A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4 Page 6

  The threat was enough. He paused, his leg stopping inches from Bob’s face. He turned to me with a look of pure hatred and met me halfway to the group. He peered down from his six-foot-tall frame, exercising every inch in intimidation. I didn’t blink.

  “What do you know, Drummond? Tell me before I kick your ass,” he whispered. His breath reeked of tacos.

  “Keep it up and you’ll find out,” I retorted. “I’ll tell everyone. Your father will go to jail, and your family name will never be the same. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” I was fairly certain he didn’t, but I could see the possibilities streaming through his mind.

  Reaching out a hand, he grasped my yellowed wrist. “You better tell me right now, Alex. My patience is running thin.” He emphasized his point by squeezing my wrist until we both felt it crack under the pressure.

  I ignored the pain and sent a white knuckled fist into his chin. The impact sent Grant tumbling to the cement floor. His cronies stared in disbelief. Rubbing his chin, he propped himself on an elbow, but before he could retaliate, I stepped on his bent knee. Two could play at that game. I applied more of my weight, and his knee twisted inward in an awkward position.

  “Now listen here, you steroid-popping brute,” I hissed, leaning toward him and placing more pressure on his knee. He clutched at it, but listened. “You may not realize it, but your daddy won’t be too happy if he and your grandfather are sent to jail. Your family name may not even be something you care about, but I know something that is.” I dug my heel into the joint. “I’m sure you and your friends could have a field day with me, just like they’ve had with Bob, but I’ll end your playing days and any possibility of a scholarship before they do. Besides, what would you get out of it, just giving me what I already get every night? Hell, I’ll bet you couldn’t even do it right.” The words rolled out before I realized what I was saying, but I was certain of every syllable. “Now what you gonna do, college boy?”

  I was pretty sure the man in my dream was his grandfather. The addition of Grant’s father had been a bluff, but he had to have done something he didn’t want people knowing. It took the jock a fraction of a second to catch my drift. “We’ll leave, just get off,” he whimpered, squirming under my weight.

  “You better.” I lifted my foot.

  Ignoring the rest of them, I slipped through their ranks and stood next to Homeless Bob who was still rocking himself on the ground, his knees held to his chest. I watched as the group helped Grant to his feet, and he hobbled to the asphalt road. As they disappeared, the man at my feet began gathering the various items that had spilled from the small backpack. He collected them on his hands and knees, glancing up at me every few seconds. I leaned down to pick up his scattered possessions and placed them in his hands. Seeing that I had no intention of stealing from him, he sat the pack on the ground and began depositing the random pencils, used lipstick containers, matchbooks, and scraps of paper into it. I did the same.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. He continued muttering gibberish as though he hadn’t heard me. Blood dripped from his swollen nose to the cement below unnoticed. I leaned over and held up the zipper edge for better access. The bag exuded a strong odor of polished leather.

  * * *

  I was immediately standing atop an old wooden bridge divided by abandoned railroad tracks. Three boys stood in front of me, each approximately fourteen years old. They laughed and jabbed fingers in my direction while the largest of the three took a step closer.

  “Hey, Michowsky,” said the boy with a malevolent grin, “I hear your dad’s a rat.”

  “No,” I said, unbidden, “he ain’t a rat.”

  “He ain’t? You sure, ‘cause from what my pa said, he’s been telling fibs to the news people. If he keeps it up, he ain’t gonna have a job at the mills. My pa’ll fire him.”

  “Danny, please tell your pa not to. My dad didn’t do anything wrong,” I pleaded. The name and face were somewhat familiar, but from where? I couldn’t remember.

  “I don’t know if I can, Mikey. It ain’t like your dad’s ever done nothin’ for my family. He’s just bringin’ trouble down on us,” the boy continued in his southern drawl.

  “No he ain’t,” I screamed. “You better tell your pa that my dad’s a hard worker.”

  “I can’t lie to my pa. It ain’t the Brogand way, and my pa always says, ‘Blood’s thicker than water. You gotta stick with your family.’”

