I don’t recall falling asleep, but I must have drifted off at some point because I found myself in bed wearing my best pajamas, with the headache to end all headaches throbbing at my temples. The morning sun squeezed between my blinds and pecked at my eyes so ferociously, I thought the light would render me blind.
Last night, Father scolded me for drinking and I tried to explain why I had done so, but he wasn’t willing to listen. Or maybe he did. Much of the evening was a blur.
Peeling back the blankets, I lowered my feet to the floor.
Although I did so with the most tender of motions, the impact radiated through my body and went straight to my aching head. I considered climbing back under the warm sheets and sleeping for perhaps another year or so, but I knew if I didn’t rise soon, my parents would surely come in search of me. In our house, if you weren’t at the breakfast table by nine, service would close and you’d find yourself standing at the refrigerator with nothing but an empty plate and a grumbling tummy. Mother locked it, you see. Promptly at nine, she would latch the refrigerator closed and fasten the door tight with a shiny new Stanley padlock. It would remain locked until lunchtime, and the process would repeat again for supper. While I was perfectly capable of fasting until the noon hour, something told me a little sustenance in my belly would help with the lingering effects of the previous night’s bender and possibly set me right for the remainder of the day.
Yesterday’s clothes were piled at my feet, and I considered putting them on until the scent of vomit drifted up from my T-shirt. I didn’t recall throwing up, but I had no reason to believe the foulness came from anyone but me. Why would someone else take the time to vomit in my room? The thought was ludicrous. No, most likely I had gotten sick. Apparently some of the bourbon felt the need to vacate my small premises via the entrance ramp.
I left the pile of clothes on the floor, making a mental note to burn them at my first chance, and pulled a clean shirt and pair of jeans from my dresser. Then I made my way down the hall to the kitchen.
“There’s my boy!” Father beamed from behind a heaping plate of eggs and sausage. “Take a seat, son. A little greasy food will help settle that angry stomach of yours. You’re a little young for a hangover, to be sure, but a hangover is surely what ails you if you consumed the amounts of alcohol you boasted about last night.”
I found my way into my chair and did my best to hold back the contents of my churning stomach. Bourbon was a man’s drink, and I had put away every drop like a man. I had no intention of showing weakness under Father’s watchful eye.
He reached across the table, picked up a carafe of orange juice, and filled a glass for me. Then he produced a shot glass from beneath a napkin with the fanfare of a magician pulling a bunny from his black felt hat. “I prepared this just for you. This is Kentucky’s finest, and perhaps the fastest method for banishing a hangover known to the civilized world.” He slid the glass over to me with a Cheshire grin.
I stared down upon the shot glass no doubt with bloodshot eyes and pale cheeks, waiting for him to follow up with a punch line to his little joke, but none came. He nudged the glass closer. “Drink up, champ. I promise a little ‘hair of the dog’ will make you feel better.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
I reached for the glass and gently raised it to my lips, my head throbbing. The scent of warm caramel and toasted vanilla tickled at my nose.
“Quickly now. Real men put away a shot in a single gulp without a drop spilled.”
Taking a deep breath, I dumped the glass into my mouth and forced a swallow, wincing as the burn worked down my gullet to my stomach. I found it odd how I could feel it every inch of the way. Never before had I thought about the journey taken by my meals and drink. Alcohol was strange indeed.
“Now, slam the glass back down on the table,” Father instructed with glee.
I did as I was told, ramming the shot glass against the wood so hard, I thought for sure it would shatter in my hand.
Father clapped with joy. “That’s my boy!”
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, the bourbon lingering on my breath. It reminded me of burnt toast and molasses.
Father took up the glass and poured another shot. He drank this one himself, then also brought the glass down hard on the table. He let out a grunt and shivered with an audible sigh, then turned to me, his face suddenly serious. “I want you to remember this moment as your first drink. Do you think you can do that, champ? When you grow older and reminisce back upon your life, I want you to think of our little moment as your first taste of the forbidden fruit juice, a simple shot with your old man. A true father and son moment. Forget last night. Forget the drinks you shared with our lovely little neighbor. Forget the reason for those drinks. When you grow old, I don’t want you to think about getting drunk with Mrs. Carter. I don’t want you to think about her at all, I only want you to remember this. What do you think, champ? Can do, or no way, nohow?”
I thought on his words and nodded my head. “Can do, Father,” I said with a grin. “Can do for sure.”
“Pinky swear?”
I held up my tiny hand to his, and we swore on it.
“Good, because that is how your first drink should be remembered—a happy moment with your pops, not drinking yourself silly with the crazy bitch neighbor.” I had never heard him use foul language before; Mother either. They never cursed. The word wasn’t new to me; I had heard it many times before at school and from other adults, but never from Father, never in his voice.
“Oh, I’m sorry, champ. I probably shouldn’t use such terms around you. You should never call someone such things, particularly a woman. I’m setting a horrible example. As I’ve often said, women should be cherished and treated with the utmost of respect.”
I glanced around the room. I hadn’t seen Mother yet this morning.
“She’s downstairs with our guest,” Father said. Sometimes he seemed to read my mind.
I had wondered if Mrs. Carter was still alive. Frankly, the fact that she was surprised me. Although Mother and Father weren’t in the best of mind last night, they were typically careful when it came to their indiscretions. They didn’t leave loose ends.
“Will Mrs. Carter be staying with us awhile?”
Father pondered this. “Yes, champ, I think she will. You see, we can’t blame Mrs. Carter for her husband’s actions, not really, but she must have done something to put him into such a tizzy. If she hadn’t, he would have never come over here and threatened your mother, and she wouldn’t have found herself in that little predicament. Your mother wouldn’t have had to hurt him. Mr. Carter would probably be sitting on his porch right now enjoying the summer breeze with his lovely wife, and Mother wouldn’t be spending the morning on her hands and knees scrubbing the basement floor of all things nasty.” He shook his head and laughed. “That man sure was a bleeder, wasn’t he?”
I couldn’t help but agree. I found myself smiling.