Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009

 

 

The Measure of a Man

 

     A man can’t be fully measured by his good deeds, though he did many.

 

     A man can’t be fully measured by what he did for others, though he did much.

 

     A man can’t be fully measured by the job he performed, though each day he gave his all to the community he served.

 

     Instead, the full measure of a man is revealed by the parts of himself he left behind in the lives of those he touched.

 

     Carl Mjtko, Eagle Harbor’s Chief of Police, lost his life in the performance of his duty, in the early morning hours of Sunday, November 29th, 2009. Eagle Harbor lost far more than a police chief the day Carl died.  She lost a native son who loved this town and the people who inhabit her, with all the love his heart could hold. Carl had called Eagle Harbor home since the day he was born to Louis and Clarice Mjtko, on March 21st, 1953, but to Carl, Eagle Harbor was so much more than just a place to live. He often said the reason he’d never married was because this Alaskan town served as both his wife and children. His duties as police chief brought him happiness, a sense of accomplishment, and more than a few sleepless nights, as comes to any concerned husband and father who worries over the safety and wellbeing of those he holds dear.    There are so many things about Carl that we’ll miss.

 

The way his hulking presence was the first thing you noticed when you entered a room. 

 

The initial surprise upon discovering a gentle giant resided within the soul of the huge craggily man, whose size could intimidate even those few who were tall enough to look him in the eye.

 

The sight of him carrying a lost child back to her mother; his massive shoulder making a soft place for a small head to rest, while his callused thumbs wiped away tears as though he had a dozen children of his own at home.

 

The leadership abilities that came natural to Carl, from the time he was a small boy and his cousins looked to him to decide whether they’d play baseball, kick the can, or hide and go seek.

 

The laugh he possessed that made everyone else laugh too. 

 

The way his eyes twinkled when he was about to pull a prank on someone.

 

The way he took his responsibilities to the people of Eagle Harbor seriously, and always strove to continue his education in the latest law enforcement techniques. 

 

But most of all, we’ll miss Carl’s friendship, loyalty, and love.  It’s those aspects of Carl’s personality that dwell in all of us. If we desire to give Carl Mjtko the respect he deserves for all he meant to us, it’s his gift of friendship that we’ll extend to others we encounter, and in that way, Carl’s memory will truly live on.  For the measure of a man is not based on the things he taught us that we keep within ourselves, but rather, on the things he taught us that we, in turn, teach others. 

 

     Carl Mjtko would have denied the important place he held to the people of Eagle Harbor. More than anything else, that tells us the full measure of the man who meant so much to so many.  

 

 

**********

 

     The Measure of a Man was my editorial for the edition of the school’s newspaper that came out today.  On the Monday after Kylee broke up with me - ten days ago - I suggested to Mrs. St. Clair that we dedicate this last edition of the paper prior to the start of our two-week winter break, to Carl’s memory.  She gave her approval, though she tried to talk me into waiting until after school resumed, so we had more time to devote to it.  I told Mrs. St. Clair we had enough time, and promised I’d oversee every article from start to finish.

 

     “It won’t be done halfway, Mrs. St. Claire. I promise.”

 

     “You can make that promise on behalf of yourself, Trevor, but what about the other students who are involved in the process?”

 

     “Don’t worry, we can do this.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire gave me a skeptical look, but she finally said, “All right, run with it,” though her words were reluctant and filled with doubt. 

 

     I’ve hardly gotten any sleep since that Monday, but I don’t care.  Working on this special edition of Eagle Harbor High News has taken my mind off of Kylee and our break up. There wasn’t one person who wasn’t enthusiastic about devoting this issue to Carl, and no one complained about how quickly we had to put it together.  Dylan and Dalton collected pictures of Carl that covered his childhood, his years at Eagle Harbor High, and then beyond.  Jenna found some articles about Carl in the school library’s archives that we reprinted, covering his years on the football and basketball teams.  Kylee interviewed Clarice, while Tyler Cavanaugh interviewed some of the guys who’d worked with Carl. He’d wanted to interview my father, too, but Papa declined without giving a reason why other than to say, “Sorry, Tyler, I’m too busy this week.”

 

In our final staff meeting about this edition yesterday afternoon, I thanked everyone for their hard work, and told them I was proud to be a part of such a great team.  After my classmates had left the room and I was looking over the layout one last time, Mrs. St. Claire told me I was good leader.

 

     “What makes you say that?” I asked.

