Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  “A light.”

  “Jack! Paul!”

  It was John.

  Jack wasn’t entirely sure what happened next. Paul let out a yelp as he hit the ground, and his captor either dropped or threw him to the ground. Something whooshed past him, a purple shadow in the beam from John’s flashlight. It ran past the beam and down the tunnel, blowing past John.

  “Jack?” It was Paul’s voice, up ahead.

  “Over here.”

  Jack stood up, intent on locating Paul and flying the coop, but a big hand came down on his shoulder.

  “C’mon, Jack. Let’s get out of here.”

  It was John, praise be the Lord.

  “Paul! Come over here. Toward the light.”

  Paul staggered out of the darkness, his skin bleached, his lips blue.

  “You boys have had quite a scare. Let me take you home.”

  They left the tunnel, John with his arms around their shoulders.

  Emma lay on the bed with her hands across her belly, as if compressing it would somehow make the nausea disappear. She was waiting for her mother to come up and ask her if she was okay, and she dreaded it almost as much as another encounter with Jacob. To say discussing the Jacob situation with her mother was uncomfortable could be the understatement of the century.

  She had showered and dressed in a blue sweatsuit. Downstairs, the water ran and dishes chimed as Mom finished cleaning up after supper. Two hours she spent down there, scrubbing grease and caked-on food, refusing to let Emma help her because she didn’t feel good tonight. Whenever Emma suggested Mom get a dishwasher, she resorted to the parental standard: we don’t have a money tree in the backyard.

  The water shut off, and Emma pictured Mom folding the dish towel in thirds and placing it over the dish drainer.

  Emma shut her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them her mother was in the doorway with a bottle of Pepto Bismol in her hand.

  “How are you?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “Touch of the flu. Maybe you should stay home another day.”

  God, she would go batty if cooped up for another day.

  “Just a little upset belly.”

  “If you think you’re okay.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you enjoy seeing Aunt Sam and Jacob?”

  No. And double no.

  “Sure.”

  “Honey, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Can I just be alone please?”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Here was her chance. Mom had opened the door and all she had to do was walk through it to get cousin creepo off her back. She started to open her mouth but then closed it.

  “What is it?” Mom said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right, but if you change your mind you can tell me.”

  “Okay.”

  She kissed Emma on the cheek and wished her good night.

  “Remember, you can talk to me.”

  I wish I could, Mom. I wish I could, but you just don’t know.

  CHAPTER 19

  They climbed the stairs and ducked through the small door leading to the kitchen. Ronnie stood there giggling and pointing at Jack as he came through the entranceway.

  “Haw, haw! Have trouble down there, Jack? Did you make fudge in your drawers?” More laughing.

  “You’re about as funny as a brain tumor.”

  “I would’ve given my left arm to see the look on your face. Haw, haw!”

  He was nearly doubled over laughing, obviously very pleased with himself, and for one moment Jack saw him as a fat, slow moron who deserved whatever beating he got from guys like Vinnie Palermo.

  “Did you see any ghost?”

  That was it. As a certain spinach-eating sailor used to say, “That’s all I can stands.”

  He stepped forward and shoved Ronnie, his palms slapping against Ronnie’s chest.

  Ronnie didn’t budge. “Hey! Blood brothers don’t do that kind of stuff.”

  “Blood brothers don’t ditch each other either.”

  “Why you so bent out of shape? I was just playing a joke.”

  Paul came through the door and stood behind Jack.

  “It wasn’t funny at all,” Paul said.

  “No, it wasn’t.” It was awful. It was scary. It couldn’t be real . . .

  The rich voice came from behind him, and he could feel John behind him, towering like the Empire State Building.

  “You boys gather round me.”

  John crouched down, and even then he still seemed like a giant.

  “John, he pushed me!” Ronnie stuck out a fat finger, pointing at Jack, as if John would have trouble seeing him otherwise.

  “Did you push him?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Don’t do it again. Some people might get upset about that, Jack.”

  John looked at Ronnie, then Paul, then Jack, staring each boy in the eye and pausing for a moment for effect.

  “You all listen to me. What you did today was stupid. Damn stupid. You could’ve gotten lost or hurt down there. And you, young Mr. Winter, I told you to keep your butt out of there in the first place. Leaving these two down there with no light was a rotten trick. I catch any of you fools down there again and I’ll kick your little white butts.”

  “Aw, John,” Ronnie said.

  “Don’t give me that. You know better. And you should apologize.”

  Ronnie lowered his head and muttered, “I’m sorry.” He sniffled, and although Jack couldn’t see his face he was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

  “You guys won’t stop being friends with me, will you?”

  “No,” Jack said. “Unless you pull another stunt like that.”

  “Good. What about you, Paul?”

  Paul pursed his lips and frowned. He looked at Jack and Jack gave him a nod.

  “All right. But do that again and no more friends.”

  “Now that we have that settled, I need to get you two home,” John said.

