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.”

 

     “I can’t.”

 

     “How about if I help you?”

 

     “How about if you just shoot me and bury me behind the barn?”

 

     “I don’t think your father would be very happy with me if I did that.”

 

     “No, probably not, ‘cause then he’d miss the opportunity to do it for himself.”

 

     Uncle Roy took a hold of my right arm, and gently urged me to sit up.  “Come on, Trev. Lean back against the wall.”

 

     With his help, I managed to do what he asked.  He wet the washcloth again, rung it out, and placed it on my forehead.  This time it was cold, and felt good against my throbbing skull.  I rested my arms on my knees and hung my head with a moan. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at the floor.  I thanked God I had made it to the toilet, and hadn’t made a mess all over the floor that would have meant my father had to hire someone to clean the beige carpet. I knew I was in enough trouble as it was. I didn’t need something else added to my list of transgressions.

 

     When I could finally withstand the pain enough to raise my head, I saw Uncle Roy crouched beside me. He was wearing a clean shirt - that fact reminding me that I owed him an apology for having thrown up on him earlier.

 

     I waved a limp hand at Roy’s shirt and mumbled, “Sorry.”  Considering how I was feeling, it was the best I could do in the way of a verbal explanation.  He must have understood what I meant, because his response was an equally brief, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Uncle Roy took my pulse, which seemed kind of silly to me, since based on my puke-a-thon; I was obviously very much alive. But I didn’t jerk my wrist away from him like I would have had it been my father treating me like a baby.  I did say, “I’m okay.”

 

     “I know,” he acknowledged, but didn’t release my wrist until he was satisfied of that fact. 

 

     “Is that why I was on the couch?”

 

     “So we could keep an eye on you, you mean?”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     He nodded. “Alcohol consumption is nothing to fool around with.  A lot of young people have died as a result of binge drinking.”

 

“It was my first time.”  For some reason, it was important to me that he knew that. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Does...” my eyes darted to the hallway. “Does Pops?”

 

“I think so.  Or if nothing else, I’d say he’s as certain of that fact as any father of a teenager can be.”

 

“He can be certain, ‘cause it’s the truth.  And based on how I feel now, I’ll drink paint thinner first, before I’ll ever touch another drop a’ booze.”

 

 Uncle Roy chuckled again. “I wouldn’t advise trying that, either. Maybe you’d better just stick to milk, water, juice, and soda.”

 

“Believe me, I will.”

 

He patted my left knee as he stood.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

I sat in the bathroom alone, wondering where my father was.  I couldn’t detect the presence of anyone else in the house other than Uncle Roy, but that didn’t mean Papa wasn’t sitting in his office, or at the kitchen table. I heard dresser drawers opening and closing, but didn’t realize what Uncle Roy had been doing until he appeared in the bathroom again with clothes for me.  He laid the pile in his arms on the closed lid of the toilet.

 

“I hope this stuff is okay.”

 

I peered at what he’d laid down, because it hurt too much to open my eyes all the way. Blue jeans, socks, boxer shorts, and a Seahawks jersey Papa had given me for Christmas.

 

“Sure. Thanks.”

 

Uncle Roy helped me stand. “You’ll feel better after you’ve had a hot shower.”

 

“A lot better?”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far, but at least a little better, let’s put it that way.”

 

It took me a moment to get my balance, and another few seconds before my legs felt like they’d hold me up.

 

“You need me to stay in here with you?”

I started to shake my head, then thought better of it.  I was in enough pain without willingly inflicting more on myself.

 

“I’ll be okay.”

 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ll be right outside the door, then. Don’t lock it, and holler if you need me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

As he turned to leave the room, I asked the question I’d been putting off ever since I’d been aware of his presence.

 

“Where’s...where’s my father?”

 

“I sent him to work.”

 

Because I hadn’t put my watch on before leaving for church the previous evening, I had no idea what time it was.

 

“When?”

 

“When what?”

 

“When did you send Papa to work?  What day is it?”

 

“It’s Christmas. And I sent him to work about eight hours ago so he’d get there on time.”

 

Based on what Uncle Roy had just said, I knew that meant it was around three-thirty in the afternoon.

 

“Oh.” 

 

I don’t know if my “Oh,” sounded disappointed, or relieved, but I’m guessing it sounded like a little bit of both, because Uncle Roy said, “I thought it would be the best thing for both you and Johnny.  If I hadn’t been here, he’d have stayed home with you, no question about it.  But I was here, and you were sleeping, and sometimes...well, sometimes a young man and his father need a break from one another in order to put things into perspective.”

 

“You sound like the voice of experience.”

 

He smiled and gave me a wink. “I might be an old geezer now, but at one time I was young enough to have two teenage boys of my own, not to mention one head strong girl, which brings a father an additional set of headaches above and beyond any his boys could give him.”

 

At any other time, I would have laughed at Uncle Roy’s words, but the previous twenty-four hours were finally collating in my brain and forcing my mind to focus elsewhere.  The red Dakota I’d seen parked in our driveway didn’t have any fire department logos on it, which my drunken mind hadn’t processed when I’d first encountered it.  I suddenly realized it was a vehicle Uncle Roy must have rented when he flew into Juneau sometime on Christmas Eve.  Which meant he’d probably been waiting at the house when my father was dropped off after the fire, and had been the person who’d driven Papa around looking for me.  Later, I found out from Uncle Roy my conclusions were correct.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doin’ here?  It’s Christmas Day.”

 

“Yep, it is.  As to what I’m doing here, let’s just say a few years ago when I was having kind of a...blue Christmas, Santa Claus and a little elf showed up at my place to try and make my Christmas better, so I’m returning the favor.”

 

I gave a slight smile at the memory.  I’d been nine the year Papa and I had surprised Uncle Roy with a visit on Christmas Day, and had gathered all of his children together for the holiday, just when he thought he, Aunt Joanne, and Libby, would be celebrating alone.

 

“What about Aunt Joanne?  Is she here too?”

 

“No. She’s spending the day at Chris’s house, along with Libby.”

 

Since he didn’t mention Jennifer, I assumed she was working. I already knew the DeSotos had held their family Christmas celebration on Thanksgiving.

 

“But wasn’t she upset about you missing Christmas with her?”

 

Uncle Roy smiled.  “We’ve been married forty-six years, Trev. Due to my job, your Aunt Joanne has spent a few Christmas Days without me in the past, and besides, she was the one who suggested I pay you and your father a visit.”

 

“But--”

 

He held up a hand. “I’ll answer all your questions in a little while.  You shower and get dressed first.”

 

He closed the door as he exited the room. When I didn’t hear his footsteps walk down the hall, I knew he was doing as he’d promised, and standing right outside in case I needed him.

 

I bit back a groan as I leaned into the tub to turn the water on.  Blood roared in my head at the movement, but the pressure was relieved somewhat when I stood to peel off my clothes. I stuffed everything in the hamper, no longer able to stand the smell of cigarette smoke and beer. I shuddered at the thought of Connor’s dirty bathroom when compared to our immaculate one, and once again decided that I wasn’t cut out to share a house with three other guys who didn’t believe ‘cleanliness was next to Godliness’, as Clarice is fond of saying.

 

The hot shower did make me feel a little better, but by no means did it work miracles.  I still felt like death was the better alternative to life, even after dressing, brushing my teeth, and rinsing my mouth with Listerine.  When I exited the bathroom, Uncle Roy asked me if I was feeling better.

 

“Kinda.”

 

I followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.  He pointed to a chair.

 

“Have a seat.”

 

I did as he said, and watched as he filled a glass with cold water and shook three aspirin from a bottle someone – probably my father - had set on the counter by the toaster.  He walked over and handed me the glass and pills.

 

“Take those, and drink all the water. Then you’re going to drink another glass.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because despite everything you drank, alcohol dehydrates a person.  If you keep the water down, I’ll make you some soup in a little while, and give you some crackers to go along with it.”

 

I wasn’t too crazy about the thought of food, but given his medical background, I figured he knew what he was doing.

 

I did as Uncle Roy instructed.  My stomach rebelled a moment as the aspirin hit it. I thought I was going to have to run to the bathroom again, but then things calmed down.  I drank a second glass of water for him, and then a third glass before he was satisfied I’d had enough.  He put the glass in the sink and sat down next to me.

 

The thing I like about Uncle Roy is the way he’s content to sit in silence, and doesn’t pressure a guy to talk. It’s not exactly a trait my father possesses most of the time, and to be honest, neither do I.  But Uncle Roy didn’t ask me what had been going on; even though he wouldn’t have come all the way to Alaska if he wasn’t concerned something was happening with his best friend that warranted his presence. Nor did he ask why I’d been so stupid as to get drunk, or what I’d meant by any of the things I’d said to my father after I’d stumbled into the house.  He just sat there, letting me decide if and when I wanted to say anything at all. And when I did say something, he didn’t seem to mind that it wasn’t revealing, or profound.

 

“Does...um...Clarice was expecting me to be at her sister’s this morning.  Does she know...” I dropped my eyes in an attempt to hide my embarrassment. “Does she know why I’m not there?”

 

“Your father called her so she wouldn’t be worried when you didn’t show up. He told her you were sick and were staying home.”

 

I nodded. What Papa had told Clarice wasn’t exactly the truth, or at least not the whole truth, but given how I was feeling, it wasn’t exactly a lie, either.  I was thankful Pops had kept my drinking binge private, because the last thing I needed was for Carl’s family to spread it around Eagle Harbor, and believe me, at least a dozen of them would have.

