Three-Part Harmony

By G. Peter Chriske

Norris, Jon, and Joey meet as little kids in Chaffee Creek and form an immediate friendship they thought nothing could change. Their midwestern community is safe, secure, and isolated from the outside world, giving the boys plenty of time for adventure—and misadventure—as they grow, cultivate dreams, and deal with fear and disappointment.

Although the same in many ways, they are also different. Norris is privileged but ignored. Jon seeks escape from his dysfunctional family, while Joey blissfully floats through life one day at a time. Soon, the outside world intrudes. The death of Joey’s brother leads him into the quagmire of Vietnam. Jon escapes to create a world of his own, and Norris follows his rock and roll fantasy to California in the “Summer of Love.”

Years pass, and the friendships wane. Invitations to a forty-five year high school reunion pull the three men back to Chaffee Creek, where they again intersect. Although Norris, Jon, and Joey have lived very different lives, they quickly discover they share more than just childhood memories. Together, although separate, they became men and now look back on how life has a way of changing the unchangeable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532058981

G. Peter Chriske

G. Peter Chriske holds graduate and undergraduate degrees in American history, education, and sociology. He served seven years in the United States Army and is Ranger and Airborne qualified. He lives in Plover, Wisconsin, with his wife of forty-five years. He is author of The Turning.

Book preview

Prologue

The subtle signs of an approaching Wisconsin fall were all around. The elms and maples held leaves that were tinged with yellow and red. The breeze was soft but held a chill.

Overwhelmed by excitement, five-year-old Jon Kaminski pulled his mother, Beth, up the Elk Street hill.

Jon, please slow down.

Mommy, I know my way to school, Jon announced as he and his mother crested the hill and approached the bottom. Waiting for him was his friend Joey Meyer, who stoically stood at his mother’s side, listening to her last-minute instructions.

Beth smiled to Marion Meyer and then said, Good morning, Joey! Are you ready for your first day of kindergarten?

Yes, Mrs. Kaminski. I know the way to school.

That’s good because I’m counting on you to show Jon the way.

Jon bristled. His mother’s insinuation that he needed assistance generated instant resentment. I am five! "I know the way too!"

Joey’s mother chuckled. I’m sure you do, Jon. Then we can count on both of you getting to school with no problem. Joey, come give me hug, and then you two better be on your way. After hugs and still more instructions, the boys set out for Lincoln School and kindergarten.

I like school! Joey said enthusiastically as they stopped at Wisconsin Street and looked both ways. Do you?

Crossing in unison, they began their two-block journey. I don’t know, Jon replied. Never been to school.

My mom says we’ll have music class. Do you like music? I like music. I take piano lessons.

Joey, you tell me that all the time! At Brawley Street the boys stopped, carefully checked for cars, and then crossed. Yeah, I like music, like on the radio, but not the kind in church.

I don’t like church or church music, said an impish voice from the steps of an ostentatiously massive three-story Victorian. In a neighborhood of modest single-family homes, the residence stood out like Derbyshire’s Hardwick Hall. The trees were sculptured, the lawn manicured, and the hedge perfectly trimmed. All was orchestrated to reflect success.

You guys going to Lincoln School?

Yeah, we’re in kindergarten. I’m five, Jon said.

"I’m almost six, the new kid responded. I’m Norris Stevens."

I’m Jon. He’s Joey.

1

As he waited for the Milwaukee Daily truck, Jon paced the sidewalk in front of his house, illuminated only by the feeble light from the street’s lone light pole. At fourteen, Jon was impatient to accomplish something every second. Waiting just wasn’t useful. He filled his day with activity: school clubs, sports, and part-time jobs. Anything that kept him away from home.

The old truck announced its arrival with asthmatic coughing and wheezing as it crested the hill and grumbled to a halt in front of the Kaminski house. The screech of worn brakes shattered the morning stillness.

"Hey, Jonny boy! How are you this fine fall mornin’?" Bonhomie colored Milt Kennedy’s Louis Armstrong–like voice.

I’m fine, Mr. Kennedy. Paper heavy today? Jon asked.

Not bad today, Jonny. Not bad. Here you go—fifty-three.

Uh, Mr. Kennedy, all I need is fifty-one.

