INERTIA Book 1, The Threestone Trilogy
The Road To Hell

Maneuvering back down the junk pile, I’m sure to go as quietly as possible. My Dad would consider it overstepping to come and go as I please through his private property, I’m sure. Since he’s been treating me like a stranger.

I’m used to insecurity. I deal with it like everything else, but it isn’t normal to feel so detached. I accept that there are parts of my father that I will never understand, but he has always understood me, pursued me, and called me. I’ve never been able to keep a secret from him. With one look, he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He often knows what I’m going to do before I do. It’s an instinctive ability to cut through my bull. We’ve always been very close, like two sides of the same coin.

Yet in this place he feels like a stranger.

I don’t know what to make of this soft spoken, even keeled man; so tolerant and gentle, so unlike the grumpy old buzzard I am accustomed to. I wonder if this counter-creation ever loses his temper.

My ambiguity grows as I pass beneath the bright windows on my way to the front yard. The murmuring of many voices carries through the panes. Some laugh while others yell annoying chants. What could be happening on a Tuesday night that has the curb packed with cars and me without an invitation?

Scurrying over the grass, I make a beeline for a space between two parked cars, rushing back to my silent sanctuary. Half way through the yard a chilling sense of dread stops me. My muscles freeze, trapping my feet in the soft green carpet—the midpoint between the two yards, Dads’ and the adjoining neighbors.

My placement, paired with the positioning of the tree is making my heart beat too fast. I glance between the two several times, realizing that I’m standing in the spot. The place where she landed. The place Dad and I planted a rose bush before we moved away.

Grief wells up as I reach down to brush the turf with my fingers. It’s cold, though there is no ghostly power. The ordinary grass is a place where someone might sit and enjoy a picnic on a sunny day.

But right here, between my shoes, she laid unnaturally crumpled, her jacket torn. The very spot where she cried out for someone who wasn’t there.

The helpless feelings overwhelm me. My stomach heaves and I bound away from the grave spot haunted by the touch of anything but the cement driveway. In the last stride I leap too quickly and land off-kilter, hitting my side on one of the cars. It hurts, but I hold the yelp alongside the lump in my throat.

Part of that day is suddenly clearer. It was late morning or early afternoon and it had to be a Saturday or Sunday, definitely not a weekday or I would have been in school. The minute details piece together but the exact day still remains a mystery.

I’m cursed.

I hate this lawn, this house, and everything it represents. The way it seeps into my consciousness every time I veer toward something positive. Whenever I hear tires on the road or see the falling leaves blowing in the wind I want to jump.

My eyes squeeze shut, telling myself to remember: this place isn’t what it seems.

Darkness surrounds me. I feel its coating like a heavy blanket as the steady noise from inside the house trails into odd silence.

Something is off.

Sifting through the shadows, I don’t see anyone, but know that something is out there. I sense it lurking beyond the edges of the deeper shadows and wait, hoping the sense will dissipate. Instead it grows, securing my gut-feeling that I am not alone.

A muffled roar tears through the quiet and I jump, twisting toward the noise with my fist cocked. The roar is laughter coming from inside. It highlights the contradiction: the lively fun I’ve been excluded from and my dead memories.

There’s nothing to see, though. I lower my fist. “Relax, G.” I tell myself, “Nothing bad ever happened at night.” Not to me at least, still I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

“Hey, I was just coming to get you.” Bare feet followed by shorts, then a parka emerge from the shaded porch. My young father.

“What’s up?” I ask, impressed by my natural tone.

“Nothing special. I got a couple of friends over watching Baseball.” He combs his fingertips through his thick mustache. “Something wrong, Jonas?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He’s quietly thinking. “It must seem unkind to ask so much and give so little.”

“Doesn’t bother me at all; I blame society.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Not liking the way he ignores my derision, I nod and he hesitates.

“Y-you don’t have to tell me.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“Why—no, that’s not what I want to say. I mean, when I saw you the first time—it had to be fifteen years ago—how did you get younger?”

“Younger?” I repeat the word making sure I heard him right. He nods to confirm. “Uh . . . good genes.” Of course, I’m planning to follow with a more appropriate reaction of, ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ but Dad just nods again, seemingly content to accept sarcasm.

“Come in, have some food.” He waves for me to follow him up the steps.

I do, thinking as I go. “I need a favor.”

