A Brilliant Death (2 page)

He didn’t.

On February 16, 1996, just before nine forty-five in the morning, Francis Martino “Big Frank” Baron dropped dead in a snow-covered parking lot at the Shenandoah Truck Stop along Interstate 70 near Old Washington, Ohio. He had been heading west to Dayton with a load of cardboard when he stopped at the Shenandoah to buy antacids for what the coroner later speculated was an incorrectly self-diagnosed case of indigestion. Frank was north of three hundred pounds and had the dietary discipline of a hungry alligator, so bouts of heartburn and indigestion were not uncommon. But this was anything but indigestion.

He dropped to his knees in a slush puddle in front of his idling Kenworth, a perplexed look consuming his face. His brows converged and his upper lip hitched. Perhaps he was attempting to analyze the eruption within his chest, or perhaps he pondered the possibility that there were, indeed, powers in the universe stronger than pure meanness. Whatever the thought, it was only momentary, for the screen scrambled and quickly went dark. He was dead before his forehead hit the asphalt, the unopened antacids still wrapped in fingers the girth of summer sausages.

An autopsy would later show that he died of a massive coronary.

When I happened upon his obituary in my paper, the
Ohio Valley Morning Journal
, chills raced up my spine like a million needle pricks. The obit was a sanitized accounting of Big Frank’s life, a couple of terse paragraphs stating that he had died suddenly and was survived by a brother, Leonard. He was preceded in death by his parents, Dominic and Esther, a brother, Anthony, and a son, Travis. Visiting hours would be held just before services at William’s Funeral Home in Brilliant, with interment at New Alexandria Cemetery.

What the obituary did not state was that Frank Baron was a loathsome human being who had ignored his only son and married at least five times. He had divorced three of his wives, one had died in a suspicious car crash on Dago Ridge, and another drowned in a boating accident on the Ohio River.

Maybe.

Her body was never found, leading to wild speculation that she had actually run off with her lover rather than face a lifetime of waking up next to Big Frank. This was the favorite scenario of most residents of Brilliant, as they were anxious to believe that she had escaped his wrath and was alive, happy and far from the Ohio River Valley. His only son died in the river, too, and like his mother’s the boy’s body was never found. However, that is usually not the kind of information that ends up in a paid obituary, even for someone as despicable as Frank Baron.

There are many people in my hometown who would tell you that the death of Big Frank Baron at age sixty-seven was long overdue. Upon hearing the news of his passing, a goodly portion of these God-fearing Christians chuckled and said, “About damn time.” Even my own mother, as charitable and forgiving a person as I’ve ever known, said, “Well, the son of a bitch is God’s problem now.”

I wasn’t the least bit sorry to see Frank gone, either, although I had long since moved from Brilliant, and it was only on the occasional visit home that I might catch a glimpse of him, or he of me. The last time I saw Big Frank was in Kennedy’s Market less than a year before he died. He was standing at the counter buying Lucky Strikes and didn’t recognize me at first. When he did, he snapped his head and frowned, a subtle reminder that, despite the passing years, he hadn’t forgotten, or forgiven. But his face was sallow, and the tired eyes were red and rheumy and had lost much of their venom. The arms that I remembered as thick and muscled had turned fleshy and weak. He looked to be exactly what he was—an old man whose best days had been lost to time and alcohol. He was no longer the intimidating figure of my youth. It would have been easy to feel sorry for him, but sometimes the years cannot diminish the bitterness, and that was the case with me and Frank Baron. I cannot sit here today and list one redeeming quality about Big Frank. Not one. Therefore, it was impossible to mark his passing with any sense of loss.

Big Frank was the father of the boy who, for the first eighteen years of my life, was my best friend. I have never had as good a friend since, and I doubt I ever will. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about Travis. I still miss him and the days when we roamed the hills of eastern Ohio. Travis Baron loved living, and he did it with more spirit than any person I’ve ever known. The obstacles that were hurled in the path of his short life would have completely discouraged others, but they only made him more determined.

