Ajar Read online

  Ajar

  by Marianna Boncek

  Published by

  Melange Books, LLC

  White Bear Lake, MN 55110

  www.melange-books.com

  Ajar, Copyright 2014 Marianna Boncek

  ISBN: 978-1-61235-977-9

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover Design by Becca Barnes

  Table of Contents

  "Ajar"

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Previews

  AJAR

  by Marianna Boncek

  Sixteen year old Gus Woodard is about to live the best summer of his life. Then something goes wrong. Something goes terribly wrong.

  Ajar is a coming of age story about sixteen year old Gus Woodard and his schizophrenic brother. Set during the 1970s in a small town in upstate New York, Gus must suffer the undeserved consequences when his delusional brother kills the local sweetheart and the high school's popular football coach. Gus blunders his way through life as the town turns against his family. He is forced to experience betrayal from those closest to him. Gus's only hope is Lindy a fifteen year old girl suffering from anorexia nervosa. The two become inseparable but the love and acceptance Gus feels with Lindy is soon shattered.

  For Liz and Rachel, my two luminaries and for Dave.

  Without you there are no words

  Chapter One

  The summer of 1975 had the potential to be the best summer of my life. It was the first day of summer vacation and I had just arrived at the first day of the summer baseball league. School was out until September. I had taken, and passed, my driving permit test. I showed the thin, temporary, stamped and dated, piece of paper to all the guys at practice. Some of them drove already, but I was born in May. There were still a few guys born later in the year who did not drive yet. While I was tying on my spikes, Coach Ross grabbed my shoulder and said, “Hey, Woodard, I’d like try you pitching this year.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all I said.

  I tried to sound cool, casual, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. I had practiced all year. All I ever wanted was to be was the starting pitcher, but Evan Raymond had always had a stronger and faster arm. But now, Coach Ross had asked me. Me. I was going to show him exactly what I was made of.

  I’d also just gotten a job at the A&P out on Jackson Heights Road. It was only a cart boy and bagger but it was money, something I seriously lacked. But the absolutely best thing was that I had asked Stacey Hollinder, the most beautiful girl in my grade, if she wanted to see Jaws with me and she had said yes. Four days till Friday. Oh yes, this was going to be a great summer.

  Of course, I had heard the sirens. Everyone heard the sirens. Buddy Mertz stood up, looked towards the direction of town and said with his usually dopiness, “What’s all that?” All the guys had turned around, like you could see what was going on but you couldn’t. The park was a block off Broadway and lined with tall trees.

  “Sounds like the whole goddamn town is burning down,” Coach Ross commented, then turned and spat on the ground.

  But the whole goddamn town was not burning down. Nothing was actually burning down—except my life. I just didn’t know it then.

  We were well into practice when a patrol car wound its way down the narrow drive from the parking lot to the field. I was on the mound, concentrating, putting each pitch right into the glove of Howie Leffert. I was good. I could feel it not just in my arm but in my whole body. Everything felt right. I could see Coach Ross screw up his mouth every once in a while and nod.

  I saw the patrol car in my peripheral vision. I didn’t really pay too much attention to it, but it was a police car. Something had to be up. No one was actually supposed to drive on that road that wound from the parking lot to just behind the dugout, except the maintenance guys and they always drove around in golf carts. But you know how cops are. They can go wherever they like. They don’t need permission. Their uniforms give them permission. The car stopped and the passenger side window rolled down smoothly. Coach Ross approached the car. He leaned down and spoke through the window to the two cops. We really didn’t pay attention. We just kept on practicing.

  Finally, Coach Ross called, “Woodard. Hey, Woodard. Come here.”

  Everyone looked at me raising their eyebrows. I lifted my head and looked around like it must be some sort of mistake. I was that kid who never got in trouble. But the coach was waving in my direction. I left the mound and Raymond moved in fast. I swallowed hard, tried to keep that cool look I had been working on. I jogged over to the car the way I’d seen the pros on TV jog off the field between innings.

  “Yes, Coach?” I said when I reached the car. I did not look at the policemen inside the car. They couldn’t possibly be here for me. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “You Agustin Woodard?” the cop on the passenger side asked, looking up. His eyebrows were knit together, like he was mad, like I was about to get into trouble. Big trouble.

  “Yes, sir,” I said nodding politely.

  I must be in trouble, I thought. No one calls me Agustin except for my mother. Everyone else calls me Gus. The cop got out of the car slowly, looking directly at me the whole time, like he thought I might run.

  “You have to come with us,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. I looked from Coach Ross back to the officer. The cop had opened the back door and held it open like some chauffeur.

  “Just come with us,” the cop said.

  “It’s OK,” Coach Ross clapped me on the back but could not look me in the eyes.

