The Third Step

by William Lobb

  That was all gone now. Solitude was no longer his friend, his confidant, his companion. Solitude had become his enemy. He could not hide anymore under its cover. Though he was alone, in every waking moment, every sleeping moment, every drunken moment, she was there.

  One day, one perfect October day, a day colored with deep blue skies and golden and red leaves, and the glowing orange of pumpkins, such a beautiful day, Artie realized how completely alone he was. He was walking along the road, listening to the dried and dead leaves crunching under his every step. It saddened him that the colors of the ones that remained on the trees had faded into ugly, dry, brown. That was how he felt inside: ugly, dry, brown. Out of nowhere, he felt a pain in his gut, like someone had driven a pole through his belly. It wasn’t a physical pain, it was emptiness, a hollowness that he had never before experienced and he never wanted to feel again.

  He sat down along the road, sweating in the cool autumn breeze. He heard a car coming down the road. Ben pulled the car to a stop, kicking up the dead leaves and dust, choking his friend for a second on the dust as he stopped. Artie was relieved. The taste of the dead leaves and dust made him realize he was not dead.

  Ben suggested they go to town and get drunk. It was, after all, Saturday, and they needed no better reason. Artie shook his head as he climbed in the car. Today was not the day for that. He asked Ben to drive him to the home of the pretty Irish girl. That is where the story ended and began.

  Artie had great dreams, dreams to fly, dreams to write his poetry. He settled for a life of none of that. He settled for a life of building things of wood and getting drunk with Ben. He married the girl of his dreams, and they raised a family in poverty during the 1920s and 1930s and the lead-up to the Second World War. He watched his life fade from great dreams to the mundane, then the sad.

  He watched his sons go off to war and endured the death of one. The old woman had hoped that Frankie could write the dead son’s poems, fly for Artie. The old woman had such high hopes and expectations for the bright young man who had held such promise as a child.

  After the letter arrived and he was told his son was dead in the war, something in Artie changed. It was a sea change. You could see it in his face and in how he spoke and in how he walked and in his eyes. He looked around at his poverty. He looked around at what little he had and realized one more thing has been taken from him. But this was a big thing. This was his son, his oldest son.

  Artie had himself served in the Great War; he found no romance in it. He hated every minute of it. He was scared, petrified constantly, vomited often. Trench warfare was something he never spoke of. He considered it a miracle that he survived. His patriotism was always questionable. He never touted it, often questioning those who didn’t question it, those who blindly followed the flag. He was not proud when his sons were drafted. His oldest, the one now dead, had volunteered. He was scared. Now his fear turned to anger.

  Artie recalled that he had come home from his war more disillusioned than when he left. He studied the early Communist Party movement, joining it, fighting to be a part of what he believed was the only freedom from tyranny he could find. Then beatings by the cops, almost daily, until he’d submit. He never submitted. Drinking heavily. Accepting his life as it was. He lost his game, lost his drive. The only thing he took away from his war was rage and sorrow. Now another man’s war had destroyed what little he had.

  He’d long known his wife was a witch. Not a bad witch, but not a good witch either. He had long resisted the knowledge he carried in his heart that his marriage was not a love story, nor a coincidence. It had a purpose. When he first saw her along that dusty, dry dirt road, he knew she was the one. Not for some great romantic love; rather they were two of a kind. For some reason the grave letter in his hand, an insultingly curt letter, changed his views on everyone and everything. He saw no victory in war, felt no honor or pride. The only thing he could see was his dead son and innocent children sleeping in the rubble of some bombed-out village, across an ocean, 5000 miles away.

  He read stories of the attack that killed his son, read the word “hero” over and over again. He never wanted to be a hero or have a hero for a son. He thought back to his early days, his days as a union recruiter and enforcer, beating guys senseless, feeling it was all justified, doing whatever was required for the cause. He saw now the danger in this mentality, fighting for another man’s cause, a rich man’s cause. He felt now he was a pawn, as were his sons and every other man’s sons who went off to war.

