Birds of a Feather: Third in the Brothers Series

By Clara M. Miller

BIRDS OF A FEATHER, is the third in an ongoing series of books about the rivalry of two brothers: Michael the Archangel and his exiled sibling, Lucifer. In volume three, we follow the lives of two young men mentioned in the other books. The book traces the violent history of Mitch Garfield, a former Marine and espionage agent and the rather more sedate life of Todd Bechtold, raised in Hollywood and more at home with art and music that violence. Nevertheless, inexorably, these two are drawn together and, serendipitously, wind up in Scajaquada where the battle between the two brothers is being waged. The backgrounds of both men serve to prepare them for their part in this battle and their courage and resilience under enormous pressure surprises even them. Though Mitch, as the apparently stronger of the two, assumes the role of protector to his younger mate, he soon learns that Todd has strength he, himself, lacks. The strength of both will be needed and tested when Lucifers ongoing campaign to initiate The Rule of Chaos on Earth begins to heat up with Mitch and Todd caught in the middle. How they handle this ongoing threat to mankind remains to be seen as future volumes will show.
Despite the subject matter, this series is NOT religious, though it does contain religious elements and characters, casting many in a new light.
As the story opens, Mitch is still a High School student with hopes of making something of himself. Fate intervenes, however, and the young man finds himself in a role thats foreign to him. As Mitch fights his way through Korea, a young man named Todd is growing up in Hollywood--hostile and disillusioned. While Todd attends College and meets some rather amazing people, Mitch winds up in the inferno of Vietnam where he and the unflappable Captain Truckner meet an uncompromising fate. Both the soldier and the art aficionado, however, receive help and guidance from a strange source: Mitch through a mysterious Phantom Soldier who twice saves him from death and Todd through the unlikely agency of a Voodoo priestess.
These two disparate individuals finally come together and realize they are soul-mates. Their union leads them to Scajaquada and a rendezvous with destiny.....and Lucifer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469109664

Clara M. Miller

The author was born in Buffalo, New York. Her first published book, Echoes of a Haunting (published in 1999) is non-fiction. In the fiction field, she has written Brothers (2001), Once a Demon (2002), Birds of a Feather (2002). Cirque Diabolique (2003), Shamrocks in the Heather (2003), A Breath of Old Smoke (2004) and Daughters of Gemini all in the BROTHERS Series. In 1975, she moved out West, first to California and then north to Oregon. She currently resides in the coastal town of Florence, Oregon with her mother, their dog, “Dear” Abby and a cat named Miss Kitty.

Book preview

Copyright © 2002 by Clara M. Miller.

Library of Congress Number:   2002095076

ISBN:   Hardcover   1-4010-7793-5

Softcover   1-4010-7792-7

ISBN: ebook 978-1-4691-0966-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

BIRDS OF A

FEATHER

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART II

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

PART III

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

PART IV

Chapter 1

PART V

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

CHARACTERS IN

BIRDS OF A

FEATHER

DEDICATION

The entire BROTHERS Series is dedicated to:

my mother, Ann Boland Miller, who never lost her faith in me

and who suffered through interminable readings of my books.

This Volume of BROTHERS is dedicated to:

my good friend, Doug Handerson, with the hopes

that I’ve done it right

BIRDS OF A

FEATHER

I suppose it’s time I continue My story. Trouble is … . call it old age if you like but My mind becomes side- tracked when I think of some of the people involved and I feel as though I should introduce you to them in a bit more detail so please be patient with Me. Two residents of Scajaquada who especially caught My interest were Mitch and Todd, the owners of Birds Of A Feather, a combination Art Gallery/English Tea Room/Town Gathering Place. For one thing, they were more than willing to help Otis whom they didn’t even know and for another, they seem like such a mis-matched pair. Since I happen to have mis-matched pairs in My own sons, I am intrigued by how opposites can come to such a comfortable, loving relationship. So, I decided to tell you about them and in doing so, perhaps begin to figure out how to reunite My own contentious family. A futile hope? … . maybe. Still, all lives, including Mine, are built on hope. I promise I won’t editorialize since the story speaks for itself. Read on … . T.O.M.

PART I

MITCH

Chapter 1

New York City, New York—Friday—July 1,1960

The gun barrel felt cold in his mouth. How strange that it could taste salty and sweet at the same time!

Probably sweat, he thought. Slowly, lovingly, he removed the gun and put it back in the duffel bag under his sagging bed. The lethal implement had, over the last few months, come to represent a last ditch chance for freedom. The soiled sheets bunched under him and slid partway onto the floor. Once he wouldn’t have tolerated such filth. Once he wouldn’t even have entered such a fleabag as this, let alone live in one. Once he was full of hope. Once he was full of strength and purpose. Once he was young. Once … . Oh, hell, this is getting me nowhere, he sighed. He’d never have the nerve to kill himself. Slow suicide by alcohol and drugs was one matter; the cold, brutal pulling of a trigger was quite another. But, at the moment, death looked like the only way out. Was it nerve he lacked? Or was some perverse kind of hope trapped inside his leaden heart.

