24 - December 1974

All the leaves had fallen and the snow blanketed the streets of Cincinnati with a cold, crispy shell shortly after Halloween.

Todd Langtree was suspended, which only meant we saw even more of him lurking about our neighborhood. Still, he slept in, which meant Erica had safe passage to and from school. Mikey was busy with his father, working on a set of cars that littered their garage, driveway, and backyard.

“I’m sick and tired of staring out the kitchen window and seeing all the junk at the Langtree’s house,” complained mom.

“Maybe you should buy some curtains,” said my father.

“That won’t help. They’ll still be sitting there, fouling up the neighborhood.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

My gaze shifted between the picture of Tony the Tiger on my cereal box to my mother standing next to the kitchen window, and my father, who took turns between sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Of course I’m right,” said mom, “the moment they moved in, our neighborhood went to hell.”

“Mmm-hmm,” agreed ad.

Two doors down, the Johnsons weren’t half as bothered with the Langtrees as my mother, although they probably every right to be. While the rest of us blamed Mikey and Todd for Erica’s string of hospital visits, the Johnsons considered it a problem all their own.

Erica had been released from the hospital yet again. Mrs. Johnson’s regular muscle massages and the regular diet of B-complex vitamins aided the rapid progress of Erica’s recovery.

On weekends, everyone pampered Erica. Byron did all her chores, Mr. Johnson made regular bedside visits to see how his little girl was doing, and her mother served breakfast in bed for Erica, complete with giant stacks of flapjacks and tall glasses of hand-squeezed orange juice.

In fact, Mrs. Johnson hovered over Erica every chance she had.

“Honestly, mom, I’m fine.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Mrs. Johnson continued with her special regimen of multi-vitamins, fruit juice, and tissue massages for Erica, all aimed at keeping those little silver slivers at bay. Still, those pains were ever-present. After a few weeks of constant attention, though, Erica had enough.

“I’m all better now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist.”

“Alright then, if you insist, I guess I’ll leave you alone.”

Every nerve in Erica’s lower legs tingled as she shoved the sheets to the bottom of the bed and plopped her feet on the floor. Erica turned away from her mother as she winced in pain. Still, she bit her upper lip and pushed through it. Erica knew that if her mother suspected the least bit of trouble, it would mean forced bed rest for an undetermined length of time. Erica was not going to sit in bed and let tings pass her by. She was, after all, her father’s daughter.

Erica went to the front room, where Byron was studying his Geometry.

“What ‘cha doin’?” asked Erica.

“Finishing up my homework.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go out and play some catch.”

“There’s sleeting rain outside.”

Erica peered out the front window.

“No there isn’t.”

Byron got up and looked outside. It had stopped sleeting, but the temperature still hovered just above freezing. It was way too cold to do anything. That included playing baseball.

“I’m not going out.”

Erica let out a sigh and plopped on the couch next to her brother. She wanted to do something before her mother decided to send her back to her bed. Erica, however, was not the only one struggling with cabin fever.

Just before Thanksgiving break, a late night rain came and went, followed by brisk and bitter winds. Black ice formed on the roads and made them impassable. All the area schools were closed for three days straight.

Most of my friends’ families had no real way of battling cabin fever other than sticking it out together in their own homes. Andy Fitzpatrick, however, would not stay cooped up with his mother.

Greg Sizemore, a senior at Mt. Adams high, had become one of Andy’s closest friends. Greg often pulled Andy away from class and they’d drive around town and get into whatever trouble found them first. Even though school was out, this particular afternoon would be no different.

Andy rumbled down the steps and headed straight for the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” said Andy.

You’re going outside In this weather?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a car.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Greg. You know Greg.”

“Not really.”

The door slammed behind Andy as his mother stood in the center of the living room. She peered out the large picture window, only to see Greg’s purple El Camino idle in the driveway. Engine exhaust puffed out of the tailpipe in large white flumes. As soon as Andy hopped into the passenger seat, Greg backed out of the Fitzpatrick’s drive and sped away.

“I saw your old lady standing in the window with her hands on her hips. Boy was she pissed.”

“I don’t care.’

“You don’t get in trouble?”

“She never does anything anyway.”

Andy dug around in the console between the passenger and driver’s seats until he found a pipe, a bag of weed, and a lighter. He shoved his nose into the bag and inhaled deeply.

“This smells good, man.”

“Yeah, this is grade-A hydroponic; no seeds and no twigs.”

Andy stuffed the hash pipe as Greg searched for a place to light up. Finally, he pulled into an empty graveyard and cruised to the back of the lot. A row of tall cemetery statues and ivy-encrusted gates hid the El Camino from plain view.

Andy flicked the lighter and sucked hard on the pipe as the leaves glowed hot and went to embers. He exhaled in a long, hot breath. A thick white cloud filled the front seat of the car.

