The Lost Hillsboro Boys

The Lost Hillsboro Boys

I used to play the guitar.

“What did you say, David?”

“Did I just say that out loud?”

“You did. But we’ve already discussed how brain injuries can change personalities. Would you like to change the subject, or stick with what we’ve been discussing?”

“My 25^th high school reunion?”

“So, are you planning on attending?”

“No way. No.” I shook my head. “Damn, I don’t know why I even mentioned it,” I said aloud to myself. “Or the guitar.”

“Freudian slip? I think there’s something here that we need to unpack.”

“Doc, there’s nothing to see. My life was destroyed in that backwater shithole of a town. I lost my dad, my sister, my best friend, and my mother. Nothing but bad memories.”

“David, if you’re going to make any progress, get out from under this court-ordered therapy, then I don’t see any other option. You can’t hold a steady job, you keep fighting, and you’re going back to prison the next time you step out of line just a bit.”

He looked at me from over the top of his glasses - something he did when he expected me to comply.

He didn’t need the piercing stare. One word from him and I’d be back at Medfield State Hospital. Or prison.

So that was that. I was on my way. The reunion was that Saturday. I drove up that afternoon.

I had no family left in the area and the only friend I ever had was Robbie Snyder and he’d been missing for 30 years. After Robbie disappeared, I went through school like a zombie, got my diploma, moved to Massachusetts, worked minimum wage, and only came back when mom died.

When I got into town, I drove by the old house. Back in 1979 when I sold it after mom had passed, the 10 grand I cleared was a lot of money. I enrolled at Worcester State and nearly finished a computer degree before I started to have ‘issues.’

Third year we were assigned a group project. I sent one of the guys - a truly monumental prick - to the ER and got expelled. If I could have at least called Robbie things would have been better. But I was alone, trusted no one.

And I got into a lot of fights.

I graduated in ’77. I should have been class of ’76. I should also have been dead. Instead, both my mom and I survived the automobile crash that killed dad and sis. This was in 7^th grade. Mom never walked after the accident. I spent four months in a coma and then several more recuperating. It was Robbie who helped me get through. And then just before we were to start 8^th grade, he disappeared.

They never found Robbie’s body. He didn’t run away. He couldn’t; he was crippled. People never spoke of it. It was like it never happened. The town wiped out my family and my one true friend. Why was I back here?

Doc’s theory was that I was confusing Robbie for someone else. We had had a traumatic falling out at some point, he said, and I erased him from my mind, made up a different persona - Robbie - for the part of him that I still loved. He thought that if I went back home, attended the reunion, that the familiarity would trigger a response and I’d make the connection.

I didn’t buy it. It was all psychobabble. Robbie was real. He had disappeared and the town had just forgotten him, written him out of their history. Why? I don’t know.

I pulled into the parking lot of what used to be the Holiday Inn. Of course, they would hold the reunion in the same location as our senior prom. I went to the prom. Surprised? Mom wanted me to go, so she got Beth Huntington to agree to go with me. Beth worked with me at Wagner’s Supermarket. Beth was class of ’75 and a soon-to-be graduate of Valley Community College. As part of her pre-nursing courses at VCC, she looked in on mom who was wheelchair-bound. It was her older brother Jeremy who found mom after the neighbors had called the local sheriff’s office. They had complained about the stench.

Jeremy was now with the State Police. He was also now sitting in the lobby of the old Holiday Inn sipping coffee from an oversized Styrofoam cup. I pretended not to notice him as I walked across the lobby to the reunion check-in table.

Becky Ranaldi and Judy Simpson greeted me with plastic smiles. Judy, I learned later, was a county commissioner. Becky had moved to Florida, divorced with two lovely kids, and doing quite well in real estate.

“Wow. We didn’t expect to see you here,” said Becky.

Ever the politician, Judy pivoted. “But we’re so glad you decided to spend part of your Thanksgiving weekend with us.” She smiled as she kicked Becky under the table.

“Well,” I said, “My girlfriend thought it would be good for me to reconnect.” The lie was rewarded with four wide eyes. I clipped the name tag to my jacket lapel as I excused myself, their mouths still agape.

I spotted the bar at the far end of the room. A gaggle of former classmates hovered there, conversations weaving to and fro. As I got closer, heads were turning my way and elbows were nudging neighbors. Finally, it was Brian Becker. “Hey, look who’s here,” he said to the assembled mass, “It’s David Palmer.”

I smiled and shook his extended hand. “Wow, I haven’t seen you in ages. How you been?” he asked. His genuine interest surprised me.

“Oh, just mostly working.”

“Married? Kids?” asked Jane Gould.

I shook my head. “No. I never married. Travel a lot for work,” I lied.

“So, when was the last time you were back home?” Brian asked.

