The Ravine Page 2

  And no happiness can be built on hate.

  Love one another as brothers.

  —Josephine Baker

  DANNY TURNER HAD it all going for him when he was in high school. His stunning blue eyes and crop of blond, wavy hair gave him the sort of bad-boy look that the girls just seemed to love. He wasn’t a big guy at five foot nine, but he was one of the strongest and fastest players on the football team. He’d worked out diligently since that day when he was thirteen and was humiliated by the neighborhood thug, Al Rocco.

  Al was an oversized Neanderthal who liked nothing better than grabbing some smaller kid so he could pin him down and taunt him. That day Al not only pushed Danny to the ground, but held him there, digging his knees into his shoulders and letting his filthy spittle drip slowly and repeatedly onto Danny’s face. The other kids gathered, cheering and chanting each time another glob landed on Al’s latest victim.

  It was payback time pretty soon for Al when Danny’s brother, Tony, heard what had happened. Tony jumped into their dad’s pickup truck and bolted to the school yard faster than a speeding bullet, while Danny tried to explain why he’d let that Rocco kid get the better of him. Sometimes Danny thought Tony was a lot like Superman, because he could always be counted on to swoop in and save the day. Tony’s jet-black curly hair and blue eyes lent even more credibility to the image Danny had of his brother.

  Over the years, this incident became a valued piece of Turner-brother family lore. Whenever the brothers recounted this story (which frequently happened while perched on barstools), they would invariably begin by mimicking the wide-eyed, guppy-swallowing expression and squeal that escaped “Fat Al” the second he turned around to see Tony barreling down on him.

  Tony was taller than Al; while he didn’t weigh as much, at six foot two, 175 pounds, his athletic build was solid muscle. So it wasn’t hard for him to grab Al by the throat and pin him to the fence with one hand while punching him smack in the center of his stomach, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  “Get up, you fat turd, and apologize to my brother.”

  Al just sat there with a scowl and said, “I didn’t do nothin’, ain’t gonna apologize to nobody, ain’t no way, and you can’t make—”

  Tony grabbed him by the hair, brought him to his knees, and slapped him full across the face. The wallop raised a big red mark on the kid’s cheek.

  “Come on, get up and fight somebody your own size.”

  Al just kneeled there with a stunned expression. He wiped the snot off his nose; otherwise, he didn’t dare move or say a word. When it became apparent that the excitement was over, the group of kids who had just been egging on Al quietly began to disperse, afraid Tony would turn on one of them.

  “This guy’s just a punk,” Tony said to Danny. “Let’s go home.”

  With that, Tony turned and marched out of the school yard with Danny trailing behind, feeling vindicated and protected.

  But Danny decided then and there that he was never going to let anyone push him around again. Even if it took hard work, he was determined start a workout program and bulk up, and that’s just what he did. He dusted off his dad’s barbells and bench, and worked out every day. Pretty soon he started to see ripples in his biceps. The squats and leg raises gave him lower-body strength, and he would spend half an hour every day doing sprints to build up his speed.

  So by the time Danny was a sophomore at Geauga High, he was the starting halfback, and Tony, by then a senior, was the quarterback. In football-loving Cuyahoga County, the Turner brothers were local celebrities in that magical year of 1978, the year they went all-state but lost in the finals. The Geauga Arrows had never gone so far, and never would again.

  The Turner family moved to their ranch-style home in 1967, in the part of Chesterland that was not as bad as Streetsboro (which was literally on the other side of the railroad tracks), but not as nice as Clover Hill, the development that was built in the early’60s. The kids whose fathers worked in the office at AE’s Jayomar plant, or at one of the other big manufacturers, or were local professionals, tended to live in Clover Hill. The kids whose fathers worked in one of the factories or at one of the stores on the main drag, Mayfield Road, lived near the Turners in the area commonly called the Junction.

