Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  Jack hoped to return and finish their game if something awful didn’t happen to them today. He did not dare say that in front of Paul. His friend actually seemed to have worked up some courage, however foolish, and Jack didn’t want to discourage that.

  Jack pulled out his old backpack and a duffel bag for Paul to use. They stuffed clothes in the bags, then went into the bathroom and grabbed toothbrushes. Jack didn’t have a sleeping bag, but he was sure there were plenty of places to sleep in the mansion.

  They entered the kitchen to find his mom working the New York Times crossword puzzle with a number-two pencil. She wrote in a word, muttered, “Shit” under her breath, and erased feverishly.

  “Is it okay if we wait out in the yard for our ride?”

  “Why?”

  “We want to have a snowball fight.”

  “All right. But bundle up good. And don’t leave the yard.”

  Some of Mom’s good sense had come back to her. She still wasn’t stopping them from going to the sleepover, though.

  Once bundled up and outside, Paul and Jack crept along the side of the house and then ran when they reached the end of the driveway. The sidewalk plows had left twin tracks, which Jack was thankful for. If they had not come through, he and Paul were looking at slogging through six inches of fresh snow.

  Running down the sidewalk was like being in a valley of snow. The banks rose six feet on either side, piled by plows from the street and snowblowers from the driveways.

  Five minutes later, they reached Paul’s house. The blue Ford pickup was gone, which meant Paul was right. Mr. Fussel was off plotting the invasion of Europe with his buddies.

  “Ready?” Paul said. It came out muffled underneath the scarf covering his mouth.

  Jack made a thumbs-up and they started up the driveway.

  The General must have cleaned, for the house smelled of ammonia and lemon-scented cleaner. The house was usually a mass of dirty laundry, stacked newspapers, and empty beer bottles. Every once in a while, his father got the urge to clean the entire place, top to bottom. Maybe the stink of dirty dishes and rotten garbage got to him, even in his drunken stupors.

  They crept up the stairs and slipped out of their boots but left their coats on at Jack’s suggestion. In case they had to make a quick getaway.

  In the kitchen a stack of clean dishes stood like a squad of soldiers in the dish drain, and you could actually see the counters. They were normally covered with unwrapped bread, beer cans, and dirty dishes. The dining room rug had fresh vacuum tracks, and the cobwebs that normally occupied the corners were gone. The royal commander really outdid himself this time. If he could do such a cleanup job on himself, maybe Paul would come back here.

  “Where’s the gun?” Jack asked.

  “I think he keeps it in the bedroom.”

  “What time is he coming home?”

  “Probably not until eleven or so. We have time.”

  They passed the kitchen table, Paul bumping his leg and making the chair squeal on the floor. Jack nudged him. “You’re louder than a frigging elephant.”

  They passed the bathroom, his brother’s old room, and then reached his parents’ room on the right-hand side. From inside, his mom snored softly. A clock ticked a metronome beat, most likely her two o’clock alarm.

  “Are you sure she won’t hear us?” Jack said.

  “She’s like a bear in the winter. Let’s go.”

  The General’s cleaning job had not extended into the bedroom. A pile of dirty clothes lay curled up in a filthy heap at the foot of the bed. Dust covered the dresser as well as the television and accompanying stand. Even more distressing was the mirror on the dresser covered in white powder. Paul tried to ignore it, but it kept drawing his attention like a car wreck. His dad’s habits were going from bad to worse, and he wondered if that was the shit that made him so violent. The drinking usually just made him stupid and kind of mean, but he sincerely believed his father might have killed them on the day Jack kicked him in the ass. It was the coke.

  “Is that cocaine?” Jack asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Wow. I only heard about it on TV.”

  “Yeah, well, aren’t I lucky to have it here in my very own house? Let’s find the gun.”

