Lit (15 page)

I
keep getting drunk. There’s no more interesting way to say it. Only drunk does the volume crank down. Liquor no longer lets me bullshit myself that I’m taller, faster, funnier. Instead, it shrinks me to a plodding zombie state in which one day smudges into every other—it blurs time.

Swaying on the back landing in the small hours, I stare at the boxy garage and ghostly replicas of it multiplying along either side, like playing cards spread against the slate sky. Though this plural perspective is standard, I’m surprised by my own shitfaced state. The walkman sends punk rock banging across the tiny bones of my ears. And with the phonebook-sized stack of papers on my lap still unmarked, I—once more, with feeling—take the pledge to quit drinking. Cross my heart. Pinky swear to myself. This is it, I say, the last night I sit here.

Okay, I say in my head. I give. You’re right. (Who am I talking to? Fighting with?)

By the next afternoon, while I’m lugging the third armload of groceries up the back stairs, Dev, who’s bolted ahead to the living room, shrieks like he’s been stabbed, and I drop the sack on the kitchen floor, hearing as it hits what must be a jar of tomato sauce detonating. In the living room, I find Dev has leaped—illicitly, for the nine hundredth time—off the sofa back, trying to land in the clothes basket like a circus diver into a bucket of water. He’s whapped his noggin on the coffee table corner. Now dead center on his pale, formerly smooth forehead, there’s a blue knot like a horn trying to break through. I gather him up and rush to the kitchen, aiming to grab a soothing bag of frozen peas.

But I step on a shard of tomato sauce jar, gash my instep, slide as on a banana peel, barely hanging on to Dev till we skid to a stop. I tiptoe across the linoleum, dragging a snail of blood till I can plop him in a kitchen chair, instructing him to hold the peas to his head and not move an inch while I bunny-hop upstairs to bandage my foot.

Coming back, I find he’s dragged the formerly white laundry into the kitchen to mop up the tomato sauce. I’m helping, he says, albeit surrounded by gleaming daggers of glass while on his forehead the blue Bambi horn seems to throb.

Minutes later, my hand twists off a beer cap as I tell myself that a beer isn’t really a drink after all. So I have another after that to speed preparing the pot roast, and maybe even a third. Before we head to the park, I tuck two more beer bottles in my coat pocket, plus one in my purse alongside a juice box.

Coming home at dusk, I find smoke billowing from the stove door’s edges, the alarm screaming. I yank out the forgotten roast, black and unidentifiable as any roadkill. Mary’s pot-roast recipe? Drink a six-pack then ring the fire department.

And rather than call for pizza while congratulating myself that Dev was king of the monkey bars in an arctic gale, I pile a hungry boy
into the car for a rush-hour lope through the store for another pot roast, since I’d idly mentioned to my husband a pot roast was forthcoming. Thus ignoring the fact that Warren would forgo roast to find a cheerful spouse and a slice or two of pepperoni.

In the store, I trot through the aisles behind a veering cart, thinking, Isn’t Warren a demanding dick to insist on pot roast? My blood-alcohol level is waning, and as my near-starved toddler holds out his arms toward a sugary cereal, his whine revs up till he’s baying like a sick calf to be liberated from the cart. I look at his quite prominent—is that his pulse throbbing?—blue horn as the strangers fix me in their sights. (
What a mean, awful mother!
) Dev is hoisted out while he thrashes and arches his back like he’s being abducted. We abandon our sundries.

Outside, I strap him into his car seat while he flails, and I shout at him—Goddammit, Dev, you’re gonna make me nuts—and tears fill his blue eyes. He covers his face with his hands. While grocery carts veer alongside us, I catch in the rearview Dev’s face all quiet and big eyed. So I heft him out of the car seat and smother his face in kisses, gushing regret.

Back home, still there is no pot roast. I scramble eggs while uncorking a new wine, the sweet squeak of the cork releasing the aroma of ferment, and I tell myself, Who wouldn’t drink? This is the last bottle. I’ll finish it, then start fresh tomorrow.

