One Small Victory is a fictionalized true story that I found captivating when I read a small news item a number of years ago. It centers on a woman who risks everything to end the drug trafficking that played a part in the death of her son.
ONE SMALL VICTORY
By
Maryann Miller
Prologue
The car hurtled through the darkness as the wind whipped through the
open windows; a cold lash against his warm skin. Mike braced his feet on
the floor and fought a rising sense of panic.
How fast are we going? He snuck a look at the speedometer. Holy
shit! The needle inched toward a hundred and Brad showed no sign of
slowing. Do I dare ask him to stop acting like Mario Fucking Andretti?
Mike took a deep breath. “Aren’t you afraid of getting stopped?”
Brad glanced over with a cocky grin. “Are you?”
“No big deal, man. Just thought you might want to hang on to
your license.” Mike wished he had the guts to say aloud the thoughts
that whirled through his head. He was scared. And he wished Brad would
slow down.
“You need to chill out.” Brad took the joint out of his mouth
and offered it to Mike. “This is excellent shit.”
Mike pushed his friend’s arm away.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” Brad took an angry toke. “You weren’t
passing it up last year.”
“I only did it so you’d get off my ass.” Mike paused to gauge
Brad’s reaction. “Besides, the thrill escaped me.”
“That’s ’cause you never gave it a chance.” Brad took another
long drag. “You got to build yourself wings before you can fly.”
“Just remember this isn’t a fucking airplane.”
Brad laughed, and Mike couldn’t resist the urge to join him.
That was the deal with Brad. Life was just one big joke-his reasoning
for doing dope in the first place. Why shouldn’t they have a little
harmless fun before they settled down to serious living? So Mike had let
Brad talk him into trying the grass at Dempsy’s party last summer.
After the first hit, Mike had waited for some effect, but
nothing happened. So Brad told him to take another. Deeper. Hold it
longer. That time, Mike thought he’d cough a lung out before he got
around to enjoying any benefits of the grass.
Mike didn’t care that Brad used dope. It was his life and his
business. But now, as Brad’s red Trans Am screamed along the narrow
country highway with Mike clinging white-knuckled to the ‘aw-shit’
handle, it wasn’t just Brad’s business.
The tires screeched as the car careened around a tight corner.
The stench of burnt rubber blew in the open windows, and icy fingers of
fear crawled up Mike’s spine. “Why don’t you ease up,” he said.
“On what?”
“The gas and the goods.” Maybe if it sounded like a joke Brad
would take it better.
“I got it under control.”
Mike wanted to believe him. They were friends. Brad wouldn’t do
anything to hurt him. And there was hardly any traffic way out here in
nothing-land. What could happen?
“Hey, what’s the record on that?”
Mike looked out the front window to see a tight curve looming at
the farthest reach of the headlights. “I don’t know.” Brad had slowed,
but not enough in Mike’s estimation.
“Didn’t Butcher do it at fifty?”
“Something like that.”
“Bet I can beat it.”
Panic stabbed Mike’s stomach and he glanced quickly at his
friend. “Come on Brad. Don’t even try it.”
“What? You scared?”
Mike gripped the door handle as the car barreled into the curve.
Even without his hands on the wheel, he felt the car slide as the rear
tires lost traction. He didn’t know whether to pray or to scream.
At the precise moment Mike thought they’d careen off the edge of
the road, the front wheels grabbed the asphalt. The car blasted out of
the curve like a cannonball. Brad looked over with a triumphant grin.
“See. I told you. Fifty-five.”
Before Mike had a chance to let out a breath of relief, a
violent thump threw the car out of control. The vehicle slewed back and
forth, and his head banged against the window with a painful thud. A
sense of dread buffeted him like a blast of frigid air.
“What was that?” Brad asked.
It wasn’t a question that needed an answer. He watched the
muscles in Brad’s arms strain to gain control of the steering wheel.
What the hell had they hit? He braced one hand on the dash and the other
on the seat and twisted to look out the back window. Darkness swallowed
the world.
Then he heard his friend shout, “Oh, shit!”
That’s when the car went airborne.
It seemed to float, and for a fraction of a second Mike found it
almost a pleasant feeling. Brad was right. They were flying, and it was
fuckin’ awesome.
The thrill ended in a powerful impact amid a deafening
explosion. A cacophony of screams surrounded Mike as glass shattered and
metal ground against metal. He barely recognized one of the screams as
his own. A terrible weight pushed into his chest . . . harder . . . and
harder . . . and harder.
God it hurts!
The weight closed in on him. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to
reach over to Brad but his arm wouldn’t move.
Nothing moved, except the pieces of metal twisting and gouging
at him.
Make it stop!