  His mother rolled over and the bed squeaked. She draped a fleshy arm off the side of the bed, fingers dangling in space. Her brown nightgown had slipped partially off, revealing one massive bone-white shoulder. The beluga whales he had seen at Marine Land didn’t look that white.

  Paul led the way to the closet and opened the louvered doors, almost wincing as he did so, expecting her to thunder to her feet and catch them. She resumed snoring instead.

  The upper shelf contained shoe boxes, a metal lockbox, some old ties, and a half-empty bottle of wine. Paul stood on tiptoes and hooked his fingertips over the top of the shelf. Jack bumped him out of the way and managed to get his hand on top of the shelf, but nothing more.

  “I thought I could reach up there. I’m a lot taller than you.”

  “Do this with your hands,” Paul said, showing him.

  Jack locked his fingers together, making a cup for Paul to set his foot in. He crouched down and held his intertwined hands at knee level.

  Paul placed his foot in Jack’s hands and with a grunt Jack boosted him up. Paul wobbled, then grabbed the shelf. He found a can of tennis balls, a trophy from the company softball league, a stack of various romance novels with bare-chested bodybuilder types on the cover, and a pile of Playboys. If they had time, he would have suggested he and Jack take a peek at those, but they would have to wait for another time. He nudged the girlie magazines out of the way and found the mother lode.

  It was wrapped in a black velvet cloth and next to it rested a box of shells.

  “Hurry up. You’re not that light,” Jack said.

  “All right.”

  He grabbed the box of ammo and the gun. “Okay. Got them.”

  Jack lowered him down and he unwrapped the gun. It was the color of a Cadillac’s bumper and had a walnut handle. They stared at it with a combination of reverence and fear, as if it were an exotic animal with deadly potential.

  “Let me see it,” Jack said.

  Paul handed it to him and he tested its weight in his hand.

  “Give it back,” Paul said. Jack handed it to him.

  On the bed his mom moaned, perhaps in the throes of a dream, then rolled over again, twisting the covers around her legs. They had better get moving before either she woke up or the General came home.

  They crept out of the bedroom, Paul with the revolver tucked under his arm and Jack with the box of shells. They were in the kitchen when the truck pulled into the driveway and the door opened and shut. There was no mistaking the driver, because the car whooshed into the driveway. The General usually pulled in the driveway like A.J. Foyt on amphetamines and God help you if you happened to be standing in his way.

  “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Paul stamped his foot in frustration.

  “Can we beat him to the basement door?”

  It took him a second, but he tuned in on Jack’s line of thinking: they could hide in the basement, then sneak out after the General came into the house. “If we hurry.”

  They took off for the back hallway and made it down two steps before the General came in the door, head down and peppered with snowflakes.

  Paul stopped and Jack ran into him from behind.

  The General looked up in surprise, as if little green men had entered his home rather than his own son. “What are you doing?”

  Paul was at a loss for words. His mouth refused to work and he stammered out a long “Uhhhh . . .”

  The General’s gaze flicked to the gun and then to Paul.

  “What in the name of Jesus H. Christ are you doing with that?” He pointed to the gun like a child whose favorite truck was now in the hands of a playground adversary.

  “Taking it.”

  “You have exactly five sec
onds to give me that gun before I beat your ass into mashed potatoes.”

  Behind him, Jack chuckled, then broke into a fit of laughter. Paul tried desperately not to laugh, but the floodgates opened and it poured out of him. Within seconds, tears were rolling down his cheeks and his belly hurt. In his twelve years he had never heard the General use that phrase, and it floored him.

  “What are you laughing at? I’ll tell your father, Jack. And you, you’re coming back home whether you want to or not. Now give me that goddamn gun.”

  He took a step up so that he was on the second stair. Paul backed up, still wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  “Paul. I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

  “Do you need all that coke to do it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Give me my gun.”

  “You use a crazy straw with it, Dad? One of those colored ones so you can have fun while you toot?”

  “Paul, stop it. He’s already mad,” Jack said from behind him.

