Chapter 10 - The Stones
Sunday, May 2nd, once I got home, was not like the usual Sunday. First, my Mom insisted that I take a bath and change my clothes, because I smelled like wood smoke and my clothes were covered with mud. I had no problem with that, but, with only one bathroom and eleven people in the house, it threw off everyone’s routine, and they all blamed me for it. My oldest sister used the occasion to harangue my parents again about letting her get an apartment in Burlington. She was finishing her sophomore year at UVM, and juniors never lived at home, or so she claimed.
Everyone was rushed, everyone was irritated, and we straggled over to the church in a loose, unhappy cluster. Except for me; I was as happy as I ever was going to church. It was just a part of the day, a part of the week, to get through as painlessly and quickly as possible so I could get on with my life.
Win and I talked briefly after church, mostly about the Stones. With school starting up again the next day, we wouldn’t be able to watch it together, unfortunately, but we were really psyched about it anyway.
I don’t think anyone else in my family knew that the Stones were going to be on, because no one brought it up at dinner. Some of the kids asked me about the campout, but I wasn’t really talking. Everybody knew, of course, that it was somewhere in the woods behind Big Rock that we had hidden for six weeks, but none of them had actually been there. I had a suspicion that my second oldest brother might get his ninth grade buddies together and either wreck the cabin or take it over for themselves, but they hadn’t made the effort so far. There wasn’t much we could do about it if they tried.
I was off to the library after dinner to get some writing done. Sergeant Smithers came in about half an hour after I did. I said hello and invited him to sit down. He put his jacket over the back of a chair and said he’d be back in a few minutes, with his latest read. I continued with my writing, knowing the Sergeant would not ask me what I was doing if I did not volunteer it. He returned with Volume Two of “Lee’s Lieutenants,” and sat down across from me.
“Reading it again?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ve been reading a lot about the Civil War lately, and I decided to go back to an old favorite. Have you gotten through Volume Two yet?” He knew that I had gotten Volume One for my birthday the year before, and Volume Two for Christmas.
“Nearly. School work has slowed me down a little, but that’s okay. There’s so much to get through, and I’m taking longer to read it than I usually do. I’ve never seen a book with so many footnotes, and all of them interesting.”
We stopped talking for a while. He read silently and I wrote. I was trying to get one term paper completed so I could hand it to Amy the next day, but I still had a ways to go. When I noticed the Sergeant lean back and take a break, I decided to ask him something I was curious about.
“Sergeant, do you know Gaetan Frenette?”
He looked at me in a strange way. He wasn’t startled, but surprised, and wary.
“Yes, I know him.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. He’s a friend of my boss, the man who owns the bar.”
“I saw him a few nights ago. Wednesday, I think; he was talking to J.C. outside the bar.”
“Yes, he came in that night. You must have been out after curfew, if you saw them.”
“It was a little late. Junior gave me a ride home, actually.”
He grinned. “That was nice of Junior.”
“So, Frenette goes to your bar? I would have thought he would go to Bouchard’s.”
“Because he’s French? Well, that’s where he would usually be, if he’s in Essex. A lot of the men who work for him hang out at Bouchard’s. But if he and J.C. want to have a private conversation, where no one’s going to come up and bother them, they come over to our place.”
“Uh-huh. So, these men who work for Frenette – what do they do?”
“Well, he’s a businessman - an importer – and he hires a lot of local men, some on a permanent basis, and some for temporary jobs. He has several warehouses, and quite a few trucks, so he needs drivers and warehousemen.”
“Is that all they do?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe you should ask them.”
“Are you saying that because you don’t know? Or because you can’t tell me?”
He shook his head in a way that was a definite refusal, but not unfriendly.
“Look, Denny, in my position, I hear a lot of things, including sometimes things I don’t want to hear. But I don’t know anything, and I can’t tell you anything about Frenette or his people, except that he comes in every couple of weeks, talks to the boss in the office, then has a drink on the house and leaves. Every once in a while, he comes in with J.C., as he did on Wednesday.”
“Okay. I was just wondering about him. You know, I hear the name, but no one tells me what he does.”
“Well, you’re probably going to hear the name a lot more. I hear he’s going to run for the legislature, from Burlington.”
“Really?”
“You’ve heard about the reapportionment, haven’t you? The Supreme Court has forced Vermont to reapportion the legislative districts. So Burlington is going to have quite a few representatives, not just one, and Gaetan Frenette is running for one of those seats, or so I hear.”
