A Plague Year

by Edward Bloor

  “What did he say?”

  “He was mad! He said, ‘I know you, Gene Coleman! You’re a damn alcoholic. Who the hell are you to judge me?’ I said, ‘Whoa. I’m not judging anybody, Bob. But you can’t come in here and steal stuff.’ ”

  Dad got quiet for a moment. I asked him, “So … is it ever hard for you? Being around all this beer?”

  He shrugged. “It used to be, but not anymore. That was a long time ago.” Then, to my surprise, he went on: “I’m genetically disposed to be an alcoholic, Tom. My body converts alcohol into food and I just keep going, keep drinking, until I collapse. I’m not like other people.” He directed a worried look at me. “And maybe, genetically, you are not, either.”

  “Genetically, from your side?”

  “From both sides, I’m afraid. Your uncle Robby was worse than me.” Dad stopped straightening. He turned and told me, “We used to drink together at the American Legion bar. He’d stop in after work at the Sears Auto. I’d stop in after the Food Giant.”

  “When was this?”

  “Twelve years ago. Twelve years, two months, and seventeen days.”

  “Wow! You know it to the day?”

  “Yep. I had your mother and you and Lilly at home; he had Robin and Arthur at home. But we’d drink every night, regular as clockwork, ten or twelve Rolling Rocks. We’d sit next to each other so it wouldn’t look like we were drinking alone, but I guess we really were.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember you ever taking a drink.”

  “Well, I drank at bars,” he explained. “I’d only drink at home on weekends—out back, usually, where you and Lilly couldn’t see me. I got pretty good at it. I’d finish off my two six-packs a night sure as the sun would set.”

  “You didn’t work on weekends?”

  “No. Not back then. I was like Reg Malloy. I unloaded all the trucks, and they came Monday to Friday.”

  Dad looked down for a moment; then he went on quietly. “The beer was always enough for me, but not for Robby. He started taking Quaaludes. Did you ever hear of them?”

  “No.”

  “That was the big drug back then, like crack was later, like meth is now. People called them ‘ludes.’ They were strong sedatives, like sleeping pills. Robby would wash them down with beer. They were a powerful combination, all right. A deadly combination.”

  I asked cautiously, “So, did he … OD?”

  Dad nodded his head yes. “Robby left the bar a little early that night, twelve years, two months, and seventeen days ago—the last night of his life. It was raining, and he crashed into a telephone pole. I’m the one who found him, dead, with a broken neck.”

  Dad stopped talking for about thirty seconds, reliving the moment. He continued in a haunted voice: “All I could think of as I stared at Robby was the word worthless. A dead human being is worthless, no matter who you were just half an hour before. You can’t ever do anything for anybody, ever again.

  “I stood there in the rain and stared at him for so long that somebody else stopped, some other guy. He’s the one who got the police.

  “I was still standing there when they arrived. When they pried Robby out of the car, his eyes were wide open, like he was staring back, saying, Do you want to end up like me?

  “The cops were going to take me away, too, for being drunk, but I made a deal with them: If they would drive me home, I would report to my first AA meeting the next night. Lucky for me, they gave me that chance.

  “The next night, I was sitting at a folding table at a church in Minersville, listening to six guys and two women tell their stories about being drunks and fools and criminals. Then I stood up, and I told them my story.”

  Dad looked at me and smiled. “I guess you know how many years and months and days ago that was.”

  “Yeah.” I asked, “And you never drank again?”

  “I never drank again. But it’s been hard. It has been, literally, one day at a time.”

  Dad clapped me on my shoulder and then went into the office. I stayed in the beer aisle, looking at all the colored bottles, trying to imagine my dad as being young and stupid.

  It wasn’t easy. And I knew it wasn’t easy for him to talk to me about this. It was more than he had ever said to me about anything.

  And I appreciated it.

  Wednesday, November 21, 2001

  I appreciated it. I really did. But not enough to stop my plan.

  Today, I was going to betray Dad. And Mom. I was going to do the worst thing I have ever done, and nothing would stop me.