  “Yeah. Listen to him.” He started to unbuckle his belt.

  “You’re going to get this across your back,” he said, the belt dangling at his side.

  “I’m sick of you.”

  He took the gun from underneath his arm, gripped it with both hands, and pointed it at his father. His hands trembled. “Get out of our way.”

  “You’ve lost your mind. I always said you were a little fruit and this proves it. Hand me the gun.”

  “No.”

  “Hand me the gun.”

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t move.”

  “Paul, put the gun down,” Jack said.

  If he pulled the trigger, what would happen? The beatings would stop and with them the abuse. No more whippings with the extension cord, no more stale beer breath in his face screaming that he was worthless. No more living in fear or being degraded on a daily basis, trying to explain to teachers why you had a bruise on your cheek for the second time this week. It would all end.

  But he couldn’t do it. It was his father, and a small part of Paul still loved him, bastard or not. There was always the hope he would change and someday ask Paul what he thought, or maybe deliver a compliment, however small. And who was he kidding? He felt bad enough squashing bugs on the sidewalk. Killing a human being was out of the question. But they still had to get out of here with the gun.

  “Get out of our way.” This time Paul took a step ahead, and to his utter surprise, his father backed up.

  “You make me sick,” he said, but all the thunder had gone out of his voice.

  “Back up,” Paul said.

  His face had gone a few shades whiter and he backed away, first down one step, then another. Paul kept the gun on him.

  “Go out the door,” Paul said.

  “Take the gun off of him,” Jack said.

  “Not yet. Back out the door.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” the General said.

  Still, he reached behind him, opened the door, and backed into the storm. Paul followed down the stairs and stuck his head out the door. “Back off.”

  To his surprise, his father listened. He half expected the General to charge him, loaded gun or not. He was sure the booze and now the cocaine had made his father loony.

  Paul and Jack slipped out the door and backpedaled down the driveway. His father disappeared in the snow like a fading specter.

  On the way down the street, Paul tucked the gun into his coat and Jack did the same with the ammo, concealing it in his inner pocket. Jack felt as if his friend had been replaced by an alien. Mousy little Paul, the smallest kid in class, the one who jumped if you said his name too loud. Jack didn’t think the kid had something like this in him, and he felt glad for Paul, finally standing up to the bastard. But part of him was a little frightened, too. Would Paul really have shot his father? His own parents had always been so good to him he couldn’t imagine doing something like that to them.

  When they reached Jack’s house, Paul burst into tears.

  They stopped running and Jack put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “How’s it going?”

  “Just great. I almost shot my fucking father. How do you think it’s going?”

  “I’m just trying to help. That was pretty intense.”

  “Jesus, I think I’m going to puke.”

  He bent over and retched. A stream of green vomit dribbled into the snow. Jack turned his head to give the kid some dignity. A small part of him felt ashamed for some reason, though, for not wanting to see his friend puke. If he watched that happen, it might force his own guts up his throat.

  Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.”

  A runner of saliva hung from his lower lip.

  “Wipe your mouth again.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What if I had shot him, Jack?”

  “You didn’t.”

  Snot dribbled from Paul’s nose. His bottom lip quivered. “I’m horrible.” He sniffed hard.

  “You’re not horrible, man. You’re pissed, and you’ve got a right to be.”

  “You don’t think I’m a psycho?”

  Jack smiled. “Maybe a little, but I always thought that, you dweeb.”

  “I don’t know, Jack. This is pretty fucked up.”

  “My dad will know what to do.”

  “I can’t go back there, Jack.” Paul turned away and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I hope your dad does know.”

  The limo pulled into the driveway a moment later. It had a good three inches of snow on its roof and rear window despite the best efforts of the defroster.

  John got out first, rounding the car and opening the passenger door. Ronnie bounded out of the backseat, followed by Cassie. She had on a long camel hair coat and wore a red-and-white-striped muffler. She wrapped it around her throat like a World War I flying ace and stepped toward them.

