Even with every stitch of clothing on, the shivers rattled his bones and clacked his teeth. Threadbare, worn almost through, the thin wool gloves were better than nothing. Three shirts covered his upper torso, while two pairs of jeans, one over the other, kept as much of the chill at bay as possible. The standard issue Army jacket pulled tight did the most good. Still, he was a far cry from warm.
Snow continued to fall gently. It had fallen steadily overnight and through the day, blanketing Aspen Grove into a postcard-perfect scene. Joe had long since stopped enjoying winter; when there wasn't a home with a window to watch it through, the holiday season was nothing short of brutal. This early in the year it was unusual to see this kind of weather – snow usually waited until mid-December to pile up – so Joe had been caught unaware.
Thanksgiving was a particularly quiet day on the streets. With little to no traffic, he didn't worry about walking down the middle of the road where the plows had cleared the way. The less snow and ice under the holes in the bottom of his boots, the better. Plastic bags wrapped around his feet kept the moisture out but didn't do a thing about the warmth steadily leaking out with each step. Breakfast hadn't been as filling as it would have been had the shelter not closed last week. No funds, they said. They'd been sorry; he saw the pity in their eyes as they carted out the odd assortment of pots and pans, then handed out the blankets, sleeping bags and pillows to those who would be left out in the cold this winter. Mary, the head of the shelter, cried silent tears as she hugged each of them and slid a couple dollars into their hands with instructions on where the next shelter was, and the one past that. Some of them nodded and wandered off in the direction she'd pointed; others, well, the bus station would be full, Joe thought. With his newly-acquired sleeping bag and pillow, he'd be warmer than usual in the refrigerator box he now called home.
Lights glowed inside the houses he passed. Words couldn't be heard, but the pure enjoyment was evident in the way the men and women sat in groups, some holding mugs or cups, others balancing plates on their knees and cheering at an unseen show on television. Probably football, he thought.
Dusk wasn't far away. He should get back to the bridge, hunker down before the sun gave up entirely on its attempt to peek through the clouds. The moon would soon take over, and temperatures would drop quickly in the next half hour or so. Joe switched his bag from over his left shoulder to the right before shoving his almost-frozen left hand into the pocket. He ducked his head and picked up the pace.
"Mister? Excuse me," a young voice said. "Wait up," the child called louder this time.
Joe turned. "What are you doing out here? It's cold, you should be inside."
The toe-headed youth wasn't wearing an overcoat. His blue knitted sweater bore a snowman on the front, and the collar of his button-down shirt stuck out the top. Tan khaki pants covered his legs, and his feet were stuck in untied high top tennis shoes. His breath plumed as he exhaled, while rosy cheeks appeared bright in contrast to his alabaster skin and startlingly blue eyes. He hopped to a stop in front of Joe.
"I was, I'll go back, but I saw you from the window," he pointed back toward the row of houses, "and you looked hungry. Do you like turkey?"
For the first time, Joe noticed the large plastic container the boy held. Steam coated the inside. His stomach growled involuntarily, while a lump formed in his throat.
"Aha, I heard that. You are hungry," he sing-songed, proud of himself. The smile that lit his face tucked a dimple deep into each cheek.
"You shouldn't be running around outside, chasing strangers down the street. Your parents won't be happy," he started.
"Oh sure, it's okay. That's my mom in the window there," he pointed again. "Wave at her." He waved, and Joe followed suit. The woman smiled, waved back, and continued to watch the encounter.
"What's your name, young man?"
"Petey. What's yours?"
"I'm Joe. Nice to meet you, Petey." Joe pulled his hand out of his pocket and offered it.
"Nice to meet you, too, Joe." Petey stood up straighter and stuck his own hand out. Joe's hand dwarfed his. The boy had a firm grip, though, and a solid shake.
"So, do you like turkey?"
At a loss for what else to do, Joe nodded. "I do like turkey."
