Chapter 41 – Love’s Addiction (The Tide Can Turn So Quickly)
Tuesday evening June 10, 2008 – 9:00 PM
As Frank Newlan settled into the living room of his sister Rose Marino’s home in Andover Massachusetts to watch the Boston Celtics take on the Los Angeles Lakers in game three of the NBA Finals, his mind was troubled. All night long all he could think about was the John Breslin murder trial, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he was dismayed by the fact that he had to conceal his thoughts from his sister and her son Joey at all costs.
Newlan had just finished devouring his sister’s home cooked Italian dinner, and the overabundance of red wine left him feeling flushed with a warm glow of contentment. And yet the damned trial continued to send shivers through his body, like fingernails on a blackboard, when he least expected it.
Newlan still couldn’t get over the fact that Breslin worked for the same company as his nephew Joey, and to make matters worse, the Tex-Ray facility in question, where Breslin’s murderous plot allegedly took root, was located just down the road from his sister’s house. However, Newlan didn’t dare discuss any of this information with either of them for fear of breaking his oath, but just as importantly, for fear that his nephew might accidentally leak out an unintended clue of relevant information about him when he showed up for work in the morning.
“I can see it now,” irrationally contemplated Newlan as he squirmed in his seat, “if Breslin’s cronies somehow find out my identity, they’ll be all over me like a pig in shit, with intimidation on their minds.”
All night long, Newlan had been trying to steer the conversation away from the trial, but his relatives didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and just before the opening tip-off they once again pleaded; “Can’t you at least tell us a little bit about the trial you’re on?”
“I told you it’s just a stupid civil case,” insisted Newlan.
“I can’t believe you’re in the same courthouse where one of my co-workers, Johnny Breslin, is up on a murder rap…and on top of that, they got those other big murder cases going on there too. Shit, there must be news cameras everywhere,” exclaimed Newlan’s nephew Joey.
“Yeah, I gotta admit, it’s a circus down there,” confirmed Newlan; he figured there was no harm in stating the obvious.
“Man, I don’t really know him from a hole in the wall, but I’ve heard that this Breslin dude is bad news. That’s all anyone at work can talk about. I swear he’s causing productivity to go down by at least 50 percent,” cracked Joey, and at that point Newlan’s curiosity finally got the better of him, and he blurted out, “so Joey what’s the deal with this guy Breslin?”
“He hired some dude to kill his wife’s boyfriend, or at least that’s how the story goes anyway…and he supposedly met the dude through a woman, Nancy O’Brien, who works with us as well,” knowledgably explained Joey. But, not wanting to come across as guilty by association, he made his position perfectly clear by clarifying his remarks for a second time. “Like I said I don’t know either one of them. There are thousands of people who work for Tex-Ray, and I work in a different division. I mean, I might have seen them before in the cafeteria or maybe at a company outing, but other than that I have nothing to do with either one of them.”
And despite his best intentions, now that the ice was broken, Newlan couldn’t help himself, and so he pressed on with his subtle investigation.
“So what’s the word, do your co-workers think he did it?”
“It’s pretty much divided down the middle. Some people are behind him 100 percent, and others think he’s a ruthless, arrogant, control freak who just might have been stupid enough to do something crazy like this,” answered Joey.
“Hmmm, sounds a lot like our jury,” thought Newlan before asking, “And what about the co-worker who introduced him to the murderer…what’s her story?”
“The word is that she’s always bragging about how she knows all these mobsters and biker dudes. I guess she almost got charged with being an accessory before the fact, but she got out of it…and believe it or not she still works at Tex-Ray.”
“A defense contractor like Tex-Ray…you’d think they would have canned her ass by now,” reasoned Newlan.
“She got immunity. Can you believe it? She never even got charged with any crimes, so they can’t fire her…she’d probably sue if they did,” surmised Joey.
“So what’s your gut feeling Joey, did he do it or not?” demanded Newlan rather forcefully.
“Jeez, what’s with the interrogation Uncle Frankie…if I didn’t know better I’d think you were on the Breslin jury,” huffed Joey.
“No, no, it’s just that I find the whole story fascinating. I guess that being on jury duty has got me really interested in all this legal bullshit,” justified Newlan, but he realized he had better quit while he was ahead, lest his smart-aleck nephew catch him in another lie.
Nevertheless, regardless of his uncle’s intentions, Joey considered the question for a moment, and then thoughtfully replied.