The pain started again and its fiery agony gripped his back like a vise. Slowly, like a red-hot river, it flowed into his brain and started a pounding headache that threatened to drive him mad. Or am I mad already? He had asked himself that question many times. Why do I go on? The effort of living was senseless when he thought about it. Eyes blurred with the effort of containing the world of agony that was now his body, he carefully counted the spider-webbed cracks in the ceiling for, perhaps, the hundredth time. He had to do something to stop the torture.

Slowly, painfully, he raised himself from the supine, sway- backed position demanded by the tired bed springs. Bare- footed, he padded to the bathroom. With shaking hands, he ransacked his medicine cabinet only to confirm what he already knew—he was out of pain pills again. Not even an aspirin. Those bastards at the VA hospital never gave him enough medication. Did they think he’d try to commit suicide or something? A throaty and unamused laugh forced its way to his throat. Hah! As if he’d have the courage! That left alcohol.

Lurching back into the area laughingly called the bed/ sitting room, he reached into the nightstand and pulled out the cheap, store brand whiskey he’d bought earlier today. When the cap proved reluctant, he had to restrain himself from smashing its neck against the table. The pain was a living entity now, touching every nerve in his body. Finally, with shaking hands, he raised the bottle to his lips. The convulsive swallowing didn’t stop until he had extracted the last drop. Then he lowered himself gingerly back to the bed and fell into a snoring, pain-wracked sleep. Over and over his mind echoed, What happened? What in the hell happened to my life?.

As always, his dreams started out benign. The nightmares would follow, he knew, but he was helpless to stop them. Once, he had avoided sleep, knowing the inevitable outcome but no more. Now, he was trying to cultivate detachment, another impossible chore added to the almost unbearable load of impossible chores riding his back like demons. Down, he drifted, deeper and deeper into hell.

Chapter 2

Rocky Beach, Ohio—Thursday—January 1,1948

"Run, Mitch, run!", his father cried in full throated ecstasy. So, run he did. The football landed in his arms as though controlled by radar. Grasping it in the accepted position across his chest and thrusting a stiff arm in front of him, Mitch headed for the goal line. His hips swiveled and his legs drove like twin pistons, driving him forward at an intoxicating speed. Under his cleats, he could feel the turf break and scatter. He was fast, had always been fast and now the speed began to tell. One by one, he eluded and outdistanced his pursuers. With a giddiness bordering on euphoria, he scampered across the goal line as the shot ending the game resounded through the stadium. Quickly, his eyes raced up to the scoreboard—Red Devils: 20; Black Panthers: 14. Heart swelling in his chest, he finally heard the shouting. The crowd was going wild and his teammates were lifting him on their shoulders. His father, proudly wearing his coach’s uniform, ran alongside, cheering with the rest. The championship! They had won the championship. A fitting climax to Mitch’s illustrious high school football career.

The tiled confines of the locker room could hardly contain the team’s high spirits. Horseplay in the showers got out of hand until Mitch’s father intervened. That, however, did not prevent the snapping of the wet towels at the unprotected behinds of the players. Mitch came in for more than his share of roughhousing since his teammates credited him with the win, as preposterous as he found that notion. The noise level in the underground locker room was deafening and Mitch was glad when he finally managed to get dressed and was able to leave. He staggered to the exit under the lash of constant back-slapping, butt-slapping and the cacophonous cries of way to go …, nice job … and what a game … .

As he reached the field, he took a deep breath of clear Ohio air. Casting his eyes upward, he could see the scudding clouds taking on the dark tinge of night. It was getting late. On the sidelines, he spotted his little family, beaming their pleasure. His father stood, still in his uniform, with his arm possessively clasped around Mitch’s mother. Sassy, his kid sister, wearing her cheerleader’s uniform, was at their side. The little group formed a touching tableau. He ran forward and embraced his mother. His father, for the umpteenth time, pumped his hand up and down while he grasped Mitch’s upper arm in a painful squeeze. Sassy looked shyly at him from lowered eyelids. It was Sassy he addressed.

Hi, Squirt. Like the game? He grinned and her own brace-laden grin answered. He knew how she hated anyone to see her smiling since she had acquired the iron maiden, as she had dubbed her braces, so the smile pleased him twice as much as usual.

Hi, yourself! The game was great, as you know darned well. But you! Brother, you knocked ‘em dead! I was so proud of you.

Mitch blushed in spite of himself. Hey, I watched you in those jump-splits and I was pretty proud of you, too. Again, the answering grin, this time a little broader. Mitch and Sassy enjoyed a rare friendship as well as kinship and the grin signified more than just an affirmation of their traded compliments. It also implied that she knew exactly how Mitch felt about his father’s self-satisfied pride in his only son’s achievement. Their unspoken communion was broken, as usual, by a shove from his father.