 

     “You sold your classmates on an idea that took a lot of effort to put together, considering the short deadline. You gave all of yourself to each one of them in order to help out in any way you could, yet you kept your cool and remained calm and in control each time something went wrong.  You did a wonderful job, Trevor, and that doesn’t even cover the moving editorial you wrote. Carl would be so proud of you. So touched by what you’ve done on his behalf.”

 

     I turned away so Mrs. St. Claire couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

 

     “He deserved it.”

 

     “Yes,” she said quietly. “He did.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire squeezed my shoulder, then left the room. I stayed late that night, not completing my work on the paper until eight-thirty. I’d called my father at the station to let him know where I’d be, and that I wouldn’t be home until I was finished with the paper.

 

     “All right,” Papa said. “Just try and be home by nine. If you can’t make it by then, give me a call so I know you’re still at school.”

    

     I promised I would, then hung up.  By the time I left the school, the only people in the building were the two night-shift janitors and me.  One of the janitors, Mr. Salzman, was cleaning the cafeteria. I let him know I was done, told him good night, and made sure the main entrance doors locked behind me. I secured my backpack on my shoulders, huddled into my letterman’s coat, and shoved my hands into its pockets as I jogged to my truck in the student parking lot.

 

     When I got home at five minutes to nine, Papa was sitting in his office staring at the dark computer screen.  It wasn’t the first time I’d found him lost in thought since he’d returned to work after Carl’s death, and it wasn’t the first time I wondered what was going on that warranted so many meetings, phone calls, and long days at work for him.  I didn’t bother to ask, though, since I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer.       

 

     I must have stood in the doorway a full minute before my father was aware of my presence. He tossed me a smile.

 

“Did you get all your work done on the paper?”       

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     “Will it be delivered tomorrow?”

 

     I said, “Yeah,” again. The school’s paper is distributed to businesses in town for their employees to read, and is put out in the grocery stores, restaurants, and at the bank and post office, so any citizen can pick up a paper free of charge.  Some papers also get delivered to the fire and police station. Public distribution of our school’s paper is a tradition that goes back to 1971, and that’s one reason why the students have always worked so hard to put out a paper of professional quality – or at least as professional as you can get when your topics cover high school sports, homecoming dances, and what music and TV shows are the most popular with Eagle Harbor’s teenagers.

 

     Papa didn’t say anything to my “Yeah,” so I asked him something I hadn’t up until that moment.

 

     “How come you wouldn’t talk to Tyler?”

 

     “Tyler?”

 

     “Yeah. When he wanted to interview you about Carl.”

 

     Papa broke eye contact with me. “Too busy.”

 

     “Oh.”

 

     My father looked at me again.  “You sound disappointed.” 

 

     I shrugged. “It would have been nice if you coulda’ made time.”

 

     “Well, I couldn’t.”

 

     “I just thought that for Carl maybe you’d--”

 

     He interrupted me with a firm, “For Carl, I’d do anything, and don’t you think for one minute that’s not the God’s honest truth.”

 

     “Okay, okay” I said hastily, too tired to fight with him, and embarrassed over being chastised like a five year old.

 

     “But sometimes, no matter how much I wanna do, it’s just not enough, Trevor, and both you and I have to face that fact.”

 

     I had no idea what he was talking about, and before I could ask, he stood and walked past me.

 

     “By the way,” Papa said, “we won’t be goin’ to Grandpa’s for Christmas.”

 

     I turned around and followed him to the great room. We were scheduled to fly out of Anchorage on Christmas Eve morning, bound for Montana.

 

     “What?”

 

     “We won’t be going to your grandfather’s for--”

 

     “Why not?”

 

     “ ‘Cause I have too many things to do here. I can’t leave right now.”

 

     “But we’ve gone to Grandpa’s the last three years for Christmas. Ever since his arthritis made it hard for him to travel.”

 

     “Well, this year we’re not. He and Marietta will be coming with Aunt Reah in June for your graduation.”

 

     “I know, but--”

 

     He paused as he put a foot on the bottom step, turned to face me, and held up his right hand to silence me. “Trevor, we’re not going, and that’s the end of it.”

 

     I stood there thinking, Great. Just great. It was the only thing I was looking forward to.  I thought getting out of Eagle Harbor for a week would do us both good, Papa, and I thought maybe...well, maybe I’d have a chance to talk to Grandpa about some things I can’t talk to you about. Now, like everything else in my life, this trip has to fall apart too.

 

     “I’d like to go by myself then.”

 

     “No. You’ll stay here with me.”

 

     “Why?”

 

     “So we can have Christmas together.”

 

     “Here? Alone?”

 

     “I have to work Christmas Day.”

