Cold Dead Past

                                                        COLD DEAD PAST

                                                          CHAPTER 1

The storm’s gray fingers began slipping around the city in the early evening.  By midnight, it had clenched its fist. Anyone living more than thirty floors up who had a view couldn’t be faulted for feeling as if they had been dropped down a mine shaft.

Night workers cursed the weather man.  As they slipped into the streets from their warm, lit warrens and cubbyholes, they were blasted by the frosty air. Immigrant maids found their over-tight polyester uniforms and windbreakers glued to their bodies by the freezing rain, their sensible shoes turned into scoops that filled with the slush from the handicapped curb cuts as they ran for cover. If some chose to look up, they were smacked in the face by icy pellets that stung their eyes like ground glass.

 
Seven floors above it all, Jay Putnam lay oblivious to the chattering teeth and squealing brakes.  He was flying high in another winter sky that was electric blue as far as the eye could see.  Below him was the familiar landscape of a winter long ago and far away.  Rolling hills covered in powdery snow.  The crisp air pricked at his skin like a thousand little pins.

He’d had this dream before and it never changed.  Except...now.  As he drifted off to sleep under the covers, the familiar feeling of lifting off as he dropped deeper into REM sleep, then leaping high into the air.  That was all well and good and as it should have been.  But this was not the usual, aimless trip he had programmed into his subconscious.  He could feel himself thinking, "Who the FUCK are you?" as whoever it was pulled him off-course.

The ground below was still the familiar landscape of his youth, but this time he was momentarily blinded by a flash of sunshine on ice.  When he opened his eyes, he was on the ground and thirteen again.

 
It was like deja vu.  But deja vu wasn’t a dream, it was a place.  This memory, this time, this place wasn’t one that he looked forward to reliving.  But, there were the trees, skeletal without their leaves.  Here and there, the heads of long-dead Queen Anne’s Lace protruded above the snow.  The electric blue sky he’d just flown through was replaced by roiling, sooty clouds that combined with the drifted snow to flatten the sounds that came to his ears.  It was like being in a recording studio.  The familiar sound of the boys’ voices carried across the fields to where he stood.

If he followed the sound, it would lead him to an arrow-straight path along a well-worn route through the snow.  It had been smoothed by hundreds of feet since a big storm the previous week.  It led to a rise where he could stand and look down at Palmer’s Pond.

The pond was a five acre patch of ice that glinted and gleamed  when an occasional ray of sunshine broke through the clouds.  It was surrounded on all sides by a white expanse that reminded him of the arctic tundra that he’d seen in one of his dad’s old National Geographic magazines.

The only evidence that it wasn’t were the old, vacant farmhouse at the edge of the pond, the rickety, tumble-down dock, and an oblong of red flags arranged around a half acre of the ice in the center.

The house itself had been abandoned for ten years.  That was when the last of the Palmers had built a new, ranch-style house near the road.  They’d given up farming and saw no reason to spend the winter fighting the deep snow and power outages from ice storms that regularly plagued the old family homestead.  The house and pond had been abandoned to the whims of nature and time.

Reeds grew where there were once tended, sandy banks.  The dock, once a starting place for long days of fishing, was now gap-toothed and weathered a silver-grey.

The house was shuttered.  The idea had been thrown around to rent it out.  No one else had wanted to live so far from the road, either.  Most of the downstairs shutters had been pulled from their hinges- used to fuel fires to warm the obligatory graduation night beer busts, night fishing, and the occasional youthful assignation.  Now the house stared blindly through shattered windows, the victim of schoolboy target practice.

As Jay stood looking out over the pond, he knew what was coming next.  On cue, there was the voice of his best friend, Frank Jordan.

"Where are they?"