  Like a lightning bolt, it occurred to me who the larger boy was: Daniel Brogand, Grant’s father. The resemblance was uncanny. I couldn’t believe I missed it before. “You ain’t a real friend,” I shouted with childish immaturity. “A real friend wouldn’t do that.”

  “Water, Mikey… you’re just water.” He took a few more steps forward, forcing me to the edge. “And that’s where you belong.”

  I glanced behind me, at the river raging a hundred feet below, with its furious rapids and white foam. Fear struck deep in my heart and jerked my head up from my heels. My eyes met Danny’s. His laughed with sadistic pleasure, recognizing my terror.

  “Danny, stop… stop,” I stuttered, unable to slow his progress.

  I had run out of bridge. I pushed at his chest, attempting to gain a moment’s reprieve, but his large frame didn’t budge. In fact, his momentum threw me off balance. I flailed in the air, attempting to grab onto him as the other boys stood back, enthralled by the situation. He slapped my hands away. The rushing waves grew nearer as I fell backwards. I let out a shrill cry of horror, but stopped when a large hand engulfed my wrist. My legs trembled as I stared at the absence of ground looming over my shoulder, but it came no closer. Shifting my gaze back to the bridge, Danny stood over me, his hand clasped on my arm. His eyes were cold and dark.

  I let out a shuddering breath and whispered, “I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

  The Brogand boy arched an eyebrow at the comment. “I wouldn’t?” he asked, as though a challenge had been made. The smallest twinge of a smile played across his lips. He unlaced his fingers from my wrist and watched me fall. Seconds turned to minutes as he vanished from sight.

  I spun through the air and glimpsed the rocky bottom of the riverbed through choppy waves. Time righted itself, speeding up the fall, and a second later I plunged into the ice-cold water. Foaming rapids consumed me before my head struck the river rocks below. Red and black liquid swirled through the water. I tried to look around, to find my way clear, but my arms wouldn’t do as I willed them. Instead, their bruised, nearly lifeless state enabled me to stay afloat… but only just. I gasped for air, taking in a minute amount with gulps of water. My face met the sun hanging high above. The trickle of warmth it sent was a blessing, and I took a labored breath. The water lapped at my face. The bridge was in the distance and the boys, my friends, stood like statues watching as I floated downstream.

  The absence of most feeling and lack of control was odd, but the sun above reassured me that Michael was still alive. But I wouldn’t be here if he lived, I thought, the logic hauling a large sense of dread up from my stomach. I wanted to puke, but couldn’t.

  My solitary friend trudged across the sky, keeping me company, but it was a reminder of what was to come. Eventually, the sun descended behind the tree line and left me to fend for myself. I could barely move, and now my arms felt like strands of spaghetti. The cold night air caressed my reddened cheeks and before long, life became an absence of feeling, a numbness that delved into my bones. Darkness fell and glimmers of light twinkled above. My world became a night-sky movie accompanied by the gurgle of water. When I finally drifted against the branches of a log extending into the river, I couldn’t summon enough strength to lift a finger.

  The hours passed with the moon above, but before it crested its peak, my sight began to deteriorate. A shroud of darkness swirled across my vision, dimming it at times. Through the darkening veil, a man’s face emerged overhead. A clean-shaven, youthful Homeless Bob lifted me from the water. He knelt over me on the
riverbank, his eyes full of sorrow. Tears streamed down his face and fell to my cheek as he rocked me back and forth. When the last of my sight disappeared, darkness cloaked me, but through the muted dimness his mumbling began, and he let out a bestial howl that echoed through the wilderness. It was my name. “Michael!”