“Shoot,” A belch sounds with the word.

“I need to borrow your car tonight.”

“The wife’s got it. Hers needs a tune-up.”

The answer is no—case closed. Clearly, he doesn’t trust me. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t loan my car to anyone.” His unreadable expression irritates me to no end. And his voice is monotone, complimenting a flaccid posture as he leans against the porch railing.

I don’t know how to interpret this lukewarm behavior.

“Why not?” I’m irritable, leaning forward, using a tone not normally let loose around my dad unless I’m looking for a reaction.

He stands still, quietly thinking. “I don’t know you well enough.”

“What? Da-Gerry, I know it feels that way, but—look, I just need to go pick up something. It’s too big to carry and too far to walk. And do not even suggest a bus or taxis, both of those are out of the question.”

He shifts his weight, taking the last step up to the porch. Not like he’s leaving, only mindlessly moving as he thinks.

Like I always do when I get angry, I go for the throat. Or in this case, the guilt. “I came here to help you. Again. And this is the thanks I get? I only need it for an hour. To make one trip. Does it have a working cigarette lighter?” I see the objection in his face and shut it down. “Not to smoke. I have some electronics with me and I need the lighter for charging them. That’s all.”

“What kind of electronics can charge on a cigarette lighter? Will they help you do what you came for?” His face holds a poorly veiled dread mingled with curiosity.

“You’re dying to ask, I can tell.” Allusions are good. I’m not above using any opening he gives. I need a distraction from all this gloom in the worst way. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with helping myself when it helps us all.

“You specifically told me not to have anything to do with you. Why would I loan you my car? Is this a test?”

“You know, I’m thoroughly confused about the nature of this entire experience. It’s making me crazy! You say you know who I am, that we’ve met before—which obviously we have but not in the way that you think—and yet you treat me like a stranger! You make reference to my ‘purpose’ like you’ll die from curiosity, but won’t let me tell you! Can’t we just be done with the pretenses and move forward with the basic agreement that we know one another, we can trust each other, and if you want to know something you can ask and I will tell you?” The glut of my aggravation collides with the clamors from the party inside. My rant goes unnoticed.

“I asked the first night you showed up. You wouldn’t say.” He insists, crossing his arms, but his tone is as relaxed as ever. The only real frustration I’ve heard from him came out the night he found me.

“I said I couldn’t—as in I was incapable of putting it into words at that moment.”

His brow furrows, “Then why were you so adamant before?”

“‘Before’, when?”

“The first time I saw you.”

I’m not sure if he means the first night I got here when he found me in the back yard, or if he is referring to the mysterious meeting that never happened. Or if my subconscious has somehow caused him to know what I know—in which case he could be talking about anything. This is hopeless!

“It’s like the epistemic argument of the chicken and the egg. I suppose next you’ll want to know ‘Who’s on first.’”

“That makes no sense.” His forehead wrinkles.

If he were threatening me, like my real dad would, then at least I would have something to work with. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual. So, can I use your car or not?”

He gives nothing, so he gets nothing.

“Alright, but only if it’s safe,” he consents, “and you need to—”

“I know the rules: no smoking, no cruising, no speeding, and replace any gas I use.”

He looks upset when I hold my hand out for the keys. Finally.

“As demanding as you are, you better fill it up.” He smiles and pushes through the front door.

And I’m back to square one.

Inside is a real party. At least five of his friends are gathered around the TV, on the couches and the floor. Everyone is laughing and talking over one another. The coffee table is covered with bowls of chips, dips, and snacks. From the pile of empty cans lying around I guess it’s been going on a while.

In the formal dining area is me—the younger one—looking pleasantly normal surrounded by friends.

Gerry carries on with the formalities, introducing me as a distant cousin in town for the night. I shake hands with his best friend, Ron, the neighbor, Reynold, who brought a friend whose name I don’t catch and the next two introduce themselves while making for the door. Salutations followed by farewells—they disappear before I’m even invited to sit.

“So where were you, Jonas? I went by earlier to invite you for dinner.” Dad tosses the parka behind the couch before sitting down in his chair and picks up an open beer.

“Well, you should have told me you were planning something.” I scan the surfaces of the room but see no keys.

“Have you eaten?” His eyes wander to the television.

“A sandwich.”

“There’s stuff for making nachos in the kitchen. The cheese is in the Crockpot.”