"Good, 'cause I brought you a leg, and stuffing, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and some Brussel sprouts." Leaning closer, he motioned for Joe to lean down. "I hope you like them, I gave you a lot of those. I think they're gross and even Spotty won't eat them. That's my dog."
Joe couldn't stop the smile. "I'll take care of them for you, not to worry. I didn't like them at your age, either, but when I got older I learned to eat them just fine."
Petey held the container out, and Joe could almost smell the scents swirling inside. His mouth watered. Setting his bag down, Joe took the container gently and held it with one hand while he reached into his jacket pocket with the other. "Thank you for sharing your dinner with me, Petey. But I can't take it for nothing. Here, I have just the thing…"
As he slipped his hand free, he turned it over and uncurled his fingers. There on the palm of his worn glove was the mother of all shooter marbles. Red with blue and white swirls embedded in the glass, it shone under the street light.
Petey's eyes grew wide. "Whoa, that's some marble."
"It belonged to my grandfather, then my father, then me. It's yours now, if you'll take care of it."
"Really? No way."
"Way."
"Serious? That's so cool. Thank you, Joe," he said as he reached out to touch it gently. "I'll take good care of it."
"Good. Thank you for the dinner." Joe smiled. "Go on now, get back inside where it's warm. You're going to catch cold out here without a coat."
"Okay. Happy Thanksgiving, Joe," he called as he hopped backwards.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you, too," Joe watched him go, and raised his hand in silent thanks to Petey's mother before opening his bag to store the container of food. Picking up both the bag and his pace, he headed for home.
The shadows fell long under the bridge when he arrived. Joe climbed the embankment toward his staked out area, thoughts consumed with the full spread dinner he'd been gifted. As he pulled the flap of the box back, he was startled by the shape of a man inside. Adrenaline flooded his system, warming him for the first time in days. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"
"This is MY house now," the gravelly words left no room for misinterpretation. Hands shot out and shoved Joe backwards, knocking him off-balance. He stumbled back, slipped on the loose rocks and lost his hold on the bag. He rolled down the embankment, slid across gravel and crashed sideways into a large chunk of misshapen concrete that stuck partially out of the ground. With a crack, he heard as well as felt a rib snap as he flipped over and tumbled the remainder of the way to the riverbed. Contents spilled from his bag and scattered haphazardly: mismatched tennis shoes; a bent golf club; an old, scarred wooden cigar box; seven pennies collected from gutters; a pair of sunglasses minus one earpiece; and an old packing blanket with a moving company's logo worn to unreadable long ago.
As he lay there, pain radiating through his body, his gaze traveled over his belongings and he took inventory. Everything was there, except…
Looking up, the grungy newcomer was every bit of six feet tall, and wrapped in worse-looking clothing than Joe. What he saw horrified him: the stranger held the container with his dinner. "No," he cried, "that's mine, give it back." Struggling to sit up, a sharp pain speared his side. Covering his rib with his hand, Joe took a slow, careful breath and pushed himself up. Stars shot across his vision, a warning he ignored as he forced himself upright. Right now, food was higher on the list than his ribs.
"Finders, keepers," the stranger growled. A hateful smile split his wiry beard from his moustache revealing blackened, broken teeth. "What do we have here? Is this what I think it is?" Gripping the lid, he pried it up. His tongue slithered out, sliding across his cracked lips. "Oh, yeah."
"I'll share it with you, but you can't have it all." Joe made his way back up the incline, grimacing from the pain of every step.
Tossing the lid aside, he scooped potatoes with his filthy fingers and lifted them to his mouth. "Mmm, still warm, too."
Out of sheer determination, Joe closed the gap. "Please, let's share. There's enough for both of us," he said between gritted teeth. Stars shot across his vision, causing him to stop until they went away.
The stranger lifted the turkey leg and opened wide, ripping off a hunk. He chewed with his mouth open, laughing at Joe while he did. "Yeah, okay, we'll share." The gleam in his eyes didn't match the words he spoke. "All you gotta do is get up here before I eat it all."