Suddenly everything was still. Blessedly still, and Mike was
glad it was over. Then a great wall of blackness rose up before him.
It moved slowly at first, then gained momentum as it enveloped
the twisted interior of the car. It reached up to dissolve the shattered
windshield and snuff out the pale moonlight.
In the dark void Mike felt the liquid blackness crawl up his
mangled body until it covered him like a heavy blanket.
Oh, my God!
MOMMIEEEEEE
Chapter One
Life can change in just an instant.
That thought wove its way in and around her mind as Jenny
fingered the clothes jammed along the wooden rod in the closet. His
funny T-shirts promoting the likes of “Prince” and “Dilbert.” His one
good shirt, only worn under duress. His leather jacket that still
carried a faint aroma reminiscent of saddles and horses.
Sometime soon she’d have to clean out the closet. Isn’t that
what usually happens?
Tears burned her eyes and she turned away. She didn’t know what
was supposed to happen. No one had ever told her. And a multitude of
questions swam through her mind like restless minnows in a pond.
There were books on choosing a college. Books on how to plan a
wedding or how to help your child find a job. But no one had ever
written one on what to do when your son dies.
In that moment of truth, the weight of the pain overcame her. It
was like being smothered under a huge quilt. Gasping for breath in
between sobs, Jenny ran from the room, slamming the door.
Her chest heaving, Jenny stopped halfway down the hall.
I’ve got to get control.
She wiped the trail of tears from her cheeks, then ran her
fingers through the tumble of hair that persisted in falling across her
forehead.
The door to Scott’s room opened, and he cautiously poked his
head out. “You okay, Mom?”
Jenny nodded, not trusting her voice to words.
Her younger son stepped into the hall, all angles and oversized
joints common to fifteen-year-old boys. In a flash, she saw Michael as
he’d been at that age, muscles just starting to form under the softness
of childhood skin, a rakish smile on a face squaring away to that of a
man, a tousle of dark brown hair so much like her own.
The pain of remembering was like being gut-shot, and she
crumbled like a doe in hunting season.
Scott closed the distance quickly, and his arms went around her
in an awkward hold that was as much embrace as support.
Silent messages of mutual reassurance passed between them like
fragments of electrical current. Jenny could smell the muskiness of
night sweat on his shirt and heard the muted thump of his heart. And for
a fraction of a second all was okay in the comfort of their embrace.
Jenny pulled away and saw a mirror image of her own pain
reflected in the murky depths of her son’s eyes. They were so dark they
were nearly black and defined the adage, “windows to the soul.”
Scott wouldn’t like it if he knew she could see so much. He
thinks he’s such an expert at hiding beneath layers of loud music or
sullen remoteness. But he’s always there, just waiting to be discovered.
She wanted to say something. Ease his pain. But he broke contact
before she could formulate appropriate words.
Again, Jenny didn’t know what to do. She was the mother. She was
supposed to know. She was supposed to take care of this child. That
child. If only she hadn’t let Michael go camping that weekend. If only.
God, how perfect the world would be if we could go back and change
things.
The agony of loss cut so deep she turned away from Scott for a
moment to gulp in air. Was it always going to be so hard? And who was
supposed to take care of her while she was trying to take care of what
was left of her family?
She felt a light touch on her arm. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”
God. She wanted to scream. It was not going to be okay. Nothing
was okay. But she had to pretend. If not for herself, for Scott. She
forced the anger into a far corner of her heart.
“Did I wake you?” she asked.
“No.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“I couldn’t either.” She tried a tentative smile, and her
emotional burden shifted ever so slightly.
She reached up and touched Scott’s face, feeling the soft
stubble of immature beard. “You need a shave,” she said. But the message
was, ‘we’ll be okay.’
Though Scott pulled away, his eyes said, ‘thank you.’
“Jenny?” a voice called from down the hall.
Giving him another brief smile, she hurried into the living room
and almost collided with Carol.
“There you are.”
The naked anguish on her friend’s face scraped against Jenny’s
emotions. “Where else would I be?”
The slight woman froze, her brown eyes wide and pain-filled, and
Jenny immediately regretted snapping. She seemed to have so little
control over her reactions since The Phone Call last night. That’s what
it’ll always be, she thought in some weird twist of mind. The Phone
Call. Forever in capital letters.
The words had played endlessly in her mind ever since. “Mrs.
Jasick . . . Your son, Michael has been in an accident . . . He’s been
taken to North Texas Medical Center . . .”
They wouldn’t tell her over the phone whether he was okay or
not, but somewhere deep inside she’d known. A mother always knows. She
drove her ailing Ford Taurus toward the hospital while the awful dread
grew from a kernel of apprehension into a grotesque monster that gnawed
on her heart.