 

We sat in silence so long that Uncle Roy must have decided I could keep food down.  He stood and started opening cabinet doors.  I pointed to his right. 

 

“Soup’s two cabinets over.”

 

“Thanks.”  He opened the correct cabinet and saw a shelf lined with Campbell’s soups of at least twenty-five varieties. “I can tell a couple of bachelors live here,” he teased. “Got a preference?”

 

I thought a moment. “Uh...Chicken and Stars’ll be fine.”

 

I directed him to the cabinet where the pans were kept, and then to the drawer that held the silverware.  He used the electric can opener to open the lid, then dumped the soup in a pan and added water.  While it heated over a low flame, he got out the Saltines, a bowl, a small plate, and a spoon.

 

It was easier to talk to him now that he was moving around the kitchen, as opposed to sitting next to me.

 

“Did you...did you come up here because of what happened to Carl?”

 

He turned and leaned his back against the counter.

 

“I came here because I thought your father could use a visit from an old friend.”

 

“Because he wasn’t returning your phone calls?”

 

“Not necessarily, though that was part of it.”

 

“You sure traveled a long way just ‘cause he wouldn’t call you back.”

 

Uncle Roy laughed. “Your father said that exact same thing when he saw me sitting in your driveway last night.”  He sobered then. “Thirty years ago, I wouldn’t have traveled this far on nothing more than a gut feeling and a few logical deductions - not even for Johnny. But time changes a man, Trevor.  When you reach my age, and your children are grown, and you’ve got a grown granddaughter too, you realize how fast life goes by. You tend to...treasure even more the people you’re close to.  You tend to have an easier time reaching out to them if you think they need you.  You worry less about staying within the role you’ve defined for yourself as husband, father, and friend, and instead, take a few...emotional risks, when it comes to letting people know what an important place they hold in your life.”

 

I thought over what he’d said. On one level I realized I’d have to be his age to fully understand what he meant, yet I also knew what it was like to lose someone without ever having told that person what he meant to me.  A newspaper editorial after the fact seemed to fall far short of what Carl deserved.

 

I ran my hand across my quilted placemat a moment, fiddling with its scalloped edges. 

 

“I...it...it all started when Papa asked me not write my book any more.”

 

“Your book? You mean the one you were working on for school?”

 

“Yeah. He...I found some things about Scott Monroe...I...found out he’s the reason Chris...um...he’s the reason why Chris can’t walk.”

 

Uncle Roy nodded. His voice was free of emotion, as if at some point in the twenty-four years since Chris lost the use of his legs, he’d moved beyond anger and reached acceptance. 

 

“That’s right. He’s the reason.”

 

“But you...at first you blamed my father, didn’t you.”

 

He didn’t avoid my statement, nor did he lie to me.

 

“Yeah, Trev, at first I did.”

 

“I understand the reasons why,” I rushed to say, before Uncle Roy could think I held him responsible for what had happened between him and my father over two decades earlier. “I mean; Chris is your son. He was with my father that night.  It’s natural that you would have expected Papa to keep him safe.”

 

“Natural, yes. But fair? No. Chris was nineteen - young, but a grown man.  His decisions were his own. Not influenced by anyone else...and certainly not by your father.”

 

“Whatta ya’ mean?”

 

“To make a long story short, I wanted Chris to attend college, while he wanted to join the fire department.  He went to college for a little more than a semester, then dropped out. After Chris was injured, I blamed Johnny for that choice on Chris’s part.”

 

“Was it his fault?”

 

“That Chris joined the fire department?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No, it wasn’t Johnny’s fault.  It wasn’t anyone’s fault. As I said, it was Chris’s choice, and his choice alone. Problem is, Trev, when a father sees his son’s life altered in the way I saw Chris’s altered by that bullet he took in his spine...well, it was a tough thing for me to handle, and I needed someone to blame.  Because Johnny was with Chris that night, and because Chris had always looked up to him, and because several months earlier Chris had talked Johnny into telling me he was dropping out of college...those things combined caused me to place blame where none was deserved.”

 

“Sounds like it was just a bad situation all the way around,” I said, referring to Uncle Roy’s disappointment in Chris’s decision to leave school, my father being the person Chris talked into breaking that news to Uncle Roy, and then my father and Chris being the paramedics who answered the call at Scott Monroe’s home that night.

 

“It was.”

 

Uncle Roy turned, shut off the burner, and poured my soup into the bowl. He put half a dozen crackers on the plate, and carried both the bowl and plate to me.  He went back for the spoon and another glass of water. After he’d set those items in front of me, he sat down at the table again.

 

“I take it you confronted your father about what you’d discovered?”

 

“Well...not really. Actually, he confronted me.”

 

“You?”

 

“Yeah. He found a file about Monroe on his computer that I’d forgotten to delete.  He was pretty mad.”

 

“I bet he was.”

 

“I was just trying to find out what’d happened...for my book, ya’ see.  I wasn’t trying to pin any blame on Papa...or on you. I figured it all happened a long time ago, and the two of you obviously worked it out, so who was right or who was wrong didn’t matter to me.  Still doesn’t.  But by the time all was said and done, I guess my curiosity got the best of me, because Papa said I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong.”

 

Uncle Roy didn’t confirm or deny that, he just said, “That was a very difficult time for Johnny and me.”

 

“I know. Or at least I came to know it after Papa asked me not to write my book any more.”

 

“That book means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

 

“More than I ever thought it would.” I took two sips of soup, then two bites of a cracker before speaking again. “As much as I thought I was gonna hate being a writer...well, I found out that I kinda like writing. Actually, I like it a lot.  I think...well, I think I’m even kinda good at it.”

 

“I think you are too.”

 

I looked at him with a puzzled expression. “How would you know?”

 

“Johnny’s been sending me copies of your editorials ever since the school year started, and he had me read your editorial about Carl before he left for work this morning.”

 

“Oh,” was all I said, but once again I was amazed to discover how deep my father’s pride over my accomplishments went.

 

“Sometimes it catches us by surprise, doesn’t it?”

 

“What?”

 

“How much someone else thinks of us.”

 

I blushed a little. I wasn’t embarrassed by Uncle Roy’s words, but embarrassed to discover how much my father loved me, despite how I continually screwed things up. Here I was passed out on the couch that morning reeking of alcohol, and he still had enough pride in me to show Uncle Roy my editorial about Carl. 

 

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Sometimes it does. Especially when I don’t deserve to be thought so highly of.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Everything. This...this whole mess I’ve made of my life ever since Papa asked me to quit writing my book.”

 

     “Need someone to talk to about it?”

 

     I knew that was an open invitation to confide in him whatever I wanted to, but for the time being, all I said was, “Don’t know.  Maybe.”

 

I didn’t say anything else, and neither did Uncle Roy.  He must have had a hundred questions he could have asked me, but he sat in silence while I ate.  By the time I’d finished my bowl of soup I was feeling better.  Not great, but better. My headache had let up some, and my stomach wasn’t quite so queasy.  And best of all, I could no longer taste beer each time I swallowed. 

 

I stood and carried my dishes to the dishwasher, threw the empty soup can away, then put the pan in the dishwasher too. 

 

Before I sat down again, I asked, “You want something to eat or drink?”

 

“No thanks. Johnny showed me where everything was before he left. I made myself a ham sandwich at noon, warmed up some of those scalloped potatoes Clarice made, and ate a piece of that Black Forest cake she left here.”

 

“She’s a good cook.”

 

“She sure is.”

I sat down at the table once again.  I looked outside, though I couldn’t see anything because darkness had already fallen.  I heard the wind, and then the sound of snow pelting the windows.  I sighed.

 

“The snow never seems to stop this winter. This is just like it was the night...”

 

I let my sentence trail off, and wouldn’t have finished it had Uncle Roy not asked, “The night what?”

 

I sighed again. “The night Carl died.”

 

“I see.”

 

He patiently waited until I was ready to start talking again. I finally made eye contact with him.

 

“I...it all started the day I skipped school. That was the morning Papa asked me not to write my book any more. Only the way he did it...he said it was a man-to-man request, not a father to son request.  Do you know the difference?”

 

Uncle Roy thought a moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say that a man-to-man request leaves you the option to do what you want to, while a father to son request is more like being forbidden to write the book.”

 

“Exactly. Since he made the request man-to-man, do you see what a crappy position he put me in?”

 

Ever the diplomat, Uncle Roy said, “I see that he put you in a tough spot.”

 

“Yeah, he sure did.  He really ticked me off.  It wasn’t fair, and I told him so.  I’d done a lot of work on the book up to that point, and my mom thought it was really good.” I raked a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it was partially my fault too.  I shouldn’t have nosed around trying to find out stuff about Scott Monroe. And maybe I should have picked up on the signals Papa was sendin’ me ever since I started writing the book.”

 

“Signals?”

 

“Yeah.  Even though he said I could use what happened with him and Crammer as my plot, there were times when I could tell he wasn’t too crazy about the idea. When I could tell it bothered him.”

 

“Remember me telling you on the phone last June not to pressure your father where the subject of Crammer was concerned?”

 

I nodded. “You were tryin’ to tell me there was more to the story than just Crammer, weren’t you?  I mean, you were kinda telling me about Monroe and how Chris became paralyzed, without coming right out and sayin’ it.”

