GATHERED BY THE FIRE

By Mark Mijuskovic

As they grow up in the 60's and 70's, the children of Raven Street forge friendships steeped in the small-town values of a Detroit suburb. From days of playing King of the Hill, through the trials of adolescence, they live their lives oblivious to the chain of events that set their stage. Their stories of youthful folly, first loves, and teenage angst form the lyrics for the songs written in their garage-band world, a world about to collide with realities not of their making.
A fire destroys an amusement park and leaves a landscape for a seemingly ill-matched set of characters to negotiate. The newspaper reporter finds new life for a story he had been forced to abandon twenty years earlier. The prostitute seeks to reunite with a son she gave up for adoption. The land developer bulldozes over anyone in his path as he restructures a small town into a sprawling suburb. The respected attorney and philanthropist strays from his moral compass to see through his visions for a community.
Where is the crossroad that links the past and the present, the old and the young? How bad will the collision be when they have an inferno in common? Gathered by the Fire is a trip down memory lane for the Baby Boomer generation and a coming-of-age, what-if story that scuffs the veneer of Anytown, USA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jun 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649697912

Mark Mijuskovic

Mark Mijuskovic is a veteran public school teacher and administrator who holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan and a master’s degree in counseling from St. Thomas University in Miami, Florida. Now retired, he resides in Central Florida with his wife and two college-age daughters. Where the Tracks Go is his debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Saturday on the North Side

For boys at least, the age of ten seems to hold its breath in anticipation, having inhaled the caprice of youth for sustenance but eagerly awaiting what happens next. Who will go from playing follow-the-leader to being the leader? Who will grow the tallest? Who will have the most muscles? Who will run the fastest? Who will be the first to sprout armpit hair and hair down there? Who among the fraternity will be first to admit that girls don’t have cooties? But if they did, how bad can that be? What will comprise the moments that allow for exhaling, the ones that take your breath away so you can inhale and hold it again? There are so many mysteries at ten, at least for most boys, but one boy in particular, in every neighborhood, in every town, somehow manages to have life by its Cliffs Notes.

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Vista Shores, Michigan, June 18, 1966 

Like Kong swatting away airplanes, Johnson was king of the hill. It was a construction site dirt pile, maybe eight-feet high, but he stood at the top taking on all challengers. Even in his childhood, the beginnings of a superior physique stood out like his hay-colored hair and sea green eyes, all giving him some kind of supernatural quality, a something-about-him-is-different mystique. One-by-one, they clung, they grappled, they shoved, they dropped, and they rolled, and Johnson laughed with majestic glee, for he was royalty in dungarees.

C.B. was one of many who never made it to the top of the hill, but he too saw something in his best friend that was difficult to put into words. Johnson had that gift where he simply was better than everyone at everything, but even as he demonstrated this daily, everyone who knew him was happy for him, happy to know him, happy to be around him.

You almost got me that time, C.B. Johnson displayed the ear-to-ear grin of a gracious winner. Either you’re getting stronger, or I’m just getting too old for this, he laughed as he dusted off his pants with his hands and pulled C.B. up to share the view from the hilltop.

We’re ten, so I’m thinking maybe I’m getting stronger.

Maybe, Johnson agreed, and once I’m president, you can be my vice-president. It’s too dirty on this hill. 

From behind them came a shrill scream as the Rock had climbed up the back side and was now pushing her big brother and C.B., trying to knock them off the hill. The element of surprise had Johnson tipping and bordering on toppling until C.B. leaned into him to right his position and maintain his perch of dominance, gently re-routing his sister downward. Johnson and C.B. surveyed the beauty of their kingdom from this throne, overlooking the splendor of working class suburbia. With a magical spontaneity they broke into precisely-timed, chest-pounding Tarzan yodels that were abridged by their mutual laughter. Now, the two of them looked down at the Rock. All that was visible from the dirt of her face was the blueness of her big eyes and the white of her teeth, and she popped back up and headed toward them again, screaming until a cry to the west caused all to halt. Paaaaaaaatrick, Patriiiiiiiisha.

Gotta go, C.B.. C’mon, brothers’ handshake. They first slapped their palms and came back for a second round, sweeping their knuckle sides against each other before the culminating forearm grab. Always brothers. Ain’t no others, they cheered in unison.

Paaaaaaaatrick, Patriiiiiiiisha. The distant wail came again signaling twelve o’clock precisely, and Johnson began the trek home to eat lunch with his sweaty-faced, dirt-browned nose little sister in tow. At the beginning of this journey, he reached into his pocket for a cardboard packet, making sure to insert one of his red-tipped candy cigarettes and let it dangle from his mouth. The Rock’s blue eyes peered between the curtains of the blonde bangs of her neck-length hair as she smiled up at her brother before punching him in the gut and running ahead of him to the safety of their mother, her arms swinging and legs churning.