  Most of their neighbors kept up their houses and the lawns were usually tidy, but every once in a while you could find a house with a junker in the front yard, weeds pushing up through the rotted steel. Steve Turner had two healthy teenage boys who kept his yard in great shape, for which each earned ten dollars a cut. It was his way of teaching them responsibility and giving them some spending money. When it was time to cut the lawn, Tony always had to bug his brother to do his part, but a few smacks upside the head would usually do the trick.

  Steve and Debby Turner had a traditional marriage. He’d worked his way up to foreman at Jayomar and she ran the house and mothered with the best of them. Tony and Danny took a special pride in friends’ comments that going to their house was like walking into the TV show Father Knows Best. Visitors were usually greeted by the scent of a cherry pie or a pot roast at the front door, and Debby had a way of making their friends feel welcome, even when she was preoccupied with one of her projects. She would always praise their new haircut or cool sneakers, and then break out the cookie jar.

  Steve would arrive home after work around five, read the paper, drink his one beer, and then sit down to dinner and say the blessing. After the dishes were cleared, the family would gather around the television set to watch Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News at 6:30. Ever since that day in November 1963 when ole Walt took off his glasses, hesitated, glanced up at the clock, and choked out the exact time President Kennedy had died, Steve felt like he knew the man personally. The country could be at war, preparing to dodge nuclear missiles, rioting in the streets, landing on the moon, or queuing up at the gas pump; all would be put right or at least explained when the Turners settled into their living room to perform their simple family ritual with the rest of America.

  Of course, a hardworking guy like Steve would get frustrated with those fools in Washington, New York, and Los Angeles who flew over Ohio (except during the presidential elections) but otherwise didn’t care about Ohio, and didn’t give a damn about the farmers, plumbers, auto workers, and the other “Steves” who were the backbone of the country. It seemed the politicians just couldn’t figure out how to get along, and Steve would often remark, “they’re like three bald guys fightin’ over a comb.” This would always get a laugh out of Tony and Danny, though they never could quite figure out what it meant.

  They looked up to their father and knew they were lucky to have the mother they had. When 1978 rolled around and the boys made their parents proud, all was good.

  But the truth was that Tony and Danny, like most teenagers, had another life, a secret life their parents didn’t know about. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be. In most cases, teenagers grow up and life moves on, but with the Turner boys, things always went a bit too far. The more they got away with, the more they pushed the envelope.

  Tony was the leader, and Danny liked it that way. He found it impossible to resist whatever adventure was on the agenda. When Tony decided it was time for Danny to become a man at age sixteen, he brought him downtown to Cleveland and got the matter settled for fifteen dollars with a buxom Spanish girl whose kids were crying in the next room while she told him to “hurry up and get it over with.” Tony taught Danny how to smoke cigarettes, roll a joint, snort coke, and hot-wire a car, as well as the most efficient way to cut through a chain-link fence while breaking into a stockyard.

  However, by the time Tony and Danny graduated from high school, and were passed over for the football scholarships they had presumed would come their way, they no longer needed wire cutters. They had discovered the simplicity of the inside job.

  Both brothers found employment in the warehouse at Tager’s Lumber. Tager sold every tool known to mankind, along with
construction materials, paint, and everything a homeowner or carpenter could ever want. The brothers wore blue overalls with their first names emblazoned on the pockets so that customers could call them by name when directing them to cut wood or load items into their station wagons. The job wasn’t fun, but they had big plans for the future. The prize they had their eye on for their first big score was a new shipment of circular saws that Danny had shelved not more than twenty feet from the back door earlier that day.

  This time it was Danny who came up with the scheme. Tony listened intently as his brother described how they would climb in the window he’d unlocked, unlatch the back door, grab a case of DeWalts, and scoot out to their waiting pickup. Easy peasy.

  “You didn’t think of one thing, Einstein,” Tony said with a grin. “That stupid mutt Barney who sleeps there all night will be all over us.”

  “Damn, you’re right! What are we gonna do about that mangy pain in the ass?”

  “Well, we can either risk it tonight or wait a day.”

  Danny gave Tony a quizzical look. “What good’s it gonna do to wait a day? He’ll still be there tomorrow.”

