by Robin Yocum
In just a few hours, he would unlock the front door, and Duke’s Place would be in business. When he flipped the little toggle switch to turn on the sign in the front window, and twisted the brass knob that would allow the deadbolt to slide from its housing, his dream would become his reality.
He sipped his coffee. Crumbs of toast spread over the table as he ate. It was the day of a new birth, a new beginning. But in his solitude, his thoughts were of the fragility of life and his son. For as Duke prepared for a new life, he knew another was coming to a close.
Timmy was dying.
It had been six months, maybe eight, since he first saw the signs. They started creeping in from the sides of his consciousness, like the darkness that overtakes you just before sleep. At first, he tried to ignore them, a bit of self-denial, but in his heart he knew it was true. Timmy’s spine had become more curved and was beginning to resemble a question mark. His shoulders hunched forward as his body curled further into the fetal position. As he did, his breathing became more labored, strained, and at times the boy struggled for a simple breath. The bones at his hips and shoulders looked as though they would push though his skin, which had become translucent and cold. He bruised at the touch. His eyes had always been distant, unknowing, but they were growing more dull and dry, and they were open less and less each day. Timmy’s already-frail body was in rapid decline.
For reasons that he could not explain, Duke had never seen death as the Grim Reaper, the skeletal, black-robed, and hooded figure carrying a scythe that in myth accompanies the deceased to the other side. Rather, he had always seen death as a steam locomotive the color of dull coal, a black wreath encompassing its headlamp, black sashes draped along its side. The cab of the locomotive was always empty, and it pulled a train of passenger cars with darkened windows. A solitary figure, the conductor, perhaps, or Death itself, stood on a platform between two cars, rolling with the sway of the train, staring, saying nothing.
Somewhere on the distant horizon, far beyond the hills that encased Mingo Junction, Duke sensed the approach of that locomotive. He could not yet see it, but he felt its slow grind in his bones, and heard a whistle that ached in the darkness, its lonesome call traversing an expanse of unknown time and miles, until at last it reverberated within the hills of the Ohio Valley, a reminder to Duke that time was short. There would soon come a night when it would make its way over the foothills to the Heinzmann Convalescent Center. It would grind to a halt, a stream of steam escaping from valves near the coupling rods. The conductor would motion him on, and Timmy would step from this world into the next without once looking back.
Doc Kuhn had been in to visit Timmy the previous week. Duke was in the room and watched intently as Doc Kuhn, now in his mid-seventies, slowly moved the stethoscope up and down Timmy’s narrow and arched back. Gently, he took the edges of the thin cotton gown and slid it over Timmy’s spine, tucking it between the skin and the bedsheet. He took a breath and pulled the stethoscope from his ears, sliding it into the tattered, black bag resting at the foot of the bed. With the back of a right hand heavy with arthritis across the knuckles, Doc stroked Timmy’s upper arm and said something that Duke strained to hear, but could not. After a moment, Doc looked over his shoulder and motioned Duke into the hall.
Doc Kuhn had always insisted on the protocol. “How do we know he can’t hear and understand?” Doc had once said.
He got no argument from Duke. For years he had prayed that Timmy understood at least some of what went on around him. He followed Doc into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Doc Kuhn had delivered both Timmy and Duke. He was a dignified man with a neatly trimmed goatee and a full head of white hair. In one hand, he held a black, lacquered cane worn to the bare wood on the handle, and the tattered bag he clutched in the other.
“Nicholas, your suspicions are correct,” Doc Kuhn said. “Timmy’s body is in retreat. It’s quickly failing him. His breathing is terribly labored. His blood pressure is low. I’m afraid there’s not much good I can tell you.”
Duke nodded, sadder for the pathetic life his son had lived than his impending death. “How long does he have?”
Doc Kuhn’s smile was slight; his eyes narrowed, and he gave Duke a look of admonishment, a teacher to a pupil who should know better. “Nicholas, you know I can’t answer that. It could be six days or six weeks or six months. I don’t know. The taking of a simple breath is reaction, not thought. The tiny part of Timmy’s brain that controls his breathing doesn’t take much to keep functioning, a little oxygen and nourishment. Unfortunately, the rest of his body is shutting down. He’s tired, Nicholas—tired and worn out.” He shook his head. “I wish I could give you a better answer, but only God knows for sure.”