All throughout the neighborhood, the summer sound of screen doors arrived with choreographed precision, slamming in succession behind hungry children. It was as though lunchtime came down the assembly-line of cookie cutter homes, homes often purchased with the sweat of blue collar dads who built the cars that adorned the driveways that marked off the distance between them. Except for a freshly planted tree, a different color of brick, or maybe which dog was barking behind the chain-link fence, there was nothing to distinguish one from the other. They were three-bedroom, one-bath, and 850-square-foot dwellings with the blessings of basements that became extra living space through neighborhood tile and paneling parties. And their big picture windows framed paintings that changed with the seasons but couldn’t stem the tide of change that was shifting their American dreams away from the city, looking for a better life.

After downing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and two glasses of milk, Johnson watched the Rock staring at him and grinning, followed by puppy-dog eyes.

All right, he gave in. Go get the fishing rods and meet me in the yard.

She did as told and then watched as her big brother used a small hand shovel to dig into the earth. After a few scoopfuls, he saw a portion of the reddish-brown glimmering coat of an earthworm and plucked it out of the black dirt. It was a big one, probably ten-inches long, and perfect for dangling in his eight-year-old sister’s face and chasing her around the yard, circumnavigating the above-ground pool, darting around the cherry tree, both screaming and laughing until they could summon no more air to fan their burning lungs.

With their rods and a coffee can filled with dirt and a few worms, they began the half-mile walk to the pier, cooling their dirty bare feet on the patches of lawn when the sidewalk got too hot. At thirty-second intervals, the Rock swung her cut-off-shorts clad behind into her brother, attempting without success to knock him off balance and onto the molten lava pavement.

There were unspoken understandings among the children of Raven Street, rituals that gathered them to bring life to the day and sustain that life until the streetlamps gently bathed then covered the canvas of summer. These might include a baseball game at the Avon Elementary field if enough kids could play, or perhaps a trip to the new shopping center to hang out, or it might mean reading comic books in the basement on a rainy day, or maybe a trek to the novelty store. But when all else failed, or even if it didn’t, there was nothing quite like the feel of a fish tugging at the end of the line. Theirs was a life of ice cream trucks, Goofy Foot skateboards, three-speed Stingray bikes with their banana seats, the best used car money could buy, and hand-me-down clothes, so captivatingly simple in order to play out within a finite enclave perched atop a flat world.

The Rock waited until her brother cast his line, looking up at him with those eyes, dusty little nose, finger-smudged white t-shirt, and gigantic smile that competed with the shimmering sun off the lake. They didn’t talk much, but they understood each other. Plus, he could cast a lot further than she could, and for sure, there had to be a musky or an alligator gar that far out. They sat next to each other on the pier with the sun burning the backs of their necks and the distant hum of the big motorboats occasionally stealing their attention, even as the blinding glare off the water distorted the view.

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Sunburned and sweaty skin combined with dirt-caked tank-top and Bermudas as C.B. sat at the kitchen table and took the last bite of a salami sandwich. He looked into the living room to watch his mother darning a sock positioned over a drinking glass as she sang along to Loretta Lynn coming in over the AM dial, WDEE, the Big D. He thought she probably could have been a country singer, a thin brunette with some vocal range, but her inclinations had limitations, and the vanilla mom-wear, black bell bottoms and plain white blouse, were too far removed from the glamour of big belt buckles, rhinestones, and cowgirl hats. His only pair of Levi’s was folded next to her atop the chair handle, and a patch lay ready to forgive the excesses of youth. Her lips suggested the hint of a smile turning up in opposition to her brow that folded downward in concentration. You couldn’t make a song out of that, but the music of a horn honked twice, and she opened up the side of the curtains to look out.

On Raven and the surrounding streets, there were two ways to make a big impression. In the black-and-white world of baby boomers, a color television, particularly a twenty-five-inch Zenith console one, was the focal point of a living room and the only thing that could convince a busybody to leave the picture window behind. C.B.’s family was the last to adopt, and they settled for a meager fifteen-incher, a Montgomery Ward off-brand decorated with tin foil on its rabbit ears to better bring in UHF, but this compromise was probably what made it possible for his dad to roll up the driveway in a shiny red F-100 to complement the brown Plymouth Fury and make them the first family in the neighborhood to have two vehicles.

It looks like your father has brought home a new toy.

What, Mom?

He just pulled into the driveway with a truck.