“Anyway, for the record, I doubt Breslin did it…from what I know of him, he doesn’t seem like a violent guy…but on the other hand that’s why you hire someone to do your dirty work for you. And also, I did hear a rumor that, years ago, he was dating a co-worker from Tex-Ray who broke up with him, and afterwards he stalked her for months. Although I’m not sure how much of that’s the truth and how much is exaggeration.”
“Well I guess that clears thing up,” muttered Newlan, and then with a grimace he added, “Man you can’t make this shit up,” both in response to his nephew’s ambiguous conclusions, and in deference to his own little secret.
Meanwhile, Newlan’s sister Rose interrupted their conversation with an animated plea for less chatting and more focus on the Celtics.
“Come on guys, you’re missing the freakin’ game with all of your talking over there,” she scolded.
“Alright then, let’s settle in for some B-Ball. Can I grab another beer Uncle Frankie?” asked the scrounging Joey.
“Yeah, I brought a case of Sam Adam’s with me…help yourself, and grab me one too,” commanded Newlan.
“You better watch out mixing wine and beer,” warned Rose, before adding, “but you can always sleep in Joey’s old room if it gets too late.” Although, what she was really thinking was; “you can always sleep over if you get too drunk.”
“Oh cut it out, it’s only a few beers,” replied Newlan to his overprotective sister…and just like that his mind drifted back in time to a near miraculous reversal of fortune, the likes of which someone such as the sad-sack John Breslin could only dream of.
…
Newlan pensively considered his sister Rose’s heavy-handed manner; a demeanor that found her occasionally treating him like a child, even though he was actually a year older than her, and he could only shake his head and marvel at the wonderment of how strange life can be at times.
You see, Rose’s motherly nagging was almost incomprehensible based on her past history, for it wasn’t all that long ago that she was an incurable drug addict whose life seemed destined to come to an early and abrupt end.
At the peak of her addiction, Rose Marino was not above lying and stealing from her own family, and she nearly broke all of their hearts when she ended up homeless, sleeping under a bridge with the lowest forms of lowlifes imaginable. But thankfully for all involved, somehow she eventually found her way to a detoxification facility that was mercifully able to assist her in crawling out of her half-dug grave.
To this day, Newlan still had trouble fathoming how his sister, who was brought up in a stable middle-class family environment, could have ended up a heroin junkie with a habit so bad that it reached the point where she found herself verging onto death’s doorstep.
However, throughout the course of all those sad years, which Newlan spent testily putting up with the utterly hopeless lifestyle of his only sister, he fully realized that he was in n
o position to judge, seeing as how he had his own share of demons to keep at bay…but judge he did.
Being the enigma that he was, Newlan couldn’t accept the slovenly critiques of the people who would insist that he was being a hypocrite for criticizing his sister’s dire problems when he was known to self-medicate with the best of them.
But to the contrary, by Newlan’s way of thinking, it seemed to him that his situation was far different from that of his sister’s. He never suffered from an addiction. He never stole from his family to support a drug habit. He never got arrested for any type of drug or alcohol related offenses (other than the time that he was falsely accused of drinking in public of course). Granted, he temporarily went off the deep end after his breakup with Marianne Plante, but even then, he never missed a single day of work in his entire life due to over-intoxication.
The survivalist in Newlan had long ago subscribed to the theory which states that every single person in the whole wide world has to devise their own methods of dealing with reality, either that or give up living. And in his mind, he was no different than anyone else; so he liked to smoke a few joints and have a few drinks now and then, big deal. How did that make him any worse that the people who were zonked to the max on prescription medications for anxiety and depression?
In short, Newlan’s biggest puzzlement with his sister’s drug habit was the fact the he didn’t see himself as having an addictive personality, and he couldn’t understand how her genetic makeup could be so different than his.
Even now, Newlan would still occasionally wonder what caused his sister to reach such a level of despair. Was it some sort of childhood or adolescent trauma? Was it her bitter divorce? Was it the death of their father? Was it some sort of physical abnormality? Or maybe it was an amalgam of all these factors…and when you added in the indeterminate variable of getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, suddenly you have an addict on your hands.
It would probably take years of psychoanalysis to get to the bottom of Rose Marino’s issues, but whatever the reasons behind her fall from grace, it was crystal clear that, much like Tracy Stone’s absolution, what saved her life was the undying love that she held for her only child, Joey.
Much like Tracy Stone, Rose Marino saw the look of fear and sadness in her son’s eyes all those years ago as she lay in a hospital bed with the jaundice guise of someone who had only hours to live, and somehow she roused up the will to fight back; somehow she vowed to turn over a new leaf, if for no other reason than to make amends with the flesh of her womb.