Jaw clenched, Joe took another step, then one more. He continued to make his way carefully back up the slope, and was within five feet or so when the stranger bent down and picked up the plastic lid.
"I changed my mind. This'll be mighty good for breakfast. Appreciate the hospitality." With a spiteful laugh, he secured the lid in place and reached inside the box. He withdrew his arm, and in his hand held Joe's flat pillow and ratty sleeping bag. "I'm gonna leave you this house, but these are mine. Sounds fair to me." He dropped his head back and roared at a joke only he thought was funny. "You wanted to share, right?" With that, he turned and strode away into the night, out from under the far side of the bridge and into the darkness on the other side of the pool of light cast by the street lamp. Joe watched until all he could see was the falling snow reflecting light as it crossed the same light pool.
The last few steps were torture. When he reached the edge of his home, he lowered himself carefully and sat down with his back against the cement wall. Not only was his dinner gone, so was his bedding. It was going to be a very cold night with just the cardboard box and a few newspapers to keep him warm. His gaze traveled to the old packing blanket currently laying near the bottom of the incline. Would it be worth the trip down and back up? As much as it was going to hurt, deep down he knew he would need that blanket to survive the night.
By the time he'd made it down, Joe was drenched in sweat. I'll rest here for just a minute, he decided. Even the slight movement he made to grasp the blanket and pull it across himself shoved another sharp spike into his ribcage. Maybe a couple minutes, he thought, and closed his eyes.
A cold, wet nose touched his cheek.
"Maxwell, get down. I'll take you for a walk in a minute. Let me get Billy ready for school. Billy, come on, pal, we have to get a move on it…"
Analisa rounded the corner, looking every bit the professional in her dusky grey suit. With her hair pinned up the way it was, swept away from her graceful neck, she was sexier than any psychiatrist should be. "I'll take him. My first appointment isn't until ten o'clock this morning. Plenty of time for the cross-town traffic." Stepping closer, she kissed him. "Good morning."
Heat shot straight through him, concentrating in one specific region. "Hi yourself. Have I told you yet today how much I want to pull that clip thing out of your hair and —"
She pinched his arm.
"Ow, wha —"
"I want to hug too," Billy's voice invaded Joe's thoughts, effectively derailing where he'd been going. Ah, that explained the pinch. He winked at her before looking down to see their son smiling up at him: dark brown hair, eyes the shade of milk chocolate, dressed in jeans and his favorite t-shirt — the one with the green dinosaur — holding his hands up in a 'pick me up' stance.
"Well come on up here then," he said as he leaned down and lifted Billy into his and Analisa's embrace for a group hug.
"Alright, young man, let's get your cereal in you and then we're off to school. Do you want Sticks and Twigs or Loopy-O's?"
Billy belly laughed. "Ew, mom, sticks and twigs!"
Joe snuck another kiss from Analisa before reaching for Maxwell's leash. "I'll see you tonight, and we'll pick up where we left off…"
"Yes, you will, and yes we will." She patted his butt before reaching for the cereal box.
"Have a good day, buddy."
"Bye, dad."
The drone of tires woke him. He blinked several times to clear his vision. Where was he and why could he hear vehicles? Realization hit. He was under the bridge, where he now lived. Analisa and Billy…he'd been dreaming of the last time he'd seen his wife and son alive. Pain squeezed his heart and hot tears flooded his vision. If only he'd been the one to take Billy to school, his wife and son would still be alive. They wouldn't have been on the expressway, wouldn't have been in the path of the semi-truck as it crossed the median and slammed into oncoming traffic, wouldn't have been two of the three people killed in that head-on collision. The police said the last entry in the drivers log book had been over twenty-eight hours prior to the accident, and for that entry to be correct, he had to have been driving continuously since. Twenty-eight hours behind the wheel of a thirty-six ton killing machine.
As he attempted to push himself up, the pain in his ribcage brought back the events of last night loud and clear. The stranger, his dinner, the cat's tongue licking his face. The cat? No, Maxwell. His heart ached as the dream flashed back. His life as he knew it, before. The tear left a line of ice cold as it trickled down his cheek and disappeared into his beard.