 

“I was.  And I realize now I should have come right out and said it.  By keeping quiet, I wasn’t doing Johnny...or you, any favors.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to protect Papa. I’d have done the same for my best friend. Secrets...they’re just a bad thing all the way around sometimes.  When I was little, Papa told me the truth always comes out eventually.”

 

“He’s right about that. Generally, it does.”

 

“So anyway, I skipped school that day – it was in early November, and I went to Gus’s. I worked on the helicopter the fire department uses as an air ambulance.”

 

“I know which one you mean. Your father’s shown it to me.”

 

“Gus and I worked together on it most of the day, but there were a couple of times when he was in his office and I was working on it by myself. Papa knew where I was, ‘cause Gus had called him. When I got home that night, Papa did a pretty good job of keepin’ his cool.  He told me I had to tell Mr. Hammond – my principal – that I’d skipped school, and accept whatever punishment he dished out, which I did. But other than that, Papa dropped the subject. Things weren’t good between us for the rest of November.  We just kinda limped along while ignoring the subject of my book.”

 

“So you quit writing it?”

 

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to start working on it several times since then. Or at least I did until Carl died.  But each time I sat down and opened the file, I’d remember Papa’s man-to-man request, and feel like I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.”

 

“Understandable.”

 

“I guess. So November was a total bust. Pops tried to get back on my good side, but I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.  I even lost interest in dating Kylee, which brought me a whole new set of problems.  Then that Saturday night of Thanksgiving weekend, Papa was working a twenty-four hour shift. It was snowing like it is now; only ten times worse. The wind was really strong, too.  Kylee wanted me to come to her house. Said her parents told her it was okay if I spent the night in her little brother’s room ‘cause of the storm, as long it was all right with my pops. I didn’t even bother to call Papa and ask him, ‘cause I didn’t feel like going. It was around quarter to eight when I got done talking to her. I watched TV for a while, then went to my room and worked on my journal.”

 

“Another school writing project?”

 

“Sort of. Or it was last year when I was junior.  I like doing it, so I’ve tried to keep it up-to-date as much as I can.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Clarice was already in her room for the night reading a book, when I went upstairs. I’d just finished my journal entry and came down for a snack, when I heard someone pounding on the back door.  I answered it, and saw my friend, Jake Shipman, standing there looking like the Abominable Snowman. I brought him in here to the kitchen so he could warm up.  He was pretty frantic ‘cause he’d driven his mom’s new car into the ditch about a mile down the road from here. His parents were in Anchorage for the weekend. Jake’s sister, Katie, goes to college there. She’d been home for a few days because of the holiday, so they’d left at noon on Saturday to take her back. Amber – Jake’s little sister - was spending the weekend at a cousin’s house, but Jake had talked his folks into lettin’ him stay home alone. They weren’t gonna be back until Sunday afternoon.”     

 

I continued telling Uncle Roy what had happened the night Carl died, but my mind wasn’t focused on him.  Instead, I felt like I was reliving the events as I talked – like I was becoming a part of my own memories in a way that usually isn’t possible.  I remembered so vividly Jake and I standing in almost the exact same spots where Uncle Roy and I were now sitting.

 

 

_______________

 

 

“Oh man, Trev, my pops is gonna kill me.” Jake paced in frantic circles, his bare hands buried in the pockets of his letterman’s coat. “And then when he’s finished with me, my mom’s gonna kill me even worse. This is the first new car she’s ever had.  She’s always driven used ones before.”

 

“What were you doin’ with her car anyway? Why weren’t you driving your truck?”

 

“It’s a Cadillac. A brand new Cadillac.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, I wanted to show it to Jenna.”

 

“Is that where you were?”

 

“Yeah. I went to her house for a couple a’ hours, but this storm is a bitch to drive in, so I figured I’d better get home. I hit a slick spot – musta’ been a patch of ice beneath the snow – and spun out.  I ended up in the ditch about a mile down the road.”

 

“You can stay here for the night, then.  We’ll get the car out in the morning.  My pops can help us when he gets off work.”

 

“No way. I gotta get it outta there now.”

 

“In this storm? Are you nuts?”

 

“No, I’m not nuts. I’m a seventeen year old who wants ta’ live ta’ see eighteen.  I’m not kiddin’ you, Trev.  My parents’ll kill me.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell me, let me guess.  You don’t have permission to be driving your mom’s car.”

 

“You could say that.  I took the extra set of keys from a drawer in the laundry room.  I...I was just goin’ to Jenna’s. I didn’t think it would hurt anything.  Stupid snow.” Jake walked another round of tight circles. “Oh man, I’m dead. You might as well have my funeral now, ‘cause I’m dead when my parents come home tomorrow and find out that car’s in the ditch. By then it’ll be buried under a foot of snow - if someone doesn’t come along and hit it first.”

 

“If it’s in the ditch, then no one’s gonna hit it unless they go in the ditch too.”

 

“The back half’s hangin’ in the ditch, but the front half’s still on the road.”

 

     “That’s not good.”

 

     “Tell me about it.”

 

     A part of me thought the best thing we could do was call the police department and let the dispatcher know the situation with the car, and then wait until morning when my father and Carl could help us get it out.  But another part of me understood why Jake was so anxious to take care of the car right then – at ten-thirty at night, and in the middle of a blizzard.  If I were in his shoes, I’d have felt the same way. In addition to that, I was concerned that some driver would come along and, unable to see the front of the car because of the storm, crash into it, and then be seriously injured. 

 

     I thought a moment. 

 

     “Okay, here’s what we can try. We’ll get my father’s tractor and some chains, and see if we can pull it out.  If it’s too dangerous for you to drive home ‘cause of the storm, you can come here and spend the rest of the night.”

 

     “Great,” Jake grinned. “Thanks, Trev. Thanks a lot.”

 

     I started walking toward the dining room.  “Be right back.  I need to tell Clarice where I’m goin’.”

 

     Jake grabbed my arm. “No!”

 

     “Whatta’ ya’ mean, no?”

 

     “She’ll tell my folks!”

 

     “She won’t if we ask her not to.”

 

     “Trevor, she’s my father’s aunt.  She’ll tell. And even if she doesn’t tell on purpose, she might let it slip on accident.”

 

     “If you spend the night here, she’s gonna know.”

 

     “Hopefully, I won’t have to. And if I do, we can put the car in your garage, and then I’ll sneak out your bedroom window in the morning. Aunt Clarice will never know I was here.”

 

     I thought that possibility sounded like a long shot at best.  What if the storm kept up all night, and the roads weren’t clear to travel on in the morning? Was Jake going to hide under my bed all day?

 

     “Jake, I think we’d just better tell Clarice what’s goin’ on, and then see if we can get the car--”

 

     “Trev, please.  Don’t. You wouldn’t do this to me if you knew how mad my mom and pops will be.  I’ll be lucky if I’m not grounded until graduation...maybe even longer.”

 

     Against my better judgment, I sighed and gave in. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it your way.”

 

     I could hear the relief in Jake’s voice. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

Since Clarice hadn’t come out of her room, I knew she hadn’t heard us.  That meant she’d probably fallen asleep with the TV on, as she often does. Added to that, the wind was so strong you couldn’t hear much of anything but the sound of it howling, and icy snowflakes pinging against the house.  I motioned for Jake to follow me to the laundry room.

 

“Come on.  We’ve got extra gloves and hats out here. Get whatever you need while I get my coat and boots on.”

 

Jake said, “Thanks,” again, then rummaged through the cabinet where we keep winter clothing.  He took a pair of gloves because the ones he had balled up in his coat pockets were soaking wet. He hadn’t been wearing a hat, so grabbed a red knit one that had the fire department’s logo on it. 

 

“Give me one of those, too,” I said. “And a pair of gloves and a scarf.”

 

Jake got a scarf for me, and then one for himself. 

 

“Good idea,” he said, as he wrapped the blue scarf around his nose and mouth, and tied it behind his head.  I did the same with the red scarf he’d handed me.

 

When we were bundled up like a couple of kids getting ready to play in the snow, we headed out the door. The wind was blowing in our faces as we trudged to the barn. We had to lean forward and fight the strength of the wind in order to make any progress.

 

The animals blinked at us with drowsy eyes when I turned the lights on.  Not even my dogs were willing to rise from their thick bed of straw to greet me.  I didn’t blame them. The barn was insulated and had a heater that hung in one corner.  I doubt the dogs, cats, and horses appreciated the blast of cold air that entered with Jake and me. 

 

Papa has a John Deere tractor with a bucket on the front that’s used for scooping manure, and used for plowing snow.  I grabbed two shovels and a set of heavy chains from the garage. I secured everything on the metal platform behind the tractor’s seat using two fat black rubber straps.

 

I hoisted myself up to the seat and started the engine.  The smoke stack came to life with a roar and a few puffs of exhaust, then I drove the tractor out of the barn.  Jake slid the door closed.  I stopped the tractor and he climbed up on my right, leaning against the metal wheel well that covers the big tire.  He grabbed onto the back of the seat with one hand and yelled over the sound of the storm and the tractor’s engine, “I’m ready!”

 

When Clarice didn’t come to the back door, I knew she’d slept through the sound of the tractor starting.  Again, because of the storm, I doubted she could hear it. Just to be on the safe side, I didn’t turn on the tractor’s headlights until we’d rounded the curve in the driveway that took us toward the road and away from the house.

