Don't Let Me Catch You

By Silvio Caputo

In a time of distant memory, there was a small town where legends had walked its cobblestone streets alongside dangers of all sorts. These legends were unafraid of perils lurking around every turn. They passed their time with their heads held high knowing that a mistake in judgement would put them in serious danger. Out of the shadow of these legend stepped three little boys, hearing tales of them and, believing anything was possible, they longed to follow in their footsteps. More legends appeared before them both on the big screen at the movies and in the new additions in their living rooms on television. The temptations were too great to resist. The boys decided they would overcome all obstacles set before them of both man and nature, they thought. Thus began a journey into the unknown world of legend. The boys were warned again and again by those knowing better, that it would lead to no good. But, being young, they would have to learn the lessons of youth for themselves. They set out to overcome all obstacles set before them by man nature, not knowing what to expect and willing to take the risks to achieve their goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664166660

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Copyright © 2021 by Silvio Caputo.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Edited by Dianne Brooks

Consultant Rosalie Galasso Caputo

Photograph of Fisher’s Peak by Michael Guadagnoli

Print information available on the last page.

Rev. date: .04/08/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

821405

CONTENTS

In The Beginning

Chapter 1 In nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

Chapter 2 Father Russel Mazza: The Legend Begins

Chapter 3 Father Ziccardi

Chapter 4 The Escape

Chapter 5 Mea Culpa (Through My Fault)

Chapter 6 Watch Your Step

Chapter 7 Timing is Everything

Chapter 8 Copper and Steel

Chapter 9 Don’t Eat That Tootsie Roll

Chapter 10 A Different Perspective

Chapter 11 What’s for Lunch?

Chapter 12 The Forbidden Fruit

Chapter 13 On Being Annoying

Chapter 14 It’s Nature’s Fault

Chapter 15 Will It Fly?

Chapter 16 A New Take on Up The Creek

Chapter 17 Applesauce Cookies

Chapter 18 Sci-Fi in a Jar

Chapter 19 Take One

Chapter 20 A Call to Duty

Chapter 21 A Hit Over The Fence is a Run Home

Chapter 22 From The Empty Lot to The Big League

Chapter 23 The First Season

Chapter 24 Tales from The Pond

Chapter 25 The Mud Hen

Chapter 26 The Gully

Chapter 27 The Vagrants

Chapter 28 The Chalice

In memory of Father John O'Flynn

IN THE BEGINNING

A good friend knows all your secret stories but a

best friend has lived them with you.

—Anonymous

D ark and light. Hot and then cold. Voices loud and fading.

How do you feel?

Glass sliding under my tongue.

Don’t bite down.

Stomach bubbling.

Tired. Sleeping. Waking in a strange bed.

Don’t remember going there. A voice said it was snowing. The wipers moving back and forth. Swish … Swish … Swish …

Wrapped in a blanket …

Days and then nights … Sleeping … Waking hearing voices … Turning my head to see faces … Mom and Dad … my grandparents … my aunt … falling back to sleep … waking up … take this … drink as much water as you can … back to sleep …

The room was cool and dark as I awoke, my eyes sweeping across the ceiling, down the wall to the corner of the room where my mother slept, curled up with a pillow in one of two chairs in the room. Something felt different, the hot sweaty feeling had changed into cold damp. I reached up and pulled the blanket, which was tucked tightly against my throat, down to my waist. I took a deep breath, and, for the first time in a while, it didn’t hurt in my chest. Several nurses passed by the open door carrying trays and pushing carts with the aroma of food drifting into the room. The noise brought my mother out of sleep, and she immediately looked over at me.

How do you feel?

Kind of hungry.

That’s good.

She got up and put her hand on my forehead.

You don’t feel as hot. I’ll get a nurse to take your temperature.

She disappeared out of the room.