  “How’s this for weather? Do you have your bags?”

  “Hey, guys,” Ronnie said, giving them a broad wave of the hand.

  “Let’s get our bags.”

  After retrieving the bags from the house and saying good-bye to his mom, Jack got into the limo with Paul. Chris and Emma were waiting inside, Chris with a Cooper hockey bag and Emma with a denim backpack.

  “What’s a’ matter, Harding? You act like you’ve never seen us before,” Chris said.

  “I thought you were in the hospital. What about your rib?”

  “Ronnie’s mom talked to the doctors. And she called my dad.”

  She was a one-woman surgical team.

  Cassie ducked into the limo.

  “We can talk about that later,” she said. “I hope everybody’s ready. I have a ton of snacks for you guys, and you can watch whatever movies you want.”

  “Wow,” Chris said.

  Chris seemed the most excited of all of them. Jack and Paul knew better. Emma didn’t seem as excited, but she had believed their story about the Wraith, whereas to Chris it was all fantasy. He had nothing to fear from Cassie, so this was all a big adventure to him. If Jack could get Chris alone, he would try to talk sense into him, warn him to be careful around her.

  They chugged up Steadman Road, following the fence bordering the estate. They stopped at the gate and then it whirred open.

  They reached the mansion and got out of the limousine. Cassie flipped her scarf back over her shoulder and looked around at the storm.

  “Good thing we got here when we did. Looks like the storm’s getting worse. But we’ll all be safe inside, right?”

  They all nodded in agreement. It was only nine o’clock in the morning and already a white curtain of snow obscured the estate to the point where the road was not visible. In the few moments they had been out of the limo, Jack’s cheeks had gone raw and he pined for a cup of hot chocolate to relieve the chill.

  As if reading his mind, Cassie said, “Let’s get inside before we all freeze to death.”

  They ascended the steps between the stone lions
and entered. After John took their coats, they followed Cassie to the great room. Once again, there were tables with bowls of snacks: Doritos, potato chips, plates of chocolate chip cookies, a hot pizza, and a dish full of M&Ms. And all this at nine in the morning.

  “There’s pop in the fridge behind the bar. Help yourselves.”

  Ronnie headed for the table and scooped up a handful of M&Ms.

  “How can you eat chocolate that early in the morning?” Chris said.

  “Like this,” he said, and stuffed the whole handful into his mouth.

  “Easy, Ronald. You have all day to eat snacks,” his mother said.

  Jack didn’t say anything, but he wondered why Ronnie’s mom put out all this food when her son was so heavy. It seemed cruel in a way, giving him access to snacks and feeding the very condition that caused him to be the scorn of so many bullies. If she didn’t want him picked on so much, maybe ditch some of the food and encourage the kid to lose a few.

  Cassie drifted into the room. “Jack, can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Follow me.”

  They proceeded to the front foyer, where she sat at a small wrought-iron table. “Have a seat.”

  He pulled the chair out and sat down. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I just want to thank you for all you’ve done for Ronnie.”

  There’s a big surprise, he thought.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “His having friends over, it’s wonderful. This is one of the few times.”

  “That’s kind of sad. No offense.”

  “None taken. He told me what happened at the dance last night. Those other boys are just rotten if you ask me.”

  “Vinnie’s a real ass. I mean jerk. His buddies aren’t much better. I think they would have killed us. Ronnie saved one of us this time, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “He helped Chris when he was down. Bowled right into the kid that had Chris pinned to the ground. It was pretty brave.”

  It did take guts to go after guys like Vinnie and his gang, but Jack also hoped she would see that her son was becoming self-reliant. He didn’t need Jack to protect him. Jack had never applied for that job and he didn’t want it anymore. What he did want was to be Ronnie’s friend and not his pseudo guardian, risking the wrath of Cassie every time Ronnie got into a scrape.