“Huh.” I lapsed into silence, thinking about that. I was pretty naïve about politics at that time, and I had this illusion that the men who ran our governments, both locally and nationally, were fine, upstanding citizens, like my father, and not people with shady reputations, like Frenette.
Anyway, we went back to our writing and reading, and I managed to finish the paper I was working on. I would be able to hand it to Amy the next day and have just one left to write.
We had sandwiches for supper, which was usual on a Sunday, since we always had a big dinner after church. There was a lively discussion, coincidentally, about the reapportionment, among my parents and older siblings. The subject had come up before, but I had never paid much attention. My father, ever the traditionalist, thought that it was taking power, and local control, away from the towns and giving it to the cities, mostly Burlington. My oldest sister took the opposite view, pointing out that Burlington had thirty-five thousand residents, and just one representative, while there were towns with only thirty-five residents that also had one representative. It was unfair, and blatantly unconstitutional.
They went back and forth over it, with my Mom and oldest brother quietly supporting my sister. The argument never got heated – it almost never did in our household – but neither of the proponents looked likely to change their mind. Then I changed everything by saying, “Did you hear that Gaetan Frenette is running for one of the new seats?”
Everyone stopped and stared at me. My father, who had a glass of milk halfway to his mouth, had a look of consternation on his face. He obviously didn’t believe me.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked.
“Sergeant Smithers told me.”
His look changed to one of doubt and disgust. He disapproved of the Sergeant, because he was a bartender at the notorious “gin mill” just down the street, and because he had a live-in “housekeeper” whom he wouldn’t marry, but Dad knew, from the Bible study classes they had both attended at our church, that the Sergeant was an intelligent man, not given to lying or gossiping.
“Well, I hope he’s mistaken; we certainly don’t need a man like that in the legislature.”
When we had finished eating, there was only half an hour before the show started, so I made sure to plant myself in a good seat on the couch, not telling anyone what I knew was coming. Mom was in a good mood, so she made a big batch of buttered popcorn, with help from one of my sisters. It took a lot of popcorn to feed eleven people, although I suppose the four-year-old didn’t eat much.
We were all seated for the opening sequence and the first commercial, and then, there they were.
“And now – back to our stage from England – the Rolling Stones!”
Wow! They looked great! I had seen pictures of them, and I knew their names, but this was the first time I had seen them live. My eyes were glued to the TV, but I looked away briefly when my father scraped his chair while hastily arising and left the room with a look of utter disgust on his face. My Mom, holding the youngest on her lap, didn’t look too pleased, but she stayed to watch anyway. The rest of us were fascinated.
What I had learned from Tom was that, when they appeared in October of ’64 (the show I and my friends had all missed because we were grounded) it was mostly their appearance that had put off Ed Sullivan and had made him vow that they would never grace his stage again. Apparently Mick Jagger had worn a ragged sweatshirt and it was said that his hair was unwashed as well as unkempt. But tonight they were all wearing jackets, except Bill Wyman, who had a nice sweater on, and Charlie Watts was even wearing a tie!
They did “The Last Time,” which was their latest hit, and then Ed promised they would be back again later. Well, all we talked about was the Stones, with a wide range of opinions. My oldest sister was almost as appalled as my Dad. She was more into Folk and Classical music anyway, and she didn’t like the way they looked.
“The Beatles are a lot nicer,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. The older siblings all sort of agreed with that.
“Who cares if they’re nice?” I said, and they all looked at me. “I love the Beatles, but these guys are different. ‘Nice’ is not what the Stones are about.”
“You can say that again,” one of the sisters replied, “They don’t look nice, they don’t act nice, and they don’t sound nice.”
“Right!” I said, “and that’s great!”
They all rolled their eyes at me and turned back to the screen, where Topo Gigio was falling in love. Too bad for my father, who was missing his favorite because he wouldn’t come out of his room after seeing the Stones.
It was half an hour, at least, before they were on again, and we sat through comedians, Leslie Uggams, jugglers, and Dusty Springfield before they came back. I endured loads of unfavorable comparisons – “Now she’s a real professional” but I didn’t mind. I had nothing against Dusty, mind you; she was great. But it wasn’t Rock and Roll.