Bull’s voice boomed out, enveloping them all in its overweening pride. Well, son, it was a fitting climax to your high-school football career. This ought to cinch a scholarship for you. The scouts were in the stands, you know. Sure would be a break if my old Alma Mater offered you a spot. Kind of like deejay view, you know. Mitch winced at his father’s fractured French.

Before Mitch could put his foot in his mouth, his mother smoothly interjected. Now, you’re coming home and eating a good substantial dinner before going to any celebrations. I won’t take no for an answer. She grabbed Mitch firmly by the elbow and led him to the car.

Mitch and Sassy exchanged another long look, barely able to keep their expressions in check. Their parents were so old-fashioned and predictable. Try as he might, Mitch couldn’t imagine his parents ever making love. The thought that he and his sister had been immaculate conceptions tickled some irreverency within him. It made keeping a straight face even harder. As always, the men took the front seat, while the women sat in the back of his dad’s new, shiny blue 1947 Packard Custom Eight.

It was a joke in town that Bull cared more for his car than for his family. After that came football and, finally, he found a place for his wife and two children. Every Saturday, weather permitting, Bull was out washing and polishing the four door symbol of his success. To anyone who would listen, he explained that his baby would cruise effortlessly even at ninety miles an hour. The chrome grillework on the dashboard gleamed with importance. It’s side-valve, 356-cubic-inch, eight cylinder engine packed 160 horsepower and had an Ultramatic transmission and the cushiest suspension on the road. Mitch was heartily sick of hearing Old Bessie praised to the skies even though he grudgingly admitted he’d enjoy driving it himself. He really didn’t mind his old 1939 Chevy. It usually got him where he was going, even though right now it needed a new carburetor.

Like Cleopatra on her barge, Mitch’s mother lounged in the rear seat. Gracefully, she leaned back just far enough for comfort but not so far back that people would miss seeing her. Mitch thought with amusement, Obviously, dad’s pride is contagious. They proceeded through the tree-lined streets, not so much driving as soaring. There was little sense of speed but a wonderful sense of floating. Mitch was to remember this buoyant, gliding feeling in later years.

The owners of their rental home hadn’t seen fit to pave their driveway but Bull had the gravel firmly rolled down to prevent any inadvertent pits in the paint of the Packard. To Bull’s displeasure, the house did not come equipped with a garage and the driveway was too narrow to allow the construction of one. Each day, after driving home, Bull covered the car with an outsized loden green tarp. He tied it carefully like a gift-wrapped package waiting for someone to open it. Sometimes, when the wind rose, the tarp would flap alarmingly. The noise brought them all rushing to the window wondering what the strange, booming sound was. Each time it happened, Mitch had to accompany his father in some fancy footwork while they battened the hatches.

Regally, his father guided Old Bessie into the driveway. Bull was still riding a wave of euphoria that made his face glow a strange shade of red. Mitch kept shooting glances his way, hoping he wouldn’t have a stroke or something. The teacher in his health class had stressed that a florid complexion was an indication of high blood pressure and should be watched. Bull Garfield, proud of his physique, would submit to a physical only when required by the school. He was in perfect shape, as he so often reminded his players.

Their house at 236 Cherry Street was unremarkable, one of hundreds put up in the early part of the century. Gray clapboard outside, a wide, breezy porch in the front, bay window downstairs, gabled windows above. Mitch’s room was in the rear and overlooked their overgrown backyard. The view pleased him and calmed him in some remote part of his soul. The untamed nature of the place called to an untamed part of his own nature. Strangely, his father ignored the yard. After all, they didn’t own the house, so why should he take care of it? As long as the front presented a respectable appearance, who cared about the back?

Practical as always, Tessie had a casserole dinner all ready, waiting for her to heat. Off came the coat, on went the apron, into the oven went supper. Efficiently, she began cutting up vegetables for the salad. Sassy glanced at her mother’s red, industrious hands and went upstairs to change out of her cheerleader’s outfit. As she passed Mitch, she winked at him.

He admired his sister’s trim, young figure. Sassy was only fifteen but she had the attitude of one much older. Perhaps because she had always had to take second place to her athletic brother, she had become increasingly independent. Sometimes Mitch thought she acted as though she didn’t even belong to the family. Her brown hair waved becomingly over narrow, slightly hunched shoulders. He wondered if the position of her shoulders indicated her shame at being slow to develop a figure or whether it was just a defensive gesture. Sassy’s legs were long and slim and her arms reminded Mitch of graceful palm trees waving in the breeze. Didn’t she realize what a beauty she was becoming? He supposed not. No one but Mitch ever told her. Maybe he should tell her more often.

The room was disproportionately emptier after Sassy left. Mitch looked over at his father, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, reading the paper. What a time his mother had getting him to wear those glasses! Ted Bull Garfield was not like mortal men—he was an athlete and, thus, immune to aging and its accompanying indignities. Or so he claimed.