  I got up before dawn, as focused (and as frightened) as I had been for the honor-vengeance trip up to Blackwater U.

  I unzipped my backpack. I dumped out the contents and replaced them with underwear, socks, T-shirts, and a backup pair of pants. I zipped the bag up until it was nearly closed. Then I slipped down the hall to the bathroom. I wrapped my toothbrush in a tissue and stuck it through the hole at the top of the backpack. I did the same for my stick of Right Guard deodorant.

  Then, just to be safe, I rooted under the sink, found a tube of Crest, and added it to my supplies. I couldn’t trust Jimmy, Warren, or Arthur to have toothpaste. Beer, maybe, but not toothpaste.

  I zipped the backpack completely closed, slid it over my shoulder, and walked down the stairs like it was a normal school day.

  The plan was for Dad and me to arrive at the Food Giant at 6:00 a.m. to help Mitchell defrost and display fifty turkeys in his glass case. I told my parents that Arthur had to drive me to school because we were doing a project for Mr. Proctor’s class. We had to act out a scene from A Journal of the Plague Year, but we hadn’t rehearsed it. So Arthur was going to pick me up, and we were going to do that on the way.

  I told them that big fat lie, and they believed me.

  It was shocking for me, as someone who did not lie, to see how easy it was to get away with one. I must admit I was a little disappointed in them. I thought, I could be lying to you all the time, and you would never know it.

  When we pulled into the Food Giant lot, two cars were already parked in the outer spaces—John’s old Impala and Mitchell’s Saturn SL. John and Mitchell were standing by the ATM, stamping their feet in the cold and waiting for us.

  Dad and I walked briskly to the entrance, nodding hello to them. Dad unlocked the door and held it for us all to step inside.

  That was when we got a nasty surprise.

  There was a big mess over by the bakery aisle. Someone had been in here overnight and had tried to break down the office door. The doorjamb, the hinges, and the door itself all showed signs of violence.

  While Dad dealt with that situation, the rest of us spread out and looked around. I’m the one who discovered how the thief had gotten in. He had sawed right through the storeroom’s ceiling and climbed down the shelves. The Food Giant now had a gaping hole in its roof.

  Dad called the police while John, Mitchell, and I cleaned up the office area and the storeroom.

  By 7:00 a.m., things were almost back to normal. The police had come and gone, and the store-opening crew was hard at work. (I was hard at work alongside them, but I was not getting paid for it.)

  Because of the break-in, and the mess, I felt even guiltier about my escape plan, but not guilty enough to change my mind. At 7:30, I was standing out front with my backpack. Only Bobby was out there with me, and he was preoccupied with the padlock on the propane cage.

  Arthur pulled up right on schedule. I hopped in on the passenger side, the Geo Metro peeled out, and I never looked back.

  I confirmed with Arthur, “Everybody at your house knows that I’m coming, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And they’re okay with it?”

  “Yeah. I talked to Mom and Jimmy Giles this morning.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Not much. I reminded Jimmy about you, and the three hundred bucks, and he said cool.”

  Now came the hard part.


  I asked Arthur to pull over at Sheetz gas. I got out, put a quarter in a pay phone, and dialed the store number. Dad answered on one ring. “Good morning, Food Giant.”

  “Dad? It’s Tom.”

  “Tom? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I just wanted to tell you that I’m on my way to Florida with Arthur, Jimmy, and Warren. I’m going to help them sell their Christmas trees.”

  After a long pause, Dad replied, “Tom? What are you talking about? Aren’t you at school?”

  “No, sir. It’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Nothing really happens at school.” I restated, “I’m on the road, heading south to Florida. I’ll be back on Sunday.”

  “Sunday! You can’t do that. This is the busiest weekend of the year.”

  “Well, sorry, but I need a weekend off.”

  “You? You need a weekend off? What about me? What about the rest of us?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he tried, “Why does it have to be this weekend?”

  “Because this is when they’re driving to Orlando to sell their trees.”

