Chapter 39 – Two Years to the Day (The Moral Compass)
Sunday morning January 13, 2008 – 8:00 AM
Dear reader, as is often the case in our own lives, as well as in the lives of others, sometimes to make sense of the present we must recall the past. And so with that in mind we must once again take you back to a particular day in the life of our conflicted charlatan, Ms. Tracy Stone.
…
The mournful voice of the late Grateful Dead bandleader, Jerry Garcia, singing the ballad “Cold, Rain and Snow” crackled out of Tracy Stone’s speakers as she meticulously dressed herself up for this much anticipated, albeit less than festive, special occasion.
The windswept snow and the blustery gusts of bone-chilling air which awaited Tracy as she wedged open the front door of her home, made her inspirational song selection all the more appropriate on this most portentous of mornings.
Today was to be a turning point in Tracy’s life; today was to be a day of reckoning; today was to be a day when the hellions which had debilitated her soul for so long now were to be ceremoniously exorcised and vanquished for all time; today was to be ‘The Day’ that a mighty storm blew into town and liberated her spirit like the Allied forces who invaded Normandy on D-Day just in time to save the free world when all seemed lost.
Today was a day that found Tracy bundled up in her winter overcoat and her favorite scarf and mittens, ready to brave the elements; ready to brave her heart; ready to brave her very life. Today was the day that found Tracy tranquilly preparing to make her long overdue first visit to the grave of her high school sweetheart, Fred Miller, and nothing short of an act of God was going to stop her.
In many respects, the blizzard-like conditions which had decimated the entire southern New England region were enough of an act of God that it would have stopped a less determined woman dead in her tracks. But not Tracy, for she was at peace with her decision; her heart and soul were in total harmony with her belief that she was wholly prepared and equally protected for this pivotal moment of truth, both spiritually and physically, and in more ways than one.
First of all, Tracy had been praying to her Wiccan deity, almost daily now, for the past year…and today was to be the day that the cleansing would finally be completed. She was sure of it. Secondly, her thermally enhanced outfit was made to withstand below zero temperatures, and so, as far as she was concerned, the awe-inspiring fury of Mother Nature was not a curse, but a blessing in disguise.
The Wicca pentacle symbolically embroidered into the scarf and mittens which Tracy was wearing, in particular, held special power and significance, because these items had been given to her as a Christmas present by the aforementioned “Freddie” shortly before his death. And since it was shaping up to be a bitterly cold morning, even by New England standards, his gift also held practical, not to mention sentimental and ethereal value as well.
Today’s date on the calendar marked exactly two years to the day that Fred Miller’s body was discovered, shot down dead, in a cold, dark, haunted garage as he sat in his car minding his own business. And starting today, Tracy was determined to make an annual vigil to Fred’s final resting place on this, the anniversary of his doleful day of emancipation from the physical chains that bind us all.
Today also marked one year to the day that Tracy’s own life almost came to a sudden end, and she was dead-set on ensuring that she never reached that depth of despair ever again.
It was one year to the day that Tracy got herself so medicated she was nearly comatose by the time her sister Beth arrived at her house to drop off the kids, and upon finding her more dead than alive, she had her rushed to the emergency room.
It was one year to the day that Tracy was taken by ambulance to the local hospital in such a severe state of intoxication that the ER doctor on duty suggested calling in a priest to perform last rites. And yet even as she lay there in her hospital bed, on death’s doorstep, she still recalled the look of fear etched upon her children’s faces as she was rolled out of her home on a stretcher.
Even though Tracy was lost in a blind state of numb confusion on that terrifying night exactly one year ago, to this day she still insists that she was able to hear the cries of her children, calling out to her in vain; pleading for the want of their mother; praying to God, “Please don’t let our mommy die.”
Who knows, perhaps she imagined it, perhaps not, but either way it is irrelevant. Either way, the fact remains that the only thing that gave her the strength to carry on in this accursed life was the poignant thought of her children, all alone in the world, their father in prison, and their mother buried six feet under.
