The Dead of Winter
by Joe C. Ellis
Photograph by Bruce Shrodes
I waited until the warmest part of the day, mid-afternoon,
to go for a run. A polar vortex had descended upon the Ohio Valley. The Weather
Channel informed me it was 10 degrees outside with a -3 wind chill factor. I stepped
out of the front door of my new apartment and glanced across the street at the
United Dairy. The tall white milk towers next to the tan brick building loomed
above the snow-covered sidewalk and street. I wondered if the milk ever froze
inside those towers and became giant popsicles.
I headed south toward the Post Office. About two inches of
snow covered the ground, but it was the light, fluffy stuff that didn’t stick
to your shoes. It had fallen earlier in
the day, and very little had melted because of the frigid air. I had insulated
myself well from head to toe with Under Armour, heavy sweats, thick gloves, and
a ski mask. Now I felt fine, but two miles into the run I’d probably start
sweating. The steady breeze blew from the southwest. Good, I thought—into the
wind on the way out and wind at my back on the way home. If I did sweat, the
wind chill wouldn’t clobber me during the last few miles.
I turned left on Hanover and right on Fourth Street,
trudging past Z’s Jewelry and the hardware store. Across the street a man
entered the PNC Bank. I chuckled to myself. What would happen if I ducked into
the bank for a minute to get warm? The teller would probably set off the alarm,
the cops would be there in two minutes, and I’d make the front page of the Times
Leader. Mental note: Always take off your ski mask before entering a bank on a
cold day.
After running the few blocks through town, I stuck to the
back streets, taking advantage of the narrow asphalt paths created by the
treads of car tires. Very few people had cleared off their sidewalks. I
couldn’t complain. I hadn’t shoveled mine. Was my lack of civic duty caused by
my laziness or depression? Good question. Probably both. The only thing that
brightened my day anymore was my daily run. I hadn’t missed a day for two
months, even when the temperature dropped below zero. Somehow running kept me
from going off the deep end.
At the end of town I had to make a decision: stick to the
sidewalk along Route 7 into Bridgeport or cross the Aetnaville Bridge onto
Wheeling Island? The drainage along the sidewalk from the hillside was poor in
places. In cold weather treacherous ice patches formed. On the other hand,
crossing the bridge meant suffering the blast of air that channeled down the
river. Knowing the snow hid the ice patches, I opted for the bridge. The span
had been closed to traffic for the last twenty years, but pedestrians could
still cross on the steel-mesh roadway. People with vertigo avoided the bridge.
Through the mesh you could see the river bank forty feet below and the dark
water.
Today, however, the river wasn’t churning below me. I beheld a rare sight—the frozen Ohio. How
long had it been? Ten or fifteen years at least. In this region of the country
major rivers didn’t freeze over often. I could tell the ice was thickest near
the shore by its lighter glazed appearance. Towards the middle of the bridge I
stopped, leaned over the railing, and peered down. The ice directly below me had a greener tone
because of its thinness which allowed me to see through to the water flowing
underneath. What was that? I squinted through the eyeholes of the ski mask. It
looked like a face!
My eyes were watering, so I blinked several times. Was that
a body a few inches below the ice? My heart jumped in my chest like a fist
pounding a door. The wind, which had swept the snow from the middle of the
river, now spread a light coating on the very spot I inspected. I waited to see
if another gust would clear the surface again. No luck. Was I imagining this? Maybe
I had glimpsed a log rolling under the ice. I waited another minute or two, but
the snow didn’t clear, and the breeze became unbearable. I glanced to my right
and noticed a spray-painted orange skull on the steel beam that supported the
upper structure of the bridge. How appropriate, I thought.
Now what? Run and
think. I crossed the bridge onto Wheeling Island and turned right on North Front
Street. The body under the ice kept appearing on the screen of my mind. What
should I do? But then another decision confronted me: Do I cross over the
suspension bridge into Wheeling or loop around the gambling casino at the south
end of the island? The river was wider on the east side of the island and the
wind more blustery. With these temperatures I’d prefer to avoid the excess
discomfort.
But running around the casino might not be a good idea for
me either. Driving there was definitely taboo. If I had my wallet in my back
pocket, I’d be tempted to stop in and hit the slots or bet on the doggies. Not
good. I’d lost too many things to gambling—my house, my car, my self-respect,
and most notably, my wife, Hannah. She kicked me out two months ago and now
wanted a divorce. Some people say I have a sickness. Hannah would second that.
She was right. Deep down I knew it. Every payday I’d head to the south end of
Wheeling Island and hang out there until my pockets were empty. On rare
occasions I’d hit it big. Unfortunately, those few wins kept me coming back.
Nothing matched the thrill of taking a chance. I sacrificed all for that buzz. Like an
alcoholic who couldn’t stop at one drink, I couldn’t limit myself to one bet. Fortunately, when I started running regularly
two months ago, I gained more control over this weakness. Yes, I’ve gambled two times since then, but
I’m getting stronger. It’s probably too little too late to save my marriage.
Too bad. I truly love my wife. But I’ve destroyed our lives with this
addiction. She said it’s part of my
personality, and I’ll never change.
I’ve heard that running is addictive. I’d have to agree. Once I
got into the habit of running, I was hooked. The endorphins that pumped through
my system every time I ran had an ameliorating effect on my gambling appetite.
Too bad I don’t feel this good all the time. It’s during the lonely hours of
the day that the gambling urge grows strongest. It’s like I’m dead inside, and
placing a bet will bring me back to life. I thought about the body under the
ice. Nothing will bring that guy back. He’s dead and gone for good. Was he
better off than me?