I looked around the room. There was a picture of a woman on the wall dressed in dark clothing, and her face was wrapped in white linen. On another wall was a crucifix. I tried to think of the last few days but didn’t remember much except feeling like I didn’t want to do much but sleep. I didn’t remember how I got where I was, but I did remember feeling lousy and having cold damp cloths on my forehead and my mother telling me to swallow pills with lots of water.

I hear that you’re hungry?

I shook my head.

Wonderful. That means you’re getting better, she said, shoving a thermometer in my mouth. Better than the other end, I thought.

How about some Jell-O? Be easy on your tummy.

Jell-O? That’s what my grandmother always ate.

I shook my head.

Out came the thermometer.

Much better, she said, holding it where my mother could see it. Then she began shaking it back and forth.

My mother gave a sigh of relief.

Dr. Skuffca will be in around two o’clock, she said as she headed for the door.

What do you feel like eating?

A big tall glass of milk and applesauce cookies.

You’re not supposed to have milk, but I’ll bake you some cookies when I go home to clean up. Your father will be here after work, and I’ll go then. I’ll ask the nurse what else you can have.

A little later, they brought some food and apple juice. I ate some of it and felt tired, so I lay back down. Someone dressed in all white came in and took the tray. I felt myself drifting off. Sometime later, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I slowly opened my eyes. It was my mother.

You’re not supposed to have visitors, but we got special permission. I blinked my eyes, wanting to go back to sleep. She motioned toward the door. I turned my head. My aunt Ruth stood outside the door. In front of her were two small boys. One was Billy, my aunt’s second son and roughly the same age. The other one was Benny, my cousin who lived next door.

They wanted to come to see you. They can’t come in but wanted to say hi.

Billy raised his hand and gave a small wave. I slowly raised my hand and waved back.

Ben smiled and gave me the nod up. I smiled and returned the nod up.

When does he get to go home? Billy asked.

My aunt Ruth looked to my mother.

Dr. Skuffca will be in later this afternoon and I’ll ask her. But I’m sure it’ll be a while.

You gotta get better so we can play? Ben said.

That’d be great, I said.

We better go, my aunt said.

See you guys, I said.

See ya, they responded.

And they were gone. Suddenly, I felt better spending the afternoon dreaming of days to come.

CHAPTER 1

In nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti.

Amen.

Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

The problem ain’t what people know. It’s what people

know that ain’t so that’s the problem.

—Will Rogers

O n the hill overlooking Robinson Avenue sits Mount Carmel Church. Built out of sandstone blocks, it resembles an outcropping called Simpson’s Rest just north of the town. A double wooden front door faces Fishers Peak to the south, the highest point on the Raton Mesa at nine thousand feet. Separating the two is the Purgatoire River. Like many churches, it was so named to fulfill a promise to Our Lady of Mount Carmel by Italian immigrants who were anxious about leaving their homes to embark on the longest journey of their lives. As they waited at the port of Naples, they prayed for a safe journey and promised to build a church in her honor upon their safe arrival. Thus the church was built in 1907, making them feel like they had a little bit of the old country in their new home. The priest within the church was thought to have authority given him by God and was held dear, just barely short of sainthood. In 1951, a school was added adjacent to the alley behind the church.

Across the street from the school runs Robinson Avenue, where I, along with my cousins, lived. Most who lived on Robinson Avenue had relatives who worked in one of the coal camps west of the town, and upon the closing of the mines, these families moved into Trinidad. Growing up in the camps was a rough-and-tumble existence producing tough kids, kids who attended the school.

The school is a large red-brick rectangular building housing grades one through eight and named after the church. By the time I was born, a kindergarten was added. Most of the teachers at the school were Sisters of Charity of Cincinnati. Their vocation is one of poverty, living lives of moderation and simplicity, rejecting earthly riches, and proclaiming that God is the only thing necessary. And, of course, education … our education. As such, their mission was to save us from ourselves.

