“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.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Manuel needs to see you,” a gruff voice said. The heavily accented English broke through my distraction. I looked up to discover I was flanked on either side by two of Manuel’s enforcers. Jose, the larger of the two, grabbed my upper arm and started pulling me towards his car. I knew not to resist.
They forced me into the backseat and within seconds, Jose was peeling out of the lot and heading towards South Phoenix. The pitcher of Budweiser I drank earlier sloshed around in my stomach and threatened to erupt. Sweat broke out across my upper lip and I wiped it away.
Jose pulled into an abandoned slaughterhouse.
The doors had long ago been sold as scrap metal. They led me further inside the dark building. Decades’ worth of spilled cow’s blood had soaked into the concrete floors and the metallic smell still clung to the air. I inhaled sharply through my nose, suppressing the urge to vomit.
I heard the scrape of a flint on a lighter. Shadows flickered across Manuel’s face as he lit a cigar. Seconds later, only a smoldering red circle gave his location away. I tried not to breathe; the heavy fumes caused my stomach to roll. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw the outline of Manuel’s sizable frame.
“Do you have my money?” he asked.
“Not all of it. I’m in a bit of a bind.”
“You’re in more than a bind, gringo.”
“I got fired today.”
There was silence and Manuel drew two long puffs off his cigar, which was most likely an authentic Cuban.
“You disappoint me. I thought you were smart enough not to cross me.”
“I am! You’ll get your money. I promise!”
“This I’ve heard before. You keep stringing me along with empty promises. Kind of like my ex. Do you remember what happened to her?”
Of course I remembered. She was found mutilated in the desert. Coyotes had torn flesh from her bones leaving her identifiable only by dental records. Not enough evidence connected Manuel with the crime, but everyone on the streets knew he was responsible.
Manuel circled around me. His predatory walk reminded me of the Vietcong. I lowered my head to avoid his eyes. He stopped and whispered something to Jose who nodded in agreement and then Manuel walked away.
“On your knees,” Jose ordered. He pushed down on my shoulders and my legs folded. A click of the safety being released off of a gun sent a chill over my entire body, yet I continued to sweat. The deafening bang and searing pain as the bullet entered my skull were simultaneous. I barely remember crumbling to the floor; new blood mingled easily with old.
I didn’t die right away. I remember being heaved into the trunk of a car and as I lay there, curled up in a ball, I was vaguely aware of blood seeping out of my head and the movement of my eyelids when I blinked. I think I also may have pissed my pants.
Time slowed down and I drifted in and out of consciousness. The last thing I remember, before I died, was getting tossed onto the side of the highway followed by complete nothingness. When I regained consciousness, if that is what you call it, I was staring down at my body. You could tell life had abandoned it and what remained behind was a shell. Years of drug abuse had ravaged my body. All that was left was a sack of bones held together by pale, undernourished skin topped with gray, thinning hair. Had I been able to see myself from this perspective earlier, I’d probably have done the honors and put the bullet in my head myself.
Next, I realized I wasn’t alone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
LAWRENCE
It was late at night and traffic was slow when a dark sedan pulled up onto the clearing with the headlights turned off. The driver opened the door and I assumed that he, like me so many years ago, was experiencing engine trouble. Then his passenger got out and they both walked around to the back and opened the trunk. They argued in Spanish as they lifted something out and with a collective grunt, tossed it onto the desert next to the clearing. Juanita translated the argument for us. Apparently they weren’t getting paid enough for their line of work, but they were both too chicken to approach the boss for a raise.
The driver climbed back inside the car, while his partner used a broom to sweep the tire tracks away before getting in. The headlights flicked on and the car took off up the highway.
“That was curious,” I muttered to myself and joined the others who had already gathered around the dumped object. “What is it?”
“More like who is it?” Frank answered.
We stood in a circle looking down at the body. I closed my eyes and focused on gathering up extra energy before crouching down and checking for a pulse. My fingers were just dense enough to touch the neck.
“He’s still alive,” I gasped and pulled my hand away.
“Not for long, not after losing all of that blood. His clothes are soaked with it,” Georgia pointed out.
“Head injuries tend to bleed a lot,” Peggy added. “Or so I’ve heard.”
We stood in silence, unsure of what to do. It wasn’t like we were medical professionals and could perform emergency surgery.
“Damn it, I hate feeling so helpless!” Frank started pacing. He ran a hand up and down the back of his neck as if trying to spark an idea.
