A Long, Cold Winter

A Long, Cold Winter

I will never forget that afternoon. I’m unable to go more than three days without reliving it, even after all these years. I remember everything—right down to the most finite detail.


Until I looked out the window, I didn’t know what I was going to say that morning.

_____

It had been five years since a drunk driver killed my daughter. Katie was only seven-years old. I chewed a stick of peppermint gum to settle my nerves at the man’s parole hearing. When I was permitted to say my piece, I tearfully explained the horrendous rip in my soul and the jagged void that would always exist within me. I made the strongest case possible against his release. My daughter was lost forever; she would never have the opportunity to experience the joys of this life, in which this man obviously had no regard. Why should he be set free?

His wife pleaded with the board: citting the enormous hardship his continued incarceration would place on her three children. She maintained that her husband was a good man and sincerely regretted the tragic accident, explaining depression was actually the culprit. Right before the incident, his mother had passed away and his company let him go after twenty-five years of service. The prison psychologist stated the man was a model prisoner and believed he would never drink again. In the end, his parole was granted.

_____

A couple I rented an apartment from in Germany decided to visit America—a trip of a lifetime. The date was set for the first week in December. George and Terri Franz were hospitable and delightful people; they had made my experience in their country vividly memorable. They rented to many army soldiers over the years; and, after their retirement, came up with a master plan for seeing America: to stay one week with previous tenants who agreed to put them up and function as a tour guide. I was week three. They spent the first week with a dentist in New York City, and the second exploring our nation’s roots in Boston, with a butcher. I was currently in between jobs and planned on showing them a great time.

The Ohio Valley is notorious for delivering a fierce blast of winter in early December, before late January ushers in the real deal. Over the years, Cincinnati’s winters have eased in severity but the early blast is inevitable, like our professional sport teams making one bad decision after another. For the doubting Thomas’s among you, we once had a professional basketball team, The Cincinnati Royals. That was before they traded arguably the greatest ballplayer of his era: Oscar Robertson. This particular year, 1992, Cincinnati Bengal’s traded Boomer Esiason—one of the most prolific left-handed quarterbacks of all time—which resulted in their worst decade to date. And, so, the winter blast came as usual.

George and Terri Franz arrived late one evening at my efficiency apartment in a rented Ford Taurus. They couldn’t understand how such a moderate snowfall affected the traffic so negatively, laughing and poking fun at the driving abilities of Americans.

I put them in my room and bunked on the couch. I neglected to inform them that my wife left me and my accommodations had changed. They offered their condolences for my divorce, and recent job loss. I explained I wasn’t interested in teaching school any longer and was looking for something I could do from home. Although they seemed skeptical, they were delighted I would have time to show them around.

The first day I took them to the Art History Museum in Eden Park, and then downtown to see the German architectural influence on our buildings. We had supper and cocktails at Montgomery Inn (a well-known rib place), gazed at the mighty Ohio River, and then went home to continue our celebration. My dear friends showed me photographs of their grandchildren, while we polished off three bottles of white wine. They insisted it was more than they were accustomed to, laughing how old age was catching up with them.

While Terri prepared for bed, George and I took a walk around the block. The snow swirled at our feet, making the sidewalks appear to be moving; the blue-steel sky was equally dubious. It caused me to remember a younger George marching his family around their home barefooted in the snow.

“Do you still play in the snow without shoes?”

“Oh, yes!" George answered in his guttural accent. “It’s good for the constitution, and keeps us healthy all year long. Thomas, of all the years we rented the upstairs apartments, you were one of our favorite tenants. You had a pleasant spirit that Terri and I found endearing. You always did the right thing. Ya know, I think we stayed for too many cocktails at that nice restaurant. You were a bit rude to the waiter.”

“There wasn’t any reason for him to make such a fuss over a dropped glass.”

“Can I speak freely, my friend?”

“Sure, George.”

“I know you’ve been through hard times. Extraordinary times. It’s unnatural for a child to die before a parent, and now the divorce, and job. I can’t possibly imagine what you’ve gone through . . . but drowning your sorrows with alcohol isn’t the answer. You inhaled that last bottle of wine all by yourself, without much conversation, either. It’s not the way we used to drink in Germany. We drank because we were happy.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said, admiring how healthy-looking George was; although, it was his strength of character, and candor, that impressed me most. “I’m getting back on my feet, really. Sorry about tonight. I’m just tired. I’ve got some great stuff planned for tomorrow.”


The next morning there was a bite in the air. I wore my winter coat, hat, and gloves, knowing we would be spending a good portion of the day outside. I planned a trip North of Cincinnati to visit Kings Island Amusement Park. George and Terri donned medium-weight jackets, of course. George happily commented how the long, cold winters made the Germans a strong and reliant people, warning that too much comfort could rob your soul, turning you into a victim. Before leaving the neighborhood (to satisfy Terri’s curiosity), we toured a Kroger grocery. She’d heard about the huge selection in our stores. In Germany, she might have five choices of breakfast cereal, rather than the endless varieties offered here. The expiration date was difficult for Terri to understand, until I explained America’s use of preservatives.