  He had settled, and all he wanted to do was hide, but then he met the beautiful young witch. She inspired him. Things began to matter again. He wanted to be part of this life again. He found love. He found family. All of these things defined him, made him whole, and made him strong.

  Artie never recovered from the moment he read that letter from the government. Any and all of the good and positive movement he’d made in his life since he met the young witch was gone. Artie went dark. His heart turned cold. His soul turned black.

  Frankie’s grandfather remembered that the old woman always told Frankie that Frankie was her favorite because he reminded her so much of his grandfather. It was almost spooky: he looked like him, acted, thought, and even spoke like him.

  Artie secretly embraced the black arts, even kept this from his wife or tried to. She knew. She saw them growing apart. Rapidly, like two poles of a magnet, just an invisible force pushing them away from each other. The force grew stronger. Artie was dying on the inside. His anger and evil grew. He began to frighten people. Neighbors stopped speaking to them.

  As the other children left and the house grew more and more empty, rumors around the small town began to speak of the haunted house on Route 94. People said they could sense an evil presence all up and down the road. The children never came back, the only visitor was the mailman, and he did not linger. The postman told the police one day that some days it just felt too dangerous even to leave the mail.

  All Artie wanted was to get his son back. He turned cold and silent, even to the remaining children, even his wife. He died soon after. The first time I encountered his spirit was the moment I actually came to believe that spirits of the departed can and do walk among us.

  The old woman thought at first she could control his spirit. She would sit outside on the big front porch where the two of them used to watch summer evenings fade away. She’d sit on the ancient steel outdoor furniture, uncomfortable as hell, the rusty springs and metal bands and round metal tubes painted way too many times. She’d rock back and forth and sing him songs in her old-church-lady voice.

  You could hear moaning and howls from deep inside the old dilapidated house, on the verge of collapse. It had been built before the Revolutionary War. The moaning and the howls were real; they’d raise goosebumps on your skin.

  Artie’s spirit approached the old woman one night, and her blood ran cold. No one was going to scare the old witch. Not that day, not any day, and not in her own house. She said something no one could understand, spoke some words across that void between the living and the dead, and he went silent. Artie’s spirit never reentered the old house. He spent his days in an old, crumbling tool shed that sat between the ancient house and the asparagus patch.

  The power of the old woman was measurable. We all felt it and we could all sense it. While I was never a member of Frankie’s clan, the times when I met the old woman were enough to scare me to death. Frankie always spoke of her like his sweet old grandma, but to almost anyone else she was Hell on Earth. I was always intrigued when I’d hear these stories. How fragile this life was, not that thin line that separated life from death, but the thinner line that separated a once-placid, sane, functional life from insanity.

  It seemed that thinner line could be crossed and even erased with a simple, or not so simple, series of events. Some events passed as unnoticeably as a whisper, some as violent, malicious, and soul-raping as war. O
ne day, Artie was a simple carpenter: raising a family, being a citizen, paying taxes, worrying about money, raising kids, buying bread and pencils and shoes. The next day, he was gone. Still physically here, but just gone.

  Artie died many years before his spirit crossed that invisible line, where life just turns out the light and darkness rushes in like the ocean through a broken sea wall. That darkness would color the world and all of the players who dared go near that old house and garage and Artie’s tool shed. The old shed that held Artie’s spirit was eventually destroyed by a fire that raged so fiercely that some said it was as if Hell had broken through the crust of the Earth, right there on Route 94, in quiet little Orange County, NY.

  Chapter Six:

  Eddie

  When Frankie pulled into the driveway of Eddie’s house, the truck driver’s new Peterbilt was idling on the blacktop. Eddie told Frankie he looked like shit and smelled worse. He’d better take a shower and put on some clean clothes if he was going to be riding with him.

  Eddie’s wife smiled at Frankie, led him into the house, got him a towel, and said she would pack him a bag of Eddie’s old clothes. She seemed to know almost instinctively that Frankie had no time or desire to go collect any of his own things from his apartment. The plan between Eddie and Frankie had been loosely discussed, and she knew all she needed to know.

