Favorite Sons by Robin Yocum Page B

I’m sure there’s a lot of sympathy for them right now.”
    â€œGreat,” he said, and got my name and age. He tucked his pad and pencil into his hip pocket and fetched a bottle of chocolate milk from the stand-up cooler. As I paid for my groceries, Fuschea asked, “Who did this Sanchez kid chum around with? Can you point me to some of his friends who might talk to me?”
    â€œTo be real honest, Petey was kind of a loner. He didn’t have a lot of friends, at least none that I knew of. I don’t remember ever seeing him pal around with anyone, so I don’t think I can help you with that.”
    â€œOkay, thanks,” he said as I left the store to begin cleaning our gutters. I spent most of the day on the roof, cleaning fly ash, maple saplings, and two dried-up starlings out of the gutters. I did a particularly fine job, wanting to stay busy and avoid conversations about Petey.
    I received a valuable lesson that day in talking to newspaper reporters. Don’t say anything around them that you don’t want to see in print. When he put his pad and pencil away, I assumed the interview was over. It wasn’t. When that afternoon’s Herald-Star landed on the doorstep, the headline read:
    Friendless “Loner” Killed in Crystalton
    Other than Sheriff Kelso, I was the only one interviewed for the story.
    The Nash brothers walked over late that evening. I was lifting weights in the workout room I had constructed in half of our two-car garage. “What the hell are you doing talking to a newspaper reporter?” Adrian asked.
    â€œHe surprised me over at Connell’s. Hell, I didn’t know he was going to put all that in the paper.”
    â€œWe’re supposed to be keeping a low profile. Remember?”
    â€œYeah, Adrian, I remember.”
    Pepper started laughing. “It’s a good cover.”
    *    *    *
    It took about two days before people in town, mostly the same mothers who had treated Petey like a raccoon in the trash, began referring to him as “that poor Sanchez boy.” In death, Petey was transformed into a pitiable character. Mostly, I think it was out of sympathy for his mother, who posed for a photographer from the Herald-Star holding a photo of Petey, her sunken eyes moist with tears. Women took casseroles and hams and baked bread and desserts to the Sanchez house. They offered them used but good clothing so the kids would have something decent to wear to the funeral home. The Catholic Women’s Club took up a collection and purchased a cheap fiberboard casket.
    It was all well intentioned, but a goodly number of the women who were outwardly mourning Lila and Earl Sanchez’s loss were secretly glad Petey was gone. In a part of their heart where they never wanted another human being to peek, they were happy that the Lord took Petey before he could hurt one of their children. They said things like, “Perhaps it was for the best as he would never have had a good quality of life.” But what they were thinking was, “Thank God, I don’t have to worry about that crazy bastard hurting one of my kids.”
    I understood their sentiments. Never had I walked the streets or ridden my bicycle when, in the back of my mind, I wasn’t worried about an encounter with Petey. And I wasn’t any different from other kids. I understood that he had problems that were beyond his control, but to us he was crazy and aggressive, and I was glad he was dead, though I greatly wished I had not had a front-row seat to his demise.

Chapter Seven
    T here was no shortage of things to worry about. I worried about Sky Kelso and his brush cut showing up at my door, the possibility of Deak cracking, going to juvenile hall, and not getting to play sports. Mostly, however, I was worried about my mother. Our family was not something from a Norman Rockwell painting, and she did not need one more problem. I sometimes looked