“Might as well,” apparently, I’ve got nothing else to do.

The island counter top is covered with pots of food and bags of half empty nacho chips. The cheese is still hot so I slosh it on. The meat is pulled pork, something I used to eat a lot of growing up. My dad didn’t have a wide range of ability in the kitchen, but the few things he knew how to make, he made very well. I pile that on, too and follow with a little bit of everything else; refried beans, shredded cheese, olives, sour cream, and salsa. By the time I’m finished building it’s hard to believe the plate was meant for one person. I stay in the kitchen, shoveling the food down to a less noticeable size while debating with myself on where to sit.

The couch was roomy enough and I could probably sit there and be comfortably ignored for a while but I really don’t want to be around that version of my dad. His friends aren’t that intriguing, either, and I’m tired of eating off my lap.

In the dining room, younger me and all my friends are having a good time. They’re talking energetically about something that happened in drama class. It’s the most interesting place of the two, but the only open spot is right next to myself—little G I’ll call him—and that doesn’t sound very appealing, either.

I try to block out the obvious analytical questions about what it means that I don’t want to spend time with myself, refusing to acknowledge the deep-seeded psychological problems that it must indicate lurking beneath the surface of my projected world and make towards a chair that opens when Eli leaves for the toilet.

I plop down in his spot in between Lisa and Wheezy. Actually, his name was Mike, but we called him Wheezy because of the Asthma. The conversation stops with the intrusion of my presence.

“I’m gone as soon as I finish eating.” I wave, vaguely encouraging them to carry on and keep my eyes on my plate.

“Who’s he?” Wheezy asks little G.

“Haven’t you heard? He’s gonna be a huge star.” Lisa answers, telling everyone how I signed up for the song contest.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I was closing when you walked in, Jonas, didn’t you notice the outside lights were off?”

“He’s my dad’s friend. His name is Jonas.” Little G sings the last part, just like the song, and plays air guitar.

I start to laugh but food catches in my throat. Before I can choke, I grab a cup from the table and take a drink to wash down the clump of meat. After, I laugh without reserve. “You know, that never gets old.”

“You’re welcome.” Lisa snarls, snatching the half empty cup. “Ew!” She sets it back on the table, “Backwash.”

“I was choking.” I explain, and then pout. “Sorry. Next time, I promise to just go quietly. Forgive me?”

“Only if you get me another one.”

“Why do you forgive him and not me?” Wheezy chimes in from behind my head.

I lean back to watch, reveling in the memories of days gone by, almost missing my other moronic friends.

“He was choking,” she touches my shoulder. “What’s your excuse?”

“You thought it was funny!” Wheezy points in accusation. “I saw you laughing!”

Lisa pushes back from the table, “I didn’t say it wasn’t funny, but I needed a decent grade and you screwed up the scene.”

“What did he do?” I ask.

She smirks, “He was supposed to be a blind guy that needed help replaceing his way around an apartment building.”

Wheezy cuts in, “I forgot my lines. I thought I did a pretty good job adlibbing.” He and little G start laughing again. Their faces turn red as Lisa tosses her cup in the garbage and takes another from a stack on the kitchen counter.

“What did you do?”

Little G gathers himself to answer. “He threw himself on the ground—” he takes deep breath, stifles a chuckle and says, “and said, ‘help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’”

Everyone erupts with laughter except me and Lisa. I think its lame and she’s annoyed.

“Like the old lady in the commercial.” She explains retrieving her seat, and then sets a can of soda in front of me.

“Thanks,” I nod. “What did Mr. Miller do?” After I say it, I realize, I shouldn’t know the drama teacher’s name.

Her face scrunches in confusion. “Who’s Mr. Miller?”

“Doesn’t every school have at least one teacher named Miller? What’s that?”

When she crinkles her forehead, the black that covers most of the hollow beneath her eyes flashes under the track lighting, exposing a puffy spot coated in layers of makeup beneath her ratted bouffant hair.

“What happened to your eye?”

She turns, suddenly interested in the empty kitchen. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” I know she has need for discretion where this topic is concerned, and it’s nothing new to see her hiding bruises, but I am livid.

Suddenly, she’s on her feet, heading for the door.

I turn towards me—the clueless idiot who’s paying more attention to his moronic cohorts than her. Eli is there, too, he must have come back some time ago and I neglected to notice.