  While Frankie showered, she talked to Eddie and packed Frankie’s bag and a cooler full of beers for the trip. Eddie kissed his wife goodbye and Frankie climbed back in the Rambler. He had to return it to the old lady before they could leave or there would be absolute hell to pay.

  Frankie backed the Rambler into the old woman’s garage with the gaping hole in the roof and parked it. Eddie had pulled his tractor into the driveway in front of him. Eddie watched, a little nervous, as the old woman walked out the front door of the house. He saw her in her old, white cotton dress and apron, with totally different but somehow perfectly matching patterns of summer flowers.

  The old woman made Eddie very uneasy from the day he met her. That feeling had never changed. It wasn’t anything she said in particular, but an air about her. She stood outside the driver’s side door of Eddie’s truck as Frankie joined them. She said to Eddie, “Don’t you let any harm come to my boy now, you hear?” Eddie smiled and silently prayed Frankie would get in the truck so they could leave.

  Frankie kissed the old woman on the cheek and looked at her as they backed out of the driveway. He saw her standing there next to the massive oak tree in her front yard, sadly waving goodbye. He waved back and tried to smile.

  “She’s just messing with my head,” was all that came to Frankie’s mind as they drove away.

  Eddie said, “I know that’s your dear old grandma, but, dude, she scares the hell out of me. That woman is spooky.”

  Frankie could only laugh.

  The drive into Canada on the NY State Thruway was relatively quiet until they reached the Northway. About this time, Frankie started to wake up from his hangover and stupor. He had slept for about five hours while Eddie went to pick up the trailer, get fuel, and stop in the truck shop to have a minor electrical problem fixed.

  It was already starting to get dark. Frankie hated the early sunset, hated November. He missed the summer. He missed his life before all of this had happened, before last night. He stared out the windshield of the Peterbilt and felt the cold air on his cheek. The further north he and Eddie headed, the more Frankie was reminded of how much he hated the cold.

  The plan was to drop the current load of produce and the trailer somewhere near Montreal and pick up another trailer load of some electronics and then beat feet to Florida.

  Eddie had merely said the electronics were heavily discounted. This was Frankie’s first day at work as a smuggler. It seemed like easy work. Don’t be stupid; don’t get caught; collect the money at the end of the run.

  It was going to be difficult not to be home around the holidays. Turf’s, the bar, was kind of warm and cozy that time of year, except for the fights, cops, drug deals, and occasional stabbing. Jack always put a little plastic Christmas tree on the end of the bar, and every night from early December to New Year’s Eve, they’d get really drunk and make up Christmas carols, usually involving hookers and weed. The bar was home to Frankie. He spent so many nights asleep in a little booth in the back, he often wondered why he just didn’t move in there.

  As they neared the Canadian border Eddie finally asked, “So, what the fuck did you do this time? Whenever you show up looking for work, I know you’re in some kind of shit and need to get away.”

  Frankie muttered, “I beat the fuck out of some asshole heroin dealer and may have killed him. Didn’t hang around to find out. Hear anything about it?”

  Eddie drove on, silently. Although Eddie was never above harboring a criminal, Frankie could tell he was a bit pissed. At the least, Eddie liked to be warned beforehand. The noise of the road was loud, but soothing, the dull whine of massive rubber tires on cold pavement. There was a solace in the warm cab, a leather and plastic cocoon complete with country music.

  Out the window, all they could see for miles was blackness and snow, and a cold so deep you could see it, it soaked into your bones. Frankie could think about only Florida and warm air.

  Eddie asked if he was in for the winter. “We can make some major money. Enough to keep you in weed, hookers, and good and drunk for a few years.” The plan, the scam, was simple: Just don’t get busted. They would haul legit loads south and bring flowers north.

  Frankie was confused. “How are we supposed to get rich hauling fucking flowers?”