I know, but I got extras. So if you happen to be goin’ by the Dewey or the Congress, ya might sell ’em—and you can keep the money, Kennedy explained over his shoulder as he clambered over stacks of papers to reclaim the driver’s seat. Throwing the cantankerous truck into gear amid its sputtering and coughs, Milt Kennedy waved out the window. See ya tomorrow!

If that old wreck lasts another week, it’ll be a miracle. Jon chuckled as he stuffed his carrier bag, enjoying the scent of fresh newsprint. Checking his watch, he muttered, It’s 4:40. Could get done early today. I’ll reverse the route and end up at the Dewey and the Congress.

Jon’s route took him down Elk Street, across Wisconsin Street, and then behind the industrial park, ending in the south-side business district. Jon knew his route, so he was able to retreat into his thoughts. His pace quickened, aided by the downward slope of the hill. From the bottom of the hill he could see Norris’s house radiating the success his father so carefully cultivated. Adam Stevens was Chaffee Creek’s most sought after legal mind, while his wife, Faye, ruled Chaffee Creek social life.

Jon’s only stop on Wisconsin Street was the tidy redbrick Federal-style home of his best friend, Joey. The Meyer house reflected the reserved thoughtfulness and easy mien of a family comfortable with itself. Jon admired Joey’s father, the owner-editor of Chaffee Creek’s daily, the Commercial Union, and a former US Marine Corps captain who had seen action at Saipan and Iwo Jima. Jon’s father was a supply clerk. Donald Meyer was calm, thoughtful, and important in the community. Irwin Kaminski complained but never left his easy chair.

As quickly as the thoughts appeared, Jon expelled them with excited expectations of the upcoming school year. Eighth grade, tackle football, advanced math, and the Saint Bartholomew basketball tournament stimulated his imagination. During the summer, when he was not playing baseball or hanging with Joey and Norris, he read through the books he would use in eighth grade. He’d completed more than half of the problems in the math book and read through the social studies text. When he’d mentioned this to his father, he drew Irwin’s ire. "Real boys would be out doin’ somethin’."

Well, Sister Nora will like the math. Might even give me extra credit. Football, me, Joey, and Norris, pads and all. Gonna be a good year!

*  *  *

Excitement about the new school year and the aroma of breakfast transformed Joey from lethargic into a ball of energy. He sprung from bed and promptly slipped on a throw rug. Adroitly regaining his balance, he leaned over the banister and hollered, Mom! What we havin’ for breakfast?

Joseph, it’s seven in the morning, and no one in this family is hard of hearing, so please … please lower your voice to a quiet roar. As for breakfast, you’ll find out when you get ready and come down, his mother responded with a chuckle.

Retreating to his room, Joey snatched his clothes from his closet and completed a hasty toilet before skidding into a chair at the kitchen table, hair damp and a tangled mass.

Hey, where’s Peggy? Joey asked, helping himself to generous portions of bacon, eggs, and pancakes.

I suspect she had the good sense to stay out of your way. She’ll be down shortly, his mother said.

So are you excited about your first day back? Donald Meyer inquired.

Sorta. We have our first practice after school, Dad. I’m gonna be a receiver, just like Junior was, and Jon wants to be quarterback, Joey responded in between mouthfuls.

Jon was up early, Joey’s father said. The paper was here when I came down to fix coffee.

He mighta done his route backward today, Joey said with the air of someone sharing inside information. He does that when Mr. Kennedy gives him extras to sell—you know, at the Dewey and the Congress—and he doesn’t even charge Jon for ’em.

Tell Jon I appreciate the early delivery. After a slight pause, he added, "And, Joey? Remind Jon that we have an afternoon route at the Union for him any time he wants. The senior Meyer pushed away from the table and began collecting his dishes. Then he wouldn’t have to be up so early."

Don, just leave the dishes. I’ll get ’em, Marion said.

He can’t do that, Dad. An afternoon route would keep him from playin’ sports. I mean, I’ll let him know, but I don’t think he’s gonna want that route.

"Okay. I hate to see him—or any kid—working so early and then spending an entire day at school. Joey’s dad paused momentarily before continuing. Oh, by the way, Mr. Simkowski told me Friday that he has some work for you this coming Saturday—"

"Aw, Dad! Joey protested. Saturday’s our first game! I can’t—"

The older Meyer held up his hand. "Relax. I hadn’t finished. I was about to say Saturday afternoon. You play at eight thirty, right? You have plenty of time to play Saturday’s game and still work."