Up until that point, Tracy had abandoned the will to live. She had hit rock bottom, and she just wanted it all to be over. She just wanted to die right then and there, and be reunited with her late mother and father, as well as her beloved Freddie, fittingly on the same day that he celebrated his exodus from this downtrodden planet.
Yes, Tracy saw the beam of light, and she heard the voice beckoning for her to surrender and come home to the Lord. She saw her mother, floating like an angel. She saw her father, sitting at the feet of God’s Throne. She saw Freddie’s outstretched arms reaching for her, their fingers almost touching as he attempted to pull her over to the safety of the other side, like the two hands famously painted by Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel.
However, just as she reached the Gates of Heaven in her drug-altered consciousness, she also encountered the image of Saint Peter, and he told her to go back from whence she came; he told her that her time was not up; he told her that there was still work to be done down on Mother Earth below; he told her to be thankful for this second chance; he told her to rise up from the ashes and live again; he told her to embrace this special gift…and she took his advice with a vengeance.
Undeniably, Tracy had come a long way since the first anniversary of Freddie’s unexpected demise and her own near death experience; so much so that she now celebrated sobriety with such an enthusiasm and vigor that she would willingly admit to her friends; “I’m getting high on just trying to stay straight.”
And in some strange way, the challenges of resisting temptation often times did leave her in a state of radiant euphoria.
But despite all of her hard work, Tracy was the first to admit that she still had urges; both physical and mental compulsions; both sexual and chemical cravings. However, whenever one of these weaknesses surfaced, she would evoke the cries of her children in her mind’s eye, and her resolve would be strengthened by tenfold. Whenever one of her many vices reared its ugly head, she would visualize the tears streaming down her babies little cheeks like the sweat of Jesus as he carried his Cross on the Crucifixion Day, and just like that, the itch in her brain would be soothed as if by some sort of magical ointment for the soul.
Whenever Tracy’s appetite for destruction resurfaced, the images of her kid’s faces on that night one year ago would be pulled up from the recesses of her mind like a picture file being punched up on a computer screen at the press of a button, and she would find the courage to fight off her demons.
Tracy would contemplate often on how her children were taken from her by the powers that be; how she was forced to live without her most precious gifts; how she was declared to be an unfit mother by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And she would never forget how she suffered…oh how she suffered; she would never forget how she suffered a separation anxiety so unbearable that it scared her straight; she would never forget how the unimaginable pain compared to nothing else she had ever experienced, not even the senseless murder of her high school sweetheart, Fred Miller.
But alas Tracy also suffered from the same human frailties as the rest of us; a longing in her heart, an aching in her bosom, a sorrow in her soul. In short, Tracy was lonely, oh so very lonely.
Tracy had dated many men in the past year, but none could satisfy her deepest desires. None could quench her lust. None could impel her t
o leave behind her rocky past. Tracy was known to joke; “I’ve had as many shrinks as I’ve had boyfriends since I got sober, and they’re all full of shit if you ask me.”
However, as far as Tracy’s psychiatrists were concerned, it seemed to them that her pathology required that she always have a man (or two) in her life in order for her to feel worthwhile; in order for her to feel whole. But after countless therapy sessions and endless hours of self-searching, she was finally able to see herself as an individual; she was finally able to shed the crutch of relying on someone else to define her inner being.
Yes, the freedom of self-reliance had worked wonders on Tracy’s psyche; she was alone and OK with it. And yet sometimes late at night she still ached for the way that Freddie touched her; the way he made her feel alive in ways that no one else could. Sometimes late at night she still missed the reliability of her ex-husband, John Breslin, his take-charge attitude, his financial support, the safety that she felt in his arms. Sometimes late at night she still yearned to have someone, anyone, laying there beside her.
Tracy proved to herself and to everyone else that she could make it on her own. But now as she dropped her kids off at her sister’s house and made her way to the cemetery, she prayed that the time was right for her stunning rebirth. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this emptiness. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this loneliness. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this stark disillusion and absolute hopelessness which had pervaded her from deep within her heart.
