It isn’t until you see one with blue lights dangling from the gutters, mimicking icicles, that you remember it will be Christmas in a few days.
You leave your truck on the street and dash across the lawn. It takes you about ten seconds to locate that stupid fake rock where your mom has always kept the spare key. You let yourself in without turning on the light, eyes adjusting, gathering the gloom.
Through the dark living room and down the hall, you feel your way to the bedroom where you moved your stuff after she lost the job at the Moraine plant, lost the house, and set the two of you up in this place.
You see pale blue light flickering through a crack in the door at the end of the hall. You duck into the room just before it and close the door quietly behind you. You don’t turn on the light. Instead, you use your phone to make your way to the bed. On your hands and knees, you dig past Rubbermaid tubs full of your old clothes until you finally find the Nike box in the exact place you left it. The gray metal tin has a pebbled texture and the red placard of Swiss Army by Victorinox. Pop off the top, and the watch is looped around a pillow. The hands don’t tick, the battery long dead, but there’s the gleaming blue face and silver numbers beneath the sapphire crystal. Stainless steel casing with a steel band.
While you’re busy admiring it by the blurry light of your phone, the door scrapes open behind you and the harsh bulb momentarily blinds. Your mom in flannel pajama pants and a Flyers tee.
“What the hell,” she says.
You palm the watch behind your back and, standing, slip it into your pocket.
“Nothing. Was in the neighborhood and wanted to get some of my stuff.”
“You just waltz in unannounced? You’re lucky I don’t got a gun.”
You’re angry with her that she doesn’t, angry that she heard an intruder and doesn’t even have a baseball bat near her bed. Especially in a neighborhood like this one.
“Nothing to worry about, I was just on my way.”
You breeze past her into the hallway. She follows.
“You know I get collection agencies calling nonstop for you.”
“I’m taking care of it.”
“Doesn’t seem like it. I got most of the numbers down now so I don’t gotta answer, but I’ll tell you what, they fill up my voice mail in about two days.”
“I said I’m taking care of it.”
“Claire Ann’s called too.”
“I know. I’m on it, Mom. For fuck’s sake.”
You reach the front door, your hand on the knob.
“Well, have you at least eaten something?”
You pause. Now that the Oxy has worn off, and all you’ve eaten is Oreos and Ritz crackers, you’re starving.
“Wouldn’t that be like borrowing money?” you ask.
“It’s food, Johnny. C’mon, I’ll fix you a plate.”
She goes to the kitchen without waiting to see if you’ll follow.
“Can I borrow some money?”
“Don’t you even breathe a word to me on that subject.” She pulls bread, butter, and American cheese from the refrigerator.
“Just joking.”
She butters the bread and throws it in the pan on the stove.
“Where you working these days?” you ask.
“Over by the mall near Indian Ripple. It’s a Tim Hortons. How ’bout you? You got a job with all these collections people after you?”
“Yeah, I got a job at a blood bank.”
“Blood bank? What do you know about that?”
You pretend you can’t be bothered to explain. There’s a picture on the refrigerator. You at about nine or ten, splash of freckles, smile missing a front tooth. You’re at the wave pool in the Soak City Water Park, pale chest on display. You know Joe Biggs took this picture.
You eat the grilled cheese and leave, drive down the block and park. You sleep in the car that night, and in the morning when your mom leaves, you let yourself back in with the key you pocketed. You grind up the second Oxy, microwave the powder, and snort it. She doesn’t own a VR system, so you take the TV in the living room, a nice HD flat-screen, relatively new, but leave her the old one in the bedroom.
You figure it would be a bad idea to pawn the TV anywhere near Dayton in case your mom thinks it was actually stolen and calls the police. So you go to a shop in Columbus. The clerk says he’ll give you $50 for the TV but won’t take the watch.
“We ain’t supposed to take watches unless they run.”
Back in Coshocton, you drop the watch off at a jeweler who says she’ll replace the battery for ten bucks. There’s another note from the landlord waiting for you in the trailer door. Rent by tomorrow or you’re out. The next day, after a night of aches and chilling sweats, you pick up the watch and drive to another pawnshop called Money and More. The one where you sometimes stare at the guns in the case. The clerk offers you $30.
“Man, this is a five-hundred-fucking-dollar watch!” You demand he look up at you. He’s a big guy with hoop earrings stretching the lobes. Hairy arms and a beard that reaches his chest.
“You know the expression.” He’s fiddling with a small black safe on the counter that he can’t get to lock. “Take it or leave it.”
You want to walk out. You want to tell this guy to fuck himself, but after the new battery you only have $40.
“Fine.” You slap the watch on the glass of the counter, hard enough to make it ring out with a crack. The clerk’s head doesn’t move but his eyes roll up at you. Undoubtedly, he’s thinking of some weapon behind the counter.
He takes his time getting your money and the little slip of paper you have to sign. Amount financed: 36.00. Finance charge: 6.00. Total of payments: 30.00. Annual percentage rate: 243.33%.
Just as the snow starts, your skin begins to crawl. You drive back over to Cassingham Hollow, almost out of the stolen gas. The flakes come down in thick bundles and the wind tries to nudge your truck from the road. When you get to Tawrny’s place he meets you on the porch.
“You listened to the news at all, boy? This is ’bout to be the mother of all storms, and you’re out driving around like a damn fool.” Tawrny slaps at a pack of cigarettes. He offers you one, and you take it gratefully.
“I got seventy, man. Can you give me a deal?”
“Give you four for sixty. Price hasn’t changed in the last three days, Keeper.”
“C’mon, man, gimme five, all right? It’s only a five-fucking-dollar discount. C’mon, please.”
Tawrny eyes you. Without saying anything, he goes back inside. You stand on the porch in the blazing snow, the wind sliding up the cracks of your jacket and shirt. Your hand is frigid, but the cigarette tastes great, and the warmth glows in your lungs. Tawrny returns with a plastic baggie and five pills.
“Don’t do all that shit at once. You’ll OD.”
“Man, you gotta need some help, right? Gimme anything to do, man. I’m not some unreliable asshole. Even if it ain’t selling I can carry, you know? I got a truck. I can go wherever you want.”
Tawrny watches the snow. It’s already blanketing the streets. The sky is so dark it feels like night’s descended five hours early.
“They’re saying this is the real deal, Keeper. Record-setting snow, record-setting winds. You need to go home and stay inside. You got a generator?”
He’s frustrating you.
“Man, I’ve lived through fucking winter before. I’m just asking for a little work. I got all this back rent, and my…” You stop. You don’t even want to say it.
Tawrny finally looks at you.
“Go home, kid. Be safe.” Then he walks inside.
On the drive home, the roads are already treacherous. The wind wails and gusts shove your truck from its true direction. Only a few other cars are on the road, and you pass house after house that glows with the warmth of home and safety and shelter.