Without making it obvious, Mitch studied this man he really didn’t think of as his father. Bull’s graying hair was still full and aggressively unruly on his large, leonine head. His equally large features were emphasized by scowling, almost overpowering eyebrows. An incongruously small mouth, almost always drawn down into a disapproving frown, was underlined by a pugnacious, cleft chin. All this was balanced on a bull-like neck and massive shoulders. Bull was only five feet eleven inches tall and, though Mitch overtopped him by a good three inches, he made his son feel small by comparison.

The sound of his father muttering quietly to himself startled Mitch out of his musings. Apparently, something in the newspaper didn’t please him. Dinner would be a recap of his father’s anger and impatience with the stupid actions of the elected officials. The family was accustomed to such diatribes. They had all become adept at feigning interest while firmly fixing their thoughts on something else. This action was purely defensive since Bull’s opinions were inevitably biased and as corrosive as acid. Mitch and Sassy strove valiantly to distance themselves from his viewpoints to avoid contamination.

Sassy came downstairs with the usual bounce in her step and Mitch’s spirits rose accordingly. At least he wasn’t alone with this strange man who claimed paternity to the boy/man at his side. Sassy plopped down on the overstuffed chair, causing a break in her father’s attention. Young lady, that is not a trampoline. Kindly treat the furniture with more respect!

The subdued tone of Sassy’s Yes, sir. didn’t fool Mitch because he saw the parody of remorse plain on her freckled face. Her brown eyes were large and as innocent as a doe’s, a certain sign that she was being sarcastic. His father didn’t notice. With a gruff grunt, he returned to his reading. Mitch couldn’t meet his sister’s eyes. No one in the house dared to speak while Bull read his newspaper. So they sat, twiddling their thumbs, each attempting to outrace the other in finger gymnastics.

An eternity later, Tessie called them to dinner. The myth was that dinner was the time to exchange family news. The reality was that it gave Bull time to harangue his family with his vitriolic views. Tessie yessed her husband often enough to keep him satisfied while his son and daughter kept their mouths shut and their eyes averted lest they give something away.

This evening, the subject of the lecture was the foolishness in the Far East. Damn that little haberdasher in the White House, anyway!, was the opening gambit. Sassy’s eyes sought Mitch’s, found them and they exchanged raised eyebrows. The words were silent but plain to both of them—here we go again! On and on Bull went, only taking time out to shovel a forkful of casserole or salad into his mouth. Since he didn’t wait to swallow before setting off on new excesses of oratory, the effect was rather unnerving and another reason for the dropped eyes. Now and then, in spite of himself, Mitch would catch a few words. Damn chinks, why should we pull their shit out of the fire? I can just see what’s comin’. Resolutely, Mitch turned his mind to the party planned for tonight. His best friend was due to pick him up any minute so, hopefully, his father would wind down soon.

Surprisingly, it was his mother who came to his rescue. Her gentle voice finally managed to penetrate his father’s mind. Now, Bull, Mitch has to get ready for his party. You must admit, he certainly deserves to celebrate.

Suddenly aware that he had been going on for even longer than usual, Bull checked his watch. Sorry, son. But you know, I get sick and tired of these damn’ aliens taking advantage of us, you know? Anyway, sorry I held you up. ‘Course you deserve to celebrate. Couldn’t agree more. Love to go with you myself but … .

Mitch wondered if he were waiting for an invitation. Don’t hold your breath, dad, he thought. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Well, I guess you’re right. Hogie will be here soon. Hey, Squirt, you want to come along? He turned to his sister and waited.

At first she avoided his eyes. Then she looked up and the misery showing clearly in her glance shook him to his core. No, Mitch, but thanks anyway. I’d really be out of place there. The kids all call me ‘metal-mouth’ and sometimes the ‘pygmy robot’. Besides, they’re all older than me. She turned back to her plate, obviously sorry she had said so much.

Mitch looked at her in alarm. Who called you that? I’ll break his bloody neck for him.

Once more, his sister met his eyes. It was nobody important and, anyway, it doesn’t matter. You always say ‘consider the source’ don’t you? It doesn’t bother me so don’t let it bother you. Down went the eyes again.

Mitch was angry with nowhere to direct the emotion. He looked at his father, expecting some comment but his father kept on eating—his third helping. How does the man keep from getting grossly fat? Mitch turned his eyes to his mother and saw something there he’d never seen before—regret. But regret for what? For Sassy’s pain or for her own? Mitch almost threw the chair to the floor on his way out of the kitchen. He took the steps to his room two at a time, pounding out his anger. How dare anyone insult Sassy? How dare they? And who are they? I’ll find out, by God, I’ll find out.

After brushing his teeth and combing his unruly hair, Mitch had calmed down a little. This evening had been on his mind for a long time so he couldn’t let the incident with Sassy upset him. He’d have to deal with it later. Heart racing, he said a little prayer that Stacy Morgan would be there. God, my knees get weak at the thought of her! Grabbing his heavy, lettered jacket, he raced from his room and down the stairs.