And as Tracy kneeled there in the bitter cold by Fred Miller’s burial plot, perhaps her prayers were finally being answered. Perhaps her prayers were being answered in the most unlikely of forms imaginable. Perhaps her prayers were being answered in the form of one Mr. Cameron “Cam” Miller.
For as Tracy Stone hugged Fred’s tombstone and begged for his forgiveness, she heard a voice calling out her name; a voice that sounded very much like Freddie’s, and in her vulnerable state of mind it startled her to no end.
At this lonely, early morning hour, in this desolate cemetery, a voice that sounded like a ghost from Tracy’s past shook her to her very core. However, she needn’t have been frightened, for it wasn’t a voice from her past, but a voice from her present. It wasn’t Freddie’s voice, but the voice of his brother Cam who was also making his own solemn vigil to visit the brother he loved and missed so much.
As Cam approached, Tracy twisted her body around and lunged at him in an engulfing hug while at the same time she whimpered; “Cam you scared the shit out of me. I forgot how much you sound like Freddie, how much you look like Freddie.”
“It’s good to see you Tracy. I’m not surprised to find you here,” quietly replied Cam with the warm smile of a reverend greeting his parishioners.
“Oh Cam, I’m so sorry…I’m sorry for everything that I’ve brought upon your family. I swear I wish it was me who died that day. I swear to God I’m so sorry,” sobbed Tracy as she tightened her hold on him.
“It alright Tracy…no one in my family blames you for what happened. You’re just as much a victim as we are, if not more so,” insisted Cam in a low, soothing voice. And as the happily married Cam Miller held Tracy in his arms and attempted to console her, he was completely unaware of the reaction that his affections were having on her. For suddenly Tracy felt something stir inside her; for suddenly Tracy felt an eruption of desire in her loins which seemingly came vaulting out of nowhere; for suddenly Tracy felt as if her prayers had been answered.
Tracy rested her head against Cam’s chest in a silent meditation that lasted several minutes, after which Cam took her by the hand and offered his assistance; “Come on, let me walk you to your car.”
With Cam leading the way through the slippery snow, they arrived safely at Tracy’s vehicle, and she peered deeply into his eyes as they came to a stop at the foot of her subcompact automobile. And, as if by some magical force, she was instantly transported back to another place and time when life was carefree; when just having fun trumped all other responsibilities; when making love to Freddie sent her off to another dimension where nothing, past, present, or future really mattered other than getting totally lost in the utterly ecstatic moment of surrender.
As Tracy stared into Cam’s eyes, she was blown away by just how much he looked like Freddie. She had always known that the similarities existed, after all they were brothers. But she never noticed the uncanny resemblance up until that very moment; and at that very moment, Tracy Stone fell in love again.
Tracy’s mind was racing in a confused tangle of fantasy and reality.
“Maybe its destiny…maybe it was suppose to end up this way…maybe it was Cam and I who were meant to be together all along.”
Tracy knew full well that Cam was a married man, but rational thinking was never one of her strengths, and so she justified her feelings by reasoning that she wouldn’t be the first or last dreamer who had ever acted irrationally in the name of love.
Cam caught a glimpse of the far-away look in Tracy’s eyes and he sensed that something was amiss, but even he was totally surprised when Tracy sank her arms around him and began wildly kissing his face while pleading and crying, “please Cam, just hold me…I need someone to hold me so bad…so bad…so bad.”
“It’s OK Tracy…everything’s gonna be alright,” whispered Cam repeatedly as he returned her embrace, while in the back of his mind what he was really thinking was; “it’s just your ex-husband that I wish a cruel, painful death upon.”
…
Of course, whether everything was truly going to be alright remained to be seen…and perhaps in the end it depends on the moral compass which has been forged into the conscience of each and every one of us, and the direction that it points.
Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral fabric that we knit over time from our life experiences.
Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral judgments that swell from deep within us all.
Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral circumstances that are sometimes…perilously hidden…from the eyes of a juror.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 48