And now in the present, as he sat there in his sister’s comfortable living room, Newlan thought back to that horrible day more than ten years ago when he visited her in the hospital where she lay strapped to a bed as she endured the awful symptoms of heroin withdrawal; convulsions, hallucinations, delirious fever; profuse sweating; or “cold turkey” as it’s known on the streets.
Newlan thought back to how he put his arm around the teenaged Joey and assured him that “no matter what happens, everything’s gonna be alright.” But all the while he grasped the cold hard fact that he had no way of knowing for sure whether a happy ending was as inevitable as he made it sound.
As much as Newlan consoled his frightened nephew Joey, and as much as Cam Miller comforted a downtrodden Tracy Stone, and as much as countless others before and after them have encouraged a distraught loved one with those exact same words, “everything’s gonna be alright”, Newlan was wise enough to understand that sometimes, regardless of our good intentions, things don’t always go as planned.
Even in his harrowed state of mind over his sister’s dilemma all those years ago, Newlan was wise enough to come to the conclusion that what really matters is what you do in your efforts to ensure that every turns out alright…and then, after that, all you can do is say a prayer and hope for the best. Otherwise, “everything’s gonna be alright” are merely empty words which might as well be left unsaid.
However, in Newlan’s case, his words were not empty, and he did everything that he possibly could to help his sister and her son as they unsteadily got back onto their feet again…and in the end, they survived, and so did he. In the end, life went on, and they made the most of it. But so too, in the end, the damage had already been done, and it was much too late to ever be completely undone. In the end, the traumatic experience left behind a torrent of scars which never fully healed; scars which were a constant reminder of a past that lingered like a black cloud…and it forced him to look back. He had to look back. He could help himself, he always looked back…and every time he did, another broken piece of his heart died just a little bit more.
But despite the constant uncertainties that we all face, Newlan couldn’t help but to feel a warm, if rather tenuous, trickling sense of relief regarding how far his sister Rose and her son Joey had come since those dark times. She had a decent job as a nurse; a job which she had held for many years now. She had a comfortable roof over her head; a home of her own for that matter. And, last but not least, she was the proud mother of a recent college graduate; and not only that, but he too had a high-paying job, a fancy car, a nice apartment, and a knockout of a girlfriend, all by the age of 25.
…
“Ready for another beer Uncle Frankie?” called out Joey Marino. And just like that, Newlan’s mind was snapped back into focus; his reflections on the travails of his sister put on the backburner for another day. Just like that he took a deep breath and counted his blessing for the simple things in life which we sometimes take for granted. Just like that he turned his attention back to the basketball game where the Celtics were clinging to a two point lead going into the fourth quarter.
“We pull this one out and we got this series wrapped up,” confidently exclaimed Joey, but the superstitious, not to mention thirsty, Newlan was having none of it.
“Quiet Joey, you’re gonna jinx them. Don’t you know that it’s bad luck to get overconfident? The tide can turn so quickly.”
Newlan anxiously drained another beer and as he did, he silently reflected; “hmmm, the tide can turn so quickly.” And once again his overactive imagination steered its cargo bay towards the fate of John Breslin. Once again he wondered what sort of evidence the days ahead might bring in helping to determine that fate. Once again he wondered if he had the strength to go against the grain if necessary.
And as the Celtics and Lakers traded baskets, and as the facts of the Breslin trial ping-ponged back and forth across his frontal lobes, Newlan’s alcohol consumption rapidly increased by leaps and bounds.
Newlan belonged to a fanatic breed of sports spectators who tended to become extremely tense while watching their beloved Boston teams do battle in a critical game, and so by the time the game had ended with the Celtics losing a hard fought contest by the score of 87-81, he had polished off innumerable beers in an attempt to calm his nerves; and of course, the ever-present shadow of the Breslin trial, which had taken up residence in the back of his mind, didn’t help matters either.
After the final buzzer sounded, it only took a brief inspection of her kitchen for Rose Marino to became acutely aware of just how many empty beer cans had been deposited into the wastebasket, and as a result, she savagely scolded her only son and her older brother to no end.
“My how the tide has turned,” Newlan snickered, and as he repeated the old adage, he surmised that it could just as easily be applied to life, as much as it is applied to sports. But regardless of its application, once again the fateful axiom had him pondering the irony of his recovering drug addict sister informing him that he had had too much to drink.
“No way either one of you is driving home tonight,” declared Rose.
“I’m fine,” replied Newlan and Joey in unison.