 

     “Since when?”

 

     “Since now.”

 

     “Papa--”

 

     “I’m not working Christmas Eve. Clarice is gonna come over in the afternoon so the three of us can have a holiday meal together. We’ll open gifts, and then go to the church’s evening service if you wanna attend. You’ll go to Marie’s house at noon on Christmas Day.  Clarice will be there, along with at least four-dozen other people you know. I’ll meet you there when I get off work. We’ll have sandwiches and dessert, hang around and visit for a while, then come home.”

 

     I looked at the bare corner where our tree usually stood.  “We don’t even have a tree.”

 

     “Do you really want one?”

 

     I wanted to say, If we’ve got to stay home, then yeah, a tree would be nice.  Something to make it feel like Christmas would be nice, but by the tone of Papa’s voice I could tell he didn’t care about putting up a Christmas tree this year.

 

     “I guess...I guess not.”

 

     “You’re older now. I didn’t think...I assumed it wouldn’t matter as much.”

 

     I was confused as to why Papa thought that. It had always mattered before, and not just to me. Even since we started going to Grandpa’s for Christmas, we’ve always put up a tree a few days before we left. Clarice waters it for us, and when we get back we’re able to enjoy it on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, before taking it down a few days after that.

 

     I said what Papa wanted to hear.  “You’re right. It doesn’t matter as much.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

     Papa started up the stairs, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

 

     “Did you ever call Uncle Roy back?”

 

     “Not...not yet.”

 

     “He keeps leaving messages on the answering machine.”

 

     “I know. I’ll call him when I have time.”

 

     He got up three more steps before my voice stopped him again.

 

     “Papa?”

 

     He half turned to look at me. “Yeah?”

 

     “Did you tell Grandpa?”

     “Did I tell Grandpa what?”

 

     “That Carl’s dead.”

 

     He seemed to pale at my words, as though they were a slap to his face for some reason. He swallowed hard before speaking.

 

     “No, Trev. I didn’t.”

 

     “Why not?”

     “Just because I didn’t. I left your supper in the oven. You’d better eat, finish up any homework you have, and get to bed.”

 

     I watched my father walk up the remaining stairs and turn right, then listened as he headed for his bedroom at the end of the hall.

 

     I stood there for a long time and wished Papa would just come right out and say he blamed me for killing his friend, instead of trying so hard to hide that fact from his father, from Roy DeSoto, from me, and most of all, from himself.

 

     As I read my editorial about Carl again, and then read this journal entry again, I realize that, a lot of times, the best writing comes from pain. And if that’s the case, why in the world would anyone want to write for a living?  

 

 

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

(New Year’s Eve)

 

     Just when I thought I’d made enough mistakes and poor decisions to last me a lifetime, I made another one.  Only this time, something good came out of something bad, as odd as that sounds.  The other day my father told me that some of life’s most difficult lessons are learned the hard way, and based on recent experience, I can’t deny that he’s right.

 

     Christmas Eve went as Papa planned it.  Clarice came to our house at noon, put a ham in the oven, and then puttered around the kitchen making more food than the three of us could eat.

 

     The first thing Clarice had done when she’d walked in the door was hug me and kiss my cheek.

 

“Thank you for your beautiful tribute to Carl in the paper.”

 

     I hugged her back. “You’re welcome, but you don’t have to thank me. I wanted to do it.”

 

     My eyes slid to my father, who stood at the kitchen counter making a sandwich for his lunch.  He’d been outside most of the morning, and though I knew he had an edition of the school’s newspaper because I’d seen him carry it in to the house the previous evening, he hadn’t commented on it.  Considering Clarice had brought the subject up, it seemed like a good time for Papa to say what he normally would have, “Yeah, Trevor did a great job with this issue of the paper, didn’t he?” but he didn’t say anything at all.  He acted like he hadn’t heard a word Clarice said, which made me think back to his anger on Tuesday night when I’d asked him why he wouldn’t let Tyler interview him.  I hadn’t believed him then when he’d said he’d been too busy, and I still didn’t believe that.  I knew it was an excuse because he didn’t want to be reminded of what I’d done.

 

     Clarice released me, and put her coat and purse away before she started cooking. She didn’t comment on the lack of a tree or Christmas decorations, which caused me to conclude she hadn’t made an effort to decorate her house this year either.  She tried to act like nothing was bothering her, but I could tell she was sad.  I saw her wipe her eyes a few times as Christmas carols played on the kitchen radio, and then she cried when she looked outside and saw it was snowing.  I watched as Papa hugged her, and I heard her murmur into his shirt, “Ever since Carl was a little boy, he loved it when it snowed on Christmas Eve.  He said it made the holiday seem extra special.”