  “Come on, Tom. You’re needed here. What about the carts in the parking lot? Bobby can’t handle them all.”

  “So put somebody else out there.”

  “Who?”

  “Mitchell. Or Reg. Or Gert, for that matter. None of them work as hard as I do, but all of them get paid and I don’t. I deserve some time off.”

  Dad exhaled slowly. He asked with resignation, “Does your mother know about this?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “She’s not going to like it.”

  “She doesn’t like anything.”

  “Tom!”

  “Sorry, but it’s true. I have to go. I’ll be back home on Sunday. Goodbye, Dad.”

  I hung up. I felt bad for a few more seconds, but then I started to feel a great weight lifting off my shoulders. I was free, for the first time in my life. I walked back to the car feeling light as air.

  We drove straight up to Aunt Robin’s trailer. When we pulled in, I could see Jimmy’s legs sticking out from under a flatbed truck. The truck looked comfortable enough for a long ride. It had a large crew cab with two rows of seats.

  Behind the crew cab was the flatbed, maybe twenty feet deep, with two wooden railings running along the side. The back area was open, except for an orange net hooked across it.

  I commented, “No Christmas trees yet?”

  Arthur explained, “No. Not yet. We pick them up on the way.”

  Aunt Robin came out with Cody in tow. She was lugging a cooler, so I took it from her and set it on the ground.

  Jimmy rolled out from under the truck. He called out to her, “Any beer in that cooler?”

  “No! Just ice and sodas. You can live without beer on the drive, especially since you got Tom along. You boys need to take care of him.”

  “Oh, we’ll take care of him.” Jimmy winked at me. “We’ll take care to get him some beer.”

  Aunt Robin fussed, “Don’t you say that, Jimmy Giles! Don’t you even think that.”

  Jimmy laughed. “I’m just kiddin’.”

  Jimmy stowed the cooler in the truck cab. Then he climbed up onto the flatbed and told Arthur, “You guys start handing me wall stakes, about fifty of them.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but Arthur did. He hurried around the side of Aunt Robin’s trailer, with me right behind him. We scooped up long wooden stakes from a pile that had probably been there since the previous year. The stakes were wet and dirty but still pretty straight. God knows what was living at the bottom of that pile. Fortunately, after three trips, we had our quota of fifty and didn’t have to find out.

  After that, all we could do was wait for Warren. I made the mistake of suggesting, “Should we go knock on his door?” and Arthur jumped all over me.

  “No! We should not! We don’t go in there. Ever. He’ll come out when he comes out.”

  I stammered, “Okay. Okay.” I even added, “Sorry.”

  Jimmy smiled kindly. “Warren’s somebody who values his privacy.”

  So we just stood and stared at Warren’s front door for five minutes.

  I took the opportunity to ask Arthur, as casually as I could, “What’s going on with the play? The Roses of Eyam?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How are the actors doing with their parts?”

  “I don’t know. Okay, I guess. Chris Collier’s pretty useless, and he’s the main guy. He’s married to the Grape.”

  “Uh-huh. Do Chris and Wendy have any romantic scenes? Kissing scenes?”

  Arthur snorted. “No way, dude. If you kiss somebody in Eyam, they die. Slowly and painfully. You may as well blow their head off with a shotgun.”

  Okay. We left it at that.

  Warren’s door finally opened. He stepped out wearing his Haven High Football jacket and carrying a backpack. He locked up carefully and sauntered down to join us. “Cousin Tom! You made it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You ready to sell some Christmas trees?”

  “I am. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too. It beats the hell out of moving college boys in and out of Blackwater U.” He asked Jimmy, “You ready, bubba?”

  “Yup.”

  Warren thought for a moment. “Now, Tom, are you sure you’re allowed to do this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because we don’t have any insurance if … if anything happens to you.”

  “That’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “Are you old enough to drive?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Too bad.” He turned back to Jimmy. “You got all the stuff loaded?”

  “Yeah. We got the stakes in the back; the chicken wire’s underneath.”

  “Okay. Let’s hitch up Arthur’s car.”

