“Who’s he?” Tracy asked.
“Sam was the publisher of the Sentinel. Publisher, reporter, photographer. He and his wife, Adele, did just about everything. He’s retired now. We call him Stoneridge’s unofficial historian.”
“Where would I find him?”
“They live over on Orchard Way,” the woman said, already reaching for a pen and a pad of paper to jot down an address and directions.
Minutes later, directions in hand, Tracy descended the front steps of the library. As she did, she noticed the white police vehicle parked around the corner, only partially hidden behind the trunk of a cottonwood tree.
Following the librarian’s directions, Tracy took a right at the end of the block. Rather than stay straight for a mile, however, she took the next right, then turned right a third time and slowed. She stopped behind the cottonwood, which the police vehicle had vacated. It was now parked in the spot where Tracy had parked, at the foot of the library stairs. A Stoneridge Police officer was shuffling up the concrete steps, hands on his utility belt.
Her presence in town had been duly noted.
She pulled from the curb and drove out past the elementary school, occasionally glancing in the mirrors, though she didn’t expect to see the police car. The officer didn’t need to follow. He’d know soon enough where Tracy was going, and why.
Orchard Way was a quiet street of barren trees and wires sagging between telephone poles, but no street lamps or sidewalks. It wasn’t unusual for the older towns. As residents moved farther away from the city center, they focused on essential utilities like electricity, phone, and gas and sewer. Street lamps and sidewalks were far down the priority list, and often never installed.
Tracy parked just off the asphalt, alongside a white picket fence that would need painting after another winter. The fence enclosed a narrow stretch of lawn, split in two by a concrete walk leading to a single-story A-frame home. A satellite dish protruded from the roof like one large ear.
She pulled open the screen and knocked, then closed it and stepped back. There was a window to the left, but no one looked out before the door rattled open. A woman Tracy estimated to be in her late sixties or early seventies pushed open the screen. “Can I help you?” Her voice was tentative—strangers did not likely come knocking often—but not unfriendly.
“I’m looking for Sam Goldman,” Tracy said. “Evelyn at the library gave me this address. She said he might be able to tell me about Stoneridge back in the seventies.”
The woman frowned, but not in a displeasing manner. “Well,” she said, “Sam would know.”
“Who is it, Adele?” The man who came to the door was no more than five six, with a head of curly dark hair, graying at the temples. He adjusted his sturdy black-framed glasses as he looked at Tracy with a bemused, curious expression that made his eyes sparkle as if he held the world’s biggest secret.
“Evelyn over at the library said you could help this woman,” Adele said.
Sam Goldman peered at Tracy. “What’s this about, friend?”
“I was hoping to get some background on Stoneridge—what it was like here in the seventies. I understand you’re sort of the town historian since the fire in the library.”
“September 16, 2000,” Goldman said, his voice becoming more animated. “A three-alarm blaze. We could see the smoke from our offices on Main Street. I thought Timmerman’s ghost had returned and the whole town was going up in flames again. Most excitement we’ve had since Dom Petrocelli punched out Gordie Holmes at a town council meeting in 1987.”
“I understand it wiped out all the back copies of your newspaper at the library.”
“Burned the copies and melted the microfiche,” Goldman said. “They were in the process of raising funds to scan and convert the microfiche to discs, but their dreams went up in smoke faster than the Pony Express.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tracy said.
“Old news,” Goldman said, grinning. “I have everything stored up here.” He tapped his temple. “Best computer north of the Columbia. Are you a reporter, hero?”
“I’m a police officer.”
Goldman’s eyes widened, along with his smile. He turned to his wife. “The plot thickens, Adele.” He pushed the screen door fully open. “Come on in so we’re not heating the neighborhood.”
The home was modest but tasteful, with well-used but clean furniture. Tracy noted that Goldman had been watching ESPN on a flat-screen TV. He reached for the remote control on the coffee table and shut it off.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Tracy said.
“The only thing you’re interrupting is our forced retirement,” Goldman said. “We can rest at the funeral home. Have a seat.”
Tracy sat on the couch. Goldman sat in a cloth chair that swiveled to face her. Two folded TV dinner trays leaned against a brick fireplace beneath a painting of a coastline. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?” Adele asked.
Sensing that Adele wasn’t sure what to do with herself, Tracy said, “Tea would be wonderful, thank you.”
Adele stepped from the room, and Tracy heard her opening and closing cabinets and filling a kettle at the sink.
“Where do you want to start?” Goldman asked.
“How about the state championship game,” Tracy said, wanting to give his memory a point of reference, which turned out to not be needed, before diving immediately into Kimi Kanasket.
“Saturday, November 6, 1976.”
“What was it like around town back then?”
“Like Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one,” he said, animated. Tracy had clearly picked a topic that excited him. “The town was so puffed up it was bursting at the seams. Up until then, Stoneridge couldn’t have won a one-legged race with two legs. That was the start of it.”
“The start of it?”
“The championships. Football mainly, but also swimming, basketball, baseball, soccer.”
“So what happened? What changed?”
“Ron Reynolds rode into town like John Wayne in Rio Bravo. He changed the culture. The kids were used to losing, and content to do so. Reynolds put an end to that.”
“How’d he do that?”
“You paid in sweat to play sports for Ron Reynolds. If the kids weren’t playing games, they were practicing or conditioning. Initially, some parents moaned about the time commitment interfering with schoolwork, but Ron just charged ahead like Teddy Roosevelt up San Juan Hill. He didn’t care what people thought of him. The complaints stopped when the banners started flying in the gym and people started reading their kids’ names in my paper. Then a few started getting scholarships. Money talks, friend. The complainers got quieter than a nun in the confessional.”
“He was the football coach?”
“They hired him as the football coach. They made him the athletic director, and he stayed on thirty-five years. They had a big retirement party for him in the school gym a few years back.”
“He’s still alive?”