Before she could conclude the curt emphasis on the word ‘truck’, C.B. opened the side-door gate and ran up the driveway.

Bringing a car into the family was a neighborhood event akin to bringing the baby home from the hospital. It was a sure-fire way to attract a crowd. But bringing home a truck, now that was a Jeez-o-Pete moment that even inspired the more reserved like old man Fistler. On this afternoon, the reclusive widower left his haunted two-story farmhouse that was built before there was a neighborhood and negotiated the half-block journey.

Radovan Bogdanovich lifted the hood, started it up, and stepped on the gas to punctuate his answer to the tired question, What’s she got in her? C.B. always found it funny that in the male-dominated pastime of car worship, vehicles were referred to with the female pronoun. In the case of the two-year-old ’64, she had a 351 V-8 under the hood, something that sounded even more magnificent when it was followed by another engine rev.

What’d they soak you for? was another typical part of the vernacular associated with any purchase. For this fire-engine red tribute to Detroit, the bath amounted to $900, a portrayed steal given that he could answer How many miles she got on her? with 45,000, and follow that up with a proud, She’s barely broken in.

C.B. counted seven men crowded around the driveway for this male rite of passage, and by his recollection, each had some distinction measured by firsts. In addition to Mr. Fistler who was there before time began, there was Bill Redding, a pool salesman, who started the epidemic with a state-of-the-art above ground that measured twenty-four feet. It still was the biggest in a neighborhood that now sported one in every other yard and had garden hose parties to get the pools ready for the summer. Clarence Chadwick, who worked in some management position at Chrysler, was the first white collar man in the neighborhood and the first to blow out a wall and make the master bedroom a family room, something that came in handy to corral his two young boys, ages five and three. Tony Grillo, whose immigrant Italian family pooled resources to open a produce market, had the only nature garden on the block, a backyard paradise with a little fountain and a flagstone path. And now, Mrs. Grillo carried the roundness of maternity as the first pregnant woman he could remember. Gary Zadowski built the first upstairs addition and remained the first to tell the latest Polack joke, a self-deprecation that C.B. never really understood. Wally St. Croix braved the upkeep of the neighborhood’s first over-sized dog, a St. Bernard named Lady, who would try to stick her bear-sized head out of the milk chute and scare the shit out of any unsuspecting passerby with a bark from the depths of hell. Finally, there was Johnson’s dad, also named Patrick, who became the first dad in the neighborhood to run for government office and was a city councilman when he wasn’t working his real job as a contractor. Now C.B.’s dad had joined the fraternity and was wearing a smile, something that usually was reserved for weekends when he was somewhat shitfaced from shots of slivovitz with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a deck of cards awaiting distribution among his real friends, the first-generation Serbian immigrants. For now, these folks would have to do, and he would weave in his recent acquisition of a journeyman’s card to seal his expertise as a machine repairman.

C.B. exhaled vigorously as he watched the men taking turns sitting in the driver’s seat and playing with the radio. When it finally was his turn, he took the big step up, using the steering wheel to pull his ten-year-old body into position. He already was tall enough to see over the wheel and still reach the pedals, and the background noise of adult conversation couldn’t steer him away from also seeing a time in the not-too-distant future when the F-100 would be his. As he took his turn revving the engine and looking at the tachometer needle jump, he thought of the rpm as the thousands of tomorrows he still needed to get there; he just didn’t think of the stops, the detours, and the inevitable roadblocks that would make up the journey.

The road’s a lot smoother when you’re still a kid.

Chapter 2: Firsts

Vista Shores, Michigan, June 20, 1975

C.B.’s room had hosted shadows at all hours. Its north/south exposure didn’t allow for sunrise or sunset to filter through the drapery of the two small windows, one directly behind his bed and the other forming a right angle over his dresser. This was okay because the sun rose and set on his first-ever girlfriend, Jewels Cartwright, the light in his life. At 5:30 a.m., the moon had yet to give way, and he could enjoy a sunrise over the lake on his way to work, but for now he would have to make sense of the vagary, the pre-dawn milky grayness that gave elbow room to the imagination.

Working with the shadows, the wood floors creaked and felt cool on his feet as he exited his bed against the wall, sidestepped his dresser, and made a quick right in front of his desk. The sliding closet doors lurked in his peripheral vision, causing him to lunge for the light switch and banish the monsters. The fiery patterns leapt from the bottom, perpetually burning faceless figures, condemned souls, a wood grain no doubt cut from an enchanted forest, a pattern from hell that had haunted him since they had moved in when he was seven. The creaking continued as he exited left toward the bathroom, about ten feet down a hallway that also led to a spare bedroom on the left and his parents’ master on the right.

