End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) (14 page)

Chapter Thirty

America had changed and it was culture shock getting off the plane. I made my way to the nearest bar
for a drink to steady myself. I wasn’t a hero. My friends were blown to pieces
in front of me. I shot children, destroyed families and all for what? A vision
of Steve-O’s arm lying in the mud resurfaced and I ordered a shot of whiskey.

“Welcome home, soldier.
This one’s on me.”

“Thank you, sir.” I
grabbed the glass and tipped it back. Not the same effect as morphine or opium,
but it would have to do.

“You’ve got the devil in
your eyes. I had the same look when I got back from Korea. The memories will
fade,” the bartender said knowingly.

“I hope so.” I picked up
my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I was back in Minnesota and snow was
falling outside like I had never left. The truth is I never really came back,
not all of me at least.

My father was waiting
outside in his beat up old pick-up. More paint had peeled off the hood in the
year I was gone, replaced with cancerous spots of rust. I tossed my duffle into
the bed before climbing inside the heated cab. I pulled the door closed behind
me and it let out a protesting squeak.

“Hello, sir.”

“Robert.” He shifted the
gear to drive and pulled away from the curb. We didn’t say anything to each
other, picking up right where we left off. Suddenly he said, “You’ve been
drinking.” It wasn’t a question.

“I had a couple.”

“Humph.”

We drove the remaining
hour in silence. Darkness closed in around the truck and traffic dwindled down
the closer we got to the farm. Snowflakes danced in the headlights. At some
point I dozed off. The combination of alcohol, Hank Williams Sr. on the radio,
and the heater cranked in the cab made me drowsy. The moment I heard the
familiar crunch of gravel under tires, I woke up.

“Your mother cooked up
your favorite. Make sure you let her know how much you appreciate it.”

“Dad, come on, I’m not a
total idiot.”

“We’ll see,” he mumbled
as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the house. Soft lighting spilled out
onto the porch. Pine boughs frosted with snow and decorated with red ribbon
wrapped around the railings. From the outside it appeared warm and inviting.

I knew not to be
deceived.

We walked along the
shoveled path around the side of the house and went in through the back door. The
moment we stepped inside the smell hit me. A home cooked meal. Something I
hadn’t tasted in over a year. My mouth started watering. I dropped my bag onto
the warped linoleum and began to remove my muddy boots.

“Your bag needs to go
upstairs,” my dad said.

“I’ll take it up, give me
a minute.”

I opened the door from
the mudroom and entered the kitchen. The smells were even stronger and the
sight of my mom over the stove evoked long hidden memories. She rushed over the
moment she saw me, wiping her hands on her calico apron before hugging me.

“Oh, you’re home!” she
cried and I mean, she cried. Her body shook with sobs.

“Yep, he’s home and still
lazy,” my dad said as he walked behind us.

“Hush, Harold,” she
sniffed. “Our boy has been at war.” She released me from our embrace and set
about inspecting my appearance. I had become more muscular and sported the
military issue buzz cut. The fatigues had become second skin.

“Are you okay? When I
heard you were shot…”

“Mom, I’m fine. That was
months ago. Is that chicken I smell?”

“Sure is! Your father
killed one fresh this morning. We’re having mashed potatoes with gravy and some
homemade cornbread too.”

“My favorite.”

“I know!” She smiled up
at me and that’s when I noticed the skin on her face crinkled around the eyes
and hung a little bit looser. Her brown hair had turned mostly gray. Patting my
flat stomach she said, “You look like you could use a good meal,” before turning
her attention back to the stove.

I hoisted my bag onto my
shoulder and carried it up the creaky stairs to my room on the third floor.
Nothing much had changed. My bed was made, which was my mother’s doing. A
bookshelf in the corner opposite of my bed held a few books, including my
senior yearbook. A family portrait, taken when I was in the fifth grade,
occupied the top shelf. The black and white image showed a stern, unsmiling
father, a smiling mom with sad eyes, and me sitting next to a teddy bear. The
stuffed animal belonged to my younger brother, Billy, who died when I was eight
and he was five.

The picture was taken two
Christmases after his passing. My body grew cold with the memory of Billy’s
final moments.  

Mom had taken us down
to the pond for some ice skating. My dad stayed behind to chop firewood or some
chore I couldn’t wait to be man enough to do.

Billy wore a pair of
hand me down skates and was very unsteady on them. My mom held his hand and
guided him out onto the ice. The Larsen boys, my friend Carl and his older
brother Kris, were already playing ice hockey, so I laced up and raced over to
join them. We were in the middle of a serious game when I hear a loud crack,
like when a branch snaps off a tree during a storm, followed by my mother’s
scream.

