Page 3 of Quiet Chaos

“You got the job! Let’s sit down so I can go over everything.”

“Really?” I hug her again. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She takes off her hat. “You’re welcome, sweetie. For starters, how ‘bout you tell me your name?”

My hand thrusts forward. “Sky, Ms. Babs.”

She takes my hand and says, “Nice to meet you, Sky. My belly is telling me this arrangement is going to work out fine, and my belly is never wrong.” I’m smiling so hard it’s punctuating my dimples. “The pay isn’t the best, but I’m sure the tips will make up for it.”

My first job. Ms. Babs is the best boss. I take a month to learn the menu, how to work the register, man the counter, and give checks to the customers. Eventually, we work in harmony, six days a week. Every day, she gives me pie to share with Ms. Adeline. The scariness of the world when I first left the convent doesn’t seem so scary having Ms. Babs and Ms. Adeline in it. Since I have a job, I can save for a place of my own. Maybe even in time, buy a car, and find a husband.

2

“The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.” Humphrey Bogart

Cade - September 2017

Crates for the distillery line the bed of my pickup truck. Armstrong hops up, saliva dripping on a couple of crates, and Ishoohim out. Mondays are busy workdays, and I can’t have my dog roaming around the place. After I put him in the house, I drive the ten-minute ride to Fish Haven, Idaho. Right over the Utah border. It’s a brisk morning with the chance of an afternoon warmup. Since I have a list of orders to fill, I won’t get to enjoy the day.

The short ride allows me to relax. Business is at a steady rise, and I’m working hard to make Briggs Bourbon number one in Idaho. Maybe one day, number one in the country. Things are looking up. My motorcycle club, Bourbon Riders, has grown from a mere two to seventy-five. It’s my extended family. All my brothers are hard workers. Because they all contribute to the club, our holidays and social events are bigger and better.

I ease the truck into the parking space near the front. Before I’m even out, Hal, the manager, comes running out the door. “Cade! It’s your dad!”

I have enough time to throw my car into park and pull the keys out. As I jog toward him, I ask, “How much this time?”

He holds the door open, and we both jog inside. “I don’t know. He’s unconscious in the office. I tried calling you and when I didn’t get an answer, I called 911. I hope that was okay?”

While we head to the office, I pat him on the back indicating it was fine. The ambulance sirens are near, so Hal runs out to let them in. Behind the desk, my dad’s body is strewn out. Spittle soaks the papers underneath. I smack his face to wake him, but he doesn’t budge. My foot hits a bottle of bourbon and knocks it over, spilling the rest of the contents. I curse. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. Alcohol became his best friend after my mom’s death, and it’s the one thing that’s complicated my life.

The paramedics come into the room, which is my cue to let them do their thing. They sit him up, check his mouth for obstruction, take vitals, while asking questions.

“Has he taken anything, such as drugs?”

We look at each other and Hal says, “Only alcohol. He’s an alcoholic.”

Hal’s face contorts into an apology. I nod and cross my arms.

A paramedic asks, “Do you know how long he’s been like this?”

“We don’t. I found him a few minutes before I called 911.” He moves closer and asks, “Is he going to be alright?”

The same paramedic says, “His breathing is shallow, so we’re going to put an oxygen mask on and take him to the hospital.”

I ask, “Which hospital?”

“Idaho General.”

I run a hand through my hair and down my face, thinking,why today?Even thinking about it makes me feel like a dick. My dad has a problem I can’t fix. It’s why I took over the company at a young age. Briggs Bourbon exists because of him; except he jeopardized it. He’d forget orders, meetings, and had caught fireto an office after passing out with a lit cigarette. That’s when I stepped in.

There are so many orders to fill today and having to spend time at the hospital has me punching the wall.

Everyone stops and looks at me. I shake my hand to dispel the pain. “I’ll follow in my truck.”

Without having to ask, Hal says, “I got this, Cade. Don’t worry about it. Just take care of your dad.”

My hand wipes down my face, scratching at my goatee, and I breathe out my frustration. “Thanks, Hal. I owe you.”

I arrive at the same time as the ambulance. The emergency room is a madhouse—a trench of drunks still trickling in from the weekend. The buzz of ethanol taints the air. My hand rests on the rail of the gurney as I walk back with the paramedics to a room. By now, his eyes have fluttered open, drool continues to drip down the sides of his mouth. I use the sheet to wipe at it. The nurses hook him up to IV fluids and pump him with Thiamin and glucose, which I know from too many of these occurrences. I stand to the side, arms folded in front of my chest, uncomfortable for taking up so much space. My awkwardness doesn’t stop there.

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