“Let me get a hit.”

Andy held his breath as he passed the pipe to Greg. Andy’s face turned beet red as every tiny corpuscle in his face filled with blood. He exhaled and every muscle in his body relaxed. All his troubles vanished into thin air.

“Oh, man…” said Greg.

“What?”

“Your face is beet red.”

“What?”

Andy pulled the rear view mirror down so he could see for himself. His face was beet red.

“Holy Jesus,” said Andy.

“Don’t worry, man. It happens sometimes.”

After Greg finished taking tokes on his hash pipe, he buried it between the seats and started the car.

“Where are we going?” asked Andy.

“Let’s find something to eat.”

“Good idea, because I’m starved.”

So they rode through Mt. Adams, looking for a place to eat.

“Everything’s closed,” said Andy.

“I know. Let’s try somewhere else.”

Greg turned onto the highway and headed out of town. Snow blanketed the freeway, making it nearly impossible to drive. The roads were deserted except for a few tractor trailers.

The El Camino caught a patch of black ice as the car hit an overpass. Greg over-steered and the El Camino skidded towards the side of the road. The tires bracketed the guardrail as the car slid toward the edge of the bridge.

The sound of steel scraping against steel filled the car as it rode the guardrail. In a moment, the car flipped easily onto the embankment to the road below. Andy flipped out of his seat, his back pinned against the roof of the car. The four thin strips of metal that held the roof above the undercarriage was all that kept Andy from being crushed to death.

The car stopped with a jolt as it collided with the roadbed. Outside, the sound of a semi’s air brakes pierced the air as it, too, skidded to an eventual stop.

Andy looked over at Greg, who was unconscious. He quickly shimmied through the open side window and looked around. The tractor trailer had stopped on the opposite side of the road and the truck driver was motioning to Andy.

“Are you alright?”

Andy’s eyes darted back and forth, as he checked for witnesses. He scurried up the side of the embankment to the overpass.

“Hey! Come back here!” shouted the truck driver.

Andy ignored him as he climbed over the crumpled guardrail and put foot down on the roadside. He hobbled down the country road, careful o duck out of sight whenever he spotted oncoming traffic. He was poorly dressed for the chilly weather and every time he crouched down, his clothes became soaked. His toes and fingers quickly became numb.

The Highway Patrol arrived on the scene soon after the accident, thanks to a CB call from the semi-driver. The El Camino sat by the roadside in a crumpled heap. The Fire Department had to resort to the Jaws of Life, but it was still a relatively easy extraction. Greg came out of the accident with just three cracked ribs.

The ambulance transported him to the hospital and doctors patched him up. After that, it was the State Highway Patrolman’s turn.

“Son, who was your passenger?”

“I was driving alone.”

“The truck driver said there was another guy with you. What’s his name?”

“I told you I was alone.”

“You’re already looking at a long list of misdemeanors. I don’t think you want me adding to it.”

“His name’s Andy, Andy Fitzpatrick.”

“Is he from Mt. Adams, too?”

“Yeah, he goes to my school.”

Although it took him a couple of hours, Andy managed to make it back to Mt. Adams, safe and sound. However, his mother already had a visitor and was waiting for Andy’s return home.

When Andy opened the door, his mother was on the couch watching television. That should have been his first clue. She hardly ever watched t.v.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey,” Andy replied. Then, he headed up to his room.

He quickly changed out of his dirty clothes and took a shower. He looked at his filthy clothes.

“I gotta clean this up,” he muttered to himself.

He gathered everything and took it to the restroom. He turned on the shower and threw everything into the tub. He scrubbed it for a bit. Then, he jumped in afterwards.

“Man, this stuff is filthy.”

That was his second clue.

Andy jumped as loud knocks came upon the bathroom door.

“Hold on, I’m showering!”

“Andy,” boomed a loud male voice, “It’s Sgt. Hainsey of the Ohio Highway Patrol. I need you to answer some questions. I’m coming in.”

Andy stood in the center of the shower, frozen in shock. He didn’t even know how to react as the Sheriff stood next to the tub with both thumbs hitched in his belt.

“You need some fresh clothes?”

Andy nodded. The sheriff took two steps back and let Andy lead the way to his bedroom. The sheriff flicked on his flashlight. A bright white beam shot across the dark room to the place where Andy dug a pair of pants off the floor. Andy tugged them on, along with a wrinkled shirt.  Mrs. Fitzpatrick whimpered as Andy finished getting dressed. The sheriff walked Andy outside to his cruiser. Andy leaned his hands and head on the door. Then, the sheriff cuffed him and stuffed him into the back of his cruiser. Mrs. Fitzpatrick watched as the car drove away.