I looked over to where
she and Billy had been skating moments earlier and they were both gone. A black
hole in the ice revealed what had happened. Seconds later my mom’s head bobbed
up in the opening. Steam rose from her hair. Billy surfaced soon after, but he
thrashed in the water, struggling to stay afloat. My mom grabbed hold of one of
his flailing arms.  

“Bobby!” she screamed,
“Help!”

Kris Larsen, only
twelve years old at the time, jumped into action. Knowing Carl was the fastest
runner, he sent him to get help. He barked these orders out as we raced across
the pond. As we approached the hole, we could hear the snapping and popping of
the ice under our weight.

“Bobby, you go ahead
of me and crawl to your mom. I’ll hold your feet.”

I followed his
instructions dropping down to my hands and knees then flattening onto my
stomach. The tips of my skates gripped the ice and I used them to push me the
last few inches. My mom’s brown eyes were wide with panic, framed with ice
encrusted lashes and Billy’s lips were already tinged blue. I reached out for
Billy and my mom pushed him toward me. I grabbed his mitten covered hands,
squeezing tight. As soon as my mom released Billy, she disappeared under the
surface of the water.

“Mommy!” I screamed
and this sent Billy’s fear into overdrive. He started to thrash again. I lost
my grip on his waterlogged mittens. As I tried to grab hold of him again, he slipped
under the surface too. I watched, helpless as his face retreated into the murky
pond water.

Suddenly a hand shot
out and gripped the edge of the ice around the hole. I recognized the emerald
green wool of my mom’s mittens. Slowly her head emerged and she gasped,
sputtering as she inhaled the cold air.

“Mommy, take my hand.”

She did and her weight
began to drag me closer to the edge. Kris’ hands tightened around my ankles and
he began to pull me back.

I held onto my mom
tight as she started to resist. “No! I need to find Billy. He hasn’t come up!”
She tugged against my grip, slipped free of her mittens and disappeared under
the surface.

“Mommy!” I screamed and
tried to dive in after her, but Kris held strong. She reappeared, again gasping
for air and I reached for one of her flailing hands only she was too far away.

I heard a car
approaching and glanced up past the snowy slopes to the road. Mr. Larsen’s bright red pick-up screeched to a halt and he and Carl leaped out.

Mr. Larsen grabbed a
coil of rope out of the bed of the truck and ran down to the edge of the pond.
He tied one end of the rope into a loop and carefully made his way over to the
hole. Carl remained on the side, bouncing from one leg to the next.

“Molly,” Mr. Larsen shouted.
“I’m throwing you a line. Put your arms through the loop so the rope is secure
under your armpits. Okay?”

My mom turned to face
him and nodded. He tossed the rope and she managed to grab it. She was shaking
so bad that it seemed like two hours had passed before she had it in place. Mr.
Larsen started pulling, hand over hand, and he hoisted her out. He didn’t stop
until she was on firmer ice.

“Ralph, Billy’s still
in there!” she cried through chattering teeth.

Mr. Larsen observed
the empty hole and dark water then asked me, “Bobby did you see your brother at
all?”

“Yes, I had him, but,
but…I lost him and he never came up.”

“Molly,” he bent down
on one knee and reached for her hand. He put his dry glove on her and then held
her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s been too long. Billy…he’s gone.”

“No!” she screamed and
tried to crawl back towards the hole. “No! We have to try!”

Kris and I didn’t
move. The fingers of my soaked wool gloves were frozen to the ice. The tips of
my fingertips had grown numb. Mr. Larsen pulled my mother’s struggling body
towards him and hugged her. She collapsed against him

Then my father
arrived.

“Ralph, what
happened?”

“Harold, thank God Elsa
was able to find you. There’s been a terrible accident.”

“Honey,” my mom
grabbed onto my dad’s legs. “Billy’s…Billy’s.” She broke down, clenching my
dad’s dungarees in her hands.

My father stared out
at the hole and I saw his eyes change. They grew dark, as dark as the water that
had claimed Billy.

From that day on, I
never came out of Billy’s shadow. He became a martyr and I was the big brother
who had failed to protect him.

Between the holiday
season, plus being home and seeing the picture, all the pain and resentment
came rushing back. I needed a drink, if not something stronger. I knew the old
man would shit a brick if I lit up a joint in his house. Although amused at the
thought, I’d have to settle for beer.

Halfway through dinner
and halfway through a twelve pack of Old Milwaukee, I realized I couldn’t stay
here. The oppressive silence that radiated from my dad and filled the room was
unbearable. It made the very act of swallowing the glorious home cooked food
difficult, fortunately the beer went down smooth.

The sun had barely risen
the next morning when my dad woke me up. My head felt full of cotton and
throbbed to its own beat.

“Breakfast is ready,” he
said and left.

