Burrow stood and pushed past him through the doorway, nearly running into Murray in the hallway. As Porter followed quickly after her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her speed. She was a rather large woman, after all. He found her standing at the desk in the den. She was holding the calculus book they had found earlier.
“I saw this three days ago and asked Emory about it. She completed calculus two years ago. I thought it odd she would purchase a book on the subject, particularly one this trite. Her studies progressed far beyond whatever this text has to offer. She told me she didn’t buy it, she didn’t know where it came from.”
Porter eyed the text warily. “Please put the book down, Ms. Burrow.”
29
Diary
The screen door at the back of the Carters’ house had been left open. The wind owned it now, banging it against the white-paint-flaked frame. I reached for the handle and held it still for Mrs. Carter. She walked past me into the dark kitchen. She hadn’t said a word the entire walk back. Neither of us had. If it hadn’t been for the sound of her sniffling, I wouldn’t have known she was behind me.
I pulled the door shut and flipped the lock. The wind outside howled in protest.
Mrs. Carter pressed her hands on the countertop and bowed her head, facing the sink. Her eyes glossed over, lost in thought. I spied a bottle of bourbon on the kitchen table next to a glass with Snoopy and Woodstock emblazoned on the side, the colors faded and worn after years of washes. I walked over and poured about an inch of bourbon. Two fingers, Father would have said.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?” Mrs. Carter said. She had turned and was facing me now.
I handed the glass to her. “It’s for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“I think you should.”
Father never shied away from a drink after a long day at work. I knew a cocktail or two helped him relax. If anyone needed to relax, it was Mrs. Carter.
She hesitated, eyeing the brown liquid, then took the glass and brought it to her swollen lips. She swallowed the bourbon in one swift gulp before setting the glass down hard on the counter. Her entire body shivered, and she let out a soft gasp. “Oh my.”
I couldn’t help but smile. We were sharing a rather adult moment. Just a couple of drinking buddies knocking back a few in the kitchen. I had a hankering to give it a try, but I told myself now was not the time. I had to keep my wits about me. The night was far from over.
“Would you like another?” I asked her.
When she nodded, I poured her another glass, adding another finger or so.
She put this one away even faster than the first, this time without the shiver and with a little bit of a smile, then sat at her table. “Simon was a good man, most of the time. He didn’t really mean to hurt me. It is . . . was . . . all the pressure, that’s all. He didn’t deserve to . . .”
I took a seat beside her.
In school it could take me an hour to summon the courage to ask a girl if I could borrow a pencil. There was something about Mrs. Carter, though, something that set me at ease. There was no sign of the usual churn in my stomach or fever on the back of my neck. I reached up and touched the bruises on her cheek. They had darkened considerably in the past twenty minutes or so. “He would have hurt you more, maybe even killed you.”
She shook her head. “Not my Simon. He wasn’t like that.”
“Sure he was. Look at what he did to you.”
“I deserved it.”
The image of Mrs. Carter with Mother flashed in my mind. Did she know I witnessed that? “Nothing you could have done was deserving of a beating like the one he put on you. A man should never lay hands on a woman. Not a real man.”
She snickered. “Did your father teach you that?”
I nodded. “Women are to be respected, cherished. They are gifts bestowed upon us.” He also told me they were weak and incapable of defending themselves against a beating, physical or verbal, but I left that part out.
“Your father is a sweet man.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Carter reached for the bourbon and refilled her glass, then slid the bottle over to me. “Why don’t you give it a shot? Have you ever drunk alcohol before?”
I shook my head. This was a lie. My father made me a martini for my last birthday. Mother poured a glass of her favorite red wine, and we toasted in celebration. I spit most of it out on the table, and the rest burned at my throat so badly, I dared not finish. Mother laughed and Father patted me on the back. “It’s an acquired taste, champ. One day you’ll love it. I’m afraid that day is not today, though!” Then he laughed too. “Perhaps you’re more of a beer man,” he joked.
She gave the bottle another nudge. “Come on, don’t be afraid. It won’t bite. You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you? That would be so rude.” Her voice had lost the sharp edges of earlier. She wasn’t slurring her words yet, but even a boy with limited experience such as myself could tell she was well on her way.
Puzzle it out, champ.
I took the bottle and removed the cap. EVAN WILLIAMS KENTUCKY BOURBON, the black label read. The light above the table made the brown liquor glisten like liquid candy. I raised the bottle to my lips and took a small drink. It burned, but not as much as the martini had. Perhaps I was prepared this time, or maybe I’d built up a tolerance. It wasn’t . . . bad. It wasn’t my first choice of beverage, but I wouldn’t call it bad. In fact, it warmed me up a little, a heat growing in my belly. I took another drink, this one a little more than the last.
Mrs. Carter laughed. “Look at you! You’re like an old pro. If I gave you a cigar and a nice newsboy cap, you’d be all set for poker night with the boys.”
I smiled and tipped the bottle back at her. “Want some more?”
“Why, are you planning to get me drunk?”
“No, ma’am. I just thought—”
“Give me that,” she said, reaching for the bottle. This time she didn’t bother with the glass. She drank straight from the bottle, as I had. When she set it back down on the table, her whole body shivered again.
“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker,” I said.
She laughed. “Where did you hear that?”
“Father said it once. He got quite drunk that night.”
“This father of yours seems like a very interesting man.”
I considered another drink. The first had made me feel warm, calm. Calm was good. I nodded toward the bottle, and she handed it back to me. A grin filled her face, and she burst out laughing.
“What is it? What did I do?”
She waved her hand at me, her laughter growing to a cackle. I felt a smile at my own lips and couldn’t help but laugh along with her, even though the joke was lost on me. “Tell me!” I said. “You gotta tell me!”
Mrs. Carter placed both of her hands palm down on the table and stopped laughing, her lips pursed tight. Then she said, “I was thinking, if I send you home drunk, your parents might kill me.”
I stared at her for a moment, my eyes locked with hers. Then we both burst into a round of roaring, tear-filled laughter, the kind that makes your belly hurt.
She picked up the bottle and took another drink. “This was Simon’s favorite, but bourbon always made him so mean. It doesn’t make you mean, does it?”