I know I put the cover on the pills. I know I put them away, butsomehow they spilled. Poor Marla gobbled them all up. She died painlessly, butthat didn’t make things easier for any of us.
Eric didn’t believe me when I said my father dumped out the pillsand killed our dog. He didn’t believe that the dead bastard wanted to takeeverything from me.
We screamed and fought. Eric made terrible, unfair accusations. Hesaid I was just like my parents, letting the boys find me passed out with pillsstrewn across the floor. He cried and hit the walls, blaming me for Marla’sdeath.
I fought back. I hit and screamed and told him it wasn’t my fault,but he wouldn’t listen. All the while my father sat there on my couch, puffingaway, watching Wally and Beaver as my life crumbled around me.
That was yesterday. I called Eric today, but he wouldn’t answer nomatter how many times I tried. At first, I was cordial. I tried to apologizeand pretend everything was normal. Each time his voicemail picked up I grewangrier, until my messages were seething with venom and my voice was hoarsefrom screaming.
January 25
I’ve stopped avoiding the living room, and I can barely smell thesmoke over the gasoline. Andy Griffith is playing on TV. I forgot how much Iused to like it. Classic television is really one of the only good memories Ishared with dad, so I might as well make the best of it.
It seems Eric and the boys aren’t coming back. Eric says he can’tlet me near our sons until I get some help, but what help is there? This isjust the hand I’ve been dealt.
I light up a cigarette and sit down next to dear old dad. Thegasoline soaks through my jeans. The carcinogenic mist burns my lungs, but painis a familiar place. Falling back into its embrace almost feels good. It’s likewaking up from a dream of normalcy.
I tell my father that I love and forgive him. He places a coldhand on my knee. We both lay our cigarettes down on the couch and wait for thefire to take us home.
The Boyon the Red Tricycle
DanSzczesny
Nothing prepares you for a ghost.
Not popular culture. Not funerals of your own loved ones. Walkthrough a thousand cemeteries at midnight, or fire up the Ouija board at a city morgue. You’dthink that first time – that first feeling ofelectric air or the moment that your skin prickles – you’d be ready for it.
But you won’t be. I wasn’t.
It was Christmas. No wait, it may have been a couple days after.Two years ago. I’m not from New England, spent most of my life kicking aroundthe Rust Belt because that’s where the work was in the ‘90s. Cleveland and Pittsburgh were cleaning up their waterfront,burying all those heavy metals that came out of the steel plants, turninglakesides into preservation parks.
Did you know that there’s a wildlife refuge in Buffalo that isactually a giant dump, with mounds of asbestos, arsenic and mercury buriedright under nature trails and concession stands? It’s true, look it up. So Imoved around. Those outfits were always looking to contract outside guys forcleanup and landscape work, keep the dirty work away from local unions.
You know, not a lot of time for girlfriends or kids. Though yeah,weird how that works when the kid you end up having turns out to be a dead one.But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Tech moved in after the steel mills finally dried up so I had togo someplace where technology hadn’t reached and that was New Hampshire, forsure. Don’t feel insulted. I like Manchester, really. It reminds me of thosedays when I was a kid in south Chicago – all alleys and beat cops. And youknow, a few years ago they decided instead of tearing those shit-ugly millsdown, they would turn them into condos and cafes.
I mean, honest to God, I never thought that would work. This ideathat tourists would come to look at hundred-year-old, leaky, broken warehousebuildings just seemed stupid. But you know what, it worked! Well, I don’t haveto tell you something you already know.
Anyway, that’s where I come in. I was hired to do some landscapeand cleanup work around Mill No.5, the one overby the bridge. Pay was shitty, it almost always was, but this time they wereputting me up in one of the old brownstones next door, free. So hey, a two-year gig with free rent? That sounded good to me. Trouble was,those brownstones were old and a mess, but I figured as long as the roof didn’tleak and the heat worked I could fix up the rest. I can do drywall and I know alittle bit about plumbing, so I moved in.
That was the fall of 2014. I had to hustle to get the place up tocode before winter set in. You know, this city needs to do something about itscode enforcement. No way those residences were ready for occupancy, not evenfor a lowlife like me, but I figured the developer must have paid a prettypenny to City Hall to keep that quiet. Anyway, I didn’t care.
I don’t own a lot of stuff. I managed to pick up a couple chairsand some kitchen things like plates and forks from the Salvation Army thriftstore. But it wasn’t until I got my bed – just a cheap frame and mattressreally – that Denny showed up. Maybe he just waited that long because, I don’tknow, a bed made it real, like I was there to stay. That was maybe two monthsafter I moved in.
There was no warm-up or hints ahead of time, no slamming doors orknocks from the attic. That’s all bullshit movie scare tactics.
Here’s what happened.
I’d just come home after a late site visit, long day, filthy. Theshower head had been clogged for days so I just went to bed, figured I’d washthe sheets the next day, which was Saturday so I was pretty excited to be ableto sleep in. My bedroom sits at the end of a long hall, second