My food is nearly gone anyway, so I toss the plate into the trash compactor. On my way to the door, Dad leans forward, threatening to get up as he asks if I am leaving. I shake my head and place two fingers across my lips. He leans back lazily in the recliner, engrossed in his ball game.

On the front porch now, I light up, wondering over his sudden interest and replace a spot to sit in the dark where I can think. Half way through the second drag, Lisa’s silhouette appears in the middle the driveway.

“Sorry,” she says, “I totally spaced.”

Just as I’m about to answer, she shifts and I see that she is not as close to me as I thought. She’s on the other side of the gate and isn’t facing me at all. I creep towards the entrance to see what I can see.

“That’s a lie, Lisa. You always do this and I am sick of it! We’re leaving.” The voice comes from a tall man. By his domineering posture, I guess he is her father. He slaps his hand against her shoulder. “I said move!”

“Why are you doing this?” Her shamed whisper is barely audible.

He grabs her roughly by the arm and yanks towards the curb and Lisa gives a pained cry.

“What do you think you are doing?” I step over the short gate into view, tripping the motion detector on the outside light.

“Who the hell are you?” he scowls.

“The guy whose gonna level you if you don’t remove your hands and leave.”

“Jonas, its okay—”

“No, it isn’t.” I step between them, breaking his hold on her to get in his face. “Leave,” I command, enjoying the flashes of anger and confusion in his eyes.

“Lisa, who is this guy?” He tries to step around. I mirror the move, blocking him. “Dude, get out of my face. This is between me and her!”

“Jonas,” Lisa pleads, setting a hand on my arm.

“Lisa, I got this, go inside and enjoy the party.”

“You have no idea what you got.” The man says. His hot breath stinks of liquor and pork rinds.

“Was it you that gave her the black eye? You like picking on girls, do you?” I wave my fingers, inviting.

It all happens very fast. As I’m talking, he swings. I go low and to the right, throwing my weight into a nice kidney shot. Then, it’s a quick left hook—my fist goes up and into his abdomen as hard as it can. I feel him stagger back as he tries to grab me, so I shove and hit him in the face in one fluid move. He flies back, stumbling into a turn. I set off after him. I’m three, maybe four steps into a sprint when his leg flies out from under him. His big dirty boot catches me square in the chest. I look up from the pavement, gasping as he stands over me. There’s an opening, so I take it, giving a hard kick just as he makes contact with my eye. He falls down holding himself and cursing. Lisa’s screaming.

He groans. “That’s a low blow.”

My bottom lip is already swelling. He must have hit me there, too. I work my way up, standing and staggering, trying to catch my breath while . . . whoever this guy is, rolls around on the ground.

“You—” pant, “touch her again—” pant! I need to quit smoking. Resting my hands on my knees, I think I feel my chest clicking.

What was I going to say? Next time I really will kick his ass as opposed to barely winning? “To hell with you,” is all I’ve got the breath for.

Lisa crouches beside him. “Dylan, are you okay?” She pulls up the bottom of his shirt and uses it to wipe his bloody nose.

I stretch slowly, testing my back. “You’re worried about him? Did you see how hard he kicked me? I’m still recovering from a concussion, you know.”

“No one asked for your help!” She screams. “Come on, Dylan. Let’s go home.”

Something clicks. “Dylan?”

“What?” he answers, groaning as he gets to his feet, “He’s not your boyfriend is he?” he asks his sister, softly.

“He’s Gerry’s dads’ friend. I just met him an hour ago,” she explains.

“Aw, shit. I thought you were—”

“Mind your own business, prick!” Dylan yells, wild-eyed again.

Suddenly, it’s obvious how young he is. Lisa’s holding his arms, assisting his walk to the car. Dylan glares at me, ordering Lisa to get in first. “Better watch your back!” he threatens, before getting into the drivers’ side.

Looking down at my scraped knuckles, I feel my eye swelling shut. My bottom lip feels like it might pop and there’s the distinct taste of blood in my mouth. After their car is gone, I wait and listen. None of the conversation streaming out the front window indicates anyone inside heard the scuffle.

No way am I going back in looking like this. Instead, I open the door to my dad’s shack of a garage and search the refrigerator. I take the ice trays inside the freezer compartment and the case of beer on the bottom shelf and hobble back to the empty house across the street. My goal is to reach a drunken stupor before the adrenaline wears off and the pain really kicks in.