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The radio hisses static. . .
I stand by the window of my cabin, a hand pressed against the glass, my cheeks wet. I think I have been like this for a long time, but I cannot look to the dark shadows of the mountains in the distance. Instead, I notice every close detail caught in the light from the window -- the shreds of spiders’ webs clinging in the corners, the trapped corpse of a fly turning in the wind; the chipped blue paint on the frame that I never painted over, the rotten wood beneath; the yellow wheels of Millie’s tiny toy truck where she left it on the sill.
Is it minutes that pass? Months? I turn away at last, fingers lingering on the glass.
I have a bottle somewhere . . . I said I wouldn’t, I said I’d not have it in the house when Millie was here but. . .
I reel across the room. I could already be drunk. I tear away jars and cans in the cupboard above the washing machine and scatter them on the floor, but it’s not where I usually hide it. A tiny moan escapes my mouth. I thrash inside another cupboard and then smash away all the crap on top of the fridge – a tin of nails and a broken kettle I never fixed, a photo of Mom on her old porch before she moved to the city.
My hand closes around what I’ve been looking for. It’s Russian vodka.
#
“That’s Daddy’s girl!”
Millie buzzed around the garden out back with arms outstretched, pretending to be a bomber she saw on the TV. She was a proper little tomboy, but she’d break plenty of hearts when she grew up. She had the prettiest face.
I held up the hula-hoop for the tenth time and she dived through, rolling on the grass. “Again! Again!”
That’s when I heard the horn out front. I glared at my watch. It couldn’t be time already, but it was. “Let’s go and say hi to your momma,” I said.
Millie brushed leaves out of her chocolate hair and scrunched up her face. “That means the end of the weekend.”
“Afraid so, honey. But I’ll see you in a few weeks and I want you safe home before it gets too late.”
On the radio, Reagan was chest-beating again about evil empires. It was all I ever heard these days: nothing about the damn unemployment in the country.
Cherelle was peering in through the door when we went through to the front of the cabin. “You not hear me tootin’?” she said.
“I heard.”
Cherelle smiled at Millie, the interrogator’s smile. I remembered that one pretty well; I didn’t get too many other kinds when we were together. “You had a nice time, baby? Your daddy looked after you properly?”
Millie nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Good, now go put your shoes on like a good girl.”
While Millie was rummaging in the closet, Cherelle turned to me. Not an ounce of human feeling in the way she looked me over. “You sober?”
I sighed. “You know I am,” I said in a low voice. “I came out here to get over all of that, like we agreed.”
“You get back on that drink, I swear to God you won’t see her again.”
There was no sense in saying anything. It had all been said too many times before. I put my hands in my pockets and tried not to bite.
“You know how long it took me to get up here? Three damn hours. I don’t know why in hell you had to come live all the way out here. You know what it costs me in gas every time?”
“All I could afford,” I said. “And I still don’t get any peace.”
She didn’t like that, but she switched her expression fast when Millie came back.
“Come kiss your Daddy goodbye,” I said, drawing her up in my arms. She squealed as I lifted her high.
“Can we go up in the mountains next time?” she asked. Her eyes shone, her cheeks were pink.
“Anything you want, honey.”
“You just make sure she’s safe,” Cherelle said.
I put Millie down but she clung on. I cupped the side of her face with my other hand. “It’ll feel like no time at all until you’re back here,” I said to her.
Cherelle led her out to the car and gave me a mean look as she drove back towards the city.
#
The floor is cold beneath me, my body aches from the way I fell. My head is worse. What is that smell?
I open my eyes and see the bottle where it has rolled against the far wall, lying empty on its side, an inch of clear liquid accusing me. The underside of the table looms above me and my face is fever-hot. The stink is alcohol and stomach acid.
I roll away from where I vomited in my sleep and sit up. There is some light outside, but the sun is struggling. Bitter waves of memory wash over me and I retch, head between my knees.
At last I rise, coughing, holding on to the corner of the table and see the radio lying in bits where I threw it, maddened by blank static. The window is exerting its pull, irresistible as evil, and I cross the room.
Outside, there is still a terrible glow behind the mountains and the mushroom cloud expands across the sky.
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