  Arthur climbed into the Geo Metro. He pulled it up by the back of the truck and got out. Jimmy reached under the truck and slid out a cable. He knelt in front of the car and attached it to a pair of hooks. Then he reached under the truck again and started cranking a handle. The front of the Geo Metro rose up off the ground until the hood was even with the back bumper. Arthur then wedged a steel frame between the car and the truck, ensuring that the two couldn’t collide.

  Jimmy checked it and pronounced it “good enough for government work.” Then we were ready to roll.

  Warren pulled himself up into the driver’s seat; Jimmy took shotgun. Arthur and I climbed in and sat on either side of the crew cab’s bench.

  Warren summarized, “I can drive, obviously. So can Arthur. If I am in no condition to drive, though, and if Arthur is tired, I guess brother Jimmy can fill in, suspended license and all.” He looked into the rearview mirror. “And if all else fails, cousin Tom, it’s up to you.”

  I smiled.

  He winked and added, “And with us, cousin Tom, all else fails a lot.”

  We drove down from Caldera to Route 16 and started our long trek south, rumbling past a series of tree and shrubbery farms with names like Pioneer Evergreens, Rohrbachs Farm, and Kilingers Nurseries. We soon pulled into the parking lot of a large barnlike building that had GROVIANA written across the top in weathered red paint.

  We all followed Warren into a big square space filled with chicken wire, wooden stakes, and boxes. There was a desk over in the far corner, and a man in a blue work shirt was sitting behind it.

  Warren called to him heartily, “Hey, my man! How’s it going?”

  The man eyed us suspiciously, like we might be there to rob the place.

  Warren pointed to Jimmy. “My brother and me bought some trees here last year, right around this time. Sold them down in Florida. Remember?”

  The man did remember. He said, “Yeah. Right. Did we ever settle that account?”

  Warren looked to Jimmy and then back. “Yeah. We settled it up. We’re good.”

  The man shook his head. “That’
s not the way I remember it.”

  “Well, if there’s still any balance from last year, just add it to this year’s tab. We’re good for it. We got a sure thing going this year. We got a prime lot in Orlando on a main thoroughfare, right on Colonial Drive. That’s the main drag. We’ll be the only tree sellers in a five-mile radius. It’s gonna be all gravy, bro!”

  But the man was not buying it. He told Warren, “I talked to Mr. Levans about you guys, too. He said he never got paid from two years ago.”

  “No, that’s a mistake.”

  The man picked up the phone. “Let’s call him, then.”

  Warren backed down quickly. “No. No. Look, all we need is twenty-five Frasiers and twenty-five Douglases to start. Then we’ll take fifty of whatever you got for the rest.”

  The man set the phone down hard, like a gavel. He thought for a moment, then told us, “No way. I’m not fronting you any Frasier or Douglas firs. I should just say a flat-out no, but I’m trying to do the Christian thing here. I’ll tell you what I will do: For no money down, I got fifty Scotch pine you can have. They’re already cut and ready to load, but the buyer never picked ’em up.”

  Warren sounded offended. “Scotch pine?”

  “Sorry, but that’s what I got. You can take them or leave them.”

  Warren raised up both hands as if to say, Whoa. He told the man, “We’ll take them.”

  The man stood. “All right. Who’s loading them up?”

  Warren turned to us. “We all are.”

  So we trooped back outside. Jimmy and Arthur quickly unhooked the Geo Metro from the truck. We climbed back into our cab while the tree man got into a small white pickup.

  He drove over a low ridge and out into the fields, so we followed. We passed many acres of small trees. Soon we were bumping past taller trees, though—very attractive, well-shaped trees that I figured were the Frasier firs and Douglas firs.

  The white truck veered left and crawled carefully down a hill to a grove of pine trees. They were not as beautiful as the Frasier firs, but they weren’t bad-looking, either. And they would certainly work as Christmas trees.

  Nobody was saying anything. I guess Warren, Jimmy, and Arthur were disappointed at this turn of events, but I didn’t know any better. I was excited.