Traffic picked up on the bridge above. Black Friday. That explains the activity before the sun has even had a chance to come up. Early shoppers racing through the pre-dawn darkness to stand in line with hopes of scoring the best deal on whatever electronic or toy was the princess of the season. He and Analisa had done it once; only once, and it was horrible. They'd sworn never to do it again. People were hateful, and on the day after being thankful for everything they already had. Definitely one thing he didn't miss was all the rudeness exhibited during the early morning sales hours.
Cold seeped further in, bringing with it a shiver. Regardless of how much his ribs hurt, he had to get up off the ground if he didn't want to freeze to death. Did he want to freeze to death? What was there to live for? His family was gone. His home, gone. Job, car, and now his health, all gone. The final straw was that his gifted dinner was gone, as well. Too bad I'm not a quitter, he thought, and shook his head.
Joe took a slow, deep breath. Carefully, he rolled himself over, onto his good side, then onto his stomach. Dull pain radiated. I've felt worse, he thought, and braced his hand against the ground, drew another breath, and groaned as he drew his right leg up. It took what felt like hours but was surely only a couple of minutes to coax his body to stand. Touching his ribcage gently, he pushed and probed as hard as he dared across the sore area. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything broken. If that were true, he'd be sore for a few days but none the worse for wear.
At the far side of the bridge there was a reflection in the pool of light that shone down from the street lamp above. Joe strained his eyes to see. Pressing his left arm as tight against his body as he dared, he took one hesitant step, then another. Aspirin would be good right about now, but Joe didn't have any in his pack.
Wind overnight had blown some of yesterday's freshly fallen snow under the bridge. The closer Joe got to the other side, the more there was. There, in front of him, appearing as if a ghost had gone before, were the clear outlines of paw prints. Very large paw prints. The last time he'd seen prints like these were when he and Analisa had taken Billy to an animal refuge. They had been imprinted in the mud, inside the enclosure of the Bengal tiger.
With his right hand he scrubbed his eyes; surely he was seeing things. He looked again. The footprint was still there. His eyes followed the direction it would have gone, and saw the next print, and the next, each deeper than the one before as it tracked through the mounting snow. There weren't any cats around Aspen Grove that were big enough to leave what he was seeing. Even the occasional cougar wasn't this large. Besides, if a huge cat had come through since the snow blew under the bridge, it would have come past him as he lay there passed out, and…a flicker of memory, a piece o
f the dream, flashed back. No way, he thought. That was Maxwell in my dream. Holy crap, what if that wasn't Maxwell, what if it was whatever huge cat left these tracks? An involuntary shudder, one that had nothing to do with the cold, dove down his spine, chased by fear. Sweat broke out on his face. I'm delirious, surely that's it. This is a dream. That's the only thing that can explain it. And since it's a dream, I'll just follow these tracks, see where they go.
As Joe stepped to the side to avoid marring the tracks, his rib screamed in protest. He winced and stood still, taking a shallow breath in, then out, until the pain quieted. "Not a dream," he said aloud, his voice echoing off the cement walls. Pain doesn't happen in dreams. Still, the need to follow the tracks was all-consuming. Step after slow step he made his way to the edge of the bridge. Following the trail of paw prints led him closer to the object that had drawn his attention with its reflection.
The prints took a hard left while Joe continued several feet further forward. His breath clouded as it left his lips, creating a fog screen. He bent his knees to lower himself down without hurting his ribs more than necessary. He'd been correct in thinking it looked like the lid to his dinner container. It was. Picking it up, he stood again and his gaze followed the direction the tracks had taken. They led through the clearing to the wooded area thirty feet away. Each new print was farther away from the last than they had been at the edge of the bridge; there was also a large disturbance in what should have been a pristine snow bank. Something had happened here while he'd slept, and it didn't appear to have been quiet. How had he missed the noise?
