brother maybe, but not Kimi.”

“Her brother had some issues?”

“Élan was his name. He clashed with the white kids at school and got himself expelled.”

“What was he fighting about?” she asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.

“The local tribes were protesting the school’s use of the name ‘Red Raiders’ and the Indian mascot—a white kid wearing war paint would ride onto the field and bury a spear in the grass. The tribes said it was historically inaccurate and degrading. Looking back, they were ahead of their time.”

“How big a deal was it?”

“At first, not very. The tribal elders brought their concerns to the school administrators and to the city council. It was all very respectful until they got no response and felt they were being ignored. They changed tactics and started to protest outside the football games. That’s what got feathers ruffled.”

“I understand Earl Kanasket was a tribal elder and one of the leaders of the protest. Any of that fallout ever hit Kimi?”

“Not that I ever heard,” Goldman said. “Kimi wasn’t like Élan. Like I said, she was a quiet kid, polite. She kept more to her studies.” Goldman leaned forward, looking at Tracy over the top of his glasses. “Are you saying otherwise?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tracy said. “But something about what happened back then didn’t sit right with a young deputy sheriff—”

“Buzz Almond.”

Tracy nodded. “You really do have a computer up there, don’t you?”

“Use it or lose it, friend; that’s what my doctor says. I intend to use it.” Goldman sat back again. “Buzz was a good man and a great sheriff. If Buzz thought something was up, it likely was.”

“So tell me, what was a great kid like Kimi doing with someone like Tommy Moore?”

“Tommy got all the girls back then. He was our James Dean—smoldering good looks. He could charm a rattlesnake into not biting him.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not well. Never spoke to him. I covered his fights when he fought Golden Gloves. He could have been a good boxer; he had a heck of a left hook.”