 

Papa’s tractor doesn’t have a cab, so it was freezing driving in the open air like that. The snow felt like tiny slivers of glass as it hit my face. I was glad we were wearing scarves and hats – something teenage boys don’t often make use of - because at least our only exposed skin was high on our cheekbones and around our eyes.

 

Because of the snow, there was no traffic on the road. Not that our rural road gets that much traffic on it anyway.  Jake had been using it as a short cut to get back into Eagle Harbor, which I figured he was probably regretting about that time.

 

We putted along at fifteen miles an hour.  I was glad the car wasn’t far from our house, because I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the tractor for very long.  Jake was shivering as he stood beside me, so I knew he felt the same way I did.  When we reached the black Cadillac, I backed the tractor up to the front of the vehicle, stopping two feet away from it.  I left the tractor running, left its headlights on, and also turned on the yellow flashers, so anyone approaching could see us. 

 

Jake and I slipped and slid through the snow as we got the chains.  I grabbed the flashlight that Papa keeps secured beneath the tractor’s seat.  With each of us carrying a chain, we dropped to our stomachs beneath the car’s frame.  Snow worked its way under the hem of my coat and soaked into my shirt.  I ignored the discomfort and turned on the flashlight so we could see what we were doing. We shouted to one another, giving instructions so the chains were placed properly.  The last thing I wanted to do was ruin the car’s frame. If that happened, I wouldn’t want to face Jake’s parents any more than he did.

 

When the chains were secure, Jake got in the car and started the engine.

 

“When I get on the tractor, put it in drive!” I shouted through the closed window.

 

“I will!”

 

I nodded, then trudged through the snow to the tractor.  I climbed into the seat, put the tractor in gear, double checked to make sure the road was still free of any headlights that would indicate a car was coming, then turned sideways so I could keep an eye on the Cadillac as I pulled it out.

 

I eased off the clutch as I pressed on the gas pedal.  The tractor moved forward, but met resistance when the car wouldn’t budge.  I backed the tractor up a little bit to give the chains slack again, then repeated the process. When I met resistance a second time, I gave it a third try.  Jake was trying to help me by giving the car gas, but all he was succeeding in doing was spinning the tires, which shot snow over the car and onto my back. 

 

When I still couldn’t get the car out after a fourth attempt, I put the tractor’s emergency brake on again, put it in neutral, and jumped down.  I grabbed the shovels and handed one to Jake as he climbed out of the car.

 

“We need to get the snow away from the tires!”

 

“Okay!”

 

At least when we were shoveling, I didn’t feel the cold quite so much.  As soon as I’d gotten on the tractor I’d noticed my fingers and toes were freezing, despite my gloves and boots.  I figured Jake’s feet had to be really cold, because all he had on was tennis shoes. 

 

I shoveled as fast as I could, thinking about how good it would feel to be in the house wearing dry clothes, while drinking a mug of hot chocolate.  That’s exactly what I planned to do when I got back home. Based on the intensity of the storm, I figured Jake was going to be staying overnight whether he wanted to or not, and I was just about to shout, “Hey, doesn’t hot chocolate sound pretty good right about now?” when a huge truck with no headlights on came out of nowhere, spun around three times, and plowed into the car.

 

I didn’t know what had hit me. I’m still not sure if the truck clipped me, or if the Cadillac hit me when it was struck.   All I remember is flying through the air, and then landing in the road, the top of my head striking the metal hitch on the back of the tractor. 

 

I don’t know how long I was unconscious for sure, though later the police and my doctor estimated I was out for about fifteen minutes.  I woke up dazed and uncertain of where I was and what had happened.  It was the cold snow on my face, mixing with something warm that was running from beneath my hat, that brought me to full awareness.  I scrambled to my feet, yanked my scarf away from my mouth, threw up so hard it knocked me to my knees, and then shouted, “Jake!  Jake!”

 

I squinted against the pain and the driving snow, trying to locate my friend.  The driver’s side of the Cadillac had been pressed into the passenger side by the heavy-duty Chevy truck that was raised off the ground four feet by monster tires.  I recognized that truck, as did everyone in Eagle Harbor. It belonged to Tucker Tucker the Third, and I could just barely make out his body slumped across the steering wheel.

 

I tripped over the flashlight, grabbed it from the snow bank it was sticking up from, and turned it on.  I shone it through the truck’s window and winced.  My medical knowledge doesn’t go much beyond common first aid facts, but the way Tucker’s head was angled – off to one side, and loose and wobbly in appearance, led me to believe his neck was broken.  Tucker wasn’t my concern at that moment, though. Jake was. The flashlight’s beam danced from snow bank to snow bank as I bounced it from place to place while hollering, “Jake! Jake! Jake!”

 

I finally saw him laying ten feet away in a snow bank stained red with blood.  I ignored my own blood that was now flowing freely down my face.  I ran to Jake’s side.

 

“Jake! Jake!”

 

Jake didn’t respond to my voice.  I saw a bone protruding through the left leg of his blue jeans, and saw his right arm bent at an awkward angle beneath his back.

 

“Jake!”

 

Blood trickled from Jake’s nose and ears, and more blood stained his jeans where the bone was sticking out. 

 

Though he couldn’t hear me, I assured, “I’ll be back, Jake. I’m gonna get help.  Hang on! I’ll be right back.”

 

I stood to run for the tractor, but collapsed when the world spun around me.  I threw up again, making whimpering noises as I clawed my way through the snow when my legs wouldn’t hold me up.  The world threatened to go black when tiny spots danced in front of my eyes, and blood roared in my ears.

 

“No, no,” I whimpered a plea to remain conscious. “Gotta get help for Jake.  No.”

 

My clothes were soaked when I’d finally crawled to the rear of the tractor.  Snow was inside my boots, my jeans, and up the sleeves of my coat.  I shivered as I unfastened the chains from the smashed Cadillac, and then unfastened them from the rear of the tractor.  I struggled to pull myself up onto the John Deere’s seat.  Dizziness threatened to engulf me when I stood. I don’t think I would have stayed on that tractor long enough to get to my house – if I even could have gotten on it before losing consciousness and falling backwards into the snow.  It was as my knees were buckling beneath me that two massive hands caught me.

 

“Trevor! Trevor, what happened?”

 

I turned around and saw Carl holding onto me.  He wasn’t on duty that night, but because of the storm, he’d gone to the station in order to help the overtaxed paramedics and patrol officers in any way he could. 

 

At that moment, I had no idea why Carl was on duty, nor did I care. I started babbling – or at least that’s what it sounded like to my injured brain.  Carl must have been able to figure out what I was saying though, because when I was finished, he eased me to a seated position beside the tractor, told me to stay put, shut the tractor off, and ran for the white Dakota he was driving that belongs to the police department.  I saw him grab the mike, but couldn’t hear what he said to the dispatcher.  I didn’t have to hear to know he put in a call for paramedics and more police assistance.

 

Like all the police officers on Eagle Harbor’s force, Carl had EMT training. It took him three tries to get the crumpled driver’s door of Tucker’s truck open.  I heard the metal groan over the sound of the wind, and then heard bottles clink together as they rolled out of the vehicle and landed in the snow. 

 

The spotlights mounted on the roof of the Dakota enabled me to see Carl reach into the truck and place the fingers of his left hand at the pulse point of Tucker’s throat.  He moved his fingers twice, as though seeking something that he knew wasn’t there.  He didn’t react one way or another when he left Tucker and ran to Jake, but somehow I knew Tucker was dead, just like I’d suspected when first spotting him in the cab of the crumpled truck.  I saw the open beer bottles scattered outside of the truck. They were a silent testament to the reason why Tucker was driving in a snowstorm with his lights off - he’d been too drunk to remember to turn them on.  That fact that would be substantiated several weeks later, when tests at the state lab revealed Tucker’s blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit.  The police department’s accident reconstruction expert also determined that Tucker was driving seventy miles an hour on a road where the speed limit is only forty-five, and on a night when conditions warranted that a vehicle’s speed stay below thirty for safety sake.

 

I watched as Carl plodded from Jake to the Dakota in the best form of a run he could manage, considering the depth of the snow.  He opened the cargo hold and grabbed a blanket with one hand, while picking up a toolbox that held first aid equipment with the other hand.  He hurried through the path he’d already made in the snow, returning to Jake’s side and offering what assistance he could until the paramedics arrived.

 

 I used the frame of the tractor to pull myself to my feet.  My legs wobbled, and the world once again spun around me, but I was determined to help Carl help Jake.  I made it six steps before I collapsed face first in the snow.  I don’t know if I lost consciousness, but I know I was disoriented and out of it.  I didn’t hear the paramedic squad arrive, nor did I realize my father was treating me until I found myself face up and strapped to a backboard with a C-collar around my neck, an IV in my right arm, and a pressure bandage on top of my head.

 

I fought against the straps, trying to turn my head in frantic attempts to search for my friend. 

 

“Jake!  Jake!”

 

It was my father’s voice that I finally heard over my shouts.

 

“Trevor, Jake’s gonna be fine. Calm down. Calm down, son.”

 

“Jake!”

 

“Trev, calm down now,” Papa urged, as he checked my pupils with a penlight. “Calm down, son.  Everything’s gonna be all right.”

 

It took a moment longer for my mind to allow my worry for Jake to recede, and to instead, focus on my father.