  “Or maybe he won’t,” Tony said with a mock evil grin followed by his best ghoulish laugh.

  The brothers high-fived, and Danny had to hand it to Tony yet again. How lucky he was to have such a smart brother. He was like a master chess player, always thinking several moves ahead. He was definitely going places, and Danny would be right by his side.

  The next afternoon, the whole warehouse was in an uproar when Barney’s body was discovered lying next to his water bowl. Danny and Tony stood off to the side and watched the spectacle unfold. It felt good to be in control while those goons freaked out over a lousy mutt. “How’d you get him to swallow the Seconals?” Danny whispered to Tony.

  “I just split them open, sprinkled them on a piece of chopped meat, rolled it into a meatball, and gave it to the dope. He gobbled it up.”

  Phil, the warehouse manager and titular owner of Barney, was so distraught and preoccupied with the burial out back that he didn’t think to make certain all the windows were locked. Normally he wouldn’t have had to consider such things with Barney at his post, but without Barney’s presence the brothers easily managed to lug four cases into the truck and speed away into the night. Tony knew a guy in Chardon who would pay fifteen bucks for each saw, so with eight to a case, they would bring in a total of around five hundred dollars. They drove home and hid the boxes behind the shed and covered them with a tarp. Tony sat on the top of the pile and proposed a toast: “To the Turner brothers and the easiest haul ever made in the history of Chesterland.” They chatted excitedly and acknowledged their brilliance in planning the whole thing. Too bad about the dog, collateral damage, ya know . . . what the hell, we’re just making minimum wage . . . we were just getting our due. Finally they ran out of accolades and headed in to catch a few winks before getting up for work.

  Old Man Tager was more pissed off than anyone had ever seen him the next morning, when he ordered the troops to gather near the back door to listen to his tirade.

  “I know one of you punks stole those saws. Probably was a couple of you workin’ together.” He seemed to look at Danny and then at Tony as he said this—or maybe it was just their imaginations working overtime. Tony didn’t show any emotion, but Danny felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer and his face go flush. He might as well have been wearing an “I DID IT” sign, he thought.

  Just then two cops came through the back door and, in feigned sotto voce, told Tager they knew the make of tire of the getaway car, and would need to look at all the trucks in the employee parking lot. Oh no! Tony thought. They’ve already narrowed it down to a truck. Man, are we screwed! He knew he could keep his cool, but had his doubts about Danny. He snuck a glance at him, and his brother’s panicked eyes confirmed his worst fears.

  The taller of the two cops stepped forward. He had the mean, narrow, no-nonsense look of a military guy who was used to dealing with the lower elements, and was itching to crack one of these imbeciles in the skull and beat the truth out of him.

  “Okay, listen up. I’m Officer Colby, and I am going to expect all of you to cooperate in this investigation. I’m going to make three points, and I’m only going to say them one time. One, it’s obvious that someone climbed in that open window, unlocked the door, and took off with four cases of saws with a retail value of close to five thousand dollars. Two, it’s also obvious that the same person, or persons, planned this and went so far as to poison the guard dog yesterday. Three, this could only have been done by an employee, which means that several of you know who did it. So, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. The easy way is you come clean now, return the merchandise, and deal with the consequences. The hard way is you stand there and keep your mouth shut, and try to make me look like an idiot. But I guarantee you that is a mistake because that will make me very unhappy, and believe me, you don’t want to do that. So, what’s it going to be?”

  After a few seconds of silence, the group started to murmur, and then a few guys said straight out “wasn’t me,” “I wouldn’t kill no dog or steal nothin’,” “don’t blame me, I had nothin’ to do with it.” Pretty soon it got very loud with more than a few men saying that anyone who would kill a dog was the lowest form of scum, and they planned to beat the crap out of the guy when they figured out who killed a harmless dog like Barney.

