Ajar
Authors: Marianna Boncek
Tags: #murder, #betrayal, #small town, #recovery, #anorexia, #schizophrenia, #1970s, #outcast, #inseparable, #shunned
by
Marianna Boncek
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
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
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.