 

“Pa...Papa?”

 

Though sirens were wailing in the distance, and red lights were flashing over me in a bizarre strobe effect, and men were shouting to be heard as instructions were called back and forth, it seemed like my world revolved included no one other than my father at that moment. I was so glad to see him, and for the first time since the accident, I thought Jake might have a chance to live.

 

I felt his fingers brush my hair over my right ear.  “I’m right here, son.”

 

“Papa, you gotta help Jake.”

 

“Don’t worry. We’re helping Jake.”

 

“No, you.  It has to be you.  You’re his only chance.”

 

“Trev, calm down.  Jake’s getting the help he needs.  I called for the chopper.  Dirk’ll be landing it in a minute.”

 

I was confused.  “Dirk?”

 

“Remember, Gus and Evelyn were flying to Petersburg this afternoon?”

 

At that moment, I wasn’t able to recall that Gus and his wife had left from the airport before the storm had started. They’d headed to Petersburg in a two-passenger plane to spend the weekend with their youngest daughter and her family.

 

“Dirk?” I questioned again, not able to figure out why Gus wasn’t the one bringing the helicopter to the accident scene.

 

Papa patted my arm before he covered me with a blanket.  “Don’t worry about it right now. The important thing is, we’ll be in the air in a few minutes.”

 

“Papa...” I shut my eyes against the pain in my throbbing head.  The deep gash I had burned beneath the pressure bandage.  “Papa...I’m sorry.  Jake and I...I told him we should...should leave the car until...until ‘morrow...but he wasn’t ‘sposed to drive it...an’...and he was upset...an’...an’...I was just...I was just helpin’ him get it out when Tucker...he came outta nowhere, Papa...I didn’t see him...his headlights...they weren’t on and--”

 

“Trev, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.  You boys didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up into my father’s face. “I...I wanted Jake to stay at our hou...house.  I didn’t think we should be out in the storm, but...but...but he--”

 

“Trevor, it’s okay,” he assured, as he used a piece of gauze to dab at the tears running down the side of my face.  “It’s okay.  I’m not mad.  You aren’t in trouble.  You can tell me all about it when you’re feeling better.”

 

Before I could say anything else, a brilliant light illuminated the ground all around me, and then a helicopter slowly descended from the sky and landed on the road.  Because of my position on the backboard, I couldn’t see what was going on, but I felt my father pat my arm again.

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

He called to Aaron Newholm, “Aaron! Come over here and stay with my son for a minute!”

 

It wasn’t until days later that I found out my father had gone to confer with Dirk as to whether or not Dirk thought it was safe to fly that night.  The storm had let up sometime between when the accident had happened, and when my father had arrived.  The wind had died down, and it wasn’t snowing nearly as hard as it had been when Jake and I had left the house.

 

I was drifting in and out of consciousness again, because the next time I was aware of what was happening I was being loaded onto the helicopter.  As the backboard was tilted, I caught a glimpse of Clarice standing beside her vehicle. She was wearing her winter coat over her nightgown, her fur knee-high boots sticking out from beneath it. It would have been a funny sight if her face hadn’t been pinched tight with worry.  I didn’t know if she’d woken up, realized I was gone, and went out looking for me, or if someone had called her.  Again, it was later that I found out someone had called her.  That someone was Carl, and that’s the one thing about that night that makes me happy.  Because Clarice was there, she got to see Carl one last time before he died.  He even stopped beside her to talk a moment. He assured her that it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know I’d left the house with Jake, and kissed her cheek before climbing in the helicopter with my father.  I didn’t hear or see any of that, but Clarice told me about it a few days after Carl’s death.  It helped a little to know that Clarice had gotten to say goodbye to her son, even if neither she nor Carl realized it was a final goodbye.

 

The next thing I was aware of was the helicopter lifting from the ground, and Carl crouched beside me trying to keep me conscious.  I slid my eyes to the right, and saw my father starting another I.V. on Jake, who hadn’t regained consciousness at all as far as I knew.  Jake’s face had no color to it, which made the blood trickling out of his ears and nose stand out in stark contrast to his paper-white features.

 

I looked up into Carl’s face.  “Jake?”

 

“He’s gonna be fine, Trev,” Carl assured. “Just relax.”

 

“What...what’re you doin’...doin’ here?”

 

Carl smiled down at me. “Couldn’t let you and your pops have all the fun, now could I?”

 

Despite my pounding head, I smiled back.  Normally, one of the fire department’s paramedics would have been on the helicopter with my father if two medics were needed, like they were that night.  But given Carl’s training, he had occasionally taken a paramedic’s spot, and since we were headed to Juneau, I took an educated guess that Papa wanted all available paramedics to remain on Eagle Harbor to handle any further calls.  Since Carl wasn’t technically on-duty, he was a logical choice to accompany us. I also assumed he was coming along because he was my father’s friend.  I figured Carl wanted to be available to offer Papa any support he might need because of my injury.  At that time, no one knew how severely I might be hurt, and knowing Carl, he felt it was important to be there for Papa in any way he could.

 

I must have drifted off again, because there’s a portion of that helicopter ride that’s blank for me. I came to when Carl flicked two fingers against my right cheek.

 

“Trevor!” he commanded. “Trevor, come on now, stay awake for me. Trevor!”

 

I was vaguely aware of my father moving from Jake’s side to mine. He started to say something to me, when the helicopter plunged toward the ground. The drop was sudden and strong. It threw Papa into Jake’s gurney, and Carl into the door.  I heard Carl shout Dirk’s name, and caught a glimpse of him struggling to stand as though he was headed to help Dirk, when suddenly, the chopper spun around and around in mid-air as though someone had tied it to a string, twisted the string as tight as possible, and then let it spin loose. 

 

It felt like a bad dream as we rose once like a yo-yo being jerked upward, only to plunge toward the earth again.  Carl and Dirk were shouting, though the only word I could clearly make out was, “Shit!” but I’m still not sure if Carl said it, or if Dirk said it, or if they both said it. 

 

Though my gurney and Jake’s were secured with thick nylon straps to the side walls of the chopper, I felt my father’s body cover mine.  He hung onto the gurney while shielding my head and chest with his own.  He shouted, “Carl! Get to Jake! Get to Jake!”

 

I couldn’t see Carl, and to this day I’m not sure if he was able to get to Jake and offer him protection in the way Papa was offering me protection, or not.  Things happened so fast that I wondered if I was just hallucinating everything, and if I’d wake up in a few seconds in a hospital bed.

 

It wasn’t a hallucination, though. Cold wind whipped my face as the helicopter broke apart. I remember a powerful ‘thud’ and a jarring so strong my teeth knocked against one another.  After that, everything went black.  When I woke up again, an hour had passed, and I was still strapped to my gurney in what little was left of the helicopter that had been torn in half upon impact in the middle of the National Forest. 

 

At that moment, the most frightening thing for me wasn’t the fact that we’d crashed; it was being unable to move due to the straps cinched around my chest and legs, and due to the C-collar around my neck.  Instinct urged me to move. Urged me to find my father and make sure he was all right, and then get help for all of us, only I was in no condition to do anything but lie there.

 

I didn’t care if I sounded like a scared little kid when I called, “Papa! Papa, where are you?  Papa! Papa, are you all right?  Papa!”

 

I don’t know where he came from, but it seemed like he was at my side in an instant. 

 

“I’m right here, Trevor.” He grasped my right hand beneath the blanket and gave it a squeeze. “I’m right here.”

 

Somewhere amongst the survival gear that was stored in the helicopter, Papa had found the battery-powered lantern.  He’d set it up in the middle of the section of the chopper we were in.  It gave off enough light for me to see blood seeping from beneath a bandage he’d hastily slapped over a cut on the right side of his forehead.

 

“What...what happened?” I asked.

 

“The chopper went down.”

 

That’s when my heart sank.

 

Oh no. No. I silently pleaded.  Please no. Not that.  Please, not that.

 

I recalled working on the chopper with Gus a few weeks earlier, and remembered my concern that I wasn’t skilled enough to do the needed maintenance.  The crash proved that Gus shouldn’t have had so much faith in me, and more important than that, he shouldn’t have left me working alone when he’d gone to call my father that morning, nor when he was talking to Mike Matterson that afternoon.

 

“How...what...what...” I swallowed hard. “What caused it?”

 

Papa placed his fingers against the pulse point on my wrist and looked at his watch.  “I don’t know, Trev. That’s not important right now.”

 

My eyes scanned what little I could see.  A gaping hole two feet in front of me was the first indication I had that the chopper had broken apart upon impact.  The next indication was the snow blowing inside our makeshift shelter. 

 

I spotted Jake across from me, still strapped to his gurney, and still unconscious.

 

“Jake?”

 

“He’s hanging in there.”

 

“But...but he’s hurt real bad, isn’t he?”

 

“He needs to get to a hospital,” was all Papa would say.

 

“What about Dirk?”

 

“He’s in the front of the chopper.”

 

“Where’s it at?”

 

“About forty yards from here.”

 

“Is he...is he...is he still--?”

 

“He’s seriously injured, but he’s still alive, Trev.  I’ve done all I can for him for the time being.”

 

I could see a red light flashing outside the helicopter, and knew my father had set up and activated the emergency beacon. It’s not much different than the lantern we were using, only more powerful, and the red light rotates in circles exactly the way a light on a fire truck or police car does.