  * * *

  A dingy arm reached across and grasped a handful of cloth backpack. With the strength of a bull, he snatched the bag from my hands and clutched it to his chest. I looked up and was greeted by the familiar sorrow I had seen only moments before. His eyes were the same. A living horror had curled up in the depths of his soul. Unable to cope, I looked away and came across a faded picture lying on the pavement. It was of the boys I had seen. Michael stood smiling in the center of the group. I reached down and picked it up. He was a head shorter than most of them and the other boys held fingers behind his head, creating makeshift rabbit ears. As I brought it up to my face, I noticed the bridge in the background. In fact, Daniel Brogand was wearing the same shirt. I glanced at the scruffy man and watched him extend an upturned hand, its fingers clutching at the air as though they had lost something. His eyes were trained on the photo. Flipping it over, I noticed a smeared message: Michael and the gang, June 24th. Wish he was still with us. The name and the gang were smeared, as though water droplets had found their way onto the picture. It was signed in a childish cursive, but the name was easy to make out, Danny Brogand. Bob’s hand hung inches away, grasping for the picture. He was unable to bring himself closer or pluck it from my hands.

  “I know who did it to Michael,” I said, pointing at Danny in the picture.

  I was uncertain whether he knew what I meant by it, but I couldn’t bring myself to say what Daniel had done. I didn’t think Bob could bear to hear the word murder either. Instead of answering me, he lunged for the picture, distressed that I was touching his cherished object. Before he reached it, he drew back like a fearful animal.

  “It was Daniel Brogand. He did it,” I declared, but the words fell on deaf ears.

  Bob bounced on his knees in agitation. Giving up, I deposited the picture into his desperate hand. He quickly brought it to his chest, next to the bag, and peered down at it. Then without glancing at the rest of his possessions, he sprinted down the alley and disappeared into the street. He shouted hysterically, his voice surpassing the limitations of sight, but the words were unintelligible to all but him.

  My shoulders sagged as I looked at his worldly goods and at the decrepit lawnmower silhouetted in the mouth of the alley. He had lost everything once more, except for a memory. It was at that moment, I realized the significance of every facet of our lives, the good and the bad. Sometimes the only thing you can hold onto is a snapshot in time.

  During the trip to the cemetery, I thought back on the times I shared with my father. Some were good and some bad, but each of them was a snapshot to be stored. I contemplated them and the emotions tied to each one. My fondest memories stuck out most. Trips we made as a family during the early years of my life were scant, but the few I possessed brought a smile to my face. I passed the house we had lived in and other memories came to mind. It was nice walking down memory lane, thinking back to when my parents and I would all burst out laughing at a look. Later on, too much changed between the two of them. By the time my father left us most of the laughter had died in the home, but it was still a great deal better than living with the drunk.

  Before I knew it, I’d entered the cemetery. I found myself approaching my father’s tombstone with a smile reminiscent of earlier years. It disappeared when I caught sight of yet another bouquet lying at his feet. The questions whirled through my mind once again.

  Who left them and why? Is there something I don’t know? It occurred to me that there might be a reason for the change in my parents’ relationship over the years. What if he really had another family?

  The filing cabinet of memories I’d organized on the walk over began to tip, threatening to throw my solitary world into chaos yet again. I sat under the old pine in silence, pondering the possibilities, unwilling to admit the likelihood of my father’s infidelity. The sun crept further across the sky until it sunk beyond the trees, casting them in a diminishing glow. All around me, headstones lurked knee high, their residents hiding a host of secrets from their earlier lives. It felt as though a multitude of eyes were drilling into me at that very moment. I could even see a memory of my father staring down with disapproval. The cemetery’s very nature changed. It left me feeling alone and abandoned for the first time. I thought about touching one of the tombstones and trying to glimpse something I might use to help the dead. The thought chilled me to the bone, even colder than I’d felt in the river. Maybe I’d see something I shouldn’t, something even the dead didn’t want known. A chill ran down my spine. Having lost my one place of solace, I headed for my unwelcome home.

  By the time I arrived at my temporary housing, the only light left to guide me drifted through my neighbors’ windows. I winced as the rickety stairs announced my tardiness. The only person that would care was Vivian, but I doubted she would do more than yell. Still, it was the last thing I needed. Pulling open the door, I almost smiled as a familiar cloud of smoke engulfed me. Thankfully, it clogged my nostrils and clouded my thoughts so much that I couldn’t find them again. Through the haze, I noticed Frank and the drunk were glued to the television once again; an aluminum can was held in the drunk’s yellowed fingers. Vivian had already gone to bed.