He reached the door just in time to see Hogie pull up in front of the house. Mom, Dad, Sassy—Hogie’s here. I’ll see you guys later. Okay? After Bull’s final hearty admonition to be careful and if you can’t be careful name the first one after me!, Mitch headed out the door. It was only much later that he realized Sassy hadn’t said goodbye.

The parties after the game were many and booze-laden but he and Hogie would be going to the important one. Peter Fowler had the money and the panache to throw the best parties in town. Whether the pair had been invited because of Mitch’s football achievements or because Hogie’s dad was well-to-do, they neither knew nor cared. The important thing was, they were invited.

Mitch, who had been in training, was finally able to join his friends in an alcoholic orgy. The first celebration, of course, had taken place prematurely. This afternoon, in the school gym, the parents had held their own party certain of a victory the team itself was unsure of. Mercifully, since it was stilted and boring, it hadn’t lasted long.

Leg muscles still tight and twitching from all the exercise and excitement of the day, Mitch ran down the slippery sidewalk and joined Hogarth Hogie Turpin in his old Ford. Hogie was his best friend, able to be quiet when Mitch needed quiet and willing to listen without condemnation when Mitch needed to talk. Hogie’s tight-assed dad owned the local Chevrolet dealership so he was one of the first high-schoolers in town to own a car. Of course, to show his impartiality, Clarence Turpin had required his son to work part time to pay for this fuming, noisy relic he had taken as a trade-in for a brand new Chevrolet. No one was quite sure the year the car was first produced as it seemed to be made up of parts from various models. Still, it ran, and that was what was important. Mitch’s temporarily incapacitated car had been purchased at the same lot with money borrowed (with interest) from Bull. Mitch was still repaying the loan with proceeds from his odd jobs.

Hogie sat grinning in the driver’s seat, basking in Mitch’s reflected glory. Unlike Mitch, Hogie was proudly unathletic, his tastes running more to books and music. Their classmates considered them an odd pair. Mitch couldn’t figure that out. He didn’t consider himself a jock although everyone else seemed to think he was. His grades in school were always good, placing him consistently in the top 2% of the class. Why, then the reputation? Sometimes, he wished his father weren’t the P.E. teacher and football coach. Maybe then the pressure on him would ease up. Still, he had no gripes coming. He was a big man on campus because of his prowess on the field and the adulation could be very heady.

Gleefully hopping into the car, Mitch eased his six feet two inch frame into the sprung passenger seat. His legs always felt too long and he sat like a grasshopper, staring at his own knees. There was no flab on his lanky body; the skin stretched taut over muscle and bone. Strangely, Mitch was neither overly-proud nor self-conscious about his looks but accepted them with easy grace. His jet black hair was unruly and he was constantly running his fingers through it, making it more unruly still. His skin had a perpetual tan, giving him a Mediterranean look that came from his Neapolitan mother. His strong Roman nose and large, soulful brown eyes also came from his mother’s side of the family. But his stubborn, cleft chin was definitely his father’s.

All in all, Mitch thought, life is pretty good. He and Hogie reflected on how lucky they both were. Mitch was trying to decide whether to attend nearby Ohio State University or be adventurous and travel to a smaller institution in New York State. He had offers of scholarships from both—athletic from OSU and scholastic from Belmont, although his father still hoped for an offer from Tulane, his own University.

Hogie had already decided on Belmont University in New York and a career in teaching High School English. Life was opening up like a blossom in front of them and they felt intoxicated by the prospect. Now they headed toward Peter Fowler’s house and the real party. The thought of graduation loomed ahead like an icon of adulthood. Over their high school years, both boys had talked of their future and now it was almost here. Unexpectedly, Mitch felt breathless with anticipation.

With a screech of protesting tires, Hogie turned the corner onto River Road. The noise emanating from the modern two story house met them half way up the street. Peter’s family was wealthy for the rather small, middle-class town of Rocky Beach, Ohio and their residence showed it. Since the senior Fowlers were now vacationing in Europe, the teenagers had the place to themselves. Luckily, the houses sat far apart on oversized lots so, hopefully, the neighbors wouldn’t complain. Not that Peter cared. Peter didn’t care about anything except having a good time. He was probably the first confirmed hedonist Mitch had ever met.

Hogie led the way up the walk, lugging two six packs of Bud while Mitch carried several big bags of potato chips and pretzels. They knew there’d be no need of reinforcements since Peter could afford more than enough for all. Still, even this small contribution made them feel part of the affair. The flagstone walkway wound between carefully tended rose trees, the only ones in town. Leave it to the Fowlers to be the first, as usual, Mitch grinned.

