Chapter 23 – Sentence Structure

I sent word to Junior by way of my oldest brother.  My oldest brother was one of those kids who always looked up to the cops and he used to stop and hang out at the police station after school, so he was good friends with all of them.  I could never be like that, but it was helpful that, besides being on good terms with Junior, I had a sort of back-door in with the cops, as long as my brother wasn’t pissed at me.  He was a junior in High School, and he was getting kind of fed up with the way I was heading, especially now, but we still got along okay.  I got along fine with Junior, but the rest of the cops hated me, or so I thought, so I was a little nervous about going to the station myself.

So I started working on our statement, which wasn’t very difficult.  It was only a couple of paragraphs, saying just what I had told the guys.  We got together Tuesday afternoon, in the basement at Win’s house, and everybody read the statement, agreed with what it said, and signed it.  I then sent word to Junior that it was done.

Well, word came back that we would have to sign it at the police station, in front of witnesses, and the Chief wanted that done on Thursday evening.  I agreed to that, and all of our parents agreed, so it was arranged that we would have a meeting at the station on Thursday, with our parents present, and we would all sign the statement.  I wrote the thing over again, same as before.

Meanwhile, school went on, all of us gradually catching up on missed work.  That first week in November, things took a turn for the worse in English class, at least for most kids, because we started diagramming sentences.  I say for most kids because, truth is, I actually liked diagramming sentences.  Kate and Jackie and some of the other girls didn’t mind it, but for most kids, it was the most hateful and useless exercise in English, maybe in all of school.

Rock started us off with some simple diagrams on the blackboard, and gave us a lecture about the importance of what we were about to start.

“You cannot write effectively if you do not understand sentence structure.”

That was the simplified version of her lecture, and the crux of the whole exercise.  Now, let me make it perfectly clear that no matter what I say about Mrs. Rock, mean and ugly as she was, she knew her subject backwards and forwards, and, unlike some of the others, like Pratt, she could be an effective teacher, when she wasn’t scaring the hell out of the kids.  To me, her lecture made perfect sense, and I wanted to write effectively, so I went at it enthusiastically.

I think a lot of the kids understood what the purpose was, but the mechanics of it were so tedious and frustrating that they couldn’t concentrate long enough to really get things right.

As she did with most of the material now, Rock turned over the class to Miss Delisle after the initial lecture.  She sat at her desk for a few minutes while Miss Delisle walked up and down the aisles, helping us through the first written exercises.  When she was satisfied that things were going well, Mrs. Rock got up and left the room.

Of course, we all loved it when Rock left the room.  You could feel the tension disappear and you could see the smiles light up everyone’s face, especially the boys.  I had already finished the simple exercise we were doing, and Miss Delisle stopped by my desk and picked up my paper.  She rested her hand lightly on my shoulder as she looked over my work.  She was wearing a long, clingy skirt and a blouse that flattered her figure without being too provocative.  She smelled great.  We had noticed, and this seemed to be true at all levels of school, that, the older and uglier the teacher, the stronger the perfume she wore.  Miss Delisle’s scent was faint and perfect.

She smiled as she handed my paper back.  “You’ve done it just right, Denny; well done.”

I mumbled a “thank you,” and she moved on to the next desk, where Kate had also finished the exercise perfectly.  Over in the next row, Tom was alternately scribbling and erasing.  He wasn’t even looking at the blackboard.  I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but, in his own clever way, he was getting ready for Miss Delisle.

Tom, like Win, had been in every class with me since first grade.  He was a skinny kid, wore glasses, and he was rather outspoken, which often got him in trouble with the teachers.  He was a natural leader, always decisive and authoritative.  He had deferred to me in the building of the cabin, since it was my idea, but he had been our Security Chief, making sure we all took different routes to the campsite, and assigning guard duties.  He was also our music expert.  We didn’t know where he got his information, but he seemed to know all about every rock band before anybody else did.

When Miss Delisle got to Tom’s desk, he was studiously writing out the exercise, again, so that she, rather than picking up his paper, leaned over to read it on the desk, which was just what he wanted.  She scanned his workpaper curiously as she leaned over.