That works! For a minute, I thought you’d forgotten. You and Mom are comin’ to the game, right? I think we’re gonna be pretty good. Wish Junior could be here to see us play. Joey’s enthusiasm flooded the kitchen.

"I do too, son, but now you’ll have something to write to him about.He’ll be looking forward to getting a letter and to hearing how your team’s coming along. Won’t be long before he’s home for Christmas! In the meantime, I’ll tell Mr. Simkowski you’ll be there Saturday afternoon, okay?"

After kissing his wife goodbye, Donald disappeared out the back door. A moment later, Joey heard the Chevy’s engine start.

Peggy entered the kitchen and passed Joey on her way to the breakfast table. Unable to resist, he shoulder-bumped her, causing Peggy to swerve before righting herself.

Leave me alone, stupid! Peggy, ten months Joey’s junior, was his female version: tall, willowy, on the cusp of puberty. Like him, she absorbed life with zest. Friends were her epicenter, but she found true happiness in tormenting her brother. Her intrusive machinations were often motivated by her love interest in one of Joey’s friends. Currently, Jon was the target. Joey accepted his sister as an unfortunate accident.

Peggy, honey, you better sit down before your breakfast gets cold, her mother said.

Joey, Peggy coyly said in a voice just loud enough for her mother to overhear. "Can I walk to school with you guys today? Beth isn’t going to school this morning because she has a dentist appointment. Lucky—first day of school, and she gets to miss the morning. Mom! How come we have to have our appointments in the summer?"

Marian laughed. So, you won’t miss any school, dear. Joey, can Peggy walk to school with you today? Maybe you could show her to her classroom.

Joey looked up from his eggs, ready to argue, but he gave up when he met his mother’s glance. Yeah, I guess so. She just wants to be by Jon anyway.

Peggy sneered in victory. Yeah, right.

*  *  *

Norris Stevens stirred in bed as his parents’ muffled voices reached him. He rolled onto his back and placed his left arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling, reluctant to face the day. Norris counted his father’s footsteps as he walked down the hall to the stairs. In moments, the sound of running water and the aroma of coffee floated up the stairwell.

Norris knew the routine well. Adam Stevens would drink half of his coffee and then leave for South Side Restaurant, where he would meet other scions of Chaffee Creek’s business community. There, they would discuss the weather, golf, the candidates for mayor, and which construction projects the bank should fund. Norris once overheard his father refer to the group as the Millionaires Club— the people who determine how things get done in Chaffee Creek.

With a sigh, Norris grudgingly threw back the covers and stood up. Damn it! he muttered when he stepped on a coaxial cable that snaked back to an amplifier. The sight of the cable provided Norris another reason not to return to school. Since their discovery of the Top 40 on WLS, Chicago, he, Joey, and Jon had worked diligently to duplicate the music they heard. The three boys had been learning chords and guitar licks, sometimes buying the music and other times playing by ear. Jon worked hard to learn the chords on his thirteen-dollar Sears and Roebuck guitar. Joey, having had the advantage of three years of piano lessons, was the teacher on his grandfather’s C. F. Martin. As a group, they were slowly coming together; their timing was improving, and their vocals produced a reedy harmony. They had improved musically as the summer waned. Will the music die now that school’s back on? Norris thought. Shitty. Just shitty.

He removed his school clothes from the Nottingham Laundry plastic bag hanging from the closet door. Trudging to the bathroom, Norris caught the feeble light that illuminated the bottom of the stairwell. At least he left the kitchen light on, Norris thought as the chill of the big house enveloped him. He closed the bathroom door, which shut out the sound of his mother’s rhythmic breathing. Yup, just another day in hell.

Once dressed and downstairs, Norris opened the refrigerator. Shit! We’re out of frigging milk! He reached into the meat drawer and found two pieces of Black Forest ham and the end of a block of cheddar. That’s a start, he thought irritably. After cutting the hard edges from the cheese, he sliced two thin pieces, found an English muffin, and toasted it to fashion a ham sandwich.