  So Danny and Tony joined the chorus, shouted out their innocence at the top of their lungs, and cursed the killer of the innocent dog. They reasoned that only a guilty person would keep his mouth shut, and each made the independent decision that the best way out was to lie. Thus was set a pattern in the life of the Turner brothers, which, for one of them, would have fateful consequences at the most crucial moments of his life.

  Eventually it became clear that no one was going to fess up to the crime, so Colby took each of the nine warehouse workers to a glassed-in room for an interview, one at a time. He leaned across and stared into their eyes, nose to nose, pounded the table and kicked over a chair or two for effect. When he interviewed Danny and Tony individually, his antennae shot up, but neither cracked, and Colby just naturally gravitated toward the two black guys because one of them had a record, and, well, they were black. Colby actually didn’t have any tire tread evidence, or any evidence to speak of. His main tool was intimidation, and when that didn’t work, he didn’t have many arrows left in his quiver. The truth was, this level of criminal escapade was pretty much beyond his sleuthing powers. Danny and Tony breathed a sigh of relief as they watched the patrol car turn out onto Fairmount Road and head off to parts unknown. Of course, had Colby and his partner thought to delve into this mystery a little deeper and actually bothered to visit the home of each employee, they eventually would have discovered the saws beneath a tarp behind the Turners’ shed. But lunch beckoned, and that put an impromptu end to the investigation.

  That night Danny and Tony unloaded the saws in Chardon. They didn’t get five hundred but rather one hundred and fifty bucks. On the drive back, they started arguing about how stupid it was to risk jail over such a low take. They blamed each other, and then sat in silence until Tony burst out laughing.

  “Man, did you see the look on Old Man Tager’s face this morning?”

  “Yeah, and that cop thought he was spooking us, but I knew all the time, he didn’t have nothin’,” Danny lied.

  And this was pretty much the way things went for the next year on their petty crime spree. Good old Turner luck kept them going until it finally ran out.

  CHAPTER 3

  There Are No Coincidences

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  —Robert Frost

  DURING THEIR HIGH school years, throughout football season, Friday was the best day of the week for the Turner brothers. And, of course, the best part of the day was Friday night. It seemed as though Tony and Danny had some form of m
ental telepathy on the field, particularly when the team was in dire need of a score. Their specialty was the broken play. Just when things looked most desperate, Tony would sense where Danny was on the field, toss the ball in the air, and, like a heat-seeking missile, it would drop into his hands. Then Danny’s legs would do the rest. After the Cleveland Plain Dealer ran a feature on the brothers, they became a source of pride for the entire community. For a few years, Steve Turner’s money was no good at any Chesterland pub.

  It was after one of these games that Danny was introduced to Rachel McKenna by Carolyn Hamilton. Carolyn knew Danny because her dad had coached his Little League team, and her brother Kenny palled around with him

  Carolyn was convinced Danny and Rachel would make a great couple, and was excited to introduce them. However, Danny breezed by after the introduction, in pursuit of the keg party that was also part of the Friday night tradition.

  “Nice meeting you,” he said as he walked away. “What did you say your name was? Renée?” But Danny was gone before Rachel could answer.

  Years later, after they were married, Rachel never tired of telling this story, and, as if on cue, Danny would look chagrined, raise his hands in a gesture of innocence, say “I love you, Renée,” and plant a big kiss on her cheek.

  Logically, Rachel and Carolyn did not seem like great candidates to become acquaintances, let alone develop a lifelong friendship. Rachel was outgoing, boisterous, seemingly self-assured, and melodramatic. She came from hard-drinking Irish stock who defined the phrase “dysfunctional family” before it was in vogue. Carolyn was raised by strict parents who took their Roman Catholic faith seriously, sending Carolyn to elementary and middle school at Sacred Heart in Mayfield Village. Studious and shy, she liked her routine and was uncomfortable with change. She lined up her pencils at home in order to be better prepared to do her homework.

  So when Carolyn suddenly found herself attending Geauga High, an enormous public school where she hardly knew a soul and coolness was clearly the highest priority, she felt totally invisible. Then one day all of that changed.