“That’s interesting, Tom,” she said, “It looks like you had it right the first time, then wrote something different, then did it right again.”

“Yes, Miss Delisle,” he responded, “I was exploring alternative methods; an innovative approach to diagramming sentences and a revolutionary method of analyzing sentence structure.  But I decided I should write out the traditional solution for the purpose of this exercise.”

Miss Delisle was skeptical, to say the least, but she didn’t totally dismiss the notion, as Mrs. Rock would surely have done.  Of course, we all knew (and she probably knew, as well) that all Tom was really interested in was keeping her close to him for as long as possible.

“You know, Tom,” she said, with a challenging look on her face, “you’re all going to be submitting proposals for your term paper soon.  Perhaps this could be your topic; it would certainly require a lot of research and a convincing argument.  What do you think?”

Tom was attempting to stammer a reply when the door opened and Mrs. Rock reappeared.  Miss Delisle slipped her hand off Tom’s shoulder before Rock could see it and moved on to the next desk.

At seven o’clock Thursday evening, the four of us were sitting on one side of a long table in a room at the Essex Junction police station.  Across from us were Chief Mulrooney and Sergeant Slingerland and seated behind us along the wall were our parents.  The Chief held a piece of paper in one hand and silently read as his face became purple with rage.  The statement was brief, and he threw it back across the table after finishing and slammed both hands down on the table angrily.

“You expect me to believe this?  This is a complete pack of lies!  There is no cabin in the woods between Route 2A and Lost Nation Road; we’ve been through that woods with a fine-toothed comb!  And there’s no way you stayed there, or anywhere, for six weeks without help from anyone!  You had adults helping you, wherever it was you were, and we’re going to find out where that was and who was helping you!  Now you get out of here, you lying little hoodlums, and don’t come back until you’re ready to tell the truth!”

Now, I had written the statement, and we had all signed it.  It wasn’t a pack of lies; almost all of it was true, except for the one big lie, that we hadn’t had any help.  I had watched “Perry Mason” regularly since the show began, and if that didn’t make me a legal expert, what would?  I was pretty sure that that one big lie made us guilty of perjury, but only, I thought, if the Chief accepted it.  We weren’t in a courtroom and hadn’t been sworn in, so, if he rejected our written statement and we took it back, there was no written proof that we had lied.

What we had done was to tell the cops where we had been; whether they believed it or not was up to them.  I wasn’t sure how this affected the agreement I had made with Junior.  Was Kelly off the hook, or not?

Chief Mulrooney stormed off to his office, and our parents milled about, unsure whether they were angrier with us or with the cops.  Junior was in the room, and we made brief eye contact.  His look was reassuring, and as I walked out behind my parents, the statement clutched in my hand, he followed us out.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, and he nodded to my parents before heading back into the station.   

The next day, Friday, I went home for lunch as usual, and Junior was at my house, talking to my Mom.  They were both smiling, which seemed like a good sign.  I didn’t have much time, so I had to eat while we talked.  Mom offered Junior some macaroni and cheese, but he politely declined.  He sat down at the table with me and began talking.

“I’m sure you’re worried about Kelly,” he said, “so I’ll put your mind at rest.  The State’s Attorney has decided not to charge her with anything; it would be difficult to prove intent to deceive.  Since she has never been in trouble before, that should be the end of it.”

There was just a hint of doubt in his voice, and I was pretty sure what it meant.  All the kids in town knew that Mulrooney and Slingerland maintained a “shit list” of juveniles they considered to be trouble, and it was certain that the four of us, and now Kelly, as well, were on that list.  Junior would never acknowledge the existence of the list, but, looking at his face, I knew, and he knew that I knew.  I just nodded and continued eating my lunch.

“I would like you to take me out to the cabin tomorrow, along with a couple other officers.  We need to confirm what you’ve told us and get some photographs.”

I took a sip of milk to wash down my mac and cheese before answering.

“Does that mean the Chief believes us?”

Junior didn’t answer me directly, but said, “I cannot divulge what was said between officers.  Let’s just say that we need some physical evidence.”