Curiosity led him to follow the tracks several steps into the woods. Another disturbance in the snow within feet of the first line of trees; this one marred by what could only have been thrashing limbs, or the drunken snow angel of a fully engaged matador. Off to the side were the pillow and sleeping bag. From here he couldn't tell if they were bunched up from being dropped or if they covered a person. Even more cautious now, he moved further into the woods and closer to the bag. Resting his palm against a nearby tree, he leaned down just far enough to grasp a corner and gently tug the bag. It pulled easily, the pillow riding along on the edge. As he lifted it to carry over his shoulder, the light dusting of snow fluttered down and away. Joe was relieved to find it empty; he was in no condition to fight.
Turning his attention back to his surroundings, Joe took stock. A few feet further up, the tiger prints led directly to another disturbance, much larger this time. If the prints continued out the other side, they were obscured by the drag marks of something large and quite heavy. They were also drizzled in a trail of what was most assuredly blood. Could it be anything else? He thought not. Straining to hear, the only sound Joe could make out was from the cars. Nothing made by man or animal.
At a crossroads, Joe mulled his current situation over. Continue to follow the path, or walk away? If he followed the path, he might find himself in the middle of a dangerous situation. On the other hand, if he walked away, could he live with himself all the while not knowing if he'd ignored the obvious signs of someone in need? Granted, that someone was a person who had stolen his belongings and taken food from his mouth. But was he the kind of man who could turn his back on another human being when they needed help he might be able to give?
Looking to his left, on the far side of 'fight club,' his eyes came to rest on the food container. A painful hunger settled deep in his belly. Joe stepped carefully, well aware that if he fell here and was unable to regain his footing he would be unseen by passing traffic and no one would find him until the spring thaw and only then by the smell of his decomposing body. That is, if the tiger didn't get him first. Shoving that gruesome thought down, he picked the path of least resistance and stopped when he reached the container. The food was no longer warm, but it was still mostly there. Ice crystals formed over what was left of the stuffing, potatoes, and long-since congealed gravy, while a full half of the container still held a vegetable pyramid. Other than one lone Brussel sprout and a half-eaten turkey leg lying outside the container, it looked as if someone had set the dish down and flown away. Outside his own, there were no footsteps that even came close to where the container sat.
Joe looked around and, for the first time since he'd left the riverbed, realized with absolute certainty how unprotected he was against attack. Traffic sped by on the road, headlights leading them on and tires spitting slush in their wake. Where he stood, he was nearly invisible to passersby; not so much to the tiger in the trees. Tracking his eyes upward, he scanned the branches above him to make sure that wasn't where it had gone. No sign was a good sign. Still unsure where the beast was, Joe stood still for another minute, once again listening for telltale sounds, undecided whether to continue following what could only be drag marks into the woods or beat feet back to a safer distance.
From somewhere nearby, Joe heard chuffing. He'd heard that sound once before, when he and Billy had gone to the zoo. They'd arrived at feeding time, and the reverberations of the sound large cats make when they're hungry is unmistakable. That chuff was the same as this one. He was still in the vicinity of a very large feline. If he needed a sign, this was surely it. Squatting down carefully, Joe lifted the container and brushed off the snow that clung to the outside. He slid the lid back on and pressed it into place, palmed the loose Brussel sprout, then began his retreat.
The journey back was downhill, making his retreat less painful. The only climb he needed to make was up the short incline to his box. With his reacquired food and bedding, he picked his way carefully. It only took half a minute to set things right and another half to slip into bed.
The snow floating down wasn't nearly as difficult to watch from the warmth inside the sleeping bag. His chill had almost subsided; feeling returned to his limbs and his body relaxed. He gripped the container close to his chest in hope that his body heat would thaw the food enough to eat. The one Brussel sprout he'd carried in his hand had begun to thaw, and even partially frozen he couldn't help but think it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. As he watched the lazy flakes drift to the ground, his eyelids grew heavy. The rhythmic sound of the car tires humming along the road above finished the job of lulling Joe to sleep.
Murder, Mayhem, Monsters, and Mistletoe Page 28
