September 4
Katrina,
Drink, Kat, is the Devil’s syrup, a sweet concoction that is intended to burn away resistance, leaving the soul tattered and unfeeling, a worthwhile home for the twins of Apathy and Recklessness. And drink, I did, Kat, on Friday nights at a nearby town tavern in those years after George had left. I took my responsibility to Father’s business affairs seriously, but Friday nights were reserved for me, for forgetting to pretend a smile, for not having to be responsible to a memory, for creating a consistency between how I felt in my soul and how I felt in my body.
Until George left, I had barely tasted alcohol; Mother had given us a few sips of wine to teach us of proper etiquette and the taste of well aged wine or we would be given a taste of whiskey if we were ill. I had purchased for George as a wedding gift a bottle of vintage, putting it in Father’s wine cellar after George left.
Months passed and I never thought any more about it. Then, as I assisted Betsy with preparing dinner one night for invited business guests, I requested Betsy to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was the bottle I had purchased for George that she, unknowingly, brought to the kitchen. I explained to Betsy where the bottle had come from, pretending that it did not matter to me. The wine was served with dinner that night, a Friday night, and I had but a glass. And,lucrative business deals were struck, and Father’s business would thrive because of them, and I felt as empty as a broken vase unable to hold water.
When dinner was over that night, after the guests had departed and Betsy had gone to bed, I sat alone at the bottom of the grand staircase and drank what was left of the bottle, perhaps a partial glass; and I reveled in the luscious aroma as it drifted from the glass up towards my nose; and I closed my eyes, cherishing the rich taste as I held the wine on my tongue before feeling a slight tingling sensation in my throat when I swallowed.
It was really just that simple, how it began. Months passed and, after the house was asleep and quiet, I would sit on the bottom of the staircase, alone, and drink a single glass of wine from Father’s favorite collection or enjoy a shot of liquor from his old liquor cabinet. No one ever knew, and I was always very proper, very ladylike about it. Mother would have been proud.
Time passed and I spent my days making and managing business deals and my nights reviewing the work of the day. Betsy had only good intentions when she mentioned setting aside some time for myself, for fun, for life outside of work, for being young. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have chosen more wisely.
It started innocently enough, but with time and despair one drink a night turned to two and then I wasn’t quite so shy about having a drink while the house staff was still busied with their routines. All I can say in my defense about those days is that I never drank to the point of intoxication or of being unable to handle Father’s business dealings. Not in those days.
It was a Friday night when I was in a nearby town delivering paperwork to the local bank since the manager had agreed to remain open late so as to receive the papers on that particular date. I had spent most of the day in that town, and the summer heat was wearing me down and, on my tongue, the familiar taste of the hour returned. I was hesitant about entering the tavern, having never been in a bar before. Yet, the desire for a single drink calling to me was stronger than anything Mother had taught me. Though I invited in the driver, Charles, he chose to remain in the car and wait for me.
Joe’s Tavern it was, named, of course, for the owner. When I entered, it seemed safe enough, except for a few drunks in the corner playing cards. I remember thinking that the men in the bar seemed to be honest, hard working souls addicted to the drink and wasting money on liquid instead of families. The women in the bar, some of which had attire as if they were working in a local factory, hung on to the men like a coat, either unable or unwilling to lose their catch. I sat on a stool at the counter bar and, this establishment not serving wine, ordered whiskey. A man down the length of the bar approached me to politely inquire as to why I was there, since I seemed quite different from the usual clientele at Joe’s Tavern. I simply told him that I planned to have a drink on a hot summer night before returning home. He apologized when some friends of his at a nearby table teased me that whiskey was a strong drink and a lady could not hold her liquor. By the time I finished my drink, a single shot, I turned to the table, showing them an empty shot glass, and explained that I had held my liquor just fine.
Charles, the driver, came in to check on me about half an hour later, concerned for my safety. By then, a man at the table and I had engaged in a challenge, shot for shot, and jokes of an unladylike nature had been told and laughter was present. I was four shots into the challenge when Charles entered Joe’s Tavern, suggesting that it was time to return home for it was getting late. I sensed disapproval in his voice that I did not like and yet, somewhere inside, I knew he was right. I abandoned the challenge, paid for the drinks for everyone in the establishment, and left with Charles. I was slightly aware of Charles holding my arm as we walked out the door.