Lily met them at the door, already more than half way drunk. Mitch didn’t like that. Lily was a good friend, even if she was a girl, and he didn’t like the slack look on her usually sweet face. He almost didn’t recognize her. Lily’s parent’s belonged to the Italian-American Club in town as did Mitch’s parents. Even so, Bull Garfield always referred to her parents as wops, a word that made the rest of the family cringe inwardly. Lily’s father, Jake D’Amato, was a member of the Town Council. Many people felt that he had a very high opinion of himself—too high according to Mitch’s father, derisive of anything foreign. Bull, himself, boasted of British heritage and insisted his wife was descended from Italian aristocrats not the low-class from which the D’Amato’s had allegedly come.

As they entered the door, Lily threw her arms around him in a too-intimate, tight hug, embarrassing him into blushing. Congratulations, Tiger! she growled into his ear. Feeling her warm breath started strange feelings in Mitch’s stomach. He shrugged off his touchdown feat wordlessly but Lily wouldn’t let it rest.

C’mon, Mitch, you’re a God-damned hero and you know it. So lighten up a little. Her smile was not the usual Lily- smile and, once again, Mitch’s inner censor frowned. For a moment, he considered going home but that would be even more embarrassing.

So, he made light of his uneasiness. Honest, Lily, winning the championship was a team effort. I was just lucky enough to catch the pass for the final touchdown. It was as much the rest of the team as me. Terry threw the pass and it was easy to catch. When she still held the skeptical grin, he added weakly, Honest.

Her mouth turned the grin into a sneer, Now you sound just like your father, the wop-hating, he-man football coach. Can it, Garfield, we all know you’re a hero! C’mon with me. The words, heavy with meaning, sounded slurred and indistinct. Mitch was decidedly uncomfortable with this new side of the girl he thought he knew so well.

Ignoring Hogie completely, Lily dragged Mitch into the den and pushed him onto a settee in the corner. Before he could recover, she threw herself on top of him; her warm, moist mouth was on his, her hands fumbling at his belt. Astonishment paralyzed him. Without thinking, he disengaged her arms and stood up, knocking her to the floor. Boy, he thought, she’s really drunk. Then he looked closely at her. And boy, suddenly she was really mad!

Arms akimbo, face red with anger, she faced him, Mitch Garfield, who the hell do you think you are anyway? Do you think you’re better than me? Her voice was loud and strident and Mitch hushed her until she finally quieted down. Then, astonishingly, she began to cry. As Mitch watched in horror, the tears ran down her face and sobs tore through her throat. Just as he was about to flee in panic, Peter’s girlfriend, Karyn Wilson, came into the room accompanied by an alarmed Hogie. Karyn approached Lily and put her arm around her.

As she did so, she addressed Mitch. It’s okay. I’ll take care of her. Sorry about that. She was nervous about coming tonight and took a couple of her mother’s Miltowns. She shouldn’t have had anything to drink but no one knew she’d taken pills. I’ll help her upstairs and put her to bed. Don’t worry about her. Cooing to her like a child, Karyn led her from the room and Mitch sighed with relief.

Hogie patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. Sorry, I knew you were in trouble so I got Karyn. I figured she’d know what to do. I sure as hell didn’t. I guess you didn’t either, huh?

Mitch shook his head wonderingly, still not believing the change in the girl he had known since kindergarten. The party lost its luster and Mitch strained manfully to regain it. He turned to Hogie, C’mon buddy, before the others finish all the booze.

Hogie threw his arm around him and replied in a falsely hearty voice, Now you’re talkin’. Let’s go.

The palatial living room was alive with high-schoolers. The phonograph was turned up full blast. By the cacophonous sound, another phonograph was blaring out a different song at the same decibel level in another part of the house. With a sinking heart, Mitch saw Terry Converse, the quarterback standing in the corner with his arm around Stacy Morgan. He should have known he’d never stand a chance with her. Next to Karyn, Stacy was the most popular girl in school.

Someone handed him a beer and he slugged down half the glass without tasting it. Suddenly realizing that he held a glass and not a bottle, Mitch looked down. In his hand was a cut-glass, crystal goblet, obviously expensive. Mitch held it more carefully. Leave it to Peter to do things right!

At his side, Hogie was just as incredulous. He grinned at Mitch, You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever drunk beer from a glass before. Have you? Mitch laughed and shook his head, his spirits suddenly riding high again.

In the corner, a tight group of his fellow students emitted a suspiciously blue cloud of smoke. Mitch wasn’t stupid. Was Peter? Why would he allow maryjane at his party? He cleared his throat ostentatiously and nudged Hogie who followed his look and cringed.

Sotto voce, Mitch said, Boy, I hope we don’t get raided. His words were overheard.

Peter came up behind them. Don’t worry, ladies, the local constabulary is firmly in my father’s pocket. His laugh was high and unnatural and Mitch knew he had been sampling the wares.

Hogie looked daggers at their host. Did you bring that junk here, Peter? Because if I had known about it, we wouldn’t have come.