  So far no one had brought up what happened in the tunnel, and Jack had been so angry at Ronnie that he forgot about biting the guy on the leg. His lips and tongue felt as if they had been packed in ice, and the bitter taste permeated his mouth. Hopefully that thing didn’t poison him.

  Maybe John would have an explanation for what happened. Although he didn’t know who would frequent an underground tunnel built by an eccentric millionaire. Whoever it was made bad company.

  “Let’s hit it, boys.”

  John motioned for them to follow and they left the kitchen.

  The limo pulled away and Jack waved as it disappeared into the curtain of snow.

  Jack trudged up the driveway, his legs feeling like two iron posts that took monumental effort to drag behind him. Shivers pulsed through his body, and nothing sounded better than sliding underneath his flannel sheets. John had dropped Paul off first, then Jack. Before he had gotten out of the car, John warned him again about staying out of the tunnels, and that bad things could happen to little boys down there. He didn’t have to tell Jack twice.

  He swung the chain-link gate open and tugged on the doorknob. A pine wreath hung on the door and Jack inhaled, sucking in that smell and thinking of Christmas morning and the stack of silver-and-red-wrapped presents under the tree. He rang the doorbell and Mom padded down the stairs and opened the door.

  “Did you have fun at Ronnie’s house?”

  “You knew I was at Ronnie’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you know?”

  “His mother called me. Nice young lady. Must’ve been pretty young when he was born from the sound of her voice.”

  He could tell that Mom didn’t approve of that.

  “Are you going to stand there all night?”

  “Invite me in.”

  Jack came in and after a quick cup of cocoa, he showered. He stayed
in the shower a good twenty minutes, letting the hot water take the chill out of his bones. He got out, dried off, and slipped into his flannel pajamas.

  He suddenly wished Ronnie hadn’t come tumbling over that snowbank yesterday with Vinnie and his boys in hot pursuit. Now he was Jack’s problem, and as he remembered the cold stare Ronnie gave him, he thought Ronnie Winter might be a little crazy. And why did his mom have to choose Jack to babysit the kid anyway? Anyone who provoked guys like Vinnie Palermo deserved what they got. Why should I take responsibility for him?

  He slipped under the covers and twined his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. It was in moments like this he did his best thinking. He tried to avoid thinking about what Ronnie’s mom had done to him. Mended his ribs and soothed his aching head, but how? What the hell was Cassie Winter?

  Ronnie lay on his bed, knees up and covered, a miniature Everest. A gust of wind rattled the window, throwing snow like a child tossing jacks, and he pulled the covers up to his chin. Don’t like the wind, he thought. Sounds like people in pain.

  Mom would be up soon to talk to him about the trip into the tunnels. He had disobeyed John, but grown-ups didn’t know how much fun, how radical pranks were.

  They made his motor hum. Leaving flaming dog crap on steps, putting M-80s in mailboxes, and throwing mud balls at windows were the king. Almost as good as calling big kids names and seeing if they chased after you. It got the heart racing and the adrenaline flowing. The other guys were going to love pranks, and once he got to know them better, Jack and Paul would be egging houses right alongside him. The prank in the tunnel was a good one, and he really didn’t know what had happened, but Paul and Jack looked like they wanted to piss their pants. Pranks were a pisser, all right.

  The doorknob turned and Mom entered, her hair in a ponytail. He sat up on the bed and folded his legs Indian-style.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, the shadows outside growing longer. Ronnie didn’t like the estate at night. The snow looked bleaker, as if they were dropped in the middle of an arctic landscape with no hope of rescue.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s spooky around here when it’s dark,” Ronnie said.

  “Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “We’re safe in here.”

  “Right. What happened in the tunnels today?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “John told me but I want to hear your version.”

  He was in deep this time.

  “Well?” Mom said.

  “We went down there. I dared the other guys.”

  “That’s better.”

  He told her the whole story, including how Jack got mad and pushed him.

  “I don’t like him pushing you.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Ronnie said.

  “He’s supposed to be your friend.”

  “I deserved it.”

  “Don’t ever say that.”

  She clamped on to his wrist and he flinched.

  “Mom, that hurts.”

  “Never let anyone treat you like that. You don’t deserve anything like that.”

  “It was just a push.”

  “First it’s a push; then they’re calling you fat, and then they’re chasing you home from school.”

  She let go of his wrist. He pulled it back, scared of her when she got like this.

  “They’re cool guys, Mom. Don’t worry so much.”

  “We’ll see. Look at me and not out the window. You are never to go into those tunnels again. Bad things can happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like being drowned, crushed, lost, freezing to death, or other things.”

  “Pretty scary. Why would someone build them?”

  “The Steadmans had too much money. He was one of the richest men in the country. The tunnels were already here. He tried to build the rail system but abandoned it when the workers died. You’re not thinking of going back into those tunnels, are you?”

  “No Mom.” He swore that woman read minds.

  “Good.”

  “Tell me about Dad again,” he said.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Please?”

  “Your father was very rich, like the Steadmans. He owned over a hundred and fifty manufacturing plants. They made car parts, brake pads, drums, air-conditioning units. WINCO was worth twenty billion dollars when he sold it.”