By the time she’d arrived at the ER, some coping instinct had
mercifully kicked in and she’d numbly received the news that Michael was
dead. Nothing else was clear in her mind or memory. She didn’t know how
her mother had known to come. Or who she was supposed to call about
arrangements and when. Or was someone supposed to call her?
“Oh, God . . .” Carol’s voice brought Jenny back to the present.
“I’d do anything . . .”
“I know.” Jenny kept her voice soft in an attempt to hold her
friend’s emotions at bay. Grief hung like a pall throughout the house,
crowding out any other feeling; and Jenny was sure one more tear would
break her fragile hold on sanity.
Carol wiped the smear of moisture from her face. “I hope you
don’t mind that I just walked in?”
“Of course not. Mi Casa your casa.”
Carol forced a small smile. “Someday we’re going to have to
learn that other Spanish word.”
Jenny tried to match the smile but was afraid her face would
crack under the effort. She figured Carol would understand. They had
learned to understand a lot since sharing the tragedies of high school
that paled compared to what happened in the real world.
“Some of the neighbors have called . . . to help. Bring food.
Whatever . . .”
Not now. She couldn’t see people. Talk to people. Not until she
figured out how she was expected to act. Thank God Mitchell hadn’t asked
too many questions when she’d called to tell him the shop would be
closed today. After she’d told him why, there was an abrupt silence on
the other end of the phone. Then a cough and his voice assuring her that
he would help in any way. She knew she could count on him or Jeffrey,
didn’t she?
Jenny looked at her watch. Just after eight-thirty. “Later,” she
said. “Could they come later? I’m just not . . .”
“Sure.” Carol hesitated a moment. “You want anything? Or I could
just go. Or I could fix some coffee.”
Jenny rubbed her throbbing temples. It was too much. Too fast.
Almost as if she sensed this, Carol asked, “You want me to leave?”
Jenny shook her head. “I just need to be alone for a moment.”
“Okay.” Carol touched Jenny’s shoulder in a small gesture of
understanding. “I’ll go see if the kids want anything.”
Carol strode toward the hallway, purpose straightening her
spine.
If only it could be that easy for me. Find something to do and
everything’ll be okay. Jenny looked around the living room. The laundry
she hadn’t finished folding was strewn in a jumbled mess across the
overstuffed sofa. The coffee table overflowed with a scattering of
magazines and notebook paper from someone’s forgotten homework. A week’s
worth of newspapers made a haphazard pile on the floor next to the
recliner.
If people were coming over, she should try for some semblance of
order. She picked up the newspapers and, for one crazy moment, had no
idea of what to do with them.
The shrill ring of the phone made her heart thump and her arms
weak. She dropped the papers and stood inert; amazed that the simple act
of answering her own phone terrified her. She stared at the instrument
on the little side-table. It isn’t a monster. Just go pick up the
receiver.
On the sixth ring, she did.
“Mrs. Jasick?” a pleasant male voice inquired. “This is Fred
Hobkins with Canfield & Sons Funeral Services. The hospital called us.”
In the midst of all the horror that had been last night, Jenny
vaguely recalled the decisions she’d been asked to make when she
couldn’t even think. She’d told the nurse who was filling out the
paperwork to just pick a funeral parlor, and have them contact her. But
she didn’t expect the call so soon.
“First,” the man said, “let me offer my sincere condolences for
your loss.”
Jenny assumed she was to insert some word of thanks into his
silence, but she’d rather scream. She clamped her lips against the urge.
“Unfortunately, we do need to take care of some details.” Again
he paused and Jenny knew she should say something. Anything. But her
mouth refused to obey. She heard him clear his throat, then speak again.
“I wondered when would be a good time to come over and make
arrangements.”
“I don’t know.” Her throat was so tight she could hardly push
the words out.
“Well,” Hobkins continued in that soft, well-modulated tone.
“There’s never a good time. Perhaps we could try in, say, an hour?”
“Fine.”
Jenny replaced the receiver and stood immobile. God. How am I
going to do this?
Carol walked in, one arm draped over a still drowsy Alicia.
Scott trailed behind.
“It was a man from the funeral parlor,” Jenny said in response
to the question on her friend’s face.
“Oh, Mommy!” Alicia broke from Carol’s side and ran to her
mother’s arms. Jenny held her tight, burying her face in her daughter’s
long hair that carried the sweet little-girl smell of sleep.
“It’s okay,” Jenny murmured. “We’re going to get through this.”
“Is he coming over?” Carol asked.
Jenny looked over the top of Alicia’s head and nodded. “In about
an hour.”
“Well, you, uh, go get yourself ready,” Carol said. “I’ll fix
something for the kids to eat.”