To my right I saw the track. Cars crowded the parking lot
even on a day like today. I rounded the turn near the kennel and heard the
trumpet sounding and dogs barking. A race was about to begin. It wouldn’t hurt
to go in for ten minutes and just watch one race. I’d love to smell that smell
again, the one peculiar to the viewing stands. How can I describe it? It’s an
odd combination of smells: fried food, perfume, tacos, sweat, dogs, aftershave.
It wasn’t a pleasant aroma, but I got used to it. It conditioned me to anticipate
the race.
Stop thinking about it! I tried to clear my mind. The sound
of the trumpet and the barking dogs had triggered something. The craving to
take a chance had returned with incredible intensity. Keep running. Don’t stop.
When I passed the front entrance, I forced myself to look straight ahead. I
needed to think about something else. The body! What am I going to do about the
body? I can’t report it to the police because I’m not sure exactly what I saw.
Maybe I should report that I glimpsed something that looked like a body. No.
They would think I was crazy. If only I could be sure. I decided to stop again
when I got to the middle of the bridge. If I see it, then I’ll call the cops.
It didn’t take long to get back to the bridge, maybe five
minutes. As I made the turn up the asphalted approach road, a thought occurred
to me: If I really wanted to get a good look, I’d walk across the ice. Then I could sweep away any snow that still
clouded my view. That would be taking a chance, definitely. Too risky? So what?
I’ve got nothing left to lose. I stared across the marina park where local
residents launched their fishing boats. Access to the river would be easy there—a
ramp went right down into the frozen water. Within I felt a sudden thrill. Did
I want to take this gamble?
It wouldn’t hurt to jog to the edge of the river. There I
would decide. I headed for the gate that led to the marina parking lot. Of
course, the lot was empty—no boating on a frozen river. At the water’s edge, I
gazed across to the Ohio side. The wind swirled the powdery snow across the icy
surface. The elements made for an exotic scene, one reminiscent of Frederick
Edwin Church’s artic paintings. Something urged me on. I placed my right foot
on the ice and gradually shifted my weight. No cracking. Near the shore the ice
was solid. I took a deep breath and walked toward the middle of the river.
I kept the pace slow and listened for any cracking sounds.
Looking up at the bridge, I tried to determine exactly where I had leaned over
the rail. There! I spotted the bright orange skull some delinquent had spray painted
on the vertical beam near where I had stood. Another thirty yards and I’d be
directly below that beam. Unfortunately, the ice was getting thinner. I could
tell by its darkening color as I swept away the snow with my foot. When I got
to within ten yards, I decided to crawl on my belly. This would help to
displace my 180 pound mass. If someone crossing the Aetnaville Bridge had
glanced down and noticed me, he would have thought I was making snow angels on
the frozen river. However, the swishing of my arms and legs kept me moving
toward the spot.
Within five feet of my goal, I heard the strangest noise. It
sounded like a prehistoric beast arousing from its sleep. The ice! It was ever
so subtly cracking. I lay perfectly still. I could almost reach out and touch
the spot where I had seen the body. Another two feet and I’d be there. As
gently as possible I scooted forward. The beast groaned again. I tried not to
breathe. A little farther. Now I could reach it. I angled my shoulders slightly
and extended my hand as far as I could. Gently, I brushed away the snow.
Pressing my hands to the ice, I raised my torso higher to get a better view.
When the ghastly visage appeared, I jerked backwards. That
was all it took. The ice whined all around me. Water squirted up through
cracks. I flattened out again in hopes of warding off a total collapse. My
sweats soaked up the water that was spilling towards me. I spun to face the
shore. Something broke behind me and my foot dipped into the frigid river. Like
a serpent I winded my way forward with the cataclysmic screeching of
splintering ice keeping pace. The face kept flashing in my brain. I recognized
the man but did not want to become that man. I kept scooting, scrabbling, and scurrying
to escape his fate.
My efforts gained momentum as the ice nearer the shore
solidified beneath me. I scrambled to my
feet and ran, my soaked running shoes slipping and sliding on the snowy surface.
When I reached shore I kept running up the boat ramp, across the parking lot,
and through the gate. I didn’t stop until I arrived at the middle of the
bridge. There I stood, heaving for breath by the beam marked by the orange
skull. Peering down, I observed a large hole in the ice about thirty or forty
feet wide. The dark green water roiled and churned the chunks of ice in the
large circle like a giant toxic martini. As expected, I did not see a body.
I ran the last mile and a half back to my apartment as fast
as my frozen legs would carry me, thankful the wind was at my back. I had to
keep the blood pumping through my body to avoid frostbite. As soon as I entered
the warmth of my apartment I picked up the phone and made a call. No. I didn’t
contact the police. No sense in that. I dialed my wife’s number. She more than
anyone else needed to hear about what I had witnessed.
When she answered, I could tell she was surprised to hear my
quaking voice. I told her the old man had died. He was gone for good, carried
away by the icy currents. She seemed confused, doubtful. I did not plead with
her. I only spoke what I knew to be true: For now on things would be different.
I wanted to live a new life, and I hoped to live it with her. She seemed
startled and needed time to think. I can’t blame her. She knew the old man
well. I hope she gives our relationship another chance. I hope.
Shivering and numb, I ascended the steps to the bathroom and
filled the tub with steaming water. After climbing in, I sunk below the surface
and allowed the warmth to penetrate to my core. When I could hold my breath no
longer, I broke through the water’s surface. It has become incredibly clear to
me now—the dead man I saw under the ice . . . was me.
The End
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Photograph by Bruce Shrodes