To be enrolled at the school, a student had to be born before the twenty-fifth of December. However, age was not an automatic qualifier for entry. It was left to the discretion of the nuns as to whether a child was ready for school. Since I was born in December, I would be one of the youngest and, unfortunately for a male, one of the smallest students at the school. In August 1956, a discussion between the principal and my parents took place as to whether I should be allowed to enter school with the rest of my cousins and the other kids on the block of roughly the same age.

My parents made the short trek up the hill to the elementary school, with me in tow, for a meeting with the principal to decide whether I should enter kindergarten that year.

My parents discussed the options with me before we went to the school. On one hand, it was better to be the largest kid in the class rather than the smallest, and that might be the case should I enroll the following year. On the other hand, all of my cousins and most of the other kids on the block would leave me behind. Waiting for another year meant being at home without anyone to play with, and it meant that I would not share any experience the others would have at school. I hated the idea of being left behind. So I insisted on beginning my formal education with the others for better or worse.

It was an uncertain situation as I found myself sitting in the principal’s office, my feet dangling several inches from the floor.

He is rather small, the principal said, smiling while looking down at me.

Hey, Cagney is small, I thought.

Being born in December, he may not be mature enough to begin his formal education, she stated emphatically while peering out with a face tightly wrapped, mummy like, in white linen. My eyes wandered over the pictures hanging behind her when our eyes met. I smiled. She forced a smile.

My father smiled at me. An August birthday had placed him more in the middle of the year, but his small stature, inherited from his father, made him acutely aware of the situation. He was the valedictorian of his high school class and remained confident it needn’t be a game changer.

How do you feel about starting school in September? she asked me.

Put me in, coach, popped out of my mouth.

A confused look came over her face.

It’s an expression the kids on the block use, my mother responded. It means he’s ready to go.

OK. And as his parents, how do you feel about it?

He wants to go to school with his cousins. We’re afraid that if he doesn’t start with them, he’ll feel left out, my mother said.

We can allow him to start school in September, but if he struggles in class, he’ll have to be kept back and wait until next year.

And then we left. The ball was in my court, and I was ready to play. Although I didn’t fully realize it at the time, there were two problems with what she told my parents. First, there was the problem with kept back. There were various forms of saying the same thing, but on my block, it was known as … failing. So once you were in, regardless of how the school viewed your performance, to everyone else in school, if you didn’t stay with the group you started with, you failed. Second problem was with the word struggles.

Struggles? I thought. In Trinidad, struggling was a part of life.

Before we left, the principal smiled again and then said the words that sent shivers down my body.

Well, if he does as well as his brother, everything will be fine.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No … ran through my head. The older-brother thing.

My older brother, whose talents had been predetermined by some evil trick of nature, was marked by the letter A, making him incapable of achieving any grade less that an A. It was a tradition at the school that any students getting all As on their semester report cards would receive tickets to the Denver Bears baseball team. We got to see the team play every year. My brother was a curly-headed kid who could spend less time than any of the other students on an assignment and get everything right. He could sing and play the drums without a lesson. And he loved to dress the part with jacket and tie, performing at every family gathering. My family loved comparison among relatives, which I quickly learned to ignore. Now it seemed it was going to follow me to school. My brother seemed to love the limelight. I, on the other hand, preferred to fly under the radar, avoiding attention.

I wasn’t sure why the principal decided to give me a shot at kindergarten, but I was glad she did. With my cousins heading up the hill, it would have been pretty dismal remaining behind. But it came with a caveat. I had to keep up, she emphatically warned. It was good enough for me. I started with my cousins that September … for better or worse.

Kindergarten was mostly about getting along with all the other kids. Mrs. Sally Trujillo made sure everybody did just that. We learned some real basic stuff, mostly stuff I already knew. The room was filled with brightly colored pictures, and we all had rugs on which we took naps. Sometimes I would stare at the ceiling and imagine myself somewhere outside. On certain days, we got holy cards for napping, so pretending to be asleep had its rewards. We drew pictures and sang songs, lots of happy songs. Recess was less controlled, although we had teachers and parents watching us to make sure we weren’t too rowdy. They separated us from the bigger kids, although some of them were called upon to supervise the games we played. They wanted to make sure everyone was getting along and playing nicely. Learning was mixed with what they called socialization, which was getting to know kids from other neighborhoods.