 

     I left the kitchen then, hating myself so much for taking Clarice’s son away from her.  I went in the great room and stared at the gifts piled in one corner.  Any desire I’d had to buy Christmas presents left me when Carl died, and was only compounded when Kylee broke up with me.  Last year, she and I had gone to Juneau on the Saturday prior to Christmas and shopped for our friends and family, before eating dinner and seeing a movie.  This year, I spent the Saturday before Christmas finding gifts on Internet sites that promised delivery by Christmas Eve.  Though my heart wasn’t in it, I found presents for my mother, Franklin, and Catherine, and a present for Libby.  Then on Christmas Eve morning, I made a trip to Eagle Harbor and found things for Papa and Clarice in various stores.  Normally, I like to put a lot of thought in to what I’m getting people, but this year I didn’t care, since I wanted to skip Christmas altogether. 

 

Papa seemed to be shopping the same way I was.  He’d used the Internet a few days before Christmas in order to have gifts shipped to his family and the DeSotos, and he’d come home from work on the twenty-third with two big bags of wrapped gifts for Clarice and me, that he must have purchased at the stores in Eagle Harbor on his lunch hour.   

 

     We ate with Clarice at five, then opened our gifts. We all said the right things – “Thank you,” and “This is really nice,” and “It’s just what I wanted,” though I think we would have made those same comments had we each received a stocking filled with coal. 

 

     Papa left it up to me as to whether or not he and I would attend the Christmas Eve service at church.  For lack of anything better to do that night, I said I wanted to go. While Clarice cleaned up the kitchen, my father and I took showers and bypassed blue jeans in favor of khakis and sweaters.  Clarice followed us to the church in her Explorer. She was going to Nana Marie’s after the service, where she would spend the night.  Since my father had to be to work at eight o’clock on Christmas morning, Clarice told me I was welcome to come to Marie’s for the big breakfast the women always make after the gifts are opened. I didn’t want to be in rooms filled with Carl’s extended family any sooner than I had to, but before I could figure out a way to politely decline the invitation, Papa said, “You might as well go, Trev.  I don’t want you sitting around the house by yourself tomorrow morning.  It’s Christmas, after all.”

 

     If Clarice hadn’t been sitting at the kitchen table with us, I would have said, “I wouldn’t be sitting around the house by myself if we’d have gone to Grandpa’s like we were supposed to,” but instead, all I did was nod and mumble, “Sure. That’s fine.  What time should I be there?”

 

     “You come over when your papa leaves for work,” Clarice smiled. “He’s right. You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas morning. My sisters would never forgive me if I didn’t ask you to join us.”

 

     I wanted to say, “Don’t your sisters get it?  I killed Carl.  Why are all of you being so damn nice to me?” but again, I kept my mouth shut because to say what I was thinking would only cause me more problems than I already had.  I figured, what the heck, we’d all gotten so good at ignoring what I’d done, why change that now?

 

I saw Kylee in church, but I averted my eyes and didn’t say anything to her as we passed the pew her family was seated in.  Papa stopped to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Bonnette, but I just kept walking and sat down in a pew four rows ahead of them.  Kylee and I had been avoiding each other as much as we could in school, which is hard to do when your class numbers only twenty.  Our breakup was the big news around Eagle Harbor High, but I refused to talk to anyone about it – not even Dylan and Dalton.  I think Kylee’s kept quiet about the reasons behind it, too, other than I’m pretty sure she told Stephanie, because Steph spent a lot of time glaring at me during that last week and a half before winter break started.

 

     The Christmas Eve service was different than it usually is. The choir didn’t open it by singing Silent Night, and the little kids didn’t march in from the back of the church dressed as shepherds, wisemen, and angels. Instead, Pastor Tom opened it by telling us that Jake had come home from the hospital that day. Everyone smiled, and I could hear the ripple of happy voices wash over me.  I stared at my shoes and wished that I’d told Papa I wanted to stay home and watch It’s a Wonderful Life, or whatever holiday movie was on television.  I wished it even more when Pastor Tom referred to Carl in his sermon when he mentioned, “the heartache that came to Eagle Harbor this year.” How he tied that into Christmas, I don’t know, because that’s when I got up, rushed to the back of the building with my head bent, grabbed my coat from one of the racks by the door, and hurried outside.

 

     Cold air bit at my nose and cheeks, and fat sloppy snowflakes soaked into my hair. I shivered as I put my black coat on. I buttoned it, then shoved my hands in the deep side pockets.