Peter laughed again, throwing his head back in total abandon. Oh, honestly, Hoge, you’re too much! Of course, I didn’t bring it and I’m not telling you who did. Don’t be such a square. You don’t have to partake you know. This brought on another burst of noisy hilarity.

Karyn appeared out of nowhere and took his arm. She didn’t look a bit disconcerted by her boyfriend’s behavior. Instead, she looked up at him in open adoration. Her words oozed honey, Peter, come over and see the French postcards Bud Collyer brought. Maybe they’ll give you some ideas.

Giving the boys a joint wink, the couple crossed the room to join the knot gathered around Bud. Hogie looked at Mitch. For teenagers, both boys held surprisingly straitlaced ideas.

Tentatively, Hogie began, Uh, did you want to go over and see what he’s got?

Trying his best to appear uninterested and nonchalant, Mitch answered, Not particularly. I don’t really care for that stuff. By the way, buddy, do you know who might have insulted my sister?

His friend goggled at him. Insulting Sassy was inconceivable to the friendly-as-a-puppy Hogie. "Insulted Sassy? Good grief, who’d dare do that? And why? Sassy’s one of the nicest girls I know. And you’re her brother. They have to know they’re risking bringing you down on their necks."

Mitch shrugged off the compliment. I don’t know why but someone has been calling her names because of her dental braces. That’s pretty adolescent, I think. Ordinarily, I’d ignore it but it hurt Sassy. You know how sensitive she is. Do you think Karyn might know? His voice trailed off as he spotted Stacy heading his way. His heart did a little soft-shoe in his chest.

The girl reached just to the center of his rib cage, a rib cage she was now playing with. Mitch watched, hypnotized, as her hand traced its way up and down the front of his shirt. Her golden hair hung like a sun-filled waterfall around her heart-shaped face as she turned her blue eyes to meet his.

The husky voice didn’t suit her doll-like face, Hi, handsome. That was some touchdown. Did you hear me cheering you on?

Mitch’s heart soared, threatening to burst out of his chest. Of course I heard you. How could I not? Patent nonsense. He didn’t hear anyone as his legs ate up the yardage but at the moment he believed his own absurd statement.

She went on, now playing with his tie, That’s good. I want you to know how much we all appreciate you. Why don’t we go out sometime and I’ll show my own appreciation? Her eyes were like searchlights entering his soul. Would she see how inept he really was, how unprepared for such an overwhelming situation?

Gulping frantically in an effort to appear at ease, Mitch managed, Sure, Stacy. I’ll call you as soon as exams are over. You know how it is. The old man won’t let me away from the grindstone!

Her throaty laugh did nothing to calm his galloping heart or his rebellious lungs. Yeah, I know how your dad is. Mine couldn’t care less. He says I should find a rich man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel and marry him. Call me, Mitch. Call me. With a coy backward glance, she moved away from him and back to the center of the group with the postcards.

Mitch couldn’t find his voice for several minutes. When he recovered his ability to speak he also realized Hogie was laughing at him. Mitch firmly nudged him with his elbow, Shut up, Hogie. Everybody’ll be looking at us.

Hogie brought his mirth under control. Mitch, old man, you should have seen your face! You looked like a poached egg!

Mitch shook his head and, although he laughed inwardly at his own foolishness, outwardly expressed his contempt for his friend’s strange sense of humor by sticking out his tongue at him.

Karyn came toward them, a hostess’s smile on her face. Did you guys get anything to eat? There’s plenty in the rec room down in the basement. Mitch, is something wrong? Your face is awfully red.

Hogie’s laugh started up once more. Yeah, he’s been poached.

She looked at him, puzzled and when neither boy enlightened her, continued, I thought maybe you’d bring Sassy. Her cheerleading is really getting good. Karyn was the captain of the cheerleaders so praise from her meant a lot.

Mitch glowed with pride. I asked her but she declined. Said she’d be out of place with the older crowd.

Karyn tilted her head and Mitch realized once more how attractive she was. Oh, that’s not so. We’ve got non-alcoholic refreshments too, you know. And I’d see that Stacy kept her mouth in check for once.

Mitch blinked his eyes and shook his head, Stacy? What do you mean?

Karyn answered promptly, She’s always riding Sassy. First she started in on her about how silly her name was and then about her braces. I’m never sure how much of her razzing she means but I did get after her. I could see that she upset Sassy.

Mitch’s face started to burn once more but this time not from embarrassment. Stacy! Stacy insulted my sister? How could she do that? Sassy can’t help it that her teeth need straightened!

Karyn was alarmed by his reaction. Of course she can’t. I had braces when I was her age. Don’t you remember? That’s what I told Stacy. We can’t all be born perfect like she thinks she is. Anyway, I’ll watch out for Sassy. You can tell her that for me. Okay? Slowly, she loosed the hold on his arm and left.