“That’s bullshit. Joey you take your old room, and grab your uncle a pair of sweatpants out of the closet where I keep all your old clothes…and Frankie you can sleep on the sofa bed,” commanded Rose as her maternal
instincts took over. “And I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll take both of your keys and call the cops if I have to.”
“Alright already…well, I guess I’m going to bed. And by the way mom, you’re a pain in the ass,” declared the red-faced Joey as he kissed his mother goodnight.
Ever since their own mother passed away, Newlan had become amazed by how much his sister reminded him more and more of dear old mom with each passing day; how she almost unbearably overprotected him; how she checked in before every major holiday to make sure that he wasn’t sitting at home alone with no place to go; how she would invite him over for dinner every few months; how she took charge of all family matters, just like their strong-willed mother once did.
And so with this obsessive brand of nepotism in mind, as Rose Marino pulled open the sofa bed and covered up the mattress with a set of new linen sheets, she kept her mind occupied by picking at her brother’s brain, asking among other things whether he was seeing anyone special these days. She knew full well that her very private brother had never been too comfortable discussing his personal affairs with anyone, let alone family members, but that never stopped her from prying before, and it wasn’t about to stop her now.
Newlan attempted to brush off his sister’s inquiries, but she insisted on dredging up the past.
“I still think you and Marianne would have made a good couple. Whatever happened to her anyway?” innocently wondered Rose, while at the same time an unsettling quiver bolted through Newlan at the mere mention of the only woman he ever loved. And yet he showed absolutely no outward signs of emotion as he coolly replied; “that’s so far in the past, it isn’t even a consideration anymore…and besides she’s married anyway.”
However, deep inside, Newlan wished that he could summons up the gumption to open up to his sister regarding the note that Plante had sent him only days ago. He still had no idea what to make of the letter, and he figured that maybe his sister’s female perspective might make for a worthy sounding board. Although, in the end, his foolish pride prevented him from revealing his inner most hopes and fears, even to a blood relative.
But despite Newlan’s wall of denial, Rose Marino’s womanly intuitions informed her that she had struck a nerve, and so she wisely decided that she should change the subject, which unwittingly, only made matters worse.
“How are things at the condo? Does that Pakistani doorman still work there?”
“Yeah…but I’m beginning to think he might be a terrorist,” deadpanned Newlan.
“Oh cut it out…that cute little old man? He’s harmless,” incredulously replied Rose.
“Maybe it’s just me, but I get the feeling that he’s been acting kind of strange lately,” declared Newlan as he crawled into the unfamiliar sofa bed…but alas, his accusations fell on deaf ears.
“I leave for work early, so if you’re the last one here, feel free to take a shower, and make sure to lock up on the way out. I’ll leave the coffee on for you,” apprised Rose as she turned out the lights.
“I’ll probably be gone by the time you wake up, since I’m never gonna be able to fall asleep in this bed anyway,” grumbled Newlan as he tossed and turned in an attempt to settle into a comfortable sleeping position.
“Why, isn’t it firm enough?” asked a concerned Rose.
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just that I never sleep well when I’m not in my own bed, so I’ll probably just rest here for a few hours, and then head home for a nap,” explained Newlan. And with that, his sister called it a night and it was lights-out at the Rose Marino residence.
After his sister wandered off to bed, Newlan attempted to reposition himself on the foreign mattress at least a dozen times. But eventually he resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get much sleep, so instead he just stared up at the darkened ceiling and fretfully mulled over the latest developments in his life.
As the evening wore on, Newlan became aware of the hum of thousands of crickets filling up the nighttime air, and he was astounded by just how loud and musical the chirping sounds could become. He was accustomed to the ambient din of city living, and as he lay there, he meditated on the idea that living in a rural setting such as this would take some getting used to.
Then, in a not so unexpected tangent, Newlan’s mind drifted towards the memory of his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante. He was well aware of the fact that she now resided in the town of Tewksbury, which was the next town over from his sister’s home in Andover; a mere two miles away from his current location on the GPS map of the world.
And as the darkness ploddingly deepened around him, Newlan wistfully reflected on what his life might have been like had he married Plante. He imagined the two of them with a couple of kids and a big shaggy dog running around in the yard, up here in one these quaint suburbs by the New Hampshire border, and in his drunken state, as he conjured up a visual picture of Plante’s smiling face in his mind’s eye, he suddenly became very emotional regarding the dead-end path his life had taken.