“When mom passed. That was more than 20 years ago.”

“Sorry for your loss,” said Jane, again with a sincerity that I had not expected. In high school, most of these people wouldn’t give me the time of day. Now they seemed like, I don’t know - adults? Was Doc right? Was Robbie here in this room, the better half of a classmate I was trying to erase?

“Hey, well, we’re glad you came. Loved to hear what you’ve been up to.”

The evening had begun better than I had expected. I finished two Genesee Cream Ales before Judy called us all to attention to say grace. I sat with Brian, Jane, Jane’s husband, and two other guys that Brian used to hang with.

“Before we say grace, I’d like to take a moment to remember those classmates that are no longer with us.” Judy waited for the chatter to settle. “Since graduation, we’ve lost six classmates. In 1979, Bart Crenshaw lost his life in a training exercise at Fort Benning.” I saw several people nod in recognition and Cheri Oswald, a table over, began to sob quietly.

It went on like that for a somber five minutes, which seemed like 20. I was waiting for Judy to recognize Robbie, but I knew she wouldn’t. I started to stand up, thought better of it, sat down, and then stood. Everyone looked at me.

“Um,” I started, “I’d like to remember Rob Snyder, who you all remember we lost back in 7^th grade. He was the best friend I ever had. But I just wanted to say, he was a great kid. He helped me to get through the loss of my dad and sister. I know he’s in a better place.”

Even before I had sat, I heard the muttering.

Judy asked, “Who?”

People were shaking their heads conversing in low voices. Judy tried to be diplomatic. “Who did you say? Rob Snyder? Was he part of our class, or would he have been Class of ’75?”

I looked at Brian and Jane. “David,” Brian said, “you’re embarrassing yourself again. Listen, we know now what 18 months in a coma can do to a person. We were stupid back in high school. We shouldn’t have been so petty, but we didn’t know any better.”

I felt rage roiling deep inside.

“No,” I replied to Judy between gritted teeth, “I’m pretty sure he was or would have been ‘77.”

“Maybe he was home-schooled,” Jane said. “Where did he live?”

“Down by the rendering plant.” Several people had started laughing including one of Brian’s friends at the table who said, “The rendering plant was closed before we were born, like in the ’40s.” He turned to me. “This kid, whoever he was, was feeding you a load of crap. You didn’t give him any money, did you?”

He was smirking as he said it. But only for a second. I hit him. Hard. With the half-empty bottle of my Genesee. Brian jumped up to grab me, but I elbowed him in his neck, and he stumbled back crashing onto Cheri Oswald’s table.

And then Jeremy Huntington lit me up with his Taser.

I woke up two hours later in the State Police Barracks.

“Beth asked that I not hit you if I could help it. The alternative was either to shoot you or to turn the Taser up. Sorry about that, Dave.”

My head throbbed and my legs were wobbly as I stood to lean against the bars of the small cell. “I probably deserved it.” He nodded. “How are Brian and that other dick?”

“Not well I’m afraid. Brian was discharged, but Doug Waters has been admitted with a concussion and several lacerations.”

“A waste of good beer too,” I said as I gingerly returned to the cot. I was finding it difficult to breathe, another panic attack coming on. I tried the calming exercises.

“Are you alright, Dave?” He had gotten up and moved towards me as he motioned to another officer in the room who got up and left.

“I’m fine. Fine.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” asked Jeremy, his face next to the bars. I shook my head. I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Beth had a huge crush on you in 7^th grade. You never knew, did you ?”

“No. But she was a year ahead of me.”

“No. That’s what I think is strange. You both were in the same class, two years behind me. But when you came out of the coma after 18 months, you thought you were in the class behind her and had only fallen back one year.”

“I wasn’t in a coma for 18 months.”

“Oh, like hell you weren’t. Beth made my dad drive out to that hospital in Albany every week to visit. It’s why she’s a nurse.”

“But she acted like she didn’t know me.” My head was spinning. None of this made sense.

“That accident changed you. You were a completely different person.” He chuckled.

“What’s so funny. You think it’s funny that my brain was messed up?”

“No. No, God no, Dave. I was just thinking how I thought you were the coolest kid in my sister’s class. She thought you were the next John Lennon. But I knew you were the coolest cause you were into the Velvet Underground.”

I used to play guitar.

“You were damn good too. You were playing for people back then, right?”

“We were coming back from a gig at the Hoosac School when the accident happened.” Jeremy nodded. “We found Robbie walking with a limp along the side of the road. It was late. Dad stopped to offer him a ride, but he said he was fine. It was a few minutes later when the deer ran in front of the car.”

Jeremy ran his hand through his hair and looked back towards the door. He returned to his desk and came back with a sheet of lined paper, yellowed with age.