It wasn’t until the next year that things started getting interesting. The grades, as we called them, were a lot more structured than kindergarten. We had assigned seats and were expected to do a whole lot more work, and we were introduced to homework. That first year, the days seemed to fly by, and before we knew it, we were in the holiday stretch. Everyone in the class was ready for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. On Halloween, costumes were not allowed at school, but everyone talked about what they would be going as while trick-or-treating. On that night, each house had some specialty such as popcorn balls, candied apples, or homemade chocolate. The younger kids were escorted by parents or older siblings. Relatives and friends from the neighborhood invited everyone into the house and talked with the adults, while the kids waited anxiously to head for the next house. Girls went as fairy princesses and Disney characters. Boys went as cowboys, ghosts, and mummies. Once out of the neighborhood, we ran from door to door collecting penny candy of all sorts. When we got home, we sat on the floor sorting and trading the stash.

Next came Thanksgiving. On Fridays, we learned about pilgrims and Indians and large wooden ships. The highlight was drawing hand turkeys with thumbs for heads and fingers for feathers. We colored them, and the teacher displayed them around the room.

Pretty much standard stuff.

After Thanksgiving, the focus turned to Christmas. The entire school was transformed with Christmas trees appearing in every room and a special hour dedicated to decorations. The downstairs hall was transformed with a large tree and nativity scene. Garland-dressed windows and tinsel appeared everywhere.

Three weeks before Christmas break, our teacher announced that there would be a pageant put on by the students with each class performing a specific theme in a play. Our class was to perform Old McDonald Had a Farm, and every student would have a part. Sounded like little kid stuff to me, and I didn’t give it another thought until the day the parts were assigned. Anticipation filled the room. The animal parts came first and were met with expressions of joy by some and disappointment by others. Ben and Bill came in as farm animals, and I was a little more than nervous when my name wasn’t called.

Old MacDonald will be …, the teacher said. Horror struck when she finished with my name.

Everyone turned to look in my direction. Panic sent in. Being the center of attention with all eyes poised in my direction left a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Mrs. Macdonald’s part will be played by … Well, it really didn’t matter to me since her name was followed by oooooooooh in chorus by the rest of the class. It meant that the rest of the year, our names would be used for all sorts of comments linking us together, something no guy wanted, and I’m sure she wasn’t too keen on the idea either.

That was my first encounter with embarrassment, and it felt like wanting to be someplace else. Anyplace else.

After school was out, my cousins and I headed home with our assigned parts carefully written by the teacher along with instructions to our parents on what our costumes were to look like.

Whatta you gonna be? Bill asked Ben.

Baaaaaaaaaaa, he responded. Got my line memorized.

What you get? Ben asked

Moooooooo, Bill mimicked. You got any lines? he asked me.

I thought for a minute.

Not sure. I think so, I responded.

I pulled the paper from my pocket and unfolded it.

Looks like you got all kinds of lines, Bill said.

Yeah, a lot of lines but no words, I said.

Yeah? What’s all that mean? Ben said.

Beats me, I said.

Bill took another look at it and responded with Man, this looks confusing.

Yeah, I said. I’m not sure what it means.

I waited until supper to tell my parents, which wasn’t the best idea since my older brother would be there as well. Halfway through eating pork roast, I remembered I was supposed to give the sheet to her.

The teacher picked the parts for the Christmas play, I said.

How wonderful, my mother responded. What part did you get?

I’ll get the paper she gave us, I said, disappearing from the table. I returned with the sheet and handed it to her.

She glanced at it.

You’ve got the part of Old MacDonald! she excitedly announced.

Wow! my brother said nice and loud. You’ll be front and center stage.

What does that mean? I asked.

Well, everybody will be watching you. The parents. The teachers. All the other kids, he finished.

