Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Howie wants to start a betting pool like we do on the Kentucky Derby, but Waverly says authoritatively, “There are some things we do in life for reasons other than money.” Then he sets Notorious down. The frog sits there like a jade doorstop, looks to the back of the classroom, and vaults as if it sees a swarm of flies there.

Everyone is more astounded than if Principal Pike actually smiled. I measure it off. “Nineteen feet, two inches,” I announce.

“Holy kangaroo, Batman,” says J.D.

Word got around quick about that feat, and it wasn’t long before the city fathers heard about Notorious. Now, Halloween celebrations have been banned in Clement County since before Brother Powell. I mean, I’d never once gone trick-or-treating because years ago the preachers were convinced Halloween was a pagan holiday and we weren’t going to be “parishioners of the pitchfork.” So for the Saturday Fall Festival, which is even bigger than Court Day in Mount Sterling or the Mushroom Festival in Estill County, the city council proclaimed the highlight would be... ta-da: the Jumpfrog Jubilee.

Up to that Saturday, farmers had been turning over everything including pond scum to uncover the biggest bullfrogs that had gone ungigged. The finals were like the Cincinnati Reds playing the Woodhole Whackers — Notorious beat the local favorite by nine feet. Waverly had his picture taken, and all seemed right with the world.

Everybody sat around eating pumpkin pie and drinking cider, a lot of it hard once our parents started to leave. Brad, J.D., Howie, Whitley, and I built a bonfire to keep back the cold that had started to accompany the October nights.

Whitley picks up a thick woolly worm and says, “Sure sign we gonna have lots of snow this winter.”

“Speaking of signs,” chirps in Leah, “what’s yours, Waverly? With your love of nuts and berries and toads, it’d have to be an earth sign.”

J.D., who’s smart outside of school, too, knows what’s going on, so he moves between our teacher and his girl to ensure that any sparks flying that night are going to come from the fire. Brad, who knows he has to be passing Waverly’s class to be eligible for the football playoffs, pretends to be more interested than he is. Howie’s not sure how to act because he knows there’s something going on between his father and Waverly and has confided in me that ever since our teacher caught him selling imported marijuana he’s afraid Waverly’s going to tell his father.

“Perceptive as ever, Leah,” says Waverly. “I’m a Virgo.”

“The sixth sign,” says Leah, who has developed a sudden passion for astrology or whatever topic is on Waverly’s lips at the moment.

“Usually,” adds the teacher, “represented by a virgin—”

“That’s sure not Leah, then,” says J.D., and she punches him on the arm, hard.

“Holding the grain of the harvest,” continues Waverly, sliding over the controversy. “It’s usually thought to be a fertility symbol.”

“The way you fertilize young minds,” I add.

“Where I come from,” says Brad, “fertilizer is usually what horses leave in the bottom of their stalls.”

“How come you’re so smart, Waverly?” says Howie. “You seem to know everything.”

“Years of schooling. I got my Ph.D. at Berkeley.”

“Is that PHD as in ‘Piled Higher and Deeper’?” says J.D.

Ignoring him, Leah says, “I never liked the name Waverly. I think we should call you Doctor Virgo.”

“Doc Virgo,” I say.

And before I know it, all of us are chanting “Doc Virgo, Doc Virgo” like we’re at some kind of pep rally.

Slowly the fire burns down, and everybody drifts away in a preview of our post-graduation life. Till it’s just me and Doc Virgo, and Notorious, of course. Doc starts to say something, then pulls out his guitar. The first song I recognize as Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changing.” I have the feeling Doc is trying, even more roundabout than his questions in class, to communicate with me on another level.

“Here’s a song I’m trying to write,” he announces. “It comes from ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.’ ” His strings sound like a November wind bidding farewell to the fall. “The bird is on the wing,” he sings in a voice not as gravelly as Dylan’s.

Just when I think I’ve got him translated, he stops and does the unexpected. He rolls up something crystalline in paper, lights it, and tokes. Then he hands the joint to me.

“What is it?” I say, trying to act as if smoking dope is something I do every day with no more thought than cleaning the supper table.

“Bufotenine. Dried venom from Notorious’s back. It’s an hallucinogen.”

I inhale and hold. The world spins and turns colors like when I’m on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Clement County Fair. I can hear Doc breathe, or maybe it’s me. I think I return the joint to him. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” I say.

“Damn, Carson,” he says in an echo chamber, “you’re getting perceptive.”

I fight to stand up. “You can’t go.”