While munching the sandwich, Norris heated water for coffee and sat at the counter. Absently flipping through the copy of the Commercial Union, his attention was drawn to an article about the new downtown mall plans. He glanced at the date—August 30, 1963—and skimmed the article. Millionaires Club! he thought.

Finding nothing else of interest, Norris flung the paper toward the counter. When it missed his mark, he shrugged and stepped over it on his way to the family room, where he took a cigarette from the humidor. After taking a sip of coffee, Norris lit the cigarette with a box match and drew in deeply.

"Norris, is that you? Are you smoking?" a groggy voice inquired from the floor above.

Nah, I don’t smoke. Must’ve been Dad, Norris lied glibly. He deliberately dragged on his cigarette until only the butt remained and then carried it to the kitchen sink and tossed it down the drain. He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door behind him. Shit! Left my copy of Lady Chatterley on my bookshelf! Screw it.

2

The battlefield—the high school football team’s practice field—was a grassless, hard-packed strip of clay between the municipal swimming pool and Chaffee Creek’s recreation center. Straw-like grass that inflicted cuts and scrapes on players unlucky enough to slide across it framed the outer fringes. Dubbed the Dust Bowl, the ninety-six-yard-long field boasted a single goalpost on its west end. Teams scoring on the opposite end had to relocate for the extra point. Nonetheless, to the football warriors of Saint Wenceslaus, this was Lambeau Field.

Joey, warm me up! Jon yelled across the formation of Saint Wenceslaus players engaged in pregame calisthenics. Joey shot a quick glance at the assistant coach, who nodded permission.

Man, we are in the big time now! Joey exclaimed excitedly as Jon passed the ball to him. We’re gonna win.

Joey, we had one week of practice … what the hell. We’ll soon find out. Jon looked beyond Joey at the Emerson Junior High team. Wish we could have started with a different team. Louder, he called to Joey, Let’s go, as the referee signaled the start.

Okay, men. Gather ’round. Father Fulmar addressed his team with last-minute instructions. You have your assignments? In unison, the team nodded. Yes, yes. That’s good. Very good. Now let’s go play. Hard and clean. One, two, three—Knights! Kick some … uh … go, Knights!

The whistle blew. The thud of the ball lifting skyward had not yet faded when the parents who were spread along the sidelines erupted. Joey took the ball on the fifteen and headed straight down the middle. His momentum quickly halted with the thump of leather and plastic colliding.

This ain’t gonna be easy, Jon thought as he strapped on his helmet and trotted on to the field.

In the huddle Jon called the play. Dive right on three. Standing under center, Jon handed the ball to his running back, who collided head-on with Emerson’s tackle before hitting the line of scrimmage.

Back in the huddle, Jon called, Spider wide on three. After the snap, darkness enveloped Jon as the Emerson defensive ends swarmed over him. As he attempted to get up, someone shoved him back down and said, Wimp.

T out middle. Jon dropped back to pass and hurried an overthrow to Joey. Saint Wenceslaus punted.

Emerson’s first series was an unwelcome reminder that the team had dominated the league the year before. With each snap the front line systematically punched holes in Saint Wenceslaus’s inexperienced defense for gains of five, six, seven yards.

Saint Wenceslaus’s single week of practice showed as the experienced Emerson team continued to pound the Knights. Halftime adjustments merely slowed the destruction.

Three and out, three and out! That’s all we got! Jon slammed his helmet on the ground. We need the goddamn ball, damn it! Oops! Sorry, Father.

Unperturbed, Father Fulmer, from his six-foot-four vantage point, puffed on his pipe. Patience, Jon. Just as the priest was about expand his sermonette, the sidelines erupted as Norris crawled out from under the pile with the ball.

Back in the offensive huddle, Jon said, Okay, guys. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Look! Jon knelt and drew in the dirt. Joey, you’re on the inside. Jerry—he pointed to his tight end—you’re outside. Jerry, cut to the middle. Joey, you break outside. The rest of you block! On three.

The double-receiver set accomplished Jon’s purpose as a confused Emerson shifted formation. Jon took the snap and found Jerry Ratkowski in the middle of the field for a thirty-yard gain. As the boys returned to the huddle, the linebacker who had just gotten beat pushed Jerry in the back. Jon saw it and started toward his receiver, but the referee was already there.