That queasy feeling came back.

It’s an honor, my mother said.

Yeah, so long as you don’t screw up, my brother said. Then it’ll be embarrassing.

You’ll do just fine, my mother tried to reassure me.

You have any lines? my brother asked.

Don’t know.

Let me see the paper, he said, holding out his hand. My mother handed it to him.

You have lines all right, he said. But there are no words.

Yeah, I know.

Let me see it, my father said.

He looked at it and said, This gives directions for which way you’re supposed to go on the stage. See, there are little arrows showing the direction, he said, handing it back to me.

I looked at it again.

It looks confusing. We’re going to the stage tomorrow to practice. Maybe I’ll find out what I’m supposed to do.

Good luck, my brother said. You’re gonna need it.

He’ll do it, my father said. A little practice is all he needs.

We returned to eating, and I noticed my brother was smiling. It was that smile that said, Boy, are you in trouble. Maybe I can get out of it, I thought.

The following day, we were taken downstairs to the stage. On one side of the first floor was the kitchen along with the cafeteria. On the opposite side of the stairs was a large area with a raised stage with a set of stairs to the side. We were led onto the stage and assembled in the center. The teacher instructed us to look at the sheet she had given us and then proceeded to explain what each of us was to do and when we were supposed to do it. As she called my name, I stared down at the lines on the paper. She came over to me and looked down.

You have it upside down, she said, taking it from me and turning it upright. Then she took me to the front of the stage looking out over the seating area. Before us stood an army of empty seats.

This is the front, she said. I looked down at the sheet.

Here, she said, taking the sheet back. Let me mark it.

She took a pen from her pocket and wrote on the sheet. Then she turned around and pointed to the back wall.

That’s the back, she said, writing on the sheet again.

As you face the audience, the right side of the stage is to your right. And the left side of the stage is to your left, she said while writing on the sheet again. Then she handed it back to me.

You come out onto the stage at the beginning of the song. You’ll sit on the stool until everyone is finished singing their song. Then you’ll lead the entire class around the stage in this pattern. When the song is over, you’ll lead everyone off the stage. It’ll be clear after we practice it a few times, she said, trying to reassure me. The look on my face must have been a dead giveaway. I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.

And so for the next hour, we practiced. I entered the stage carrying a small three-legged stool, with the animals following in procession. Then I went to the side of the stage, while the others went to the center. We took our positions while our teacher played the song on the piano. The first animal stepped forward and sang her part.

With an oink oink here and an oink oink there, here an oink, there an oink, everywhere an oink oink.

Then the chorus of students carrying shovels and rakes chimed in the rest of the lyrics.

Old MacDonald had a farm.

E I E I O.

When all the animal parts were finished, it was time for me to do my thing. I rose, and with the stool in one hand and the paper in the other hand, I began leading a parade of farm animals and workers around the stage. And then off. Seemed simple enough. And I wouldn’t have to say a word.

That night at supper, I was all smiles.

We practiced for the play, I announced as we began eating.

That’s nice, my mother said. Did you get your part all figured out?

Yeah, it’s a piece of cake, I proudly announced.

My father smiled and said simply, Good.

Then I looked at my brother. He sat quietly, something he seldom, if ever, did, with that look on his face and a great big smile. Just wait and see, it said. I tried to reassure myself it was simple. March onto the stage. Put the stool down … sit and wait until the singing was over … march around the stage. Lead everybody off. What else could there be to it? I squirmed in my seat trying to figure what he was thinking.

Back at school, the days flew by, and before we knew it, it was the night of the pageant and the class was waiting to go down to the stage. I looked about the room filled with a pig, a goat, a cow, ducks, a horse, a lamb, and chickens. Gathered in the back of the room were the rakes and shovels. Everyone was practicing their parts, making the room sound much like a barnyard. I looked over the sheet that had guided me through the rehearsals. It had become worn and creased, but it didn’t matter. I had it all inside my head. I pulled my beard into place and straightened my farmer’s hat and was ready to go.