Doc had delivered countless babies in Mingo Junction, and he was bedside when an equal number of its residents passed from this life. And, while Timmy had never enjoyed any quality of life, Duke sensed it troubled Doc Kuhn greatly to tell him that his only child was dying, even though Timmy’s passing would be merciful.
“I never thought the boy would last this long,” Doc said. “He has, to a very large extent, lived these many years because you’ve been here, nurturing him, Nicholas. In his own way, Timmy has responded to your love.”
“Maybe I did him a disservice,” Duke said. “It certainly hasn’t been much of a life.”
Doc Kuhn put his hand on Duke’s shoulder and gave a squeeze. “Don’t ever believe that. You have done all that was humanly possible. Be with him. God and Timmy will decide when it’s time. If you think he’s in pain, let me know.”
Duke nodded, then remained outside the room for several minutes, fighting tears and listening as the slow plod of feet and cane echoed their way down the hall.
Duke went back into the room and pulled the chair close to the bottom of the bed. Football stars, he thought. Parents want sons who are football stars, and doctors, and lawyers, and astronauts. They want bold young men with broad shoulders and square jaws. In those rare moments of self-pity, he had the same desires. He had dreamed of Timmy soaring through the air in a scarlet-and-black Mingo Indians uniform, draining a fade-away jumper at the buzzer. Now, as he watched his son making a slow trip from this world, he wished only for one thing, one time—a simple recognition in Timmy’s eyes. Just once, he wanted to know for certain that Timmy knew that someone in this world had known him and loved him and cared for him. Duke wanted the boy to know that his father was sorry for what had happened, and sorry that he hadn’t been in the hospital room to prevent it. How terrible, to spend your life curled in a hospital bed, trapped in your own cocoon, deteriorating, unknowing of the world around you, or that someone desperately loved you. In these moments of self-pity, Duke believed that he was entitled to that simple request. Didn’t God owe him that much?
Part of Duke wanted Timmy to go peacefully, to simply stop breathing. Another part of him hated the thought. He still had vivid memories of the dream and seeing Timmy dressed and standing at the side of the bed in his Chuck Taylor All-Stars, ready to go play. He wanted a chance to talk to that Timmy before he died. Over the years, Duke had cried and apologized to Timmy countless times, but he wanted to do it just once when the boy could comprehend.
That, he knew, was never going to happen.
Duke stood at the front door and looked at his wristwatch. It was nine fifty-nine and twenty seconds. He watched as the second hand swept past the six and the nine. When it hit the twelve, precisely ten o’clock on the morning of Monday, November 8, 1993, he flipped the toggle switch, and the orange neon sign in the window facing Commercial Street flickered to life: OPEN.
He twisted the brass knob, unlocking the door, and Duke’s Place was ready for business.
Everything was in order. The liquor license had been secured, the help hired, the kitchen’s certificate of operation from the Jefferson County Health Department displayed above the service window between the bar and the kitchen, the cooler and bar stocked. Duke Ducheski could barely cont
ain himself. It was not unlike the belly jitters he got before every game.
It was an overcast morning. The sky was low and gray, and spitting a light snow—a typical early-November day in the Ohio River Valley. The orange glow from the window seemed to brighten all of Commercial Street.
He had taken two weeks of vacation from the mill to launch the opening of Duke’s Place. The first was a week of eighteen-hour days and frantic preparations to make sure everything was in order. Moonie, who was still gimping around on a tender leg, and Angel had been over every day after work to help with the rush of getting the bar reconstructed. It was a masterpiece in mahogany, and it dominated the back wall like the throne in a palace. The new wooden floor was down and buffed. The dining room, a separate enclosure away from the noise of the taproom, was rimmed with booths, and tables filled the center of the rectangle. In the taproom, a Wurlitzer jukebox was loaded with forty-fives—oldies and traditional rock ’n’ roll—and a bootleg copy of the Miracle Minute. A television was placed at each end of the bar. There was a pool table—a quarter a game—and a disk bowling game.