 

I stood on the church steps and looked up. Carl had been right. There was something special about a Christmas Eve snowfall.  Or at least I would have thought so on any other Christmas Eve but this one.  Instead, I stood there and found myself wishing once again that I was the one lying in that cold grave next to Louis Mjtko, and not Carl.

 

Snowflakes mixed with my tears. I swiped at my eyes when I heard the door open behind me.  I felt a hand rest on my shoulder, and turned my head a fraction. 

 

“Trev? You okay?”

 

“Yeah, Pops. I’m fine.”

 

“Come on.”

 

I stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with my father. 

 

“I don’t wanna go back inside.”

 

“We’re not goin’ back inside. Let’s walk down to Donna’s and get something warm to drink.”

 

Donna keeps her diner open all night on Christmas Eve. She’s the only restaurant owner in town who does. She has quite a few families who stop in for breakfast after Midnight Mass at St. Peter’s Catholic Church, and has a smattering of customers who have no family to spend Christmas with, and therefore have made hanging out in the diner a tradition.  What time Donna finally closes on Christmas Day, depends on when she’s satisfied she’s spread some holiday cheer to all who need it, and has fed everyone in Eagle Harbor who otherwise wouldn’t have had a meal of ham, potatoes, gravy, carrots, rolls, and apple pie.

 

I didn’t balk when Papa moved his hand to my back and urged me down the steps and to the sidewalk. We’d just turned toward the diner, when his pager went off.  I heard him say, “Damn it,” under his breath, and was surprised.  He never voices displeasure when he’s summoned for a rescue or fire call.

 

Before Papa could say anything else, four men and one woman burst out of the doors behind us. The way pagers were going off, led me to believe there was a fire somewhere, as opposed to it being a paramedic call. It never fails that at least one Eagle Harbor resident starts his house on fire each Christmas season because of a faulty string of lights on a live Christmas tree, or an overloaded circuit from multiple yard decorations and strings of outside lights.

 

Papa tossed me the keys to the Land Rover. “You go on home.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

“Do you need me to come pick you up?”

 

“No!” Papa called as he slid into the back of Chuck Paddock’s Blazer. “I’ll get a ride from someone!”

 

     “Okay!” I called in return, but I don’t think he heard me, because he had the door closed, and Chuck was pulling away from the curb. Three vehicles headed for the fire station, soon to be joined by four more that flew past me, an indication that other firefighters had been summoned as well.

 

     A few minutes later, I heard sirens pierce the quiet of the night. When the sounds of the sirens and air horns faded, I knew the trucks were going in some direction opposite of the church.  I also knew that once the service let out, at least half the congregation would try and locate the fire, since a happening like that is big news in Eagle Harbor, regardless of whether it’s a holiday or not.  I didn’t want to be standing there when everyone came out.  It would mean a lot of questions I couldn’t answer, other than to point and say, “They went thata’ way,” and it would mean having to see Kylee, which hurt too damn much, so I headed toward the Land Rover.  I was just opening the driver’s side door when a voice made me turn around.

 

     “Hey, Trev!”

 

     I saw someone jogging toward me, but until he passed under one of the streetlights, I didn’t know who it was.  Connor Rasmussen was hunched into his winter coat, and did a little dance on the sidewalk in an effort to stay warm. 

 

     “Long time, no see, dude. What’s happenin’?”

 

     Connor is a year older than me, and works at a factory in Juneau now.  He also goes to the technical college there, studying to be an electrician.  Connor and I had been pretty good friends my freshman and sophomore years in high school, but after I got back from living with my mother, I realized that Papa had been right about several things when it came to Connor – first and foremost being, that I tended to get into trouble when I was with him.  I maintained a friendship with Connor of sorts until he graduated, but kept our time together limited to the school sports teams we both played on. 

 

     “Nothing.  Just headin’ home.”

 

     “Where were the fire trucks goin’?”

 

     “Beats me.”

 

     “So, what have ya’ been up to?”

 

     “Not much. Just school and working for Gus. You know how it is.”

 

     “Yeah, sure do.  Hey, I heard you and Kylee split. What’s that all about?”

 

     “Not about anything.  Things just weren’t workin’ out.”

 

     “Too bad. She’s a looker.”

 

     “Yeah.”  Since the last thing I felt like doing was talking about Kylee, I changed the subject. “Where you headed?”

 

     “Home.”

 

     “What happened to your truck?”

 

     “Nothing. It’s my license that something happened to.”

 

     “What?”