That was the last straw for both Mrs. and Mr. Fitzpatrick. They shipped Andy off to Military School in Virginia and that was that. Andy Fitzpatrick almost completely disappeared from all our lives…

…at least for a little while.

For the rest of us, however, life had already gone on without Andy for some time before that.

Although Mr. Johnson had tried reaching out to Fitzie, there was little if any response from the boy. Also, there were more pressing matters at home with Erica’s faltering health. While Erica withheld true feelings from her mother, she spoke openly with her father. It could’ve been how Erica felt her mother overcrowding her, but more than likely it was a kindred spirit in her battle against Sickle Cell.

One such moment happened when Erica and her father were watching television while Mrs. Johnson fixed dinner.

“How are you holding up, Sweet Pea?”

“I’m doing okay.”

Mr. Johnson slid a thumb along the top of Erica’s spine, slowly massaging the pain away. Erica waved him off as she coughed hoarsely.

“It’s not you, daddy. I still have some pain in my chest. It’s like I have the flu.”

“Just breathe deep and relax. Your blood cells need all the help they can get.”

Erica nodded. Her lungs, which carried a small surplus of phlegm, felt like they were hot and feverish. Her headache felt much the same.

“Supper’s ready,” called Mrs. Johnson.

As the family gathered around the table, Erica’s thoughts about her pains diminished.

However, that all stopped when she took a large gulp of milk while she tried to breathe. She let out a hacking cough.

“Erica, dear, are you alright?” asked her mother.

Erica nodded as her mother hovered over her. Mrs. Johnson pounded an open hand on Erica’s back, just in the same place where Mr. Johnson had tried massaging away the aches only moments earlier. Erica emptied the contents of her stomach on her dinner plate. Then, she twisted about and glared at her mother. Mrs. Johnson stood there as Erica stomped off to the bathroom.

Seemingly like I had done during my birthday and Andy had after the wreck, Erica found some sort of temporary refuge in the confines of the bathroom. She opened the cold water faucet as far as it could go and cupped her hands beneath the faucet. She took giant gulps of water, attempting to wash the acidic taste out of her mouth. She also wiped a washcloth across her face. She heaved a deep sigh as she exhaled a long, relaxed breath. For once in a very long time, she felt good. It was actually refreshing to void the contents of her stomach.

“Maybe I should go check on her,” Mrs. Johnson said to her husband.

Let her alone for a little while.”

“Maybe she’s still sick.”

“She’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Johnson strode up to the hall and knocked at the bathroom door.

“Erica, dear, are you alright?”

“Yes, mom,” she called through the door, “I just got some millk down my throat.” 

“Just remember, I’m always here if you need me.”

“I know.”

Erica was at that age where a parent’s undying attention was more of a burden than a relief. Still, she wouldn’t refuse her mother’s help completely. She was glad her mom was there.

The Johnsons continued to focus on Erica’s needs, even as Christmas drew near. The children took turns sitting on the living room floor with the Sears and JCPenney’s catalogue, scribing color-coded circles around the long list of things they wanted but didn’t need.

Gifts were heaped under the tree for both children, but Erica’s mountain of gifts was the greatest, with a new Easy Bake Oven, a new black Barbie doll with a complete wardrobe, and Precious Moments cut-and-paste books.

Byron’s wishlist (which was much shorter than his sister’s list) included a new catcher’s mitt and a BMX bike. The BMX bike, which was just coming into popularity in 1974, was one of the few big-ticket Christmas toys the Johnsons could afford. Furthermore, there was one other thing that happened in the lead-up to Christmas Day.

Sometime in the first week of December, I can’t remember quite when, the weather warmed and melted all the snow. All that was left was hard-pack sod and dull brown grass. It must’ve been only 40 degrees, but since the recent days had all been in the teens and twenties, anything above freezing felt great.

Byron came over early on a Sunday morning and knocked at my door.

“What ‘cha doin’?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Wanna come over and play?”

I nodded and began heading out the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked mom.

“Over to Byron’s house.”

“In those clothes? You’ll catch hyour death.”

“Aw, mom.”

“Go! Now!”

I quickly grabbed a sweatshirt and was on my way. It stayed on just long enough to get over to Byron’s. Then, I threw it next to the telephone pole where we always put our stuff.

While other kids played football in the coldness of December, we played Wiffle Ball. That lasted for only a short while. Then, we played catch. Then, we dragged the Jugs machine out of the garage.

“All the grass is gone,” I said, “I can’t even see where to put it.”

Byron eyeballed the ground for a few moments. Then, he placed it perfectly next to Mr. Cook’s fence, fine tuning the position as he moved the wheels.

“There!” he said, “it goes right there.”

We returned to the garage for the rest of the things we needed. It wasn’t long before Erica came out with a Thermos bottle full of chicken noodle soup and Styrofoam bowls.