Jenny released her daughter and wiped the tears from the girl’s
flushed cheeks. “You okay?”
Alicia gave a slight nod, belying the sadness brimming in her
amber eyes. Such a unique color. In Jenny’s estimation the only good
thing that her ex-husband had left her. That’s not true. He left you
three children, and like it or not, there’s a piece of him in each of
them.
Jenny gave Alicia a kiss. “You go on with Aunt Carol. I’ll be
out in a jiff.”
Carol put her arm around the girl and reached for Scott, but he
pulled back from the contact. Jenny understood. Touching might break the
fragile wall of strength.
In her room, Jenny was struck by the absurdity of what she was
doing. Choosing an outfit to meet with the man who would bury her son.
Does one dress up or down for an occasion like this? Make-up? Jewelry?
Sudden, manic laughter overtook her.
“You’re crazy,” she told her ravaged reflection in the mirror.
“Fuckin’ certifiable.”
Jenny’s laughter turned to tears as she remembered yelling at
Michael to watch his mouth the first time he’d said that.
It happened last fall, a month after his eighteenth birthday,
and Michael had been testing new waters. It was like he was saying, ‘I’m
an adult now. Let’s see how much I can get away with.’ He’d told her
about this goofy old man who’d yelled and screamed about his pizza order
getting screwed up. “He was the one who was screwed up,” Michael had
said. “He was crazy. Fuckin’ certifiable.”
Jenny could still feel the hesitation before Michael said the
last two words, could still see the question in his eyes. ‘Am I going to
get away with this?’
And she could still remember the immediate regret at reacting
too much like a mother, not realizing what it meant for him.
“Mom! I’m not a kid anymore,” Michael had protested, the force
of his words stopping her mother instinct long enough to see that he was
right.
With another stab of agony, Jenny realized it wasn’t just her
child she’d lost last night. She’d lost his whole future. There would be
no daughter-in-law from him. Or grandchildren.
She sank to the edge of her bed, the pain threatening to drag
her into the dark abyss. Her blood pounded so loud in her ears it took a
minute to realize someone was knocking on the door.
“Mom?” Scott’s voice called from the hallway. “Can I come in?”
Jenny took a deep breath, then rose and opened the door.
“I was wondering . . . uh,” Scott’s eyes had difficulty resting
on hers. “Has Dad called back yet?”
She shook her head.
“Well, uh . . . do you want me to call him?”
Again, she shook her head. “It’s something I should do. I’ll try
again as soon as I’m finished here.”
Scott hesitated a moment more, then backed out of the doorway.
Jenny quickly closed the door. Better that he not see the flush of anger
that warmed her cheeks. She’d tried to call Ralph last night, sometime
during those hours of agony between leaving the hospital and finally
collapsing for a brief period of fitful sleep, but there’d been no
answer.
Last night she’d been too numb to care. It was just so typical.
He had never been there for her, or the kids. Not while they were
married, and not in the years since he’d left. Most of the time she just
accepted it and tried to ease the disappointment for the kids as much as
possible. But even though little was said, the message was clear. Ralph
wasn’t involved with the kids. Not like a father should be.
His excuse for missing Michael’s first football game had been a
project for work. Always something to do with work. He justified his
decisions with the standard, “This is what the man does. He provides for
the family.” But she’d always sensed that he welcomed the excuse for not
being there. Because even when he was home, he really wasn’t.
And Jenny often wondered why it had taken her so long to see
that. It wasn’t until after Alicia was born that she faced it square.
After she’d been home for a week with their baby she had to ask him if
he wanted to hold his daughter.
So it wasn’t such a big shock to either of them when their
marriage ended in divorce court. It was particularly painful for the
kids for the first year, but then life became easier after he moved to
California. Then she didn’t have to deal with the shattered hopes that
this year he would show up for a birthday, or Christmas, or just because
he missed seeing the kids. Distance became an acceptable excuse for his
absence because the truth was too harsh to face.
But the truth was like a kick in the gut this morning.
“You stupid, sorry, son of a bitch,” Jenny said, running a brush
through her dark hair with quick, angry strokes. “Why should I care how
you find out? I should just clip the obituary and send it to you.”
It gave her a perverse rush of pleasure to consider doing that,
but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Out of respect for the fact that he was
Michael’s father, she would call again.
Jenny crossed the room and picked up the phone on her bedside
table. Still no answer after ten rings, and she started to worry. Maybe
it wasn’t even his number anymore. He had a penchant for moving and not
getting around to giving them the new number for weeks. She could try
him at work later, but she wasn’t even sure that number was current.
Longevity, either professional or personal, was never one of his
strong suits.
She slammed the phone down. “Couldn’t you be there for me? Just
once?”
Copyright 2008 Maryann Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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