by John Snyder
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by John Snyder
Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBNs: 978-1-5460-1039-5 (paper over board), 978-1-5460-1041-8 (ebook)
E3-20180813-DANF
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Also by John Snyder
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Newsletters
Also by John Snyder
The Golden Ring: A Christmas Story
To the many Salvation Army Bell Ringers who weather the elements during the Christmas season each year to ring in the holiday and help facilitate a better way of life for millions of people in need.
Chapter One
A deafening screech, then a loud thud jolted Jacob McCallum upright from his slumber as the freight train pulled into the Chicago yards on a chilly September morning in 1944. The boxcar, which carried him from the West, had a musty stench about it. Jacob’s head throbbed. His breath reeked of whiskey and tobacco. An empty whiskey bottle lay next to his right leg—the remnants of a hard night’s drinking. He lay his head back down on his knapsack and lit the stub of a cigarette as he watched the sunlight trickle through the cracks into the emptiness of the darkened wooden boxcar. Accustomed to traveling this way, he journeyed across the country looking for odd jobs and handouts to support himself.
As the train slowed, Jacob prepared to jump off. It wasn’t wise to linger after the train pulled into the yard. Though hopping a freight wasn’t a serious crime, they were cracking down. If caught, he could be arrested.
Jacob slid the door open and squinted hard as the bright morning sun reflected off his face. Instinctively, his right hand rose to his face, shielding his eyes while they adjusted to the light. The sun revealed the weathered skin of a sixty-three-year-old man who appeared much older, the cumulative result from many years of hard living on the streets. Jacob lived a callous life and carried the scars to prove it. Over the years, his face and head wore more stitches than a fine country quilt from countless fights, falls, and knocks to the skull.
The son of Irish immigrants, Jacob grew up on the south side of Chicago, a notoriously tough neighborhood. The skills he learned as a lad with his knuckles proved handy over the years, getting him out of plenty of tight spots, and into just as many. He spent most of his time riding the rails and hanging out on the streets with roughnecks and hooligans. His fighting skills were honed in prison, where he fought for recreation and for the amusement of the guards. Mostly, though, his fighting, just like his drinking, got him into trouble more than anything else.
Like the time when he was just thirteen and he came upon his older brother cornered by two adult thugs trying to strong-arm him for his billfold. His brother was sixteen at the time, but far more timid than Jacob. Backed against an alley wall, he pleaded with his robbers to let him go. Jacob snuck up from behind, introducing himself with a sucker punch out of left field, knocking one of the ruffians down. To even his chances, he snatched a heavy metal pipe from the ground and cracked it hard over the kneecaps of the other before chasing both of them down the alley, wildly swinging the pipe over his head as he ran. As the trio rounded the corner, they rushed directly into a group of the muggers’ friends, who promptly came to their aid, issuing Jacob a mighty beating. His brother, unaware, safely made his escape, only to witness Jacob’s return home bloodied and bruised.
Jacob jumped from the boxcar as it slowly rolled into the yard. He executed a perfect landing. Standing there proudly, he puckered his lips and drew one last time on what was left of his cigarette, savoring the last of its nicotine. Tossing the smoldering butt onto the tracks, he rubbed his hand over his unshaven face, where a white stubble had emerged. I’m gettin’ too old for this nonsense, he thought to himself as he walked across the train yard. Jumping freight trains, sleeping on the ground, and enduring the elements didn’t come as easily as they used to.
He hadn’t always lived this way. Jacob did have three grown children. Emma, his eldest, lived somewhere in Baltimore, Maryland. Frankie, the youngest, lived with his older brother, Tom, and his family in Chicago—the last Jacob had heard. Tom and Frankie were the motives for Jacob’s visit to the city. He needed to put things right between himself and his two sons. Jacob had been riddled with guilt over the years for the tragedy he’d brought upon his older son, evidenced by a limp Tom would have the rest of his life.
A recent near-death experience out West spurred Jacob to take an accounting of his life. He came down with a bad bout of pneumonia and almost didn’t make it. While lying in a hospital bed in Nevada, he came to the realization he needed to reconcile with his children before his time ran out.
Five years had passed since he had last seen his sons, even longer since he had seen Emma. He hadn’t seen his granddaughter since she was a baby. Emma made sure of that. He had yet to meet Tom’s young son, Michael, who was born three years earlier. Jacob’s relationship with his children was chilly at best. And it took years just to reach that level of warmth. Tom’s parting words from Jacob’s last visit still echoed in his head. “Now get out of here and never come back again!” His encounters with Emma had a similar history. Jacob’s family wanted little to do with him, and for good reason.
As he made his way through the streets of Chicago, he noticed there were not many young men about, and the ones that were wore uniforms. World War II was in full fury. Most of the young men of Chicago, like young men in every other city and town in America, were being consumed by the global war. He wondered about Frankie—was he, too, wearing a uniform?