 

“How long’s the beacon been going?”

 

“About thirty minutes.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“Somewhere in the National Forest. It’s too dark and it’s snowing too hard for me to tell where.”

 

“Did you find the flares?”

 

“Yeah.” I saw Papa grimace as he stepped over something to check on Jake. “I’ve set two off already.  I’m gonna wait a while before sending any others up.”

 

I knew there were eight flares in the survival kit. Since we didn’t have any idea when people would be out looking for us, my father was smart to be conservative with the flares.

 

I had no choice but to stare at the ceiling when I talked.  My breath came out in frigid puffs of air. 

 

“They’ll know we didn’t make it to Juneau.  The hospital was waiting for us. Besides, air traffic control should realize the chopper isn’t on the radar any more.”

 

“I know, but the storm has picked up again, so it’s hard to say when searchers will be sent out.”

 

“Did Carl go for help?”

 

It was then that I heard his voice coming from the floor – or what was left of the floor, between Jake and me. 

 

“I’m...I’m righ...righ’ here, Trev.”

 

He sounded weak, and in so much pain.  My “Carl?” was panicked and clearly displayed my worry for him.

 

“I’m...I’m okay, Trev. Your ole’ man...he’s doin’...doin’ a good job of takin’...takin’ care a’ me.”

 

“You bet I am,” Papa reassured both Carl and me, though I heard something in his tone that said Carl was in bad shape. It was something I’d never heard in my father’s voice before – defeat. As though he already knew what the night was going to hold if help didn’t arrive quickly.

 

Papa didn’t indicate that to me, however, when he came back to my gurney.  I didn’t want to say anything in front of Carl, but my eyes must have broadcast my unspoken questions to Papa.

 

     He patted my shoulder and gave me a slight smile, though in his eyes all I saw was worry.

 

     “It’ll be okay,” he said quietly. “Things will be fine. Help’ll get here soon.”

 

     “Soon enough?” I whispered.

 

     He wouldn’t answer me.  Instead, he said again, “Help will get here,” as though if he declared it firmly and with enough determination, fifty firefighters would suddenly appear out of nowhere.

 

     The next two hours my father moved between Jake, Carl, Dirk, and me.  The more time that passed, the more I could tell he’d suffered a back injury. His movements became stiff, and he’d grimace if he had to bend over. 

 

     “What’s wrong with your back?” I asked at one point when he was checking on me.

 

     “Nothin’ serious.”

 

     “Papa?”

 

     “I might have strained some muscles, or flared up that old injury from the time I took John to the circus.”

 

     I vaguely knew what he was referring to.  He’d been caught beneath a set of collapsing bleachers twenty-three years earlier when some elephants had gotten loose and stampeded through a circus tent.  Depending on what activities he’s done, he occasionally has trouble with his lower back because of that injury.

 

     “You’re sure that’s all it is?”

 

     “I’m not sure, no. But I think so.  Don’t worry about it, kiddo.  Let me do the worryin’ here, okay?”

 

     I ignored his directive. “What about your head?”

 

     “Just a little cut.  I’m fine, Trev.”

 

     “You don’t look fine. You’re pale, and you look like you’re in pain.”

 

     “Then I’m in good company, ‘cause that’s the way we all look right now.”

 

     I smiled a little at his light humor, which I think was the last time I smiled that night.  Carl called for Papa in a strangled voice.  For the next thirty minutes, Papa stayed at Carl’s side.  I can barely stand to remember hearing Carl ask Papa to tell Clarice he loved her, and telling Papa what a good friend he’d been.  Papa kept assuring Carl he’d be all right, but I think they both knew that wasn’t the truth. When Carl died, my father was holding his hand. He had massive internal injuries from the crash, and bled to death despite Papa’s best efforts to save him.

 

     At first, Papa didn’t tell me Carl was dead, but I could tell it by looking at his face.  He’d gone outside after Carl passed away, telling me he was going to check on Dirk.  I knew better, though. I knew he needed a few minutes alone.  A few minutes to pull himself together and face still having to take care of Jake, Dirk, and me. I knew he must have been wondering who else might not live until help arrived, and I knew he must be asking himself if he’d done all he could for Carl.

 

     When Papa finally returned, he knelt beside me. My voice was a choked whisper.    

 

“Carl...Carl’s...Carl’s gone, isn’t he?”

 

It took him a moment to answer.

 

“Yes, son. Yes, he is.”

 

I squeezed my eyes shut to keep from crying.  Papa stroked the side of my face with the back of his hand.  I wanted to scream, “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault!” but the lump in my throat was too big to speak around.

 

Two hours later, and thirty minutes after Papa had set off another flare, a rescue team found us.  It was six in the morning, and still dark.  The snow had stopped, and the wind was almost non-existent.  I heard a chopper landing. In a flurry of activity, Jake, Dirk, and I were loaded onto the helicopter sent by the Juneau Fire Department. Aaron Newholm helped my father climb on board.  By then, the muscles in Papa’s back were so strained they were barely allowing him to move. We were taken to Bartlett Regional Hospital, where Jake remained in a coma for five days.  He had a fractured skull, a broken right arm, two broken ribs, and a compound fracture of his left leg.  It wasn’t until a month after the accident, that the doctors felt that with time, Jake would make a full and complete recovery.

 

Dirk’s injuries of a broken pelvis, broken ankles, and a broken left arm, kept him in the hospital thirteen days.  With time and physical therapy, he’s expected to make a full recovery too, though I overheard Gus tell my father that Dirk’s doctor said he’d probably always suffer from some ‘aches and pains’ due to his injuries. 

 

“It’s not like when a guy is young like Jake,” Gus said. “The doctor told me kids heal a lot faster, and don’t seem to have nearly the problem from broken bones and such that those of us over thirty do.”

 

My father was treated and released that Sunday morning, while I remained in the hospital until Monday as a result of a severe concussion and exposure to the cold.        

 

Carl wasn’t taken to Juneau with us.  His body went to the Eagle Harbor Clinic, where Doctor Benson pronounced him dead on arrival. It was Papa who broke the news about Carl to Clarice, before coming back to Juneau to sit at my bedside.  He looked exhausted, and finally fell into a restless sleep in a chair that wasn’t beneficial to his back. While Papa slept, all I could do was lie there and think that everything that had happened from the moment Jake entered our home, until the moment Carl died, was my fault. 

 

And all because of an assignment to write a book I didn’t want to write in the first place, only to discover I had a story that was begging to be told, and a passion for writing I wouldn’t have known existed had I not decided to tell about the lengths one man will go to for another in the name of friendship. 

 

 

_______________

 

 

As I finished telling Uncle Roy everything that had happened the night Carl died, I laid my head on the table and buried it in my arms. 

 

“Everything...everything that’s happened since I skipped school that day is my fault.  Everything.”

 

Uncle Roy’s voice was quiet, and without a hint of incrimination.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

I kept my head hidden within my arms, but pounded a fist on the table. 

 

“Don’t you see?  I worked on that helicopter.  I worked on it alone two different times that day.  It was because of me that it crashed. It was because of me that Carl died.  I should have made Jake stay here. Oh God, why didn’t I make Jake stay here?  My father lost a good friend because of me.  He won’t say it, but I know he blames me.  I know he’s ashamed of me ‘cause I can’t seem to do a damn thing right any more.”

 

I felt a hand rest on my head, and another one on my right shoulder.  When the person standing behind me spoke, the voice didn’t belong to Roy DeSoto, but instead, to my father. 

 

“Trev, no,” he said in a pain-filled tone while running his hand through my hair. “No. I’m not ashamed of you.  I’ve got no reason to be ashamed of you.”

 

My words were strangled and raspy with emotions I was trying so hard not to release.  “Yes you do,” I insisted without raising my head.  “You do.  Carl’s dead because of me – because of what I did.”

 

I heard chair legs slide against the hardwood floor, and felt my father sit beside me.  He rubbed a hand up and down my back. He allowed the silence and his touch to wash over me, both of those things providing comfort in a way no words could have at that moment. 

 

Uncle Roy’s muted movements were the only sounds I was aware of until I heard the door between the laundry room and kitchen quietly open and close, followed by the door opening and closing that led outside.  My father’s hand rubbing circles on my back told me he was still beside me, so I knew it must have been Roy who’d left the house.  It took me another five minutes to be willing to raise my head and make eye contact with Papa.

 

The first thing I said was, “I’m sorry.”

 

“I know you are.”

 

“It won’t happen again. The drinking...coming home drunk...I won’t do it again, I promise.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I...I was with Connor. I...he was walking by the church last night after you left and I...I gave him a ride home.”

 

This time he didn’t say, “I know,” but instead said, “I see,” which led me to conclude my explanation enabled him to put two and two together, and figure out who I’d gotten the booze from, and who my drinking buddy had been.

 

I didn’t get a lecture on why Connor wasn’t a person I should be hanging around with, even though I deserved a lecture, along with my driving privileges being taken away.  I figured at the very least, I wouldn’t be allowed to drive my truck for a month. My face must have shown my expectancy of that punishment, because Pops said, “Don’t you think your hangover is punishment enough in this case?”

 

My, “I don’t know,” was quiet and humble.  Suddenly, I didn’t feel like the seventeen-year-old who thought he knew so much more than his father. I felt like a seven-year-old who was in need of guidance when it came to doing what was right, and avoiding what was wrong.