This evening was not turning out as he expected. Hogie took his arm. Come on, Mitch. Let’s get some food. Practically dragging him to get him as far away from Stacy as possible, Hogie took him to the basement rec room. The second phonograph held court here with music raised to an ear-splitting level. Some high-priced decorator had fixed the room up like an Old West Saloon. Hogie whispered, Where’s Wyatt Earp? They both cackled like children. The food was set up on tables alongside the far wall. The bar was in full operation and several boys were using the pool table. Girls stood in giggling groups around the room like colorful, stranded butterflies in their party dresses.

Again, Peter had disdained disposable items. China and silverware were stacked at one end of the table and Mitch cast a wary eye on the concrete at the edges of the green carpet covering the middle of the floor. It’d be just his luck to drop a plate or something. Quickly, the two filled their dishes, not even sure what some of the concoctions were. They managed to squeeze onto a couch that had wagon wheels for armrests. Mitch could almost hear his father’s verdict: cutesy- poo. Terry Converse left the pool game and approached the couch, his hand outstretched. The quarterback’s voice was like a bass fiddle, deep and resonant and Mitch envied him its richness. Mitch! I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing you romp home like that! It was a great catch and a great run.

Of all the people who had congratulated him, this one mattered the most. The quarterback was in a position to know a good catch when he saw one. Still, Mitch felt the need to disagree. Terry, that pass went right into my arms. If I had missed it, I’d have been a real klutz. It was a great pass! And before you say anything, I know it was meant for George. When I saw him go down, my heart jumped. I thought we were sunk. Then I realized it was coming straight at me!

Laughing his deep, pleasant laugh, Terry pounded him on the back, almost spilling his plate. Honestly, pal, you take the cake. Anybody else would take full credit. Your dad sure would! He looked closely for Mitch’s reaction.

Mitch ducked his head to hide his first, unguarded expression. Quietly, he said, But I’m not my dad. It was a declaration of independence and both Hogie and Terry realized it if Mitch didn’t. Giving Mitch’s arm a final pat, Terry returned to the pool table and Mitch remembered Stacy’s betrayal.

Turning to Hogie, he said, Can you believe that Stacy would insult my sister? He waited anxiously for his friend’s reply.

Hogie considered for a moment, pretending an intense interest in his food. "Well, I’ve heard a lot of stories about

Stacy. I know you don’t want to hear that but it’s true. She doesn’t like other girls—just men. And the more men the better, from what they say. He looked at Mitch again. Sorry, old man, but it is true. I can believe she’d insult Sassy or any other girl for that matter. Maybe you’d better not tell Sassy you’re going to ask Stacy out."

Mitch flinched away from his friend. "Ask her out! No way! I wouldn’t ask her out now if you paid me. Serves me right, getting a case on a girl I don’t know anything about. All I thought about was her good looks and popularity. Boy, maybe I am like my dad after all." That statement disturbed him so much, he hurried to the bar for another drink, not beer this time.

Hogie, alarmed at his friend’s uncharacteristic act, joined him at the bar and ordered a double. They looked at each other and laughed. Still laughing, they returned to the couch and exchanged ribald remarks with the rest of the gang. After several more drinks, both boys drifted off to sleep.

About two o’clock in the morning, Mitch awoke to find they were all alone in the basement. He shook Hogie awake. Hey, buddy, where do you suppose everyone’s gone?

Hogie looked around, his eyes behind his thick glasses owlish and shiny. I think some of the guys said they were going to take a nap in the den. A few of them took their girlfriends to the bedrooms. I know Peter and Karyn headed that way. Don’t know about the rest. Probably by this time, a lot of them—the girls at least—have gone home. Hey, know what? Why don’t we go upstairs and pretend we’re the law or something? It’ll scare the shit out of them.

Mitch looked skeptical. I don’t know; it might get us killed. He rolled his eyes dramatically but the hoax appealed to him nonetheless.

Making no plans at all and stifling their laughter, he and Hogie climbed the stairs to the main floor. Silence greeted them. Looking in the den, they saw there was no one there except one girl. She was sprawled ungracefully on the sofa, snoring loudly with her mouth open. Puzzled, they started up the wide, carpeted stairway to the upstairs, footsteps cushioned and silent.

The animal-like sounds that assaulted them when they reached the top stopped them and turned them stone-cold sober. Quickly, they ran toward the master bedroom. The sight that met their eyes would remain with Mitch for the rest of his life. Lily was lying unconscious on the bed and one by one his fellow teammates were beating and raping her! Small drops of blood spattered the bed, the carpet and the walls. The ravishment was taking place in an eerie silence, punctuated only by strangely obscene guttural groans.

With an inarticulate cry, Mitch threw himself in their midst and began tossing friends right and left. There was very little resistance at first, the boys were too drunk. But as soon as they realized what was happening, Mitch wound up on the bottom of a pile of very angry young men. Fists hit him from every angle. Then he lost consciousness.

He woke about half an hour later, sprawled full length on the front lawn with Hogie bending concernedly over him. For a long