Jacob often pondered about his youngest child. He knew Tom and Emma were fine. They were strong, sometimes even stubborn, much like him. But Frankie was different, more like his mother, sensitive and overly generous, far less independent than his s
iblings. The turmoil Jacob had brought upon his family seemed to have a more profound effect on Frankie, but in a quiet sort of way. He never lost his temper or showed anger toward Jacob as did Tom and Emma. Frankie always seemed less emotional, more withdrawn. But Jacob knew that what he had done had deeply scarred his youngest child. Through it all, though, Frankie seemed to show Jacob more love and respect than his siblings.
Jacob projected a tough exterior, walking with a cocky gait, but on the inside he was hurting. Haunted by memories of the past, filled with regrets and what-ifs, he longed for love and companionship, which had evaded him for so many years. For most of the last two decades, Jacob existed in an alcohol-induced fog, a time of denial and self-pity mixed with intermittent periods of remorse, sobriety, and attempts at reconciliation.
Jacob stopped, slung his coat over his shoulder, and inserted a crumpled cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
“Got a light?” he asked a passerby.
“Sure, pal.”
Jacob leaned his head into the palms of the stranger’s hands as they cupped the matchstick. Drawing the flame onto the end of his cigarette, he stood upright and inhaled deeply.
While exhaling, he asked, “Know a place where a fella can get a drink this early?”
“Down the street, turn the corner, and at the end of the block is a joint called Kelly’s.”
“Thanks.”
Jacob headed to Kelly’s for a morning fix of liquid courage before he would begin his quest to find his sons and attempt to extinguish the burning in his heart. As he strolled through the warehouse district of the city, his memory took him back to a distant time, some thirty years before. Dressed in an expensive suit partially hidden by a fashionable woolen topcoat, he wore freshly shined shoes made of expensive Italian leather, and his hair was full and slicked back in a way that accentuated his chiseled features and a strong jawline, features that attracted the attention of the ladies when he walked by. Surrounded by associates, he was greeted warmly by passersby, who regarded him with much respect. After all, he was among the richest and most powerful men in Chicago.
“Hey, old man, watch where you’re going!”
Startled back into the present when he bumped shoulders with a man on the sidewalk, Jacob passively let the encounter go without incident. In his younger day, the guy’s rude remark most likely would have put him on the receiving end of one of Jacob’s well-established right hooks. But ol’ Jacob was tired, tired of fighting, tired of running—just plain ol’ tired. He offered a muted apology: “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Well, why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“I said I was sorry.”
The confrontation caused Jacob to drop his coat onto the ground. He stared down at the pathetic piece of cloth, riddled with holes, the pockets ripped at the sides. Honestly, it wasn’t worth the effort to bend over and pick it up, but it was all Jacob had, a far cry from the fine woolen topcoat he once wore.
Spotting the sign over the front door, he stopped in front of Kelly’s. Flicking his spent cigarette out into the street, he opened the door and walked inside. The place was practically empty. The barkeep, chewing on a half-smoked cigar, was sweeping the floor. Five shabbily dressed patrons were seated at a table playing poker, and in the corner a guy slept soundly in a booth, his head resting on the table in front of him. The place smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The glow of the morning sun, which snuck through the pub’s smoggy windows, provided the only light in the dim establishment. It flowed into the smoke-filled room, its beams of light spilling onto the dirty wooden floor.
Jacob pulled out a stool and bellied up to the bar. The bartender disregarded him and just kept sweeping. He sat patiently for a few moments before becoming irritated at being ignored.
“Hey, buddy!” Jacob called out.
Still, the bartender kept sweeping.
“Hey, buddy. I’m talking to you.”
The bartender looked up and said, “I’m not your buddy.”
“Well, I’d like a drink. You are the bartender, aren’t you?”
Without answering, the man walked behind the bar, stopped across from Jacob, leaned in, and said, “What’ll ya have?”
“A tall glass of whiskey.”
The bartender poured whiskey into a dirty glass and put it on the bar in front of Jacob. As Jacob reached for it, the man pulled it back.
“You pay first, then you drink.”
Jacob rummaged through his pockets for the price of the booze. Finding it, he slapped it down on the bar. The bartender released his grip on the glass, grabbed the money, and slid the drink toward Jacob. Friendly place, Jacob thought.
As he straddled the bar stool sipping his whiskey, Jacob eavesdropped on the men playing cards as they cursed loudly and laughed at the punch lines of off-color jokes. He grabbed a box of matches sitting on the bar and fumbled through his pockets for a smoke. Searching frantically, he checked his pants, his shirt, his sweater, and his coat—nothing. He was out. He could bum a smoke from one of the guys playing cards. But that could lead to trouble.