 

“Got it taken away in Juneau.”  Connor grinned. “A DUI.”

 

     I shook my head at his foolishness. “How’re you gettin’ to work and school?”

 

     “Got an occupational license.”

 

     “What’s that mean?”

 

     “That my driving is restricted to the hours and days I have to be at work and school. It’s costing me a bundle in fines and lawyer fees, so I can’t risk gettin’ caught driving when I’m not supposed to.”

 

     I pointed to the Land Rover. “Wanna ride?”

 

     “Sure.”

 

     Connor climbed in the passenger side, while I got behind the wheel. He didn’t live with his parents any more, but instead, rented a small house from Mr. Ochlou with his older brother and two other guys.

 

     I glanced in the rearview mirror, and then in the outside driver’s mirror, before pulling away from the curb. Though I’d never been to the house Connor was living in, I knew where it was. 

 

     “Thanks for the lift, Trev. I couldn’t get outta my aunt’s house fast enough.”

 

     “Why?”

 

     “Aw, it was just lame. We’ve been doin’ the family Christmas thing since noon, and once the turkey was eaten and the presents opened, I started lookin’ for an excuse to leave. Too many little kids and old people for my taste.”

 

     “Is Ryan still there?”

 

      Ryan is Connor’s brother.

 

     “Yeah, but he’s pretty serious with a girl he met in Juneau about eight months ago.”

 

As I drove through the deserted streets, I asked, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“She wanted to stick around at my aunt’s. Guess she likes the smell of baby powder and Ben-Gay more than I do.”

 

I laughed. It felt good to hang out with Connor again. 

 

The drive was a short one. I swung into the driveway of a dark, run-down house in bad need of a coat of paint.  Mr. Ochlou is Eagle Harbor’s original slum landlord.  The driveway was bumpy and could have used a few loads of gravel, and could have used some widening, too.  The Land Rover barely fit on it.

 

“Thanks for the ride, Trev. Wanna come in for a while?”

 

I almost said no, but then I remembered I was going home to a dark house too. I decided I’d rather spend time with Connor, than spend time at home alone thinking about Carl, Kylee, and all my regrets.

 

     Against my better judgment, I gave a slow nod.

 

“Yeah...yeah, I will.  I can’t stay long, though. If my father gets home and I’m not there, he’ll wonder where I’m at.”

 

     “That’s the great thing about moving outta your ole man’s house.”

 

     “What?”

 

     “No one wonders where you’re at, or tells you what time to be home.”

 

     “Yeah,” I agreed, as I followed Connor’s instructions to drive around to the back of the house where a dilapidated garage leaned precariously to the east, and where there was a wide pad of pocked concrete to park vehicles on. From that spot, I couldn’t see the street, nor could the Land Rover be seen by anyone driving by.  Not that I was concerned about that, since I wasn’t doing anything wrong by giving a friend a ride home.  Granted, I knew my father wouldn’t want me spending time with Connor, but I didn’t think it was going to hurt anything if I shot the bull with him for thirty minutes or so.

 

     “All of us park back here.  The stupid driveway’s so narrow that it’s impossible to get around any truck or car parked in it.”

 

     “Looks that way.” 

 

I slid out of the Land Rover to stand in seven inches of snow.  Since I wasn’t wearing boots, I hurried and followed Connor to the front of the house. He used a key to open the front door, and flipped on a light switch as soon as we entered.

 

     The place was a dump, which didn’t surprise me considering Mr. Ochlou owns it, and four guys under the age of twenty-two live there. The small living room was filled with cast-off furniture that didn’t match, stereo equipment, and a makeshift entertainment center built from plywood that housed a thirty-six inch TV and a DVD player.  Every stable surface was covered with dirty dishes, pizza cartons, empty soda cans and beer bottles, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts.  The kitchen counters were lined with dirty dishes and half eaten food, and the table was piled high with textbooks, notebooks, and tools.  A computer monitor was hidden amongst all the junk; its tower sat in one corner and was barely visible beneath discarded socks and underwear. The house’s two bedrooms weren’t much larger than my bedroom’s closet, and in the same condition as the kitchen and living room. The bathroom was so filthy I wouldn’t have entered it no matter how bad I had to go. It was at that moment I thanked God for Clarice, and the orderly way she kept our house. I knew right then I could never live like Connor was.

 

     Connor led me back down the short hallway from the bedrooms to the living room.

 

     “Turn on the TV, Trev. I’ll get us something ta’ drink.”