With the distant hoot of an owl providing a mantra-like backdrop, Newlan contemplated long and hard about the undeniable fact that sometimes our fates seem to veer off in directions that are beyond our control, and then for some reason, the unfortunate demise of poor Fred Miller suddenly popped into his brain…and he began to cry like a baby.
Astonishingly enough, even at this late hour, Newlan’s tearfully reflective mind refused to turn itself off. However, despite his anguished musings, he was clearly physically exhausted and emotionally drained after another unbearably long day at the courthouse, and so in short order he did pass out, and not surprisingly, based on recent history, he drifted off into a deep, dream-filled slumber.
Newlan dreamed that he was wandering down an unfamiliar country road, under the pitch black covering of a cloudy sky. There was a heavy fog in the air, and as he attempted to feel his way through the emptiness, he took on the semblance of a little boy, lost in an endless forest of fear. And if that weren’t bad enough, his dream then took a decided turn for the worse as the trees branches that surrounded him transformed themselves into giant arms which were stretching out to grab him in an attempt to do God knows what. And then the leaves mutated into a colony of furry bats, like a flock of caterpillars metamorphosing into butterflies; thousands of vampire bats hanging upside down in the quivering tree arms. And then the rabid bats awoke and took to flight, and once they were all assembled overhead in a flying V formation, like one, they began swarming about Newlan’s head like a hive of angry bees.
Newlan desperately tried to run, but as he did, all around him, the ground melted into quicksand, and he surrendered himself to the fact that his life was over.
However, just when all seemed lost, Newlan detected the light of the moon shining brightly through the billowing clouds. He could clearly make out the sight of the pea-thick fog as it dissolved into a fine mist. He could clearly perceive the mist as it slowly plumed into the shape of a woman. He could clearly recognize the haze as it fashioned itself into the embodiment of his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, wearing the golden wings of an angel.
And upon catching a glimpse of his long lost love, Newlan regained the strength to free himself from the quicksand which had overtaken his body and soul. Upon taking in the saintly virgin of his youth, Newlan regained the determination to fight off every bloodsucking bat and every pulverizing tree limb in his path. Upon beholding the outstretched arms of the only woman he ever loved, Newlan regained the courage to rush into her arms and profess just how much he ached for her; he regained the tenacity to profess just how lost he was without her; he regained the recklessness to profess how his life had meant nothing ever since that fateful day that she said goodbye.
Yes, this time, much to his surprise, Newlan held nothing back; this time he laid all his cards on the table; this time he wore his heart on his sleeve; this time, at long last, he finally found the strength to bare his soul to th
e woman of his dreams.
For her part, as Plante heeded Newlan’s plea for redemption, she cradled him gently in her arms like a mother might hold a child, and she lightly kissed his lips
Newlan fell to his knees and took his lady’s hand like a pauper in the lap of royalty…and in turn, she peered deeply into his eyes, as in comforting tone, she exalted his heart.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it? And from this day forward, God willing, may we be together again for all times,” declared Plante. And upon harkening her overwhelming proclamation, Newlan repeatedly kissed her heavenly fingers while at the same time heralding his devotion for her.
“I love you Marianne. I love you so much. I’ve missed you for so long. I need you so bad.”
Newlan felt as if he had gone from the deepest depths of despair to the highest heights of ecstasy, all in a matter of seconds, and he prayed that he could keep the moment frozen in time forever, even if it meant never waking up again.
“Please, never leave me,” beseeched Newlan as he gazed up at the celestial figure standing before him. But no sooner had the words left his mouth when he came to the inevitable conclusion that things don’t always go as planned; everything doesn’t always turn out alright.
“Ah, but that, I cannot do…for as you know all too well, the tide can turn so quickly,” replied the ghostly apparition of Marianne Plante. And just like that, Newlan could feel his dream turning back into a nightmare; he could feel his life once again turning upside-down; he could feel the beginning of the end taking shape.
Suddenly Newlan became aware of the heavy breathing of a man running toward him; a man running from his past; a man running from his present; a man running from his future; a man running for his life. And as the streaking blur of the marathon runner approached, Newlan could see that it wasn’t just a man; it wasn’t just a spirit; it wasn’t just a ghost; it was all of those things and more…it was Fred Miller. It was Fred Miller with the specter of death flaming in his eyes; it was Fred Miller exerting every ounce of strength he could muster; it was Fred Miller screaming, “Run, run, run for your life.”
And not far behind Fred Miller, an equally gifted masked stallion of a man carrying a muzzled shotgun was gaining ground on him, and at the same time he was also gaining ground on Frank Newlan and Marianne Plante, who had now returned to human form.