Suddenly, the principal appeared in the doorway and announced that we were to go down to the stage. Panic swept the room. A couple of the animals let out with one more blast and were shushed by the teacher. We lined up and headed out the room. We stopped for a moment to tighten the line and proceeded down the stairs. We entered the hall below, which was filled with murmuring parents armed with Brownie cameras. As we approached the stage, the hall became eerily quiet with parents stretching their necks in our direction, each trying to get a look or a picture of their kid. We reached the side of the stage just as the next class reached the bottom of the stairs.

I was at the head of the line and tried to look over my shoulder toward the mass of anxiously awaiting parents. I ascended the stairs and, right on cue, headed for the center, just as I had practiced. I hesitated for a moment, giving everyone time to enter onto the stage, and then proceeded to the corner of the stage. I placed the stool down and sat. The light from the staging area spilled over onto the audience, and I realized everyone was looking at me. My heart began pounding.

The music began, and I let out a sigh of relief knowing that the audience’s attention had shifted to the others as they began singing along with the music. The first animals came forward to sing and then were joined in chorus by the others. I tried not to look out over the sea of faces. Then the thought of my brother smiling at me with that look of just wait and see came into my head. Remember your cue, I thought. Just remember your cue.

The next animal came forward. Figures began moving in the back of the audience as the ladies who ran the kitchen gathered to watch the show. They had prepared food for the parents and students for a big party afterward, and the wonderful smell of freshly made cinnamon rolls filled the room. As my attention drifted, the songs continued with parents popping out of their chairs, positioning themselves to take more pictures. Then a thought hit me. My cue to begin the procession. It was … the last animal singing …

The last was … the horse … ? No. The goat … that was it … When the goat sang, it would all be over. No. Then the procession. The procession around the stage and back again. To the left and then the left again. No. To the right and then to the left and back again. That’s it! The last animal to sing … The last animal …

The sheet of paper. My hand slipped to my side pocket where it was tucked safely away. I felt the paper in my hand and slowly pulled it out. I dropped my hand into my lap, and I unfolded it. I tried to focus, but something didn’t look right. Upside down … that’s it. It’s upside down. The sinking feeling I had had when my brother gave me that look. Simple, my dad had said. Only with all those people watching, it was different … way different. My brother’s face flashed before me, the smug smile splashed across his face. Somehow, my brother knew this would happen. My stomach began to churn. Everyone in the hall would be watching. The whole school would hear about it the next school day. Everybody in the town would know I screwed up.

Then I heard …

With a naaaa … naaaa here and a naaaa … naaaa there … everywhere a naaaa naaa.

That was it. The cue. But I didn’t get a good look at the sheet. I stood up and grabbed the stool in my hand and began marching with the sheet grasped tightly in my hand. Off to the left I went and then to the right. Then to the left again and then to the right with the entire class following me. For some reason, it seemed longer than at practice.

Exit!

Exit?

Exit!

It was Sister Blanche whose voice was in a high whisper.

I was supposed to exit the stage, but I had started all over again. I was doing the march all over again.

Sister Patrick started the tune again from the top, and the kids continued singing. I had to get us off the stage somehow or we would go on marching around the stage and singing the rest of the night. I looked over at the teacher, and she smiled and gave me a head signal to exit the stage. Exit the stage … Exit the stage … I said to myself over and over. The stairs … I must find the stairs …

But before I could act, a loud noise came from the area of the cafeteria. Everybody in the hall turned to look as everything in the hall came to a stop. Suddenly, a pack of dogs came racing past the stairs and toward the stage. Chaos filled the hall as parents jumped from their seats and began scurrying in different directions. Some of the men in the audience began chasing after them while the dogs continued running around in random patterns. Three of them headed for the Christmas tree, one stopping to do his business at the base of the tree.

Get them out of the hall! one man called out.

Open the front doors! another called out.