In a sneaky, insidious process, it’s all I really look forward to, and I’d bare my teeth at anybody approaching the glass in my hand with a mind toward taking it.

That night Warren comes in at ten-thirty, failing to thank me for the noodley casserole glop I slap in a bowl. Ditzy with wine and holding a boulder of guilt, I confess to Warren about snapping at Dev in the store.

He blinks. You can’t do that.

Easy for you to say, you’re not here all day.

But Warren faces me with the piety of a natural parent. Trained to
rein in a thoroughbred or wrest a slipper from a teething pooch, he’s disinclined to lose his cool.

As he’s gathering up household garbage for the dawn pickup, I brillo the blackened pot-roast pan, slamming it against the sink’s perimeter, blue suds foaming around nails chewed to the quick.

At one point he holds up a garbage sack of empty cans, asking, Did you finish a whole case of beer?

Of course not, I tell him.

(How trippingly off the tongue that lie goes. It weighs less than a mustard seed.)

I just bought that beer last weekend, he says.

Well, maybe you’re drinking more than you know, I say.

Which is laughable, as Warren is a fount of discipline, a completer of sit-ups, a runner of many miles. We have a rowing machine set up in his study, and at night he pulls against oars for an hour at a pop. He barely uses a whole pat of butter on a potato. He slices turkey thin enough to read through.

If you lie to your husband—even about something so banal as how much you drink—each lie is a brick in a wall going up between you, and when he tells you he loves you, it’s deflected away.

On the porch again, I scan the snowy landscape with an irritation almost predatory. The head can travel a far piece while the body sits in one spot. It can traverse many decades, and many conversations can be had, even with the dead.
Daddy
…I say, staring off the dark porch into my snowy yard. Before he died, the wordlessness he floated inside during my teen years had become permanent. If he roused at all, his head craned around bewildered, and he handled his dead hand like a parcel he’d been asked to hold for a stranger.

Yet through alcohol’s alchemy, I’d swear some nights his shadowy form stands in the yard behind an old push-type lawn mower.
Why’d you keep drinking?
And Daddy, who was a shrugger, a starer into distances, shrugs and stares.
You know
…Then he dissolves into the
falling snow. I upend the smooth bourbon, trying to achieve the same blunt, anesthetized state that once snuffed him out.

It can’t have been sleeting or snowing every second of those years, but that’s my memory of it—the hood was always up on my parka, with some weather going
tick tick tick tick
against the waterproofing.

There’s snow in my head, too. Wide blizzards of bad news blowing sideways. My few hopes are desperate ones. One key fantasy on the porch—no kidding—is winning the magazine sweepstakes I’ve never entered. I habitually filch sweepstakes forms from doctor’s-office magazines or shopping circulars. Sitting outside by flashlight—
have to change that overhead porch bulb
—I meticulously fill them out, imagining the limo pulling up with balloons and champagne. Such a good story we’ll be: two poets win a jackpot….

The night ends with a black smudge, and come dawn, I stand in a cloud of shower steam, the former night’s conviction to quit solid, though it’s daunting to face unmedicated whatever’s beyond the plastic curtain I’m scared to draw aside.

By afternoon I can’t abide Mr. Rogers asking me to be my neighbor without a cocktail.

I
n the sunlit study of a couples’ counselor, huge potted plants are thriving—ficus and mother-in-law tongue and wandering Jew with shoots sending out small explosions of streaky green. Across from us, the therapist smiles from a moon-shaped face. In the next room, one of her bespectacled kids saws through violin scales. This doctor—in her loose muslin dress and Birkenstock sandals, her long wavy hair dragged into a bun with a pen stuck through it—appears to have cobbled together what I want: a happy family. I tell her about snapping at Dev and making him cry—the reason we’re here.