Hurrying the team, Jon took control. Same thing other side. Go! On the snap Jon buried the ball in Joey’s chest. The quick tempo kept Emerson off balance, and Saint Wenceslaus scored. Despite their heroics, Saint Wenceslaus entered the last four minutes down by three scores, and Emerson had possession.

It’s tipped! Jon, we got the ball! Joey excitedly pumped Jon’s arm.

Jon had pulled away so he could follow the play downfield when he heard a sickening crunch and a scream. Norris was curled into fetal position and was writhing in pain in the middle of the field. Donald Meyer and several other men from the sidelines ran on the field. Father Fulmer sprinted to the field house to call an ambulance.

As Norris was being lifted into the ambulance, several Emerson players clustered midfield to taunt nearby Wenceslaus players. Hey! You guys sit down to take a piss? Howard Mullen, Emerson’s heavily muscled defensive tackle, called to Jon.

Jon turned and flashed the finger at his tormentor. You dickhead!

Mullen got exactly the reaction he’d wanted and charged. Jon stepped back, set his feet firmly, and pulled back his fist. Knuckles met Mullen in full stride and dropped him before his foot hit the ground. Jon quickly jumped him and began to pummel him. As he struggled to rip the tackle’s helmet off with his left hand, Jon continued to swing, but strong arms pulled him off.

Whoa, son, a calm voice said. Looking up, Jon saw the concerned face of Joey’s father. What was that all about? You just can’t go off like that, Joey’s father softly chided as he motioned Jon to the Saint Wenceslaus bench.

Jon ignored the question and stared across the field at the Emerson bench.

*  *  *

The Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder held center stage in the makeshift studio Norris had crammed into his walk-in closet. Rounded corners fed acoustically pure sound to three microphones hanging from the ceiling. Scattered throughout the semicircle was his collection of guitars, which included a Kent, a Gibson, and—his favorite—a Silver Tone 615.

Nah, it doesn’t go like that, Norris said as he extended his cast-covered leg to relieve the tightness.

How’s it feel? Joey asked.

Norris was absently picking the opening notes to Up on the Roof.

See? That’s how the vocals go. You guys come in with ‘up on the roof, up on the roof’ at the E minor. The leg? Ah, it’s okay … Lost some range of motion. Doc said I’ll never walk normal or play football again.

Jon started to laugh. "With the way we played this season, none of us will ever play football again!"

Not true, Joey countered. We won three games. Anyway, we started to click at the end. I mean, we had four passing touchdowns in each of the last three games.

How do you remember this stuff? Jon asked.

Just do, I guess.

Would’ve been better if you hadn’t gotten yourself suspended for two weeks, Muhammad Ali. Why’d you do it anyway? Joey asked.

The sucker pissed me off! That simple, man.

Shut up, jockstraps! Norris scowled and nodded to Jon to rewind the reel-to-reel recorder. Let’s see what we sound like.

Following along with the tape, Norris gently mimicked the opening two bars on his Kent twelve-string. When Joey and Jon joined in, he stopped strumming and became absorbed in what he was hearing.

Since his encounter with the Emerson players, Norris’s obsession with music had intensified. His love for this box of tubes, reels, and tapes was infinite. While his friends practiced football, Norris mirrored the phrasing and harmony of blues men like Blind Lemon Jefferson, Big Bill Broonzy, and Memphis Slim. Everything passed through the recorder.

Stopping his friends with a brusque wave of his hand, Norris rewound the tape a second time. The jagged, reedy sound of unsynchronized chord changes filled the room.

Joey’s expression was pained. Bad.

We sound castrated. Let’s go back and try again. Jon, you gotta get that C6 in the twelve bar … right here, Norris directed.

I’m tryin’, man.

As the session ended, the Wollensak played the boys’ version of Up on the Roof. After a split second of silence, slow, raw, methodical blues spilled into the room. "Holy shit! Who’s that?" Joey exclaimed.

Me. Been practicin’. Nothin’ else to do, Norris muttered.

*  *  *

The annual Saint Mary’s Thanksgiving program, traditionally held the Friday before the holiday, was a lesson plan for misery. Its repetitious digest of ill-prepared musicians induced an overwhelming weariness for everyone involved. Having to spend three