“They had an estate sale before your mom’s house went on the market. Beth came back from her classes at Syracuse so she could buy some of your stuff.” He held up the yellowed sheet. “It came cheap, but for many years it was what she cherished the most. When I read some of it, I knew for sure you could have been the next Lou Reed.”

He held up the paper. I couldn’t read the slanted handwriting while sitting on the cot. I got up and he handed it to me.

“This is my handwriting? I wrote this?” He nodded. “In 7^th grade?”

“The next Lou Reed.” His smile practically lit up the room.

The title at the top of the page was “The Lost Hillsboro Boys.” The ‘Lost’ was inserted above the title with a caret. I shook my head.

“It’s a good song. I wish I could have heard you sing it. For the first four stanzas, you think the song’s about five cowpokes out on the range. But then in the final stanza, you realize it’s about five boys who wander off, get lost, and freeze to death together on some hills in the Adirondacks.”

I handed it back to him. I didn’t remember writing it and it sounded stupid. “Why are you showing me this? It’s not helping Jeremy. I’ve fucked up my life big time. This is the end of the road.”

“No. You’re wrong. This is not the end of your road by any means.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “What did your friend Robbie look like?”

“He was a pale kid. Jet black hair. Shorter than I was back then. And he limped. There was something wrong with his leg. An accident or something.”

“And he lived near the old rendering plant?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did you know anyone else who lived near the old rendering plant? Did you not know that the rendering plant had been abandoned for 25 years by then?”

I shrugged. “I guess I never gave it much thought. Why would he lie?”

“Did he sound like he was from around here?” I shrugged. “Did he have an accent? Did it sound like he was from the City or Canada?”

“Yeah, he did sound a little posh. But he wasn’t stuck up.”

“So, your friend Rob Snyder was a bit posh, but he lived near the rendering plant? Does that make sense?”

“Fuck you, Jeremy. Rob Snyder was as real as you and me.” As my rage ebbed and flowed, the door opened and an older guy in a suit with no tie walked in followed by the officer who had left earlier.

“Detective Smalls, thanks for coming in at such a late hour. This is David Palmer, the guy I was telling you about. Did you bring the photograph?”

Smalls was the antithesis of his name. He was about 6-foot 4 and more than 250 pounds. “Yeah, I have it.” He handed Jeremy an 8-by-10 black and white photo. Jeremy glanced at the photo and then handed it to me.

“Do you recognize that kid,” Smalls asked. It was a grainy photo, obviously cropped and enlarged to show the face of some kid. The hairstyle said 1930’s or '40s. I had never seen this person.

I handed the photo back. “No clue. Was he in the ‘Little Rascals’?”

Smalls didn’t smile and pulled another photo out of his folder and walked across the room. “What about this kid?”

This one was of much better quality, a formal portrait of a student at the Hoosac School. It was Robbie. I fell back onto the cot and began to cry.

I didn’t sleep that night. Neither did Detective Smalls or Jeremy. Jeremy explained how he had started to search the new database of missing persons recently computerized. He searched for “Robbie Snyder.” There was nothing.

Later, when he searched for ‘Snyder’, he did get a hit - for Robert Snyder Mahoney.

“Robert Mahoney contracted polio when he was six and walked with a limp for the rest of his life,” explained Detective Smalls. “He disappeared while a student at the Hoosac School on October 3, 1952. His body was never found.”

“It was Beth who brought your song to my attention after I told her what I had found,” Jeremy said. “You see, Robert Mahoney was not the only boy who had disappeared in these parts between the end of the war and 1963.”

“All the boys were reported missing around the same time in early October,” said Smalls.

“The date of your crash was . . .”

“October 5^th,” I said. “But what do the “The Lost Hillsboro Boys” have to do with all of this.

“Don’t you see, Dave?” said Jeremy his eye lit up like it was Christmas morning, “You had some premonition that these young boys had died together. And Robbie told you where.”

“At the old rendering plant.”

Smalls scoffed. “Premonitions aren’t going to get us a warrant to excavate the rendering plant property. The place is a Superfund site. It’s going to take 20 years to clean it up. And maybe then, just maybe, we’ll get a warrant.” He threw the folder on the table.

In the end, it was Jeremy who came up with the solution. He convinced the EPA they had to investigate for possible Native American artifacts at the rendering plant. Within a year human remains were found. They weren’t Native American. DNA from the remains of five individuals was matched with relatives of boys who had disappeared between 1948 and 1962. Robert Snyder Mahoney was among them.

I served two and a half years in the New York Prison system for aggravated assault and battery. I played guitar there. It was like riding a bike. I performed for the inmates several times during my term. Jeremy and Beth came a few times.

Jeremy thinks I’m the next Johnny Cash.