C.B. ran the bath water, tossed in some Mr. Bubble, and unsnapped his George McGinnis NBA pajama bottoms. As the water ran and the bubbles rose and burst, he conducted a body inspection in the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink. He didn’t need to shave, his nineteen-year-old face able to take a day off. A quick brushing of his teeth made way for some flexing; he had been using a Bullworker to gain muscle on his six-four 160-pound frame, and as he did a double-biceps pose, his ribs became countable. Transitioning to a most muscular pose, the arteries in his neck responded the best, fanning out in a lizard-like display, all his virility playing against the overwhelming pink of the bathroom. As he soaked in the tub, his mind drifted to thoughts of Jewels, and it instantly breached, pushing aside the bubbles in a turgid display of youth.

After a quick towel dry and putting the pajama bottoms back on, a trek to the basement was next. Back down the hall and a left turn brought him into the living room where his memory helped him negotiate the color-eating haze that blanketed the décor. To the left, the 1960’s olive green couch with the stubby screw-on wooden legs pushed against the big wall overlooking the picture window. Behind the couch was a paint-by-numbers creation of boats on a lake, something his mom had done years ago. There was a matching chair to the immediate right to frame a pedestrian coffee table and give another sight line to the white La-Z-Boy chair in the right corner and the console stereo resting under the picture window. The matching chair had a little side table with a burlap lamp, and on the wall behind it was the Mona Lisa painting; in the light of day, it was a poor uninspiring knockoff, but now he felt the eyes following him and suspected that the smile was sarcastic.

That was the living room, twelve by fourteen, and it quickly gave way to the eat-in kitchen with a dining table to the left and galley kitchen on the right, a black Formica and linoleum world that ended on the left at the back door to the house and the little wooden gate leading to the steps to the basement. They were steep and sometimes treacherous, especially during the winter if snowy shoes weren’t wiped on the welcome mat beforehand.

C.B. hit the light switch, took the steps, and grabbed the handrail before the last four where he had to duck his head to continue. Brown paneling, beige linoleum squares, and acoustical ceiling tile gave the first two-thirds of the basement a nice additional living space with an ancient gray corduroy couch and two side tables occupying the side left wall. There was a throw rug to give the area some coziness, making for a proud space, one that served the neighborhood friends well over the years, especially during rainy days of playing cards and reading comic books, the latter which were in the storage area afforded by the old couch’s compartment space. On the side table to the left, there was a portable record player that had provided many hours of musical accompaniment, and he smiled as he passed by the old reel-to-reel tape recorder on the side table closest to the entry to the back unfinished part of the basement. He remembered how he and Willy Redding used to play Beatles records and sing, making recordings, and that made him think of the big Saturday ahead with Jewels.

He went through the paneled off space and into the part of the basement that housed his dad’s workbench to the left and the washing machine, dryer, and washtub to the right. In the middle, in front of the furnace, was a plastic basket housing clothes that had been dropped down the laundry chute, some lighter garments having missed and resting with no sense of urgency. He slipped a rubber shower head attachment over the sink’s spout and regulated the warm and cold water flow before dipping his bushy head and beginning the process of washing his hair. Using the shower upstairs was off-limits because the water somehow managed to leak into the basement.

It was Friday, the last day of his first week at his first job, a garbage collecting and lawn-cutting gig at Metropolitan Beach. He and Willy had both qualified under the government’s CETA plan; neither he nor Willy knew what CETA stood for, but fortunately, their families were just poor enough, so they got the summer jobs that paid $2.62 per hour. Back in his room, he slipped on his Dickies, the accompanying navy blue work shirt, and his Red Wing steel-toed work shoes, all which would come out of his first week’s pay. He went to the kitchen, careful not to make noise for his parents who did not have to wake up for another hour, and opened the refrigerator that spotlighted him as he swigged a gulp of orange juice straight from the carton before grabbing his bag lunch of a turkey sandwich and an apple. As he went out the back door, he touched his shirt pocket to make certain that he remembered to bring the cigarettes, one of which he would have for breakfast. Willy had already lit his up and was waiting, leaning against the F-100 passenger door, his thin neck-length blond hair blowing in the wind.

It was a cool Michigan summer morning, crisp low sixties with a sleeve rustling breeze. At 6:15, the moonlight was beginning to bow in deference to the orange aura that loomed in the East, lighting the bottoms of a few gray clouds and bringing the lake back into existence. It was a moment demanding rolled down windows as C.B. and Willy blew cigarette smoke from theirs and flicked their ashes to the pavement. Silence worked well for both of them at the beginning until the nicotine kicked in.

So I guess you’re psyched up about tomorrow night, huh? C.B. asked.

Willy