  “I need to change my—”

  “Just get in the car, son,” the cop was trying to sound nice but it wasn’t really working. He was becoming impatient.

  Coach Ross was nodding. I gave one last look around and then slid into the back of the car. There was a cage in front of me. Even in the daylight, the back of the car seemed dark. It smelled of urine. I suddenly felt a pressure behind my eyes, my head was going to blow up. I did not know why.

  Chapter Two

  What I did not know, could not have known, is that while I was about to live the first day of my most perfect summer, my brother Daniel had gone downtown and done something unspeakable. Daniel and I look almost exactly alike, except he is five years older than I am. We lived in Sawyer, a little town on the Hudson River, all our lives. Our parents and their parents had always lived in Sawyer, too. But we were never rich or well-known Sawyers, just mill workers or factory workers, laborers, those types of jobs. That morning, that perfect morning, my brother had left the house a little while after my uncle Elliot had driven
me to the Department of Motor Vehicles to take my permit test. Mom was still asleep; it was her day off and she always slept in on her day off. Plus, she wouldn’t have been able to take me for my test; she didn’t know how to drive. My brother Daniel didn’t drive either, my uncle Elliot said Dan was “too nervous” to drive, whatever that meant. So, Daniel left by the back door and walked up to Broadway. We live in town. It’s convenient since no one drives in my family—well, except me, but I didn’t have my permit yet that morning.

  Daniel walked into town. He walked up and down Broadway a few times. It’s not hard; it’s just two blocks long. A strip of stores: a hardware store, two antique shops, a hairdresser, a grocer, a book store, a couple of restaurants, a few gift shops, two banks, a movie theater and some offices. It really isn’t a bad looking Broadway. The buildings are all old, built about a hundred years ago. They are tall, brick, with apartments above. The sidewalks are really wide and have trees in front of every store. And, of course, there is Tillson’s Pharmacy right there on the corner of Broadway and Green Avenue. They don’t have pharmacies like that anymore. It was a family-run drug store. It had a big white sign that lit up at night that said “Tillson’s” in big red letters and “Pharmacy” in smaller letters underneath.

  The front door has a big, gray stone step that opened kitty-corner out onto the sidewalk. Inside, they still had a lunch counter. We didn’t have a lot of money but every once in a while, when we were little, my mom would treat us to a movie, the matinees were just a buck, then we’d walk over to Tillson’s and get great big hamburgers with french fries. For some reason, no one can make french fries like they do at lunch counters, and I would smother mine with catsup. Then, if I ate everything, my mom would let me get a milkshake or a root beer float.

  The store itself was more than just a pharmacy. They sold almost everything you could need, except food and clothes. In the back was a large pharmacy counter. Mr. Tillson was the pharmacist, of course. Mr. Tillson was a big man. Everything about him was larger than life. He was tall, well over six feet tall. He was robust, with a round belly that pushed out against the white lab coat he always wore, his name embroidered on the left side, just above the pocket. He had a bush of curly, light blond hair. When he spoke, his voiced filled every corner of the pharmacy. He was on the town board, a member of the Lion’s Club, former chief of the Sawyer Volunteer Fire Department and played Santa in the annual Christmas parade. Everyone in town knew Mr. Tillson.

  Mr. and Mrs. Tillson had two children, Roddy and Naomi. They often helped out in the store. Roddy was in my grade, but Naomi was older. She had just graduated that summer. She was off to the State University at Albany in the fall. She was going to be a pharmacist like her dad. Roddy was not in the store that day. Some people say it was a blessing. But I don’t think anything good or blessed came out of that day. But who knows? Naomi was there, though, and that was not a blessing. She was working the front check-out, like she usually did. When she wasn’t busy at the check-out counter, she would unpack boxes and label things with prices. Everyone loved Naomi. She was small, pert, and blonde. The girls in school said she had dyed her hair, but I didn’t know anything about that. It looked real enough to me. She had been a cheerleader, president of the student council and traveled with the debate team. I suppose she was beautiful but most of us guys were too shy to make eye contact or actually talk to her. What I liked about Naomi was she wasn’t stuck up. She greeted everyone the same when they came into the pharmacy, whether you were a little old lady or captain of the football team, she greeted everyone the same. She was always smiling. I have no doubt that when my brother, Daniel, walked in that front door she lifted her face, smiled widely and said, “Good morning!” She may even have used his name. She may have said, “Good morning, Daniel” because she knew my brother. They weren’t exactly friends but I know Daniel went down to the pharmacy a lot and ate at the lunch counter because he liked Naomi Tillson.