 

     It took a minute of searching before I located the remote control beneath a pizza carton with a moldy crust inside. I aimed the remote toward the television, and flipped stations until I found Diehard.  Not exactly your typical Christmas movie, but considering my mood, it was a better choice than It’s a Wonderful Life.

 

     I pushed a pile of dirty clothes off a black leather recliner that was held together by silver duct tape, and sat down. 

 

     “Here ya’ go.”

 

     I reached out a hand without looking.  It wasn’t until the bottle got close to my nose that I realized Connor had brought me a beer, and not a soda.  I almost set the bottle aside, and if I’d been using my brain, I would have.  But when Connor shoved some dirty plates off one couch cushion, sat down, and started drinking his own beer, I decided misery loves company.

 

     I wrinkled my nose at my first swallow, and didn’t handle my second and third swallows much better.  I would have preferred a Coke, but because Connor kept drinking, so did I.  I didn’t object when he handed me a second beer, and by the time I’d made my way through it, I was feeling an alcohol buzz for the first time in my life. It was a cross between a warm, comforting glow, and just enough of a haze to dull the pain of Carl’s death and my break up with Kylee.  I willingly took a third beer, and then a fourth, and after that, I’m not sure how many I had.  All I remember is that I had enough for the world to seem like a fun place again, and then I started giggling, and telling bad jokes, and acting silly, and pretty soon Connor was doing the same, which made it all seem okay.  I either passed out for a while, or fell asleep, I’m not sure which, and then woke up and started drinking again when Connor placed a cold bottle against my cheek.  I even lost my distaste of Connor’s bathroom sometime during the night, and made use of it when I could no longer hold everything I’d been drinking.

 

     I’m not sure what time the rest of the guys came home and joined us in our Christmas Eve beer fest, nor am I sure how long it lasted, or what made me decide I’d better get home.  No one tried to keep me from driving, though someone should have.  I laughed like an idiot as I tried the Land Rover’s key in every ignition of every vehicle parked behind Connor’s house, until I finally found the one it worked in. Dawn was starting to break as I drove through Eagle Harbor.

    

     “Damn,” I remember slurring. “Pop’s shure gonna wanna piece a’ my ass fer this.”  Then I laughed again.

 

 

The Land Rover weaved back and forth across the road. I was lucky it was early on Christmas morning, and no one was around. And even luckier that whatever cop was supposed to be on patrol, was probably sitting in Donna’s drinking coffee and eating eggs.

 

I don’t remember anything else about the trip home until I overshot our driveway and had to back up.  I ended up in the ditch across the road, and once more laughed like an idiot as I spun the Rover’s tires and snow splattered the windows. Had my coordination been better, and had I not been drunk, I’m sure I could have gotten the truck out. Given my brain wasn’t exactly hitting on all cylinders, though, I couldn’t accomplish what once would have been a fairly simple task considering the Land Rover has 4-wheel drive.

 

I struggled to open the door. The exaggerated force I was using caused me to tumble from the vehicle, and land on my knees in the snow.  After spending another couple of minutes laughing, I waded out of the ditch, crossed the road, and staggered up our driveway while singing Joy to the World.

 

I saw a red Dodge Dakota parked by the house and mumbled, “Uh oh. Poppy’s home,” though like everything else since about ten o’clock the previous evening, that fact seemed funny too.

 

I stumbled through the back door. It wasn’t until I bent to take my shoes off that I noticed I’d lost one somewhere in my trek between the Land Rover and the house.  My sock was soaking wet, and my foot was freezing, though the discomfort didn’t bother me in the way it normally would have.  I shrugged out of my coat and let it fall to the floor. I put my hand on the knob of the door that led to the kitchen, but before I could open it, my father opened it for me. I spilled into the room with a, “Whoops a’ daisy!”

 

Papa stood over me with his arms crossed.  “You’re drunk.”

 

I groped for the back of a chair and used it for support. I did my best to stand up straight so I could look him in the eye.

 

“No shit.”

 

“Trevor--”

 

“Don’t start with me.”

 

I winced at the noise when he roared, “What’d you say to me, young man?”

 

     I thrust my chin out in defiance. “I said, don’t start with me.”

 

     “Where were you last night, and who gave you the booze?  I’ve been looking all over town for you ever since I got home.”

 

I grinned a stupid, drunk grin. “Guezz you didn’t look in the right place then, didja’?”

 

I could tell he was exasperated and angry – probably as angry with me as I’d ever seen him, yet all he did was wave a hand toward the stairway.

 

     “Go to bed. We’ll talk about this when you’ve sobered up.”

 

     “Thaz how you handle everything now, isn’t it, Papa?”