Jay turned toward the voice.  Frank was there beside him, dressed as he always was, in that corduroy country coat with the suede collar, the woolen gloves, and that bright orange scarf pulled up tight around his neck.  His cheeks were rosy and there was that familiar glint in his dark eyes that made Jay a little uncomfortable.  It was Frank’s habit to look him straight in the eyes as if he were searching for something.  Jay never asked what it was.  Deep down, he was afraid of the answer and how it might affect their friendship.

Frank pulled off one of his gloves and dug a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

"They should have been here before us," replied Jay.

Frank averted his gaze as he shook one of the cigarettes part-way out of the pack.  He slipped his lips around it and held the pack out to Jay as he fished around in his pocket again, this time retrieving a bent-up book of matches.

"Want one?" he asked, through clenched teeth.

 
Jay wrinkled his nose as he said, "No, thanks."  It was a habit he wouldn’t pick up until years later.

 
Jay turned back toward the pond, shifting from one booted foot to the other, hands shoved deep into his pockets for warmth.  He didn’t see Frank steal another glance at him as he lit his cigarette.

Jay’s father had been mayor twice. Frank’s ran the Blue Lightning gas station on the edge of town.  Their unlikely friendship had begun seven years earlier when Frank bloodied Jay’s nose over a seat on the swing set during recess.  They’d been buddies ever since.

The previous summer, right before they’d started the seventh grade, Jay’s dad had died of cancer.  It was Frank who’d hugged him when he’d gone off into a corner to cry after the funeral.  From any other guy, it would have seemed odd, but that was just the way Frank was.  That’s why Jay had been so surprised at his reaction when he told Frank that his mother was moving the family back to the city.  Frank had completely shut him out and avoided him at every turn.  Until today.

 
"Listen," said Jay, warily. "Are you mad at me?"

 
Frank stood silent for a moment, exhaling a plume of smoke before he threw away his unfinished cigarette and pulled on his glove.

"No. I don’t know.  I’ve just never been ditched by my best friend before."

He turned away from Jay and headed back down the path.  He was walking fast. Jay had to hop and trot alongside him in the deeper snow at his side to keep up.

"I’m not ditching you," exclaimed Jay. "It wasn’t my idea."

Before Frank could reply, he was hit square in the nose by a snowball that sent him to his knees.  As he stood up, a crimson rivulet of blood ran from his nose.  He looked down and could see snow freckled by it as it dripped from his chin.

Jay looked up in time to see Gene, Frank’s brother, running down the rise ahead of them, followed by fat Tommy Lazaro, whose red hair flowed in curls from under his stocking cap.  His freckled face looked as if he’d slapped on some of his mother’s rouge before he left the house that morning.  Jack Hauser trailed behind, gaining fast.  Jay tried to sidestep them, but he was bowled over and fell flat onto his back as they ran past.  They barraged him and Frank with snowballs made with hard, icy cores that stung when they hit a lightly covered part of the body.

As the three of them ran out, laughing, onto the ice, Frank hollered, "You little assholes."

The boys slid to a stop and Tommy fell square on his ass.  He always did that.  They’d all been friends since the first grade, with Tommy providing most of the comic relief.  Gene, with his brilliant shock of straw-blonde hair was a year younger than the others and two grades behind.  He was just as big as the older boys, which gave him a major advantage on the intramural squads for basketball and football.  When anyone asked why they let him hang out with them, the answer was always, "He’s all right with Frank, so he’s all right with us."

 
Frank was every mother’s dream child, handsome and smart.  Gene was a plodder.  He’d almost been held back the year before in the fourth grade, but Frank had helped him for hours with homework and studying for tests.  Since then, his little brother had been on Frank’s heels everywhere he went.

Jack Hauser was a farm boy who didn’t talk much, but had a contagious laugh.  Almost every mishap Tommy had brought a smile to his face.  He always joined in eagerly when Gene came up with some prank.  Jack wore his black hair long and had deep, piercing blue eyes that were the talk of the girls in the class.

Jay stood and brushed the snow from his pants and dug it out of the hood on his coat.  When he turned to Frank and offered him a hand up, he was waved off.  Frank yelled angrily at Gene, "I’ll kick your ass, you little stain!"