This was my chance. Nobody was watching the performance, and I took off for the stairs with the other kids following close behind. I hurriedly descended and headed for the back of the hall. The kids from the next class descended the stairs followed by the other classes.

Where in the blazes did those dogs come from? Father O’Flynn cried out.

They came from the kitchen, one of the men said.

Who, for heaven’s sake, let them in? he demanded.

That’s not important now, the principal said. Get them out of here.

One by one, the men were able to herd the dogs in the direction of the front doors. The cafeteria ladies propped them open, and out they ran.

Several of the men, along with Father followed by the nuns, gathered together near the stairs trying to figure out who was to blame for the unwanted incursion. But the principal quickly intervened.

We can get to the bottom of this later, she said in a loud clear voice. We must continue with the pageant. She was visibly upset, but having taken control of the situation, she began calling for the other teachers to get their classes in line again. The parents made their way back to their seats as the doors were secured against another invasion. The hall swiftly returned to order with my class taken to the chairs behind the parents to watch the rest of the pageant, the girls whispering to each other and the guys trying not to look guilty of anything.

When all became quiet in the hall, the next class proceeded to the stage. The rest of the night continued without incident, but in the back of everyone’s mind, the questions remained. Was someone responsible? Or did the dogs act alone?

The dogs were well known throughout the neighborhood. Some had owners, others were considered neighborhood dogs foraging for food and running around the ball park. They didn’t live anywhere in particular. I knew most of their names, and they didn’t usually cause any problems. Some people said they were good to have around since they kept coyotes, skunks, and other creatures that came from the hills away from the homes.

When the pageant was over, everyone gathered in the cafeteria, and the goodies were brought out of the kitchen. Many of the mothers had made their signature Christmas cookies and placed them on the tables. Coffee was served to the adults, and there were milk and punch for the kids. Unnoticed by most was a small group of adults gathered by the door in the kitchen that led to the alley. After a short time, they rejoined the rest of the people, and the rumor mill shifted in to high gear. The principal circled around the seventh and eighth grade tables, giving them the once-over and stopping occasionally to ask questions. A couple of boys rose and followed her up the stairs. We stayed for a while longer eating cookies and drinking milk, and then everything broke up.

Back at home, I quickly got ready for bed. The whole experience left me with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. My brother’s class performance had been the highlight of the evening, which didn’t surprise anyone since they were, by all accounts, the kind of class that comes around every ten years. My class got the usual compliments on how cute we were but were followed by too bad it had been interrupted by the dogs. I settled for glad it’s over. My mother came into the bedroom and collected the costume and promptly put it in the hamper. She seemed upset and commented that somebody should do something about the dogs that roamed the neighborhood and it was a shame they interrupted the play. My dad treated it as though it was part of the whole evening since he had grown up in one of the coal camps west of the town and roaming dogs were a part of life in those days.

I got into bed and was ready to fall asleep when my brother suddenly asked, Well, how’d you like being in the limelight?

I don’t know what you mean, I responded.

Center stage. In the spotlight. Right out front in full view of everyone.

It’s OK, I guess.

Kinda got lost at the end, didn’t you?

Think anyone noticed? I worriedly asked.

I noticed, he answered nonchalantly.

Of course you would. Anybody else?

Nah. It was the first time the parents saw it. They didn’t know what they were supposed to see.

Do ya really think so?

Take my word for it. Nobody noticed. Unless they knew what to look for.

Whaddaya mean?

Nothing, except while everyone was watching you, they didn’t see anything else that was going on. It’s how things work, he said, that smile returning.

I don’t get it, I said innocently.

He chuckled. I don’t suppose so.

Wait a minute. You mean the dogs? I said.

Good guess, Sherlock. There might be hope for you after all, he said.

Do you know who let those dogs in the hall?

I didn’t say that.

You didn’t, did you?

Didn’t say that either.

Then he flashed that smile.

Somebody had to let them in, he said.

Why would they do that? I asked.

Aww, man, join the party.

The party? What party?

"You really don’t get it,