Then they were on again. They played “Little Red Rooster,” which I had never heard, and Brian Jones was getting a sound out of his guitar like I had never heard before; I was going to have to ask Tom about it. Then they went into “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” – another song I didn’t know. My brothers and sisters were mostly quiet, but when Mick undid the top button of his shirt, my oldest sister couldn’t take it anymore.
“He’s so gross!” she said as she stomped off to the kitchen.
Well, I didn’t think it was gross, and I was having a great time. When it was over, Ed actually shook hands with Mick, and I couldn’t help wondering if both their smiles were fake. Tom Jones was on next, and I thought he was gross. My brothers agreed with me, but sister didn’t.
There was one more act before the show ended, and the Stones were on screen again at the end, playing an instrumental while the closing credits rolled. A great show, and I couldn’t wait to talk with my friends about it in the morning.
The first person I ran into at school the next morning was Jackie, and she immediately asked me if I had seen the Stones.
“Of course! How could I not?”
“Yeah, I figured you would have seen it.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes, actually. More than I thought I would. My parents weren’t thrilled with it, although my father pointed out that the second and third songs were old American Blues songs. He thought they only played Rock and Roll.”
I wished I was Tom for a minute, and able to explain the progression from Blues to Rock and all the cultural meanings and blah, blah, blah, but I wasn’t Tom, so I just smiled and nodded. I could see Tom and Win approaching, and Kate, as well, and soon the five of us were all talking about it.
It was funny; I could hear other girls nearby talking about Mick and Keith and Brian as if they were young gods, but we were talking with two girls who certainly wouldn’t be attracted to guys like that, or wouldn’t admit it, at least. At least Kate was sympathetic, even if she wasn’t a real fan, unlike some of the other snooty kids who looked down their noses at the Stones. As one of the most cerebral kids in our class, she understood the attraction of rebellion and “otherness” that drew us to them.
“I don’t think many parents are going to approve of them,” she said, “or any adults, for that matter. Hearing them was bad enough, but now that they’ve seen what they look like…”
“But that’s just…” I sputtered, “I mean that doesn’t mean anything. It’s the music that matters.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Not to them, it doesn’t.”
Tom started in on a critique of the three songs. He asked if any of us noticed that Keith’s guitar was out of tune in the first song, and Win and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes slightly while Tom adjusted his glasses and dissected the music.
“Hey, that reminds me, Tom,” I said, “What was that thing Brian Jones was doing in “Little Red Rooster?” I made a motion with my hands like what Brian had done with his guitar.
“Slide guitar. It’s a blues thing – very unusual in Rock and Roll.”
“That’s what my Dad said,” Jackie said, “He said those were old American Blues songs.”
“He’s right; the Stones started out playing Rhythm and Blues, mostly American. But now they’re writing their own material and moving more towards Rock.”
The bell rang and we had to go in. The first day back, and the start of the long final slog before summer. Six long weeks, with a single Monday off for Memorial Day.
It turned out to be a very interesting day, for several reasons. There was a lot of talk, when opportunities arose, about the Stones, and some snide comments from teachers about “those mangy, unkempt hoodlums.” Classes were depressing, with the teachers trying to get us excited about “the homestretch,” but we all knew how long it was, and the end of the year wasn’t close enough yet.
Then, just after lunch, a rumor started going around that Mrs. Rock’s trial was over. As usual, the efforts of the teachers and staff to control the spread of gossip were totally ineffective, and everybody knew about it very quickly. Nobody knew the details, though. Then we had a fire drill. Well, that gave all of us even greater opportunities to talk to each other, even though talking was supposedly forbidden during the drill.
Tom and Win and I were fortunate enough to be on the second floor when it happened, so we got to use “The Tube.” Our old-fashioned brick schoolhouse, built in 1912, had a big metal tube outside one of the second floor classrooms. That was our fire escape. When we had a drill, the classes on the second floor would march into Mr. Brinker’s classroom and proceed in an orderly fashion to the window which opened onto the tube and slide down to the ground. It was fun, and it was actually used a lot more frequently for fun than for its intended purpose. Whenever kids were playing around the school on weekends or after hours, they would climb up the tube from the bottom and slide down.
Anyway, there was a tremendous amount of whispering and gossip about the trial during the drill, and I don’t know if that was the reason or not, but later that afternoon, Mr. Camp, the Principal, made the rounds of all the classes and told each class about the result of the trial. After all, it was one of our student teachers who was murdered, and a long-time English teacher at the school who did it, so it touched all of us.