His nose was a gusher.  He grabbed a handful of snow and held it up to his face.  Jay intently watched the other boys from his vantage point over Frank’s shoulder.  He waved his arms.

 
"Hey!"

When Jay had gotten their attention, he pointed toward the flags in the center of the pond.

"Don’t go out too far.  You guys stay away from those markers.  It ain’t safe!"

Jack turned to the others and said, with a sneer, "Jeez. Who does he think he is?  Our mom?"

Gene grabbed Tommy by his arm and pulled him to his feet, straining.

"Way to go, tubby.  Why do you always have to fall on your butt?"  Then he added, laughing, "One-a these days, you’re gonna give me a hernia."

Jack joined in the laughter as Tommy’s face went from bright pink to red.  Tommy lunged at them, knocking them both off their feet.  Which would have been okay if he hadn’t also lost his balance and fallen on top of Gene.

"Ow!  I’m crushed!"

 
The snow Frank held to his nose had turned to cherry-colored slush that ran round his mouth and dripped from his chin.  He threw it to the ground and wiped his face with his sleeve.  Jay reached into a pocket and offered his handkerchief.

"Go on, take it.  You know what your dad’ll do if you mess up your coat."

Frank shook his head, sniffled, and turned away from Jay.  He watched the others out on the pond with a quizzical look.

"What the heck are they doing now?"

Tommy was on top of Gene, punching him in the ribs.

"Come on, fatass," Gene yelled, laughing.

"I told you not to call me that," cried Tommy, as he let loose with another flurry of punches to Gene’s sides.

Jack scrambled to his feet and shoved Tommy off of Gene and onto his back.  Tommy’s chest heaved and his sweat-soaked bangs tumbled down into his tear-filled eyes.

Gene slowly stood up and bent over him, hands on his knees and breathing hard.  Tommy just lay there, rolling from side to side, whimpering.

The smile left Gene’s face as he held out a hand.

"C’mon, buddy."

Tommy sniffled and snorted, giving Gene a circumspect look, then reached out and took hold.  Gene struggled against the weight and turned to Jack.

"Get over here.  He must weigh a ton and it’s slippery out here!"

"Hey," yelled Tommy, "it ain’t my fault.  My mom says I’m big-boned and that everybody in our family is husky."

Jack rolled his eyes as he took hold of Tommy’s other hand.  Once they’d heaved him to his feet, he looked himself over and brushed himself off.

Jay turned back to Frank.

"This wasn’t my idea, you know, taking off like this."  He shrugged his shoulders. "But what could I do?"

He pulled a tightly-folded sheet of lined paper from his pocket and held it out to Frank.

"This is our new number and address.  I’ve got yours and mom said that I’ll be able to come up for visits on vacations and stuff."

Frank took the bit of paper and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger for a moment before stuffing it into his coat pocket.   He snorted and ran the back of his sleeve across his eyes.

"I guess I’ve been kind of a jerk, huh?"

Before Frank could continue, there was more yelling down on the pond.  Jay patted him on the shoulder and said, "C’mon, let’s go."

Gene and the others had worked their way to a point near the red warning flags at the center. Jack had pulled up short, but Tommy had run right up by the warning line.  He slid one foot forward toward the invisible boundary, then the other, line dancing on the edge of decision.  It was folly instigated by Gene, who taunted the others from inside the danger zone.

 
As Frank and Jay arrived, Jack was calling out to the other two. "Get back!  You know what Mr. Palmer says about going out past the flags.  It’s dangerous!"

It didn’t seem to matter much to Gene how insistent Jack’s voice was.  Jack had always been the trio’s voice of reason.  Tommy could be relied on to follow along with whatever the group did or to do something foolish in reaction to the smallest slight.  Gene was a daredevil.  To Gene, hesitation led to missed opportunities.