 

Papa placed a hand on top of mine and gave a light squeeze.

 

“I get the impression you’ve been punishing yourself a lot lately.”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Trev, nothing that’s happened has been your fault.  Nothing.”

 

I wriggled my hand from beneath his. 

 

“How much did you overhear?” I asked, referring to my conversation with Uncle Roy. 

 

“Most of it.”

 

I glanced at the clock and saw it five-thirty, which was at least forty-five minutes sooner than I’d expected my father to arrive home.  It was easier to have this conversation by skirting around the heart of it, rather than attacking it dead center.

 

“How come you got off work early?”

 

“Phil came in about four and offered to handle anything that came up. Since he was off yesterday and most of today, he wanted me to come home and spend what I could of the holiday with you before the day’s over.”

 

“That was nice of him.”

 

“Yeah, it was.”

 

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyelids, because it was easier to say what I had to say next if I wasn’t looking at my father.

 

“Papa...Papa, why? Why didn’t you...”

 

I paused to take a shaky breath.

 

“Why didn’t I what, son?”

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me...just come out and tell me it was my fault Carl died?”

 

“Because that’s as far from the truth as you can get.”

 

“No.”  I shook my head back and forth. “No, it’s not.”

 

He grasped my forearms and gently pulled my hands away from my face.

 

“Trevor, look at me.”

 

It took me a moment to work up the courage to do as he requested.  I knew my eyes were watery with unshed tears, and my voice, when I could find it at all, was hoarse and raspy with more unshed tears.

 

My father’s face was as pale as my own. His eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep he’d gotten the previous night because he’d been out looking for me, and there was a slump to his shoulders that spoke of the stress he’d been under both at home, and at work, since the day of Carl’s death.

 

“Tell me why you think it’s your fault Carl died.”

 

“You heard what I said to Uncle Roy.”

 

“I heard what you said, yeah.  But now I want you to tell me,” he placed two fingers against his chest in emphasis, “me, Trev.  I want you to tell me why you think you’re responsible for Carl’s death.”

 

“Because the helicopter crashed.”

 

Papa raised an eyebrow as if to say, “What?”

 

“Pops, it crashed because I was the one who had worked on it that day I skipped school.”

 

“Gus helped you.”

 

“Yeah, but not the whole time.  Two different times I was working on it alone. I musta’ screwed something up. Done something wrong. I was really careful and thorough, but careful and thorough must not have been good enough.”

 

“What would you say if I told you that careful and thorough were good enough?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The helicopter went down due to the weather conditions, Trevor. Nothing more.  It was a weather related accident.”

 

“Dirk wouldn’t have flown if it wasn’t safe,” I argued. “He knows better. He’s too good of a pilot for that. And besides, you wouldn’t have let him fly if wasn’t safe.”

 

“Dirk thought it was safe. The storm had died down.  It picked up again after we got in the air. We were over the National Forest when Dirk decided we had no choice but to cancel our plans to fly to Juneau, and land at Gus’s instead. I was gonna contact dispatch and have them send an ambulance to meet us there so you and Jake could be taken to the clinic, but I didn’t get the chance. We got caught in a cross wind that came up suddenly.  The circumstances were beyond anyone’s control, Trevor.  They weren’t in Dirk’s control, they weren’t in my control, and I promise you that least of all, they weren’t in yours.”

 

“But Gus...Gus never told me any of this.”

 

“Did you ever ask him about it?”

 

“Well...no,” I admitted.

 

“And did he ever tell you that it was your fault the chopper went down?  Did he tell you there was some kinda’ mechanical failure involved?”

 

“No. But I thought he was just being nice.”

 

“Then you need to think again. When do you work for Gus next?”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

“Then when you get there tomorrow, you ask Gus what the NTSB ruled as the cause of the crash.”

 

“There hasn’t been anything about it in the newspaper,” I said, referring to Eagle Harbor’s daily paper.  I still wasn’t certain Papa wasn’t glossing over the true circumstances behind the accident in an attempt to make me feel better.

 

“That’s because the investigation was just completed two days ago. Gus told me a report won’t be released to the media until next week.”

 

“Oh.”

 

My embarrassment was obvious in just that one word. Suddenly, conclusions I’d drawn that had seemed so fact-based, weren’t fact-based at all, but rather, my own suppositions. Suppositions that I’d never bothered to ask anyone about because of the guilt I was bombarding myself with. That doesn’t mean all the guilt left me at that moment, however.

 

“But Carl...if I hadn’t been hurt, would Carl have ridden along? If it had just been Jake, or Jake and some other guy, would Carl have gone with you?”

 

“Is that what you started to ask me the day of Carl’s funeral?  That afternoon at the station when we were talking and Dave Montgomery interrupted us?”

 

I briefly dropped my eyes to the table and nodded. 

 

“He wasn’t...Carl wasn’t even supposed to be on duty.  If he hadn’t come on duty, and if it hadn’t been me who was hurt, and if Jake--”

 

“And if Jake hadn’t stopped by the house and needed your help,” Papa said, easily guessing what I was going to say. “And if Tucker hadn’t been drinking and driving, and if Gus had been the pilot instead of Dirk--”

 

“But you said the crash wasn’t Dirk’s fault.”

 

“It wasn’t, but maybe if Gus had been flying that night he would have decided it was too dangerous to head for Juneau before we even got in the air.  Trevor, you have to understand that a lot of people made choices that night - some good, some not so good - that caused a chain of events to occur that none of us can change now, no matter how much we might want to.  But let’s focus on the important thing here that you keep brushing aside.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“The cause of the accident.  Tucker.  If he hadn’t been drinking and driving, none of this would have happened.”

 

“But if Jake and I had stayed here, in the house, instead of--”

 

“You did what any guy your age would have done.  You did exactly what I woulda’ done when I was seventeen. You wanted to help a friend so he wouldn’t end up in hot water with his folks.  You don’t give yourself enough credit, Trev. You knew the car being half on the road like that was a danger to other drivers, and you knew we had the equipment here to get it out.”

 

“But if I’d have called dispatch like I wanted to and--”

 

“Trevor, don’t do this to yourself.”

 

“What?”

 

“Live the rest of your life by ‘if only I’d one this’ ‘if only I’d done that.’  I’ve been there, son, and it’s not a nice place to hang out.  All you’ll succeed in doin’ is beating yourself up over things that weren’t your fault, and that you can’t change.”

 

“Like...like what happened the night Scott Monroe shot Chris?”

 

I was surprised that he answered me, and even more surprised how quickly the answer came.

 

“Yeah. Exactly like that night. Maybe if I hadn’t allowed guilt to be my best friend for a lotta years after that night, I could have been more of the man your mother needed me to be.”

 

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Uncle Roy told me.  He...we talked about it some this afternoon.”

 

Papa didn’t comment on that one way or another. Instead, he said, “And Carl’s death wasn’t your fault either, but it still hurts, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you still wonder what you could have done differently that night, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So now you know how I felt about what Monroe did to Chris.  And that’s what I’m tryin’ to teach you now.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t do what I did. Don’t let guilt eat you alive for the next seven years of your life.”

 

“What finally helped you put it in the past?”

 

Papa smiled while giving me a playful punch to the jaw.

 

“You.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah. When you were born...well, my life changed in a lotta ways. Terrific ways.  I had something else to focus on besides all that I’d left behind in Los Angeles. And then because I wanted to give you a good life in the kind of town where it’s safe for a kid to walk to a friend’s house by himself, and because I wanted a job that would give me a good balance between work life and home life, we came here, to Eagle Harbor.  You, and the people of this town, and my job here, went a long way in helping me put what Scott Monroe did to Chris behind me.”

 

“Until Crammer showed up.”

 

“Until then,” Papa nodded. “But in the end, that proved to be a good thing too, as nuts as that sounds. It was because of Evan Crammer that your Uncle Roy and I got back together – renewed our friendship.  Reinvented it a little, I guess you’d say, to better fit the men we are now, versus the young guys we were thirty-eight years ago when we first met, but the important thing is, it’s been the best thing that coulda’ happened to both of us, despite the rough roads we had to travel to get to where we are now.”

 

Thinking of Uncle Roy and the friendship he and my father shared, caused me to say, “I’m sorry for embarrassing you in front of Uncle Roy by coming home drunk this morning.”

 

“As long as you don’t come home drunk again, I think I can forgive you for that.”

 

“Believe me, I’m not gonna.  My head’s still reminding me that what I did was pretty stupid.”

 

“It was,” Papa agreed, “but I’ve done more than a few stupid things in my life, too, so I’d say you’re entitled to a couple of mistakes. As long as you learned from what you did last night, and you don’t ever get in a vehicle again and drive if you’re drunk then--”

 

“First of all, I don’t ever plan on bein’ drunk again. And second of all, if I am...and it would only be because someone tied me up and poured booze down my throat, I promise I won’t drive.”  My voice was filled with both hesitance and trepidation when I asked, “Is...is...is the Land Rover okay?” 

 

“It’s fine. No damage at all.”

 

“Good,” I sighed.

 

“Yeah, good,” Papa echoed. “I might not be so willing to forgive if that wasn’t the case.”

 

“That’s what I figured.”

 

Papa chuckled, which caused me to smile a little.  We were silent for a minute then, before I finally spoke again.