Newlan tugged at Plante’s hand and they began sprinting toward the voice of Fred Miller who was manically shouting; “Follow me home, follow me home, follow me…all the way home.”
Aided by a gusting tailwind, Newlan and Plante gained ground on Miller, but in the confusion they had no idea where who they were running from, and they had no idea where they were running to. Nonetheless, as they came to a skidding stop at the foot of Fred Miller’s Nissan Maxima, he bowed and announced; “Welcome to my home, welcome to my final resting place.”
Newlan surveyed the cracking asphalt before him and he instantly confirmed that they had landed in the dank, musty garage where Fred Miller met his fate.
“Nooooo,” screamed Newlan as he instinctively took Plante into his arms and buried her face in his chest, in a futile attempt to prevent her from witnessing the resident evil of this place; an evil that he knew all too well.
“Yes…tonight we meet our maker, but don’t fret my friends…for it only hurts for a little while,” syllogized Fred Miller. And as he spoke, the masked marauder caught up to them, and in the blink of an eye, he fired a shotgun burst that disintegrated Miller’s face.
Newlan instinctively winced at the sound of the explosive salvo, but when he reopened his eyes, he was enslaved by the vision of Marianne Plante being torn from his arms by the masked man-beast.
“Please don’t kill us. We didn’t do anything wrong. We don’t belong here,” pleaded Newlan, but it was to no avail. The merciless gunman blasted a hole through Marianne Plante’s heart, which also had the duel effect of tearing the life out of Frank Newlan.
Newlan sank to his knees and cried; “Oh God no. Oh God why. Oh God please…please take me instead.”
“God has deserted you my tormentor,” hissed the masked marauder as he stepped towards Newlan and spat in his face.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” ordered the lunatic, and as he pulled at Newlan’s long stringy hair, he added, “It is your turn to be the tormented one now.”
But once again Newlan was determined to stare death in the face and show no fear. He returned the glare of the cold blooded murderer, and as their steely eyes met, the deranged stalker removed his mask, only to reveal the form of John Breslin.
Breslin pulled a pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Newlan’s forehead as he imparted his final verdict; “You’re next Newlan.”
However, just as Breslin was about to squeeze the trigger, a massive truck rolled into the garage with its high beams shining so brightly that it nearly blinded the both of them. The truck rumbled right up to the spot where Breslin stood hovering over Newlan, and as the masked driver vaulted out of the driver’s seat, in a foreign accent he declared, “If anyone is going to kill Mr. Frank it will be me.”
At this perplexing point in time, the second masked man pulled off his disguise as well, only to unveil the jowls of Mr. Saeed Kahn cackling hysterically at his fallen foe.
Kahn pointed a device which resembled a remote starter towards the trailer of the truck. But before he pressed the button, he stared Newlan dead in the eyes, and predictably he uttered the same three words that had haunted his antagonist’s dreams of late; “You’re next Newlan.”
And with the snap of a finger, a hellfire of an explosion tore the roof off the weatherworn garage which sent a catapulting Frank Newlan hurtling out into thin air.
As had been his plight so many times before, Newlan’s fate rested on his ability to wake up before he hit the ground. But compounding his fight for survival where a chorus of devilish voices in the sky chanting, “You’re next Newlan,” as his freefall towards the Earth began to pick up speed.
Newlan’s body was dead weight as he plummeted from the sky like a boulder rolling off the side of a mountain avalanche. He was inches from the ground and a horrible death when he felt a pair of warm hands shaking his body out of its mind-numbing trance.
Newlan looked up and saw his sister and nephew staring down at him.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You scared the shit out of me,” gasped Rose Marino.
“Dude, you’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood,” joked Joey Marino who was finding the situation rather humorous.
“I’m alright…just a bad dream,” whispered a dry-mouthed Newlan, but his sister observantly detected the same look of fear in him that her son had displayed all those years ago when he witnessed her near deadly heroin overdose.
Newlan’s panic-stricken sister vigorously rubbed her eyes and frightfully declared, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I think I may have…I think I may have,” replied a dazed Newlan as he recalled having the same conversation with Billy the Court Officer after his bad dream on the bus ride to the garage in Newton.
“Dude, you were screaming in your sleep. You’re next Newlan. Over and over again…you’re next Newlan,” explained the wiseass Joey in a mock woman’s voice.
“Next for what?” wondered a perplexed Rose Mariano, but in return, the only response her rattled brother Frank could come up with was a baffled non-answer; “I wish I knew…I wish I knew…I damn well wish I knew.”