We were in Miss Randall’s English class when he came in, which was ironic. Mr. Camp explained briefly what had transpired that morning. Just as Jane had predicted, the State and the defense had agreed to a plea deal, under which Mrs. Rock would plead guilty to second degree murder, which carried a lighter sentence than first degree. It was unofficial, he said, until the Judge had reviewed the agreement and approved it. He had no details about the possible sentence, so there was no point in asking him about it.
Some of the girls started crying, and a lot of the kids were confused. Mr. Camp said he didn’t really have time to explain it further, but he believed it was “best for everyone.”
Well, that made the rest of the day pretty strange. Miss Randall, and some of the other teachers, from what I heard, tried to explain it further to their classes, but some of them didn’t understand it much better than the kids. My friends and I understood it, though. I had told the guys everything Jane had told me. Kate and Jackie, both really smart kids, understood it, too, and they talked to most of the other girls, so, by the time we were walking home, most of the kids, at least in our section, had a pretty good idea of what had happened.
I had to meet Amy at the Bake Shop, so I walked with Win as far as his house. When I told him where I was going, he understood that it was that thing I couldn’t talk about.
Amy was already at the shop when I got there. We had papers and money to exchange, and a little planning to do. We tried to avoid meeting in public like this, but sometimes it was unavoidable.
“Just one left, right?” she asked me, after I had handed her the completed paper I had finished.
“Yes, and I’ll be able to write the last one this week, over a few evenings.”
“Listen, kid, I know we agreed that we wouldn’t take any more orders, but I’ve got a couple of really desperate kids who are willing to pay extra.” The look on my face must have said plainly what I was thinking, because she immediately raised her hands in a defensive posture, and said, “I haven’t promised anything; you don’t have to say yes.”
“How long?”
“One’s a ten-pager, and the other’s a five; they’re both offering to pay double, and the papers are both due the end of next week.”
“Well, I guess I can do them alright, but we have to make sure people understand.”
“Oh, absolutely. Everybody is going to know that if they wait too long, there’s no guarantee we can do it, and it’s going to cost double if we do.”
“Okay. Do you have the details?” She nodded and handed me a folded piece of paper with the kids’ names, their teachers, and the subject matter and requirements. Then she handed me a wad of bills, and we both left with big smiles.
After supper, I watched the news on Channel Three, where the top story, of course, was the plea deal in Mrs. Rock’s trial. As always, the reporting was very sympathetic toward Mrs. Rock, and they repeatedly referred to Sally Delisle as “the girl from California whose boyfriend was a drug dealer.” I didn’t watch for long, telling my Mom I had to go to the library.
I walked up to Jane’s. She was in a pretty good mood. She had been in court briefly in the morning and she knew all about what had happened, even though very little of it was public.
“The judge is considering whether to accept the deal, and the trial is suspended until then. Apparently the State is insisting on at least eight years jail time, which is up to the judge, but they won’t drop the first degree charge unless they get it.”
“Only eight years?”
“Well, it could be more. If the judge thinks a ten or twelve year minimum is more appropriate, it will be up to the defense to decide if they want to accept it.”
Jane hadn’t bothered to watch the news, and who could blame her? She was already moving on to other things.
“I’m having lunch with Detective Lieutenant David Purcell tomorrow,” she said with a smile.
“Well, he didn’t waste any time, did he?”
“I like men who don’t waste time.”
I pulled out the money Amy had given me and held it up for Jane to see.
“Well done, Denny. Listen, I’ve got a solution for you. Our law firm sets up accounts for clients all the time. Sometimes it’s money we’re holding in escrow and sometimes it’s just pre-paid legal fees – like a retainer.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them do that on ‘Perry Mason.’”
“So, I can set up an account in your name, with me as a signer. I just need your signature.”
“Well, that sounds okay. Can I use a false name?” I was really hoping I could, just for the fun of it. She saw the eagerness on my face and laughed.
“Better not; if we have a routine audit, we’ll have to prove who you are. Just to be sure you understand, you’ll be authorizing me, on behalf of the firm, to make deposits and withdrawals on your account, so you have to trust me. It’s no inconvenience for me, because I go to the bank every day. You just tell me when you want to deposit or withdraw, and I’ll do it for you. No one else will know.”
That sounded good to me, so I signed the form she handed me and gave her the money, holding back some for spending cash.