The police cruiser stopped in front of my house at ten on Saturday morning.  An officer named Kane was driving, with Slingerland sitting beside him.  Junior was in the back and I got in and sat beside him.

As we drove north on Central Street, I said, “We need to go out to Lost Nation Road.”

“Shit-Slinger” turned and scowled at me.  “Why that way?” he asked.

“It’s shorter,” I said, “Unless you want to walk for an hour.”  I kept my face blank, but I was thinking about watching his fat gut bouncing up and down while he climbed up the hill at Big Rock and then hiked two and a half miles through the woods.  He didn’t answer me; just told the cop driving to go out to Lost Nation.

We parked at the turn-off Karl had used all summer.  I could tell that Karl and Larry had spent some time and effort trying to make it look natural, especially the area where he had dumped all of the supplies for us to carry in.  Not sure if it mattered at this point.

I led the way as we walked across the field and into the woods to the clearing; it wasn’t far.  The clearing looked perfect; it was covered in pine straw and moss-covered rocks and small shrubs.  No one would ever suspect what was hidden underground.  I stopped and pointed to the line of young spruces and asked Junior if he wanted me to go first.  He said yes and I squeezed behind the spruces and went down into the crevice, Junior right behind me with a flashlight.

I stopped at the bottom, where Junior could see the outer door to our little tunnel.  He grinned and shook his head a little as he shined the light on the door, then he gestured for me to go ahead.  I opened the door and climbed down into the cabin.

I wasn’t quite prepared for how bad it smelled; a lot worse than I remembered.  Junior had a little difficulty maneuvering through, and, when he got to his feet in the cabin, he was almost overcome.

“Jesus!” he muttered, and he pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket to hold over his nose.  He played the flashlight around the twelve-by-twelve square and, in spite of his obvious discomfort from the smell, he couldn’t stop grinning.  The cabin was pretty much empty, except for four army surplus folding cots leaning against the walls, a few piles of khaki blankets, and a stack of canned beans, beef stew, and Spaghettios.

After a couple of minutes of studying the walls and ceiling, he said, “Let’s get out of here,” and he followed me back out.

“Well?” Slingerland asked, “What is it?”

“It’s an underground cabin, built of plywood and two-by-fours,” Junior answered, “and it smells exactly like four twelve-year-old boys lived in it for six weeks.”

Shit-Slinger wasn’t going to believe it until he saw it, so he squeezed behind the spruces, with difficulty, and went down to see for himself.  I’m not sure if he made it all the way into the cabin.  We heard a muffled “Oh, Christ!” and he came back up.

“Who built that thing?” he demanded.

“We built it; the four of us.”

“Who helped you?”

“No one.”

“Where’d you get the wood?”

“We found it.”

“Where’d you get the food?”

“Found it.”

“You lying little bastard!”

I think he would have knocked me down if the other cops hadn’t been there, but they were.  He turned to Patrolman Kane, who had brought a camera and a flash attachment.

“Get down there and take some pictures!”

I think Junior wanted to help Kane, but I wasn’t too comfortable being left alone with Slingerland, and it looked like Junior wasn’t too comfortable with it either.  Slinger wasn’t going back in, so Junior described the interior as best he could while Kane took his photos.

Junior had obviously been impressed with what we had accomplished, but Slingerland was disgusted.

“It smells like a fart down there!  You God-damned kids are worse than pigs!  At least a pig will eat in one corner and shit in the other!”

I pointed the way to the latrine and asked if he wanted to get some photographs of that.  He just snarled and told me to shut up, while Junior tried to keep a straight face.

So that was how the cops found out where we had been hiding.  They took lots of photos and presumably put them in our case file.  We waited for some kind of public announcement, but it never came.  Every time someone from the news asked the Chief about it, he changed the subject.  Our parents were satisfied; they believed us, and there was nothing further to be done about it.  They refused to talk to any reporters, whether out of concern for our privacy or out of embarrassment, I’m not sure.  Pretty soon, there were other things for the reporters to ask about, and the “Case of the Missing Boys” gradually faded into the background.

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