 

“I...there’s something else I...well, that I’ve been wantin’ ta’ talk to you about that I didn’t tell Uncle Roy.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“It’s about Kylee.”

 

“What about her?”

 

“It’s about...uh...about our breakup.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

With a few false starts, and a good deal of stammering, I told my father what had happened the night I took Kylee to the Seaside Inn.  I didn’t come right out and tell him in graphic detail what had occurred in my truck when we’d parked in the National Forest, but Papa got the picture without me having to paint it.

 

“I...I wanted to talk to you about it.  To ask you...” I raked a hand through my hair.  “I just...it was like I had no feelings for her any more after Carl died...like I had no feelings for anyone really, but when she’d pressure me about it...want to know why I wasn’t acting like myself and would ask me if I still loved her, then I felt like I had to prove myself to her. Prove that I was the kind of guy she wanted me to be.  Only it...it almost went too far ‘cause she was putting so much pressure on me to act like my old self, but I didn’t know how to tell Kylee that I needed a break from her without hurting her feelings. That I just needed...time, I guess, to sort things out.”

 

Papa’s smile spoke of both his understanding and experience.  “Women aren’t always good about givin’ a guy the time he needs to sort things out.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

My father shocked me when the next thing he said was, “Trevor, I’m really proud of you.”

 

My voice rose an octave.  “Proud of me? How can you say that?  I came home drunk this morning, embarrassed you in front of your best friend...”

 

“Don’t you think Roy’s kids haven’t embarrassed him a few times in front of me over the years?”

 

“I...I guess I never really thought about it.”

 

“Well I can assure you that they have.  So as far as what you did – Roy understands, and he doesn’t look at you or me any differently because of it.”

 

“Did he tell you that?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then how do you know?”

 

“Because of more years of friendship than I can sometimes keep track of.”

 

“Oh,” I said, “But still...then there was...Kylee...what I did to her...what I--”

 

“What you stopped doing, you mean.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“When you realized it was going too far and Kylee wanted you to stop, you did.”

 

“You make it sound so easy.”

 

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” Papa said, which caused my face to flush bright red as I thought of all that one sentence implied when it comes to teenage boys and sex.

 

I dropped my eyes again. “It...no. No, it wasn’t.”

 

“Of course it wasn’t, but the important thing is, you did stop, and afterwards, you realized you’d done wrong.  Give yourself credit for the good person you are, Trev.  You’re too hard on yourself sometimes.  You expect too much of yourself, and then when you fail to meet those expectations, you beat yourself up over it.”

 

“I guess. But Kylee and me...things’ll never be the same between us again.”

 

“Probably not.  I’ve always told you there’s a consequence for every action we take in life.  Just because you stopped things that night before they went too far, and just because you know you did wrong and are sorry for that, doesn’t mean you still don’t have to pay a price for the choices you made.”

 

“I’m learning that little by little as I go along.”

 

“I’m sure you are. Unfortunately, life hands all of us a few hard knocks every so often, no matter how old we get.”

 

“Like...like Carl’s death was a hard knock for you?”

 

I’d finally gotten it through my thick skull how my father must have been feeling about the night he tried so hard to save a close friend but couldn’t, because all the medical knowledge in the world wouldn’t have done him any good considering the circumstances. The bottom line was, Carl needed to be in a hospital, and he wasn’t.  Help arrived too late, and there wasn’t anything anyone could have done about it, not even John Gage, Eagle Harbor’s Fire Chief, and a paramedic with almost forty years of experience behind him.

 

Papa nodded. Now it was his voice that was raspy and hoarse. “Ye...” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s been...it’s been a hard knock.”

 

I studied his face, and suddenly saw all the pain he’d been keeping from everyone since the night of the accident.  Because of that, I stood up, leaned over, and gave him a hug.  I think that action surprised Papa, but it didn’t surprise me. This time, I wanted to let him know he could lean on me if he needed to, and I wanted to let him know I’d be strong for him, in the same way he’s always been a pillar of strength for me.

 

Papa hugged me back. He held on to me a long time before finally patting my back and standing too.  I saw him swipe at his eyes with the back of his right hand. I wasn’t sure if his tears were a reflection of his grief over Carl’s death, or a reflection of the fact that he’d just witnessed the boy inside of me recede for good, as the man inside of me asserted himself.  I have a feeling his tears were for both of those things, and for all that he foresaw changing for the two of us in the near future.

 

Papa turned toward the door.  “You feel up to helpin’ me with chores?”

 

What I felt like was crawling in my bed and sleeping for about twenty-four hours straight, but I wanted to be with him, so said, “Yeah,” with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

 

Papa laughed. “Sure you do,” he said knowingly, but he didn’t offer to let me off the hook.  I got the feeling Papa had figured out how to punish me. Having to do physical labor while hung over, not to mention being in a barn with the smell of horse manure all around me, wasn’t an appealing thought. My stomach churned a few times while I was putting on my coat and boots, which is what I think my father had in mind - nothing like teaching the boy a lesson the hard way.

 

When we got outside, I saw that Uncle Roy’s vehicle was gone.

 

“Where’d Uncle Roy go?”

 

“Beats me. He’ll probably be back in a little while.”

 

I realized then that when I’d heard Uncle Roy leave the house, he was making an effort to give Papa and me all the time and privacy we needed.

 

“I hope the poor guy isn’t driving around in circles.”

 

Papa laughed again. “I hope not either. By now he could have driven around Eagle Harbor at least a hundred times.”

 

“At least,” I agreed, as I laughed too at the thought of Roy DeSoto driving ‘round and ‘round the streets of our small town, that were no doubt deserted since it was Christmas Day. He couldn’t even walk around in the hardware store, or nose through the aisles of Humphrey’s Automotive, or see if there were any bargains at the discount store everyone still calls the Five and Dime, even though its name was changed twenty years ago when you could no longer find anything for sale there marked for just five or ten cents.

 

It felt good to laugh with my father again, despite my queasy stomach and aching head.  We had just finished with chores, gotten back in the house, and washed up, when Uncle Roy pulled in the driveway. He came into the house carrying two paper bags bulging with white carryout food containers.

 

Papa took the bags while Uncle Roy removed his shoes and coat.

 

“What’s all this stuff, Roy?”

 

“Food.” 

 

“Food?” Pops placed the bags on the counter. “What kinda food?”

 

“Turkey, ham, potatoes, gravy, stuffing, green beans, corn, rolls, three kinds of pie...you name it, I think it’s in there.”

 

Papa began taking the containers out of the bags, while I got plates and silverware and started setting the table.

 

“Where’d you get it from?” Papa asked.

 

“Some woman named Donna sent it home with me. She didn’t even make me pay for it.” Uncle Roy stepped into the kitchen from the laundry room.  “Her diner was the only thing in town I could find open, so I stopped for a cup of coffee. At first, she thought I was a traveling salesman who didn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. When I told her I was a friend of yours and would be heading back out here in a little while, she loaded me up with all that food, didn’t charge me a penny for it, or the three cups of coffee I drank and the piece of apple pie I ate, and then told me to tell you she’s free for New Year’s Eve.”

 

Papa tried to look mad when I started laughing. Uncle Roy was in the dark as to the joke, but he laughed too, which led me to believe he’d at least figured out Donna has a raging crush on my father.

 

My appetite wasn’t very big that night, but I did manage to eat some of the food Uncle Roy brought home. It was the most unusual Christmas I’ve ever had, but now that I think back on it, for as bad as some parts of that day were, it was the best Christmas I’ve ever had, too.

 

After supper, I laid on the couch under the quilt that had been covering me earlier in the day. I drifted off to sleep to the sounds of friendship, as my father and Uncle Roy quietly talked about whatever came to their minds, the deep murmur of their voices bringing me comfort in ways I can’t describe.

 

It’s four o’clock now on New Year’s Eve afternoon. Papa won’t be spending time with Donna tonight, much to her disappointment, I’m sure.  Instead, he’ll be with Roy DeSoto and me. 

 

Uncle Roy is at the fire station with Papa today. He’s flying home tomorrow, but after all that’s happened, it seems fitting that tonight he’ll ring in the New Year with an old friend.  The three of us are going to dinner at the Seaside Inn after Pops gets off work, then we’re coming back to the house where we’ll sit up until midnight talking, laughing, playing cards, and eating things Aunt Joanne will put Uncle Roy on a diet for eating when he gets home.

 

2009 hasn’t been an easy year for me, and I can’t say I’m sorry to see it go.  I’ll never forget Carl, and I’ll never be able to think of this year without thinking of him. In a way, maybe that’s good.  Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.  Papa told me yesterday that the recent issue of the high school newspaper would have made Carl happy, and then he kissed my forehead and said, “I’m proud of you, Trev. You’re a good man.”

 

“Man.”  He called me a man.  It seemed hard for him to say the word, and I think it made him kind of sad to say it, but it made me feel good.  I told Papa I was proud of him, too, and that if I really am a good man like he says, then he deserves all the credit for that. 

 

I don’t know what 2010 will bring, but whatever comes my way, I’ll do my best to be that man my father is proud of, and do my best to never give him a reason to feel any other way.  I know being a man won’t always come easy, but considering all that I’ve learned from the man who’s been my role model, I’m pretty sure I’ll do okay.

 

I can think of only one way to end this entry, and that’s by saying, Happy New Year. Here’s hoping 2010 brings good days, good health, and most important - good friends - to us all.

 

 

Part 7