She tries to reassure me that Dev’s childhood, however shadowed by our scratching at each other, doesn’t mirror my own. You’re both very worried about Dev’s feelings, she says, but he’s in no way neglected. (In some ways, true enough. But having your parents circle each other—I still contend—splits a child in two.)

Warren’s just a better parent, I say.

Is that true? she asks him.

His long legs in khakis bend and unbend, mantislike. He says,
Mary’s very loving, very good about seeing he plays with other kids all the time…

He trails off, and she says, But?

She gets very overwhelmed and snappish, he finishes.

He’s perfectly patient with Dev, I say.

Well, probably, she tells me with that smile, if Warren was up all night like you, he might be less perfect.

I doubt that, I say. She asks me to say more, and I outline Warren’s steadiness. How his devotion to poetry has inspired me to strive for a higher bar in my work. I praise his integrity and self-discipline, saying, I wanted a solid family. That’s part of why I married him, for the stability he offered.

She leads me on, but now the stabilization feels…

Stultifying, I say.

She eventually turns to Warren. Why’d you marry Mary?

It seemed like time, he says. We’d been together three years. We loved each other—health insurance and so forth. She very much wanted a family.

I stare at him, awaiting some of his former warmth for me to squeeze through the stone, but he ticks off what might be qualities in a personals ad—attractive, athletic, smart. She’s much more social than I, he adds, very loyal, a very devoted mother…

Whoever you married would have those qualities, she says.

I think he married me—I interrupt—to rebuke his upbringing. Now he resents my absorption with the baby or that his father chips in my rent! (These pet theories conveniently skim over my own—at this point—innately repellent disposition.)

That’s so damned unfair, he says.

It’s Warren’s turn, the therapist says levelly. Toward the end, when she asks how much I’m drinking, I halve it. Still she suggests I try out an evening support group for people trying to give up booze.

She turns to Warren, Do you think she’s an alcoholic?

How insulting, I think, and brace myself for Warren’s assessment, already dredging up a defense: I’ve never been five minutes late to pick up Dev. I’m a room parent, for God’s sake. I lead toddlers around the aquarium on a rope.

No, he says.

(How my love for him doth bloom, the drinking mind thinks.) She likes a drink. (Or nine, the scolding, sober part of me thinks.) But who doesn’t? he concludes. (Those WASPs down so much sauce—the sober mind observes—that Warren wouldn’t know a dipsomaniac if one hit him with a polo mallet.) That’s the kind of courtroom convened in my skull, prosecution and defense.

Back home the next morning, while Dev blanks out at the TV, I sneak around, reaching under beds and into the hamper, gathering ratholed beer cans and wine bottles. Once Warren’s home, I drive around to unload them from the hatchback like body parts into dumpsters all over town. I also rotate liquor stores, telling each indifferent proprietor that I’m having a spectacular party—myself the honored guest.

One morning before New Year’s, I’m trying to jam Dev into his coat, and he’s slipping around in my hands like a greased pig. I get one arm in, and he collapses laughing on the floor.

I’ve been pondering the doctor’s suggestion as I say to Warren, Let’s quit drinking.

Sure, Warren says, why not. He crimps the top of his lunch sack. He, by the way, doesn’t need to quit drinking, and being full-time at both work and grad school—and being I’m a sneaky bitch—he’s missing the gallons I drink.

From my hands, Dev breaks free and dashes into the living room while I say, It’s not like we’re going to a party.

Going after Dev, Warren tells me not to start, for I gripe nonstop about our lack of social life. He returns with our maniacally snickering son tucked under one arm like a baguette. Warren asks me to toss Dev’s coat upside down on the floor.

Okay, dip and flip, sweetie, Warren says, setting Dev so he stands with his feet at his coat’s hood. Dev bends over, dips his hands in his coat sleeves, then upends the coat over his head.

Good man, I say as Warren starts to clip a mitten to a sleeve.

I ask him where—with his own patriarch’s testy disposition—he mastered parenting.