The man on the ground moaned and a red tinged spit bubble formed on his lips. I watched, transfixed, as it expanded and finally burst sending a fine mist of bloody droplets into the air. He drew in a final ragged breath, his exhale more of a shudder, before he stopped breathing entirely. His body relaxed against the hard, sun baked ground, surrendering any resistance to death.
Frank stopped pacing and joined us as we waited. The spirit appeared, a mirror image of the man lying on the ground only like a vapor, more gas than solid. Upon looking down at his body we saw a myriad of expressions race across on his face from confusion to awareness to recognition, followed closely by fear. At this moment the human reaction to seek someone out to witness, to confirm or deny the events unfolding in front of him, kicked in and that’s when he saw us for the first time.
His eyes grew wide and he took a step back only to realize he was moving away from his own body. He glanced down and then back up, his gaze locking with mine.
“What the fuck is going on? Am I on a bad trip?”
“A trip? Were you going somewhere?”
Georgia started to giggle and she moved closer to me. “No Lawrence, he’s talking about taking some bad acid and he wants to know if this is a hallucination.” Her laughter faded as she delivered the sobering news. “I’m sorry man, but you’re…well, you’re dead.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want to be alone?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle so it was barely louder than a whisper. He paused, unable to stop staring at his body.
Eventually he spoke. “No, I’ve been alone most of my life and obviously that didn’t work out too great.” He went to nudge his body with his toes, but when his foot couldn’t make contact and just passed through, he stopped immediately. He turned towards me. “I’m Bob,” he said and held out his hand.
I didn’t have time to muster up enough energy to really shake it, but I still went through the motions. “Lawrence Cranston.” When our hands passed through each other he withdrew with a nervous laugh.
“This is going to take some getting used to.”
“I’ve been here over sixty years and I’m still getting used to it.”
Bob opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. “Shit!” he finally managed.
I introduced him to everyone else and we shared our stories. When it came time for Bob to tell us his story he grew silent.
“Bob, come ‘on you show up with a bullet hole in your head. You have to have a story,” Georgia pleaded.
“Really, who were those guys? They just tossed you to the curb like a bag of trash,” Peggy added.
Juanita had been quiet for most of the introductions and her small voice captured our attention. “They were trouble is what they were. My guess is they were gang members or Mexican Mafia.”
Bob looked at Juanita with guarded eyes. “How do you know?”
“I didn’t think it would grow to be so big, it was still fairly new when I left Mexico, but their tactics haven’t changed.”
“All right, I’ll tell you what I’ve done, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Bob, we’re dead and aren’t in any position to judge. Please continue,” I said.
Bob proceeded to tell us about the events leading up to his murder. At certain points of the story he shifted his eyes or his voice went higher and I suspected he wasn’t being completely honest with us.
“So you were mu
rdered for no reason? That’s horrible!” Peggy cried and tried to hug Bob.
“What’s the world coming to when a man can’t go about his business without fearing for his life?” Frank said. “Bob, you didn’t owe them money or cross any of them?”
Once again Bob’s eyes shifted to the ground and the corners of his mouth turned up. “You got me, Frank! I was just kidding. Look at me!” He pointed at his body. “The sunken cheeks, the skinniness, shit even my hair lost weight. I would have put a bullet in my own head if I was fully aware of what a loser I’d become. Honestly, I was too coked up all the time to notice.”
I looked to Georgia for an explanation, but Peggy answered instead. “Cocaine, it’s a drug and a very popular one at that.”
“Yeah, which is what got me in trouble. People expect to get paid for their product.”
“Ah, now I understand,” I said. I knew about cocaine, I just wasn’t familiar with the term “coked up”.
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not. Back when I was alive, people killed others for less. I’m sorry your life ended the way it did.”
“Thanks Larry, but so far this isn’t so bad,” Bob said and winked at Peggy. “I’ve always liked the color red.”
Peggy rolled her eyes, flashed brightly and disappeared. I spotted her a few seconds later by the guardrail across the highway. She had her back to us. Bob noticed too. “Whoa, how’d she…”
“Well, I guess we should update you on what we’ve been doing. If you’re like us, you’re going to be here awhile.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
BOB
Larry was right. I did stick around, not that I had much of a choice. When I was younger, I once hoped that when I died I’d be reunited with my family. We’d be whole, all of us finally catching up with my brother. The old man would love me again and my mom would be happy. For all I knew, my dad was stuck in limbo haunting a pasture somewhere. I smiled at the idea that the only objects he could experiment moving were cow patties.
End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) Page 13