The night after Big Frank’s obituary appeared in the paper, I went to my basement office and to a locked wooden trunk that was filled with the treasures of my youth—photo albums, my varsity sweater, trophies, old ball caps, scrapbooks, and the like. Hidden in the bottom was a black, hardcover tablet with the word “JOURNAL” embossed across the front in gold block letters. It had been a graduation gift from my grandmother Malone, and it was nearly full with my reminiscences of growing up in the river town of Brilliant, Ohio. The book’s spine crackled when I opened it to the scrawled notes about Travis and our adventures, with newspaper clippings neatly pasted into place. I had written everything I could remember about Travis. I didn’t want him to fade from my memory.

I made my first entry in the days after the car he was driving disappeared into the Ohio River. It had been twenty-five years since I made my first entry and five years since the last. The book I planned to write—this book—was contained within the pages of the journal. It included my personal memories, plus extensive interviews with Chase Tornik, Clay Carter, and others, which I had conducted on the sly and tucked away, waiting for the day when Big Frank would be no more. The last interview had been with Tornik while he lay dying of lung cancer at Steubenville Presbyterian Medical Center. We spoke for two hours, while he hacked blood into a hand towel and strained for breath. Despite the pain killers, his memory was resplendent, and I felt bad for the life and reputation he had lost.

The journal contained my memories of growing up in Brilliant, a place where being a varsity letterman or an Eagle Scout was still important. From the time I started first grade until the day I graduated, we began each day with the Pledge to the Flag and the Lord’s Prayer, and no one ever made a fuss about whether it was constitutionally or politically correct. It was just something you did.

Graduates of Brilliant High School hung their blue and white graduation tassels on their rearview mirrors and left them dangling until they had faded gray. Most Brilliantites had lived there all their lives, and they supported the town. Everyone bought raffle tickets from the Little Leaguers, chocolate peanut clusters from the Scouts, and light bulbs from the Lions Club. On Saturday afternoons in the fall everyone went to the Blue Devils’ football games, which held nearly the same magnitude of importance as a baptism.

I miss my hometown and those simpler times. But the Brilliant I grew up in no longer exists. The steel mills up and down the river have folded, and the once-proud communities that lined the Ohio River have been reduced to decaying shells of grander days. I don’t get up the river much anymore. As editor and columnist for the
Morning Journal
, most of my working day is spent in the office in Wheeling. My two young daughters seem to gobble up whatever time is left. My parents moved to the Outer Banks of North Carolina a few years ago and, except for an occasional class reunion, there is no reason to go back. But, when I do go visit, I always take the back road by way of Hunter’s Ridge.

At the spot where the car left the road, at the entrance to the park, the adult Bible study class from the Brilliant United Methodist Church placed a white cross made of four-by-fours, with the initials “T.F.B.”—Travis Franklin Baron—on the crossbar. I helped Jim Gilmartin haul the cross to the park entrance in the back of his International Harvester pickup truck. We took turns working through the rocky earth with a post hole digger to get below the frost line, and dumped a bag of quick-drying cement into the hole, along with water he brought in empty milk jugs. When he was sure the cement was set and the cross true, he asked me to bow my head, and he said a brief prayer, asking God to give Travis a better life in heaven than he’d had on earth. Two days later, I left for college. As the years passed and Travis Baron grew distant in the memories of many, the letters faded, the cross bleached out, and it was eventually claimed by the hillside.

Like the steel mills, Travis is gone. The loss of the mills and my friend only serves to remind me of the fragile state of life, whether it was a hulking, smoke-belching steel mill or an auburn-haired kid with a crooked smile.

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday, June 12, 1971

The Colerain Coal & Gas Company bought the mineral rights to Tarr’s Dome in the early 1950s. Within a year, it was a dome no more. The dozers and power shovels stripped it clean, grading flat the crown of the hill, leaving it cratered and looking like the surface of the moon. Over the years, the grass and foxtail returned to the top of the hill. Wild blackberry and locust bushes and assorted other brambles took root and sprouted, followed by some sickly pines and maples that could never get solid purchase in the scarred earth. The craters left behind filled with water, forming a chain of interconnected ponds that stretched across the top of the hill. For reasons that are unknown to me, they were referred to as the Tea Ponds.