He craned his neck in the bartender’s direction, who was busily wiping off some tables behind him. Out of the question. Then, he glanced at the man sleeping in the corner booth. Sitting on the table by his elbow sat half a pack of Lucky Strikes, Jacob’s preferred brand, but these days he wasn’t too particular. I could sneak over and snag the pack. The dope probably wouldn’t even notice. A smoke sure would go good with this whiskey.
Jacob redirected his roving eyes down to his feet. This must be my lucky day, he laughed inwardly. There, just below the bar, lay a long cigarette butt. Someone had discarded it after taking just a few drags, prematurely snuffing it out on the floor. Fortunately for Jacob, the bartender wasn’t that conscientious about his cleaning. He bent over and lifted the castoff to his lips. Lighting it, he smiled, then turned his attention to the drink he had been neglecting.
His thoughts returned to his past, to happier times, like the day more than thirty years before, when he and Nick, his best friend and business partner, made that big deal. Wow…we sure were flying high that day. We really hit the jackpot. A slight smile crept onto his face, then quickly disappeared. Yeah…and where did all that get me in the end? Where I am today…in a run-down bar sniping cigarette butts off the floor.
Whatever became of Nick? he wondered. He’s got to be doing better than me. He dreamed of the beautiful home he once owned. Some called it a mansion. He drove fancy cars and wore imported suits with silk shirts and ties.
Looking down at his clothes, he frowned at seeing how they were all tattered and torn, pants with patches. His shoes were customized with stuffed cardboard inserts to cover the holes in their soles. He laughed out loud, then joked to himself, I’ve got holes in my soles and a hole in my soul. All of a sudden, it wasn’t funny anymore. He did have a hole in his soul, and it ached.
How could my life have turned like this? I had it all—everything. Now I have nothing…no money, no home, no fancy cars, and most importantly, no family. Nothing!
Of all the things he missed, he longed for his family the most. But he knew that part of his life he could never recapture. Jacob took another swig of whiskey and swallowed hard. He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke, watching it glide toward the ceiling, where it disappeared in the slow whirling blades of the ceiling fan. As he gazed upward, his thoughts again drifted back to his past.
He and Nick went way back—all the way back to their childhood. Nick introduced Jacob to his wife, Amanda, a moment which Jacob would always remember. She was stunningly beautiful with her pale blond hair and blue eyes. They fell deeply in love…a love that still caused Jacob deep anguish.
I should have listened to Nick. My life would be far different today if I had.
“Ouch, dang it!” Jacob’s cigarette burned down to his fingers. His yell caused the men playing cards to turn and stare. The bartender dropped the glass he was washin
g, and the gentleman sleeping in the corner began to stir. Jacob kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, acting as if his indiscretion had never happened. After stubbing out the cigarette, he tilted his head back and poured the remaining whiskey down his throat before confidently slamming the glass back on the bar, picking up his coat, and walking out the door.
The light of the outdoors glared in his eyes. He staggered slightly for a brief moment, partially because of the gleaming sun, but mostly because of the whiskey he’d consumed. He plopped down on a bench in front of the building. A few minutes later, the front door of Kelly’s swung open and the man who had been sleeping in the corner emerged.
“Hey, mate,” the disheveled gentleman said with a prominent British accent. “Mind if I sit here a spell?” He lit one of his Lucky Strikes. “Care for a smoke?”
Ah…that was music to Jacob’s ears.
“Sure. Don’t mind if I do.”
“I haven’t seen you around here before. You from Chicago?”
“Originally. But I’ve been gone for a while,” Jacob said. “Just passing through. I’m here to see my sons. How about you?”
“I rent a room down the street. It isn’t much, but it’s a warm place to bunk. Would you care for a nip?” the British gent said as he pulled a bottle of scotch from inside his coat.
“No. I’ve got to be going. Gotta get to my sons’ place.”
“Oh, come on, mate. A few nips on the bottle will warm you up inside.”
Jacob thought for a moment. He wanted to find Tom and Frankie to straighten things out…to say the things he came there to say. But his fear of Tom’s rejection gave Jacob a reason to kill some time with his new friend. After all, Jacob had robbed his children of their mother’s life, and he knew this would always be a barrier to a meaningful relationship with them. Painfully, he realized that Tom’s feelings of disdain toward him were justified.
“Maybe just a few nips, then I have to go.”
Actually, the gentleman’s offer enticed Jacob to put off his plans…more appealing than sure rejection. A kind stranger willing to share a bottle of scotch and his Lucky Strikes offered the perfect reason to put off his meeting with Tom and Frankie. He spent several hours with his newfound friend, long enough to help find the bottom of the bottle of scotch and to empty that pack of Lucky Strikes. After bidding the man good-bye, Jacob staggered down the street and into another bar, where he stayed much too long.