  “He got all that money?”

  “All that money. Enough to never have to work for a thousand lifetimes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I’ve told you this a thousand times.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “His plane crashed on the way back from a ski trip to Aspen. It hit a bad storm and went down.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Enough about that. Remember what I told you about the tunnels.”

  “What was he like?”

  “That’s enough,” she said.

  “Why won’t you—”

  “Enough!”

  She clapped her hands together inches from his face, and Ronnie flinched.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the chest.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said, stroking his hair. “I just get a little tired of telling the same story over and over.”

  “If you love someone you shouldn’t get tired of talking about them.”

  “I have to go downstairs.” She stood up and strode out of the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  Paul made the point of taking his boots off and tiptoeing into the house, hoping that the General wouldn’t hear him. He was out of luck, for when he walked in the door, there he was, standing with a bottle of Molson in his hand, oxford unbuttoned, his belly hanging out.

  “ ’Bout time you came home.”

  “Uh, sorry, Dad.”

  “You’re lucky that Rocky kid’s mother called me and told me where you were.”

  “Ronnie.”

  “Don’t correct me!” He raised his hand and then lowered it, as if hitting Paul right now would be too much effort.

  Paul lifted his hand to shield his face. “Sorry.”

  “Get your ass to bed. It’s getting late.”

  He took a swig of his beer, scratched his belly, and headed for the living room.

  Paul expected a cuff across the cheek at the very least. One time his watch had stopped and he came home a half hour late. The General had beat him across the back with an extension cord, and he expected the same this time. Ronnie’s mother must have been a miracle worker to soothe the savage beast inside his father.

  He hurried to his room for fear his father would change his mind about a beating. While stripping off his clothes he looked up at the Star Wars poster the General had trashed, and decided it needed to be fixed. He rummaged in his top dresser drawer, found an old roll of Scotch tape, and taped the poster together, smoothing it with his hand. You could still see a jagged tear in it, but it was a pretty good tape job.

  Ruin my posters, will you?

  He threw on a T-shirt and hopped into bed, and like Jack Harding a block away, he pulled the covers up high, remembering the incident in the tunnel. That fat porker Winter had left them down there to rot, and he didn’t know why he agreed to remain friends with him. The smell of the guy that dragged him away permeated his nostrils, the smells of decay and rot. And then there were the hands, freezing cold, as if the guy were already dead.

  Maybe they should ditch the Winter kid. Bad news, he was.

  He would talk to Jack about it tomorrow because Jack always knew what to do.

  Paul whipped off the covers and emerged into the cold air. Winter mornings were the worst; it was cold, dark, and the bare floors almost stung your feet. Despite the cold, he was glad to be awake and alive. The room was nowhere near as cold as whatever had grabbed him in the tunnel. He had never felt cold that pure, as if no amount of heat could thaw it. And it had smelled like a dead hor
se rotting in the sun.

  He had dreamt of it, the hands clasping around his throat. In the tunnel, dim light grew brighter until a maw of razor teeth appeared before him, snapping at his face just as he woke up. The same dream came every time he fell back to sleep.

  He dressed and grabbed his backpack, realizing he had never done his homework last night. Ordinarily this would have thrown him into a panic, but after the events in the tunnel, missed homework was nothing. He carried a ninety-eight average, and the teachers were bound to cut him some slack this one time.

  He crept into the kitchen. Dishes caked with dried egg, spaghetti sauce, and sour milk were piled high in the sink. The sour smell of old beer wafted up from the empty bottles on the counter. Ever since Randy had left for the navy last year, things had gotten worse around here. Randy had done the housework and helped him with chores, keeping the General off Paul’s back.

  The General loved Randy, who was determined to go through BUD/S training and become a Navy SEAL. That was his father’s wet dream: having a kid in the Navy SEALs. Paul was scrawny and liked to read sci-fi and fantasy, everything his father despised. He hated the bastard, but every night he went to sleep with a dull ache in his chest, hoping Dad would come in and kiss him good night. It never happened.

  He threw a can of Coke, chips, and a Twinkie in his lunch box and snapped it shut. His stomach felt sour, so he skipped breakfast, washed up, and brushed his teeth.

  With a last look of disgust at the mess in the kitchen, he walked out the door.

  Mother Nature and Jack Frost continued to put a hurt on Brampton. Another eight inches of snow had fallen overnight, and the weathermen were calling for another six to twelve. The town’s salt barn was down to a quarter capacity and one of the big yellow plows blew a hydraulic line, putting it out of commission. Already the remaining plows were putting in overtime, and the drivers were bitching up a storm. Dutch Finney threatened to quit if he couldn’t go home and grab at least a couple of hours’ sleep.

  Traffic wasn’t much better. A Toyota and a Bronco had met head-on in the middle of Main Street, and the Bronco’s driver bought it on the way to Erie County Medical Center. Max Browman’s F-150 spun out, hitting a telephone pole, and Sylvia Platz’s Camry skidded into the corner of Burger King, knocking concrete blocks in the foundation loose.