The north wall was pine paneling, adorned with the photographs of the great teams and players from the valley, the centerpiece of which was an enlarged team photo of Mingo’s state championship basketball team. It was a wonderful collage that would draw much attention.
Not thirty seconds after the neon light went bright orange, Stubby Wilhelm, a retired carpenter and teller of mendacious fishing tales, ran through the door. He had been sitting in his car at the light at Commercial and McLister when he saw the light flicker on. He pulled into a parking spot in front, pumped a nickel into the meter, and sprinted into Duke’s Place as fast as his namesake legs could carry him. He looked around, puffing for breath, and grinned. “Am I the first?” he asked.
“Numero uno,” Duke said.
“I’ll have an Iron City draft,” he bellowed, striding across the floor and reaching for his wallet. “Awful damn early for a beer, but this is worth celebrating,” Stubby said. He fished for the most unblemished dollar bill in his wallet as he slid onto a vinyl stool at the bar. “You’re gonna frame it, ain’t ya, Duke? I’ll give you a good one.”
Duke opened the Iron City tap and poured the contents into a frosted mug. He set it on a paper napkin in front of Stubby, then held up his coffee mug for a toast. “To my first customer and my first dollar,” Duke said, as glass and ceramic clicked. “I’ll get a frame and a little brass plate that says, ‘First Dollar, Stubby Wilhelm, November 8, 1993.’ Whatta ya think?”
“You’re the best, Duke,” Stubby said, raising the mug to his lips and taking several hard swallows.
It wasn’t another minute before Beanie Skidmore came running through the door, stiff-arming it open like a fullback, himself panting. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light, and he could see his fishing nemesis Stubby at the bar, all smiles.
“Top of the morning to you, Beano,” Stubby chortled, holding the frosted mug in the air in mock salute. No one was more ebullient in victory than Stubby Wilhelm. And no one was as sore a loser as Beanie Skidmore.
“Dammit, shit to hell,” Beanie growled.
“Tough luck, Beano,” Stubby taunted. “I bought the first beer at Duke’s Place, and he’s gonna put my dollar in a frame with a little brass plate. It’s going to say, ‘Stubby was first and Beanie Skidmore was second, just like every fishin’ trip they’ve ever taken.’”
This made Beanie fume. “Rolling Rock,” he muttered.
“Duke, you see that empty spot above the jukebox?” Stubby asked.
Duke nodded and grinned, preparing for Stubby’s next salvo. “What about it?”
“Remember that bass I caught out at Tappan Lake a few years back?” Stubby spun his stool toward Beanie. “The eight-pounder. It sure would look good hanging on the wall over that jukebox.”
Beanie moaned, “Oh, goddammit, Stubby. It wasn’t no eight pounds.”
“You’re right. It was probably closer to nine, actually, and a hell of a lot bigger than anything you ever caught.”
“Not bigger than my walleye.”
“Well, you never had your walleye mounted. Too bad for you. How about it, Duke?”
“Why, Stubby, I think that wall is the perfect place for that bass. We’ll put a little plaque up there with it and call it a nine-pounder.”
Beanie about spit his beer across the bar. He said, “Well, goddammit, I got a picture of my walleye. Can I bring that in, Duke? It’s a nice eight-by-ten.”
“We’ll put ’em up side-by-side—a little plaque for each.”
Beanie smirked, and Stubby frowned, having lost a small portion of his glory by having to share wall space with his fishing foe.
Stubby and Beanie were the first of a steady flow of customers that started that morning and continued through the week. By Friday, the dining room was packed at lunch and the steel mill was sending for large carryout orders. When the afternoon shift let out Friday, the bar filled. Families and couples filled the dining room for the Friday fish fry. It couldn’t have been a better first week.