The Tea Ponds were shallow and a heavy rain would send water streaming over their banks and down the east face of the hillside. Over the years, the falling waters had created rutted paths that one minute could look like a dried creek bed and the next be home to a torrent that could dump tens of thousands of gallons of water down the backside of Brilliant, filling the air with the pungent smell of sulfur. After the spring thaw or a late summer downpour, the muddy swill would rush down the streets, washing gravel out of parking lots and driveways on its way to the floodplain. The Brilliant Church of Christ was built in the 1920s, three decades before Tarr’s Dome was stripped. Now, however, the old stone church had the misfortune of resting on a small plateau between the steepest part of the hill and the floodplain, square in the middle of the water flows. The heavy spring rains annually flooded the basements of the parsonage and church and made a lake of the parking lot.

Such was the case on the Saturday afternoon of the memorial service for Travis Franklin Baron. The gravel parking lot was under six inches of water. Those attending the memorial service were forced to park down the street or in the Miners and Mechanics Bank lot. As the mourners tiptoed across the squishy turf at the back of the property, or danced from one exposed rock to another in the church driveway, three shoeless, bare-chested boys of about ten frolicked in the temporary sea surrounding the church, throwing mud balls at each other, blithely oblivious to the somber mood of those around them. I wanted desperately to join them. I was consumed by the desire to strip off my shirt and shoes and do a running belly flop in the puddles. What a wonderful diversion it would be compared to the simple, yet painful task to which I was duty-bound—attending the memorial service for my best friend. Sitting on the stone wall that sloped downhill from the parsonage toward the bank parking lot, I stared alternately from the playing boys to the water that flowed through the ditch along Campbell Avenue. My world smelled of dead night crawlers and fetid mud. The humidity being pulled from the earth dampened my shirt and salted my upper lip. Unrelenting static filled my ears, and a headache that pounded with each beat of my heart had settled in behind my right eye. I wanted to vomit, hoping that the violent expulsion of the acid and bile that had settled in my throat would somehow cleanse me of the overwhelming sadness and pain that had engulfed me for seven days.

I sat on the uphill end of the wall, nearest the church, with my friends Snookie McGruder, Urb Keltenecker, and Brad Nantz, and my cousin Nick Ducheski, whom everyone called Duke. He wasn’t one of the Brilliant gang. He lived in Mingo Junction, our rival community to the north, but Duke, Travis, and I had spent hours together in our youth, and he came to support me.

None of us wanted to go inside, but as the organ began to play, low and soft, we all stood as though controlled by the same puppeteer and started toward the sanctuary.

After three days, the torrential rains had finally quit the morning of the service, though low, slate-colored clouds stretched across the valley, clinging to the hilltops to the west, as though merely granting us a brief respite, a subtle reminder to the valley below that their work was not yet complete.

The doors to the church were brass and every bit of ten feet high. They had been propped open to allow for some circulation in the muggy church, and Mr. Janowicz was ready to close them when he saw us walking up the steps, our shoes all damp from the dance across the gravel drive. He smiled a faint smile and waited until we had passed to pull the doors shut.

Frank Baron was taking up a generous portion of the second pew, sitting next to his brother, Leonard. Big Frank was hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, an ill-fitting olive sports coat stretched tight across his back. His pants were black and too short, revealing a pair of white socks and worn black dress shoes. His face was ashen and drawn, battered by nearly a week of little sleep. My natural cynicism made me feel certain he was more distraught over the loss of his beloved Chevy than that of his son. Between his teeth he rolled a toothpick, while nervously twisting a pinkie ring on his left hand. We walked across the back of the church and slipped into one of the last remaining seats, about halfway up and against the wall. But I could not do so without being seen by Big Frank, who had turned to scan the sanctuary.

“Is that his dad up front?” Duke asked.

“Yeah, that’s the fat man,” I whispered.

“Why is he staring you down?”

“Because I’ve been ducking him ever since Travis died.”