 

     He glowered at me.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

     “You won’t talk to me about anything.” I waved my own hand with exaggerated drama. “You sweep...sweep...sweep it all under the rug.”

 

     “If you think I’m sweeping under the rug the fact that my seventeen-year-old son has come home drunk, then you’d better think again, because believe me, I’m not.”

 

     “Not that!” I hollered. “I don’t care what you do to me for bein’ wasted.  I don’t care!  Don’t you get it?  I don’t care about anything any more!  You won’t take care of your back. You don’t sleep.  You work all the time.  You’re trying to be Carl for everyone, Papa. Everyone! You might not see it, but I do.”

 

     “Trev--”

 

     “You feel guilty. I know you do! You’re tryin’ to make it your fault Carl’s dead, only it’s not your fault, it’s mine, and you know that just as much as I do. If I hadn’t been mad about my book - the book is so good, but you don’t want me to write it. So then I got mad, and I skipped school, and I went to Gus’s, and I worked on the chopper, and then...then...then...Carl died.  I know you’re ashamed of me.  Just come right out and say so! It would be so much easier on both of us if you’d just say it.”

 

     “Trevor...son, I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m not ashamed of you.”

 

     “You are too!  You must be.  You didn’t say anything about the school paper.  You didn’t tell Grandpa about Carl. You won’t call Uncle Roy back.  You canceled Christmas. I know it’s all because you’re ashamed of me...of what I did.”

 

     “Trev, just what did you do?”

 

     “I killed Carl, damn it!  It’s my fault Carl’s dead.”  I swept a hand over the table, sending dishes flying that I hadn’t even noticed were setting there.  The sound of broken glass mingled with my shouts.  “I killed Carl!  I wish everyone in this goddamn town would just acknowledge it instead of ignoring it. I wish you’d acknowledge it! Why can’t you acknowledge it? Why can’t you just say, ‘Trevor, it’s your fault Carl’s dead?’”  I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Say it, Papa! Oh God, please just say it.”

 

     It was then that I felt a pair of hands on my own shoulders.  I don’t know where he’d been  – Clarice’s room, or the dining room, or maybe in Papa’s office - but wherever he’d come from, he’d apparently been trying to give my father and me privacy until things escalated to the point he felt it necessary to intervene.

 

     I heard his quiet voice in my ear. “Trev, come on.  Calm down now. Let go of your father.”

 

     I turned to face Roy DeSoto.  I fell into his arms – partly overcome with emotion, and partly too drunk to stand up any longer.  I was too wasted to have any inhibitions, and started sobbing big, drunken tears.

 

     “Why can’t he say it, Uncle Roy? Why can’t he just say it?”

 

     Before I got an answer, I puked on Roy DeSoto’s shirt, and then puked one more time for good measure.  I toppled backwards as my knees buckled, but before I hit the floor, my father caught me.  I passed out in his arms, my last conscious memory being that of the worry, regret, and sorrow I saw on his face.

 

_______________

 

     I woke up disoriented, and with only one thought on my mind. 

 

I’ve gotta find a bathroom!

 

My legs tangled in the quilt someone had covered me with, and it wasn’t until I was racing up the stairs that I realized I hadn’t been in my bed, but rather, on the couch in the great room. 

 

     Based on how many times I threw up when I got to the bathroom, a serious hangover was a given.  I wanted to die, and would have sold my soul to the devil if he’d have promised to put me out of my misery. I hoped my father would show up at that moment and threaten to kill me for being so stupid, because I swear, I would have handed him a gun if I’d had one, and begged him to pull the trigger. The worst case of the flu had never made me feel that sick, and even my recent concussion seemed like a Sunday School picnic compared to how ill drinking all that beer made me.  I silently vowed I’d never ever ever touch another drop of anything that contained alcohol – not even cough medicine – as I puked until I was sure there couldn’t possibly be anything left in my stomach, only to surprise myself by puking again. I wasn’t aware that anyone was with me until I felt a damp, lukewarm washcloth come to rest on my forehead, and heard a quiet voice say, “Can you stand up?”

 

     I curled into a fetal position on the floor.  I couldn’t stand the smell of beer and vomit, and was grateful when Uncle Roy flushed the toilet.  I longed to brush my teeth, wash my mouth out with Listerine, take a hot shower, and put on clean clothes, but I was too sick to move.  My brain felt like it was pulsating inside my head, threatening with each beat to burst out my ears.  I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain.

 

     “I juz...juz wanna lay here and die.”

 

     Uncle Roy chuckled.  “I’m sure you do, but I think you’ll feel better if you sit up.”