  According to eyewitness reports, when Daniel arrived at the pharmacy that day he paced anxiously up and down the aisles for a while. Some witnesses say he was mumbling to himself. Then the rest happened pretty fast. He walked up to the check-out counter and before the smiling Naomi Tillson could say anything, he pulled a gun from his coat pocket and shot her, right there, in the face without saying one word. Her face blew up. Blood, teeth and bone spattered the wall just behind the check-out. Janet Turback had been looking at baby aspirin for her eight-month-old daughter, Samantha, who was perched on her hip. She started screaming when the shot went off. My brother turned and shot her, too. Luckily, he was a pretty bad shot. The bullet hit her in the shoulder and she fell on the ground. The baby started crying but was not hurt. Phil Moretti, the high school football coach, was in the store, too. He was talking to Craig Freehold, the high school quarterback, who had come into the store to pick up his grandmother’s prescription. Mr. Moretti rushed Daniel who shot him in the chest before he could even reach him. He died later, on the way to the hospital. Mr. Tillson had heard the commotion. Like a lion, he roared from the back of the store. Daniel shot him, too, three times, but the bullets only struck is thigh and right hip. The third bullet careened off into the store somewhere. Craig Freehold somehow caught a bullet through his right hand. How does someone, who is not aiming, hit the high school star quarterback in his throwing hand? There were other customers in the store, too, but no one else was shot. According to the reports, they all ran for cover.

  Then, after shooting everyone, my brother calmly laid the gun on the counter and walked outside as if nothing had happened. He lit a cigarette and sat on the bench. He hadn’t said one word during the entire incident. Not one word.

  Chapter Three

  We lived at 35 Mill Street. There are no mills left in Sawyer but back in the days when there were mills, there had been a giant paper mill: Tiner’s. Anyone who has lived in Sawyer more than a one generation has a relative who worked at Tiner’s at one time or another. Our house is a small house, just a block up from the old mill building, which is in ruins now. My mom and dad bought the house a few months after I was born. My dad died two years later, from complications of pneumonia, and his life insurance paid off the house but not much else. We’ve been pretty broke since then. As a result, my mom had to go to work. She worked at Samson and Goliath Cleaners doing alterations. She also did alterations, at home, on the side. It wasn’t unusual, on my mom’s day off to find a girl with an ill-fitting prom dress or a man standing on a footstool in the middle of our living room. My mom could make just about anything. She made all our curtains and tablecloths and even reupholstered the furniture. If it involved a needle and cloth, my mom could do it.

  When the police car I was riding in pulled up to the house, there were dozens of police cars out front, all with their lights going. There was a crowd of people, too, some I knew: neighbors, kids from school, and some I didn’t know. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. My mom must have died. I don’t know why I thought that. Why would there be dozens of police cars in front of my house if my mom had died? But that is what I thought. I was terrified. My mouth was dry and I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t open the car door from the inside; it was one of those doors that could only be opened from the outside. I waited impatiently for the officer to do it. I was looking out the window at the people there and at the house. The officer opened the door without looking at me. I knew something was terribly wrong. I tried to run into the house but the officer grabbed my upper arm and squeezed it tightly. He pulled me past the crowd and up the front steps. He shoved me in the door only I don’t think he was trying to shove me. It just worked out that way because we both couldn’t fit through the door at the same time. Mom was on the couch, crying with my uncle Elliot on one side of her and my aunt May on the other. Uncle Elliot was my dad’s brother; Aunt May was his wife. I rushed to them. Mom stood and grabbed me. She pulled me to her with a sob. I had never heard such a noise come out of my mother before. She sounded like a wounded animal.
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  The house was swarming with people, all men. Some wore police uniforms; others were dressed in black suits. No one was really talking. If they said something to each other, they spoke in hushed tones. They had drawers pulled out and things lay strewn across the dining room table and chairs. I could hear people upstairs moving around.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  I pulled away from my mother enough to look her in the eyes. They were swollen. I looked down at my uncle who looked away and when I looked at my aunt, she just dropped her head in her hands.

  I repeated, “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “Daniel,” mom whispered, “it’s Daniel.”

  “What has he done?”

  It’s funny how you can know things without being told. It’s funny how you could just sense things. I knew Daniel wasn’t dead. I knew he had done something horrible. It was like we had been waiting for something to happen. I didn’t realize until later after I was able to piece together the story from news reports—no one would actually tell me what he had done—how horrible it really was.

  “He’s killed a girl,” Mom whispered in my ear.

  I’m not sure how I got to the chair, someone must have helped me, and I melted into it.

  “Who?” I croaked.

  My throat was dry and constricted. I wasn’t even sure I was making a sound.

  “Naomi Tillson,” my uncle hissed through clenched teeth. No one knew about Phil Moretti yet. He had still been alive when the police reached the pharmacy. He died in the ambulance. We wouldn’t find out about him until we watched the news later that evening.