Page 166 of Homeport

He waited until the rapid click of her heels had echoed away before lowering his head to the desk. His stomach was in ragged knots and screaming for a drink, just one drink to smooth it all away.

She was so beautiful. How could he have forgotten how beautiful she was? She’d belonged to him once and he’d failed to hold her, to hold their marriage, to be the man she needed.

He’d lost her because he hadn’t known how to give enough, to love enough, to be enough.

He had to get out. Get air. He needed to walk, to run, to get the scent of her perfume out of his system. He used the stairs, avoiding the wing with all the bustle of work, slipped through the thin, early-evening visitors in the public areas and walked straight out.

He left his car in the lot and walked, walked until the worst of the burning in his gut had eased. Walked until he no longer had to concentrate to draw and release each breath evenly. He told himself he was thinking clearly now, perfectly clearly.

And when he stopped in front of the liquor store, when he stared at the bottles promising relief, enjoyment, escape, he told himself he could handle a couple of drinks.

Not only could he handle them, he deserved them. He’d earned them for surviving that face-to-face contact with the woman he’d promised to love, honor, and cherish. Who’d promised him the same. Until death.

He stepped inside, stared at the walls with bottles dark and light lining the shelves. Fifths and pints and quarts just waiting, just begging to be selected.

Try me and you’ll feel better. You’ll feel fine again. You’ll feel fan-fucking-tastic.

Glossy bottles with colorful labels. Smooth bottles with manly names.

Wild Turkey, Jim Beam, Jameson.

He picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, running a finger over the familiar black label. And sweat began to pool at the base of his spine.

Good old Jack. Dependable Jack Black.

He could taste it on his tongue, feel the heat slide down his throat and fall welcome to warm his belly.

He took it to the counter and his fingers felt fat and clumsy as he reached for his wallet.

“This be all?” The clerk rang up the bottle.

“Yes,” Andrew said dully. “That’s it for me.”

He carried it with him, tucked into its slim paper sack. He felt the weight of it, the shape of it as he walked.

A twist of the top, and your troubles were over. The nasty ball of pain in your gut forgotten.

As the sun set toward twilight and the air cooled, he went into the park.

The yellow trumpets of the daffodils were rioting, a small ocean of cheer backed by the more elegant red cups of tulips. The first leaves were unfurling on the oaks and maples that would offer shade when the summer heat pounded during its short stay in Maine. The fountain trickled, a musical dance at the center of the park.

Over to the left, swings and slides were deserted. Children were home being washed up for supper, he thought. He’d wanted children, hadn’t he? Imagined making a family, a real family where those in it knew how to love, how to touch each other. Laughter, bedtime stories, noisy family meals.

He’d never pulled that off either.

He sat on a bench, staring at the empty swings, listening to the fountain play, and running his hand up and down the shape of the bottle in the thin paper bag.

One drink, he thought. Just one pull from the bottle. Then none of this would matter quite so much.

Two pulls, and you’d wonder why it ever had.

Annie drew two drafts while the blender beside her whirled with the fixings for a pitcher of margaritas. Happy hour on Friday nights was a popular sport. It was mostly the business crowd, but she had a couple of tables of college students taking advantage of the discount prices and free nibbles while they trashed their professors.

She arched her back, trying to work out the vague ache at the base of her spine as she scanned the room to be certain her waitresses were keeping the customers happy. She dressed the birdbath glasses with salt and lime.

One of her regulars was into a joke involving a man and a dancing frog. She built him a fresh Vodka Collins and laughed at the punch line.

The TV above the bar was showcasing a night baseball game.

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