He’s hitching the second mitten on as Dev lurches to smooch, my cheek. Hoisting him up, Warren says, I imagine what my father would’ve done with me, then do the opposite.

I tug at Warren’s sleeve so he curves his tall form down, seeming to tolerate my peck on his lips. (Is this true or only my faulty interpretation?) The familiar masculine odor of him sends down my spine a surge of ardor as if stirred from a muddy aquarium bottom. I step back till my knees hit the chair edge and I just fold myself shut as he disappears out the door.

By this time one of us is perennially on the way out the door, pausing to hand our boy off like a football. More and more often, he’s our sole point of contact. Otherwise, we exist as a pair of profiles gliding past each other. If a laser had sliced each of us cartoonlike down the middle—half of each falling away—we may not have noticed the missing half for days. While I tell myself this is the normal way of careworn parents with handfuls of jobs between them, the distance feels like powerful magnets, once kissing, now turned to their opposing poles. It’s not just that we don’t eat out, don’t take vacations at all—together or apart, expense being cited—we barely speak beyond necessity. Only in bed do we sometimes fall on each other like starved beasts.

Quitting drinking will reunite us. On New Year’s, we down our last champagne, and two days later, a wicked flu fells me like a chain-sawed oak. The sole cure for which ailment—it strikes me—is whiskey toddies with lemon and honey. Purely medicinal, of course. Don’t you want a drink? I say to Warren as I itchily shift around in bed. I can’t concentrate on grading.

Not really, he says. The literary magazine he’d cofounded before keeps him editing manuscripts even nights he’s home.

My limbs ache like I’ve run ten miles, and I’m clammy. In the past, quitting drinking was a breeze. I’d done it a thousand times—binge as a reward, say, or down it all one weekend then swear off on Monday. I whine to him that sleep’ll elude me.

He yawns, hefting his folder to the floor with a thunk, saying (as a joke), I wish I couldn’t sleep.

I sullenly kick back the covers on my side of the bed, pissed at how he’ll twist off the light, and block out my insomniac pouting.

Downstairs, I stand before the brass thermostat swathed in layers of sweatclothes and woolens, for this is how I bundle to sleep at the igloo temperature Warren insists on—again, expense being cited. I scrub my chafed red hands together like a fly then I twist the wheel right. Before it reaches eighty, I hear—from the bowels of the house—the furnace go
whomp
. I even rise early to dial it back low before Warren—soaked in sweat—comes down in the morning, wondering why the thermometer’s red line holds at eighty, as I look mystified.

Since there’s no liquor in the house, I concoct for myself a backache, filching a few of the blue valiums Warren rarely takes for his—truly bad—back. They’re for sleep, I tell myself. (My creative skill reaches its zenith at prescription interpretation, i.e., the codeine cough syrup bottle seems to read:
Take one or two swigs when you feel like it
. I take three.)

In February I decide I’m under too much stress to quit booze cold turkey. Full sobriety as a concept recedes with the holidays. I’ll cut down, I think. But all the control schemes that reined me in during past years are now unfathomably failing. Only drink beer. Only drink wine. Only drink weekends. Only drink after five. At home. With others.

When I only drink with meals, I cobble together increasingly baroque dinners, always uncorking some medium-shitty vintage at about three in the afternoon while Dev plays on the kitchen floor. The occasional swig is culinary duty, right? Some nights I’m into my second
bottle before Warren comes in with frost on his glasses and a book bag a mule should’ve toted. Maybe he doesn’t notice, since I’m a champion at holding my liquor. Nonetheless, by the end of March, I have to unbutton my waistbands.

Only drinking socially leads to a flurry of long afternoon lunches we can’t afford with people I barely know, so—for thrift’s sake—I often just split a bottle of wine while my lunch partner eats. In academia, meticulously split checks are the norm.

At the poetry readings Warren hosts for his job every few weeks, I swill plastic cups of vinegary white wine and yammer like somebody pulled a string on my neck till the library lights get turned off.

After one such event, Warren drives home with