“Mom said that if you’re not going to wear any clothes, at least you can warm yourselves from the inside out.”

We quickly devoured the soup and set everything aside. Mrs. Johnson came out and cleaned up our mess.

“I’m going to the church for awhile. You kids keep your noses out of trouble, okay?”

We all nodded like good little children.

There were 30 baseballs and 30 tennis balls. Byron practiced his catching and I practiced my hitting.

“It’s been a long time since baseball season. Let me get a crack at hitting a baseball.”

“Are you crazy? You’ll break old man Cook’s window or something,” said Erica.

“I’m a mighty righty. I’ll pull it the other way.”

Byron fed a half-dozen or so baseballs into the hopper. Sure enough, I hit them all the other way. It wasn’t until the next round of hitting that I didn’t quite pull the hits the right way. Instead, I chopped one right at Mr. Cook’s house. It blooped over the fence and landed directly on the metal awning that hung over his porch. We all saw the sound long before the ball hit anything.

We ran. In fact, we sprinted towards the Johnson’s back door. We all reacted in fear as the ball boomed against the awning with a thundering boom. We poked our heads over the windowsill as we tried to see if Mr. Cook would come out.

“I don’t think he’s there,” whispered Erica.

“Somebody should check,” I said.

“You did it,” said Byron.

“I’m not going.”

“I’m not going either.

We sat and watched television until Mrs. Johnson came home early that evening. I was very happy when she invited me to stay for meatloaf dinner. I was always happy to get invited for that.

After I filled myself full of Mrs. Johnson’s homemade meatloaf, it was time to go home.

“Where’s your sweatshirt, young man?”

“Oh! I left it at the Johnson’s. I can go get it.”

“Just get it tomorrow night.”

I washed up and went to bed. The next day, after school, I stopped at Byron’s.

 “Hello, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Byron’s still at school.”

“That’s okay. I just came to get my sweatshirt. It’s out in the backyard.”

Mrs. Johnson led me to the back door and watched as I fetched my sweatshirt.

“Jake?”

“Yes, Mrs. Johnson?”

“Can you bring all that baseball stuff inside? It’s supposed to snow tonight.”

“Sure thing.”

She watched as I brought everything in and took it to the garage.

“Jake? Where’s the pitching machine?”

My heart sunk.

“What?”

 “You know, the Jugs machine. It’s not in the garage.”

I froze as a wave of terror went through me. None of us had remembered to chain the Jugs machine to the telephone pole.

“Oh my God!”

“Are you sure it’s not out there?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she said, “Robert is going to kill Byron.”

Strangely, though, when Mr. Johnson heard the news, not a muscle twitched. He was emotionless. He sat Byron down in front of the Christmas tree and gave him a short talk. It couldn’t even be called a lecture.

“Son, you know the Jugs machine is missing, right?”

Byron gulped.

“And I told you a long time ago, it’s your responsibility, right?”

Byron nodded.

Mr. Johnson sat silently.

“Yes, sir. I know, sir.”

“That Jugs machine was one of the most important things I’ve ever owned in my life.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I know you are. I know. Maybe it was my fault. You’re a young boy. These responsibilities should not be heaped upon a young boy. Go to your room and think about your punishment. When you come up with a suitable punishment, come back down here and tell me what you think I should do.”

Byron’s shoulders slumped as he headed to his room. He cried and cried until he was cried out. His muscles were weak. His eyes ached. His brain was so very exhausted at the thought of it all. He fell asleep.

Mr. Johnson came up late in the night and tucked his little boy into bed. When morning came, it was as if nothing had happened at all. Mrs. Johnson was making flapjacks almost as fast as her daughter and husband could eat them. Byron stood behind his chair and looked at his father.

“Have a seat son.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Come and fill your belly.”

“I don’t think I should get Christmas gifts this year.”

Everyone stopped what he or she were doing for a split second. Mr. Johnson quickly filled the silence.

“How about we just ground you for the rest of the year instead?”

“Today’s December 18^th. That’s only two weeks.”

“Byron, I’m pretty good at counting. I know how long it is. I say we make it until next year.”

Mr. Johnson scooted Byron’s seat away from the table and Byron sat down. Byron was as quiet as a church mouse as he ate his flapjacks. Still, he ate as fast as everyone else, and so that was a sure sign he was feeling better already.

When Christmas came, Byron didn’t get a brand new BMX Bike, but a cruiser with long sweeping handlebars and a banana seat. It was brand new, so Byron enjoyed it just the same, especially when his dad took him to the store and bought BMX-styled handlebars and seat.

Even if Byron thought he'd made a mess of things, things would fix themselves in their own good time. For now, there was the comfort that everyone was safe and sound and Christmas was still pretty perfect after all.

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