  Eddie explained it simply. “You’ll be running drugs for the mob, mostly weed. The trailer is loaded with flowers around the cargo. We pick up the load, keep quiet, haul ass up the East Coast, drop it, get paid, and haul ass back down south. If you aren’t stupid, you and I can make a killing, and you can be the bum you’ve always dreamed of . . . by spring. You know, just living your dream.”

  Frankie whispered, “Fuck you,” and stared out the window that seemed to get colder against his cheek every mile north they drove. After the gunshot, he had felt a massive rush of adrenaline and booze and fear. It was the first time since the night before that he had a chance to think at all.

  As they drove on into the darkness, it began to snow more heavily. Riding on the Northway on the NY State Thruway, about 30 minutes from the Canadian border, Frankie suddenly yearned to feel the hot summer sun as it burned his skin. He wanted to sweat, he wanted the sun, not this deep cold. Riding inside Eddie’s tractor was about as comfortable as a guy could ever get in a truck: leather, air-ride seats, plenty of heat or A/C if it ever got warm again, a bunk to sleep in, a cooler full of booze and beer, and every fucking country music cassette tape ever recorded.

  He hated country music but Eddie loved it. Ferlin Husky was playing or some other twangy fucking bullshit. Frankie finally looked at Eddie and asked, over the muffled roar of the massive Cummins diesel, “Why are these fuckers always whining about lost loves and shit? Because, Jesus, listen to them! I mean, they are fucking assholes! Seriously, dude, who listens to this shit? It’s worse than fucking Southern rock. Jesus, did fucking rock music just die and someone forgot to tell me?

  “I’ll do this with you. I need the money, fast money. I’ll do this; I’ll smuggle dope; I’ll shoot people, whatever. Don’t make me listen to this shit for six months.”

  Eddie reached over to the radio, popped out the cassette, put it in a little box up on top of the engine cowling, reached for another, and popped it in: Hank Williams, Jr. Eddie simply smiled as Junior started singing about some family tradition.

  Frankie yelled, “Seriously, fuck you,” and considered killing himself. It was not supposed to be this cold in early November and he was not supposed to listen to country music.

  They were about to cross into Canada. The crossing was easy back
then: minimal checking, no passports. Don’t look or act too shady; don’t act high; be polite; kiss a little ass, and it was all good. The load going in was clean, legit.

  The hot load coming out was a little sketchier, but Eddie reminded him, “That’s why we get the big bucks.” Then Eddie laughed his ass off.

  Eddie’s favorite expression was “fuck it,” used often and effectively. Eddie would smile and advise Frankie, “If it’s family, the mob, or pussy, don’t get in too far. Same here: keep your nose out of anyone’s business but yours; mind your own business, and you’ll be fine. These are not bad guys. Just don’t fuck up.”

  The plan was simple: drop this trailer full of oranges; find the hot load of electronics; cross the border without incident. As Eddie said, “If you have to suck the border guard’s dick, do it. I’m driving, and we gotta get to Miami.” Eddie knew a guy there who would get Frankie fully established in the flower business.

  For the first time since that night at Billy’s house—it seemed like years ago but was only yesterday—Frankie had a chance to look out the windows at the mounting snow and think about all that had transpired. He looked over at Eddie, who was staring ahead, into the snow, a half-burned Marlboro hanging out of his lips.

  “I imagine if Billy was dead, we would have heard by now.” Eddie shrugged. They both knew that unless he was dead, the incident would be covered up with money, though someone would probably be after Frankie. Unless there was a dead body, everyone knew the cops wouldn’t get involved. Frankie knew a few of the Goshen cops; they told him that anyone who beat the fuck out of Billy Martin was not about to get arrested. There wasn’t a lot of love for that arrogant scumbag drug dealer.

  Somehow he had to get past all this. Frankie had lived without Pam before. He could live without her again. He really could not understand her new-found love for Billy Martin. Whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t permanent. Probably only fucking him for heroin. He was a little pissed, no, a lot pissed: she’d shot at him. That’s what hurt the worst.