The grand opening was Saturday night. Two hundred invitations had been sent. The place was decorated with streamers, and two troughs made of Wheeling-Pittsburgh steel were filled with ice and cans of beer at each end of the bar, where Liddy Sheares, one of the new waitresses, and Moonie would wear carpenter’s aprons and pass out brews at fifty cents a pop. Against one wall of the taproom was a buffet table with trays of cold cuts and breads; shrimp; vegetables and dip; chips; pretzels; mini wieners in barbecue sauce; and little blocks of American, Swiss, and longhorn cheese skewered with colored toothpicks. On the bar and at every table were books of matches, shiny white, on the front of which was an orange basketball with “DUKE’S PLACE” in red, block letters trimmed in black arching across the ball.
A red carpet extended from the front door to the curb. Red, black, and white balloons were tied to the awning. At curbside, Carson Elliot and Angel were dressed in tuxedos and served as doormen. High school boys had been hired to serve as parking valets. For himself and the rest of the help, Duke had bought gray golf shirts with the basketball logo on the left breast.
By six o’clock Saturday evening, the first patrons arrived. By 7:00 the place was full, and by 8:00 it was standing room only. The jukebox blared and the beer trough was refilled three times. There was a thirty-minute wait for a table in the dining room.
Duke’s Place was on its way.
Duke worked the bar, making drinks, dunking the overflow of bills in the office safe, and watching over the chaos. He moved his way down the bar and said to Moonie, “I can’t believe how smoothly this is going.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Moonie said. “You’ll jinx it.”
“It’s going to work, Moonie. This place is going to make it.”
They were four hours into the evening when Duke said, “I need a beer,” violating his own no-alcohol-during-business policy. “Are you ready for one?”
“Always,” Moonie said.
“Good. Come on in the back. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Duke’s office was on one side of a short hallway opposite the restrooms. It was austere, but functional—a desk, a chair, an old couch, a safe, and a few mementos. Duke handed Moonie an Iron City that he had snatched from the nearly empty trough. He pulled the door shut and sat in the dilapidated office chair, blowing out his breath.
After Moonie had taken a seat on a folding chair and had thrown back two hard swallows of his beer, Duke asked, “Do you remember the night Kodiak Kripinski was going to kick my ass behind the school?”
“Sure. I remember,” he said. “That guy was all bluster.”
“He might have been bluster to you, but he would have throttled me.”
Moonie shrugged. “That was twenty-some years ago. What’s your point?”
“The point is, all my life you’ve been there to bail me out—when I was a mouthy kid on the ball fi
eld, or when Kodiak Kripinski was going to beat my ass. You were always there.”
“Well, you’ve helped me out, too,” Moonie said, raising his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what friends do? I mean, I think what you did for me lately was pretty spectacular. Most guys would never do that for anyone.”
“You would have done it for me,” Duke said.
“Of course,” Moonie said, hitting his Iron City and leaning his chair against the wall. “Hell, Duke, it’s just that I’m good at watching your back and fighting. You’re good with money and thinkin’ and jump shots. It’s a pretty good combination if you’re going to be in the bar business.”
Duke nodded. “Good point. That’s what I want to talk to you about, Moonie. I know you wanted a piece of the restaurant, so if this gets off the ground, I’ll sell you 15 percent. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and you put in a hell of a lot of work, and the only thing you’ve asked for is beer, so I think you’re entitled. I’m going to crunch some numbers, but after the first couple of months, if things are looking good, you’ll be part owner of Duke’s Place.”
A slab of white-hot Wheeling-Pittsburgh steel could not have put off more light than Moonie’s face. “Duke, are you serious? That would be great, just great. I’ll give you whatever you want for it.”
“No money. It’ll be sweat equity for everything you’ve done and everything you’re going to do down the road. But, there’s a hitch, Moon.”
“Of course there is. What?”
“If you want to be part owner of Duke’s Place, you’ve got to stop gambling.”
The glow melted from his face. “What? Why? What’s gambling got to do with anything?”
“I can’t afford to have my partner in hock to Tony DeMarco and the Antonellis. I don’t want them coming in here and busting the place to pieces because you owe them money. Or, worse, they take your 15 percent as payment. When that happens, I’m in the same hole as Carmine. He let ’em in the door years ago, and now they own him. I won’t let that happen here. Not to mention that I don’t want to be burying any more body parts. If I let you in, you’ve got to give me your word that you’ll never put down another nickel. Not at the tracks, not at Vegas, not with Carmine.”