I groaned and only
imagined the day he had planned for me out on the farm. Committing to work
alongside my father meant it was open season for criticism. I’d had enough with
my commander breathing down my neck in ‘Nam.

Now that I was somewhat
sober, I needed to evaluate my situation. I had an honorable discharge and $500
(thank you Uncle Sam) – enough to get out of town and start fresh somewhere. I
decided to shower first, might as well make it a clean start too.

When I entered the
kitchen with my bag slung over my shoulder, my mom’s eyes started to tear up.
“But you just got home,”

“Mom, you know how hard
it is for me here. I gotta go.”

She nodded and wiped her
eyes with the edge of her apron. “I know. I thought things would be different
now since you’ve had time apart.”

“He won’t change. I’ll
always be blamed for- well, you know.” I lowered my head in shame.

She cut me off with a hug
before I could say any more. “Where are you going to go?”

“I dunno - somewhere
warm.” I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know where I end up.”

“At least let me drive
you into town. Your dad won’t want to miss any time out of the day. They’re
short enough as it is this time of year.”

I agreed and went outside
to the barn to say goodbye to my father. The weathered door rumbled and
squeaked in its tracks when I slid it open. His back was to me as he sat
hunched over on a small, wooden stool milking a cow. He owned about fifty head,
although it smelled more like three hundred in the closed up space.

“I’m heading out Pops.”

He grunted and said, “I’m
not surprised. You never did like hard work.” He didn’t stop squeezing the teat
or turn around to look at me.

“It’s not the hard work,”
I said.

He stopped milking and
his head dropped slightly. I thought this was the moment he’d apologize for
being a grade-A asshole my entire life, but after a few seconds the ping of
milk squirting against the side of the metal pail resumed.

I left the barn and
braced myself against the chill. Winter sun provided light, but little warmth.

That was the last time I
saw my father.

Chapter Thirty-One

I spent the next twenty
years bouncing around from state to state, all in the southern part of the
country. When I began to rack up too much debt to bars, dealers and bookies, I skipped
out and moved on.

After the peak of the
mid-eighties, which was one big line of coke, I settled down (if that’s what
you called it) in Phoenix. Even though I was a gringo, I made it in fairly
tight with the Mexican Mafia. See, I took the blame for a minor traffic
accident, resulting in one of the higher ups, Manuel, getting off without any
charges. I used this little bit of leverage to stay within the organization’s
lower ranks. During the day I was a courier and this job enabled me to
distribute drugs to a white collar clientele. It was the perfect cover and a
number of the secretaries on my route were quite willing to trade favors. Blow
for blow, if you know what I mean. My military days were far behind me,
physically, and my muscular physique had given way to a paunchy, balding
addict’s body. When an opportunity for pussy came along like that, I took full
advantage.

The problem with trading
coke for a quickie in the back of my delivery van meant I had to come up with
the cash for Manuel. Another problem was that I started to help myself to the
product. I was a kid with a cookie jar and couldn’t keep my hands out of it.
Not only was I strung out, but I was stressed most of the time. Eventually
something had to give.

That something came in
the form of random drug testing; a new policy implemented by the corporate
office for Maricopa Courier. Not only was Manuel starting to sweat me about my
short returns, but I now feared the plastic specimen cup. I’d lose my job and
my side income.

It was a Tuesday
afternoon, March 20, 1999 to be exact, when I was picked to be tested. A week
later, my manager called me into his office.

“Bob, have a seat.” He
gestured toward two blue, plastic chairs facing his desk. I took off my sweat
stained baseball cap and sat down.

 “I think you know the
test results already,” he said and flipped open a manila folder. “The question
I have for you is, what drug aren’t you on?”

“What are you talking
about?” I asked, trying to feign innocence.

“Bob, don’t. I’ve
suspected for months. I’m amazed you’re able to function at all. Look at this.”
He turned the report around. “Amphetamines, heroin, cocaine, marijuana…and this
one here I had to look up. I don’t even want to know where or how you got horse
tranquilizers.”

“Oh I forgot about those.
That was a crazy night!” Laughing, I leaned back in the chair, remembering how
numb they made me. “Roger, I’m quitting.”

“Drugs? It’s too late for
you. Bob, I’m going to have to let you go.”

“No, I quit here. I
quit.”

“You can’t, I’m firing
you.”

I walked out of the
office with my termination papers in one hand and the sinking realization in my
gut that I was unemployed and over $5,800 in the hole with Manuel. I’d had better
days and it appeared I’d be skipping town again.

When I pulled into the
parking spot at my apartment building, I was distracted, drunk and not paying
attention to my surroundings. Had I been, I’d have spotted the souped up
Mustang 5.0, with shiny chrome rims, parked two spaces down. A car I’d seen
before. I also would have seen the two muscular and tattooed Mexicans get out
of the Mustang.

My day was about to get
much worse.