George and Terri thoroughly enjoyed the amusement park. We ate cotton candy, threw rings at milk bottles, shot BB guns to prove who had the keenest eye, and spent twenty dollars to win Terri a five-dollar teddy bear. I finally said “uncle” after three times on a huge roller coaster, appropriately named The Beast, and my stout friends rode several more times before getting their fill. I waited patiently at the beer gardens, overpaying for cups of Coors Light. I also finished my personal flask of Cognac right as I saw George and Terri walking in my direction.

“Thomas,” Terri shouted, as if she were a schoolgirl who had just spotted a friend. Her white cheeks were flushed from the thrill of the ride and the nip in the air. “A couple told us about a town near here, where the residents have converted their homes into craft shops and such. I love those kinds of places. Could we go, please?”

“Sure. Waynesville isn’t far from here. We can eat lunch, and check out the shops.”

George's broad face lit up. I remember as if it were yesterday. “You were always my favorite, Thomas,” he said, giving me a big hug. We strolled arm-in-arm to the car. I pulled out of the massive parking lot and crossed over to Route 42. Waynesville was about fifteen minutes up the road. We sang Christmas carols, one after another, laughing, like we did years ago in Germany: Frosty the Snow Man, Jingle Bells, Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, Deck the Halls—fa la la la la la la la la.


The village was decorated to the hilt; the multi-colored array was overwhelming, even in the daylight. Terri’s green eyes were wide with excitement. George rolled down his window so he could experience the festivities without a barrier. The aroma of funnel cakes and pine cones flooded the car. A middle-aged woman with red cheeks hawked her wares from a curbside stand, enticing us to stop: “Home-baked apple pies! My grandmother’s recipe! Don’t miss this!”

The sidewalks were crowded with families out to make a holiday memory. I saw a woman and a small girl that reminded me of my wife and daughter. They were dressed in red plaid outfits, with matching wool hats. The voices, and music coming from the shops, began to blend until I couldn’t quite make out what George and Terri were saying. They pointed this way, and then that way, bubbling over with excitement—talking in German half the time. The restaurant I was looking for was somewhere in the next few blocks, I thought. The decorations made it difficult to locate.


I stopped at a traffic light. A Santa Claus stood in the middle of the street soliciting donations, ringing a bell with one hand and holding a bucket with the other. I rolled down the window and dropped five dollars in the pail. His eyes were glazed over and his cold hand touched mine. It sent a chill down my spine; I realized that we were both drunk. Smashed. I was inundated with a conglomeration of thoughts, swirling, blinking on and off. Strangely, all at once, everything happened in slow motion . . .

The light turned green and throbbed like in a scary movie. I could hear the Rent-a-Santa’s bell; it reminded me of an echo in a tunnel. As I pulled away my tires spun. I applied pressure on the accelerator. George was laughing. Terri asked me something in German. I turned to see what she wanted. The storefronts entered my line of sight, slowly, frame by frame: Old World Antiques, New Age Dilemmas, Home Cookin' Place. A hefty, elderly man, with dark eyes and thin lips, dropped his bag. A look of fierce determination came across his face. He clumsily darted forward, like a confused member in a marching band. Two attractive teenage girls pointed in horror.

I heard a woman scream! The painful shriek muted everything. Her packages silently tumbled to the curb—each one finally landing atop the last, scooting the one before it through the sludge like miniature snowplows. Next, I saw the little girl standing in the street! I realized the car wasn't stopping. Overwhelming nausea hit me, as if I'd swallowed a thousand needles. Every breath and motion exaggerated to a turtle’s pace. Again, the woman's shrill voice cut through me. Suddenly, the smell of ice and mud filled my nostrils. I wanted to jump out of the car and save the little girl, but my arms and legs went limp. Then, she looked right at me—her eyes were as clear and pristine as a stream in the Canadian Rockies. The last thing I remember was the thud, and a red hat floating through the air.

_____

“Mr. Thomas Wilson, you have been a model prisoner for ten years,” the warden said. “After all the testimony we’ve heard today, we are inclined to grant your parole and release you five years early. All we need is your assurance that you will never drink again.”

The mother of the little girl--who I killed that day--testified on my behalf. She learned of my past, of my little girl, and had mercifully forgiven me.

"Mr. Wilson, could we have your answer?"

It was early December. I stood and looked out the window at the first blast of winter. I was standing at the crossroads—at the corner of walk and don’t walk. For some reason, I tasted peppermint. There would be no bad decisions made this day. That little girl deserved justice. We all deserve justice. I didn’t want the comforts of this world to steal my soul and claim another victim. I wanted to be the kind of person who ran barefooted in the snow . . .

The End

Word count: 2047