On the way home, I noticed the warm feeling within, memories of the past spinning in my head so that I was unable to concentrate on any one, my head seemingly lightened of responsibility, the emptiness not filled but disguised and decorated so that it did not seem as difficult to house. But, that, so to speak, is the loophole in the contract with the drink, its effect being only a disguise of a solution, a disguise that can easily fool the mind and worsen the soul.
After that night, drinking at home alone no longer appealed to me, and I only drank at The Oak when business dinners were held there. But, I began to find reasons to go to Joe’s Tavern on Friday nights.
The week after my introduction to Joe’s Tavern, I again delivered paperwork in the late afternoon, finding the summer sun leaving me with a need to quench a thirst. Charles, the driver, an older fellow that had known Father and whom Father had trusted, tried to talk me out of entering but when I did he followed, and as we walked he explained that it was for my own protection.
Again, the men at the table were there and, again, a drinking challenge ensued. This time it was rum, and the drinks didn’t stop flowing for any length of time. Charles, after multiple suggestions to leave, was finally able to lead me away. Of course, I paid for everyone’s drinks. It seemed the least I could do for these souls who were company for me without business deals attached. As long as I paid for their drinks, they seemed content to keep me around.
After a while, Saturday mornings became difficult, and I began accomplishing little work on those days. Yet, the rest of the week was nothing but work, days without laughter, without feeling alive. Betsy, more and more, was noticing my health on Saturday mornings and I think that Charles had spoken with her about my Friday nights. Betsy tried to distract me by offering other activities--ones more suited to a lady--for Friday nights, such as church gatherings, but I never listened. I didn’t want to be preached at, wanting, rather, to be laughed with and, mostly, to feel that blanket of warmth that disguised the emptiness inside, at least disguising it until the light of day reminded me of the truth.
And, so the Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern continued; and I began to feel no need to have reason to be near Joe’s Tavern to go there; and I became more bold over time, drinking more liquor, dancing with strangers, but never allowing strangers to drive me home instead of Charles. Betsy was worried, and she was right. The Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern lasted for months and contained many nights that I find myself unable to recall. I wasted a great deal of money in that tavern, but I lost so much more.
One Friday night, the last Friday night I went to Joe’s Tavern, it was my twenty-seventh spring, and the night was cool as I sat at the usual table and began drinking with the usual group. Even the bartender warned me of one particular stranger who kept buying me drinks that evening. Charles, who always sat at the bar but never drinking, tried to convince me to leave that night. Instead, I remained, talking with this stranger, dancing, and drinking.
Vague memories I have of that night and of all of the events that unfolded I do not know though I remember drinking with the stranger and that familiar warm disguise blanketing me and I remember Charles driving me home. An argument began between Charles and myself in the car regarding his concern for my behavior, my drinking, and I went inside the house that night angry and convinced that Charles was wrong.
But, he wasn’t and, somewhere inside, I agreed with him. The drink no longer offered the same luxury it offered in the beginning. The privilege and satisfaction of the drink, the dangling carrot that had lured me, had been yanked back, the disguise of blanketing the pain removed, and the drink had revealed its true identity. The warm sensation confusing the past and leaving me numb for a while was gone, and no amount of drink seemed able to return that blanket to me. Now, in its place, was a harsh mirror; and the more I drank the more consumed I became by the emptiness inside, with the memories of the past, and the more I began to listen to sorrow as it whispered in my ear.
By Sunday afternoon, brief sobriety had washed the sleep from my eyes, allowing me to see that I could not return to Joe’s Tavern or to drinking.
It was on that Sunday afternoon that the stranger from Friday night walked up the drive toward The Oak. Uninvited but a long way from town, I felt obliged to speak with him though embarrassed of not remembering all of that night at the tavern and experiencing uncertainty over why the bartender had warned me of him. It was Sunday afternoon that I learned his name was Steven, though I am not sure if I knew that on Friday night.
That Sunday afternoon, unfortunately, I remember with great clarity. But that story, Sister, is not one I am yet ready to tell.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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