  “Hey,” came the drunk’s uncaring voice, accompanied by the twang of a noisy spring in his lounge chair. It was unbearable to sit in, hard and unwieldy, but suited the man. I ignored him and walked back into the hallway. “Stupid brat,” he spat as I disappeared.

  “Just a few more months,” I muttered, stepping into my room. My foot came down on something small and squishy that rattled under my weight. I leapt back and flicked on the light switch. A pink, stuffed bunny peered up at me with one missing button eye.

  “Gloria, keep out of my room,” I yelled. I reached down and grasped the small animal, prepared to march into the girls’ room and launch it through the doorway like a cannonball, but as soon as my finger touched its worn fur a familiar smell permeated the air, and I found myself in another small space.

  Too Close to Home - 10

  A dim lamp stood on a matching dresser. Miniature rabbits promenaded across the lampshade and drawer handles. As my eyes focused, I made out the shadow of a man standing in front of me. He stood pantomiming with his hands and arms as they waved erratically. The vision came closer into focus and the volume of his voice rose until it was blaring.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” yelled the man. “I ain’t got a job now. I never wanted another one of these… these… these things. How are we supposed to afford it now?”

  The anger in his voice made it clear that the question was rhetorical. The solitary lamp lit him from behind, leaving everything but the most obvious features hidden from view. I made out his nose and an elongated chin as he threw frustrated arms into the air. His voice was familiar, one I knew all too well, and a distinct odor carried on his putrid breath. He was inches away and shrouded in darkness, but I knew every feature of his face. There was no need for light to solve this mystery, but who was I?

  A small stuffed animal was lodged in my hand, and I held onto it with every ounce of strength I possessed. I ran my thumb across the animal’s outstretched hands. It was Gloria’s toy. My other hand was propped against a wooden fence in the room. It occurred to me that it was an odd place for a railing, but the answer came a second later.

  “I’ll get a second job,” I pleaded. A solid feminine tone escaped my lips. Considering the fear I felt coursing through my body, I knew the confidence in her voice was a mask. “I’ll get as many jobs as I have to. Just leave her alone.”

  “You’re gonna get a second job. I can’t even keep one and you’re throwin’ it in my face,” yelled the drunk. “You think you’re better than
me? How the hell are you gonna get more jobs? I’ve been tryin’ to find a job and ain’t had no luck in three months.”

  “We’ll find a way, I promise.” Fear was getting the better of me, and my voice quaked.

  “Yeah, we sure will. No diapers or baby food to pay for will make it much easier.”

  The drunk shoved me aside, his eyes searching for something behind me. I glanced down at what lay beyond the railing and found myself staring at a small infant. She was wrapped in a pink blanket. The child stared back, startled by the robust voices filling the room. Seeing what he was going after, I seized the railing with every ounce of strength I could muster and forced myself between him and the baby. I pressed my free hand to his chest, again noticing the animal as it rattled between my fingers and his shirt.

  “Okay, look,” I stated, “how about I get the girls and leave. Then you won’t have to pay for anything but yourself.”

  “And now you’re gonna leave me. That what you’re sayin’? Woman, you better not, or I’ll tear you apart!”

  With an arm of steel, he backhanded me across the face, his knuckles resounding on my skull. The impact was more than enough to dislodge me from the railing. I slammed into the wall, caving in the dainty wallpaper and drywall. Shaking the stars from my eyes, I turned back to the drunk and watched him grasp the small child under her arms and lift her from the crib. He wavered as he stared into her wide eyes. She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on me and then returning to the man inches away.

  “Won’t be no more worryin’ after tonight,” he muttered to the infant.

  He lifted her high above him with one hand, as though preparing to slam a football into the ground. But before he could move, I soared up into his large body, arms outstretched like the stuffed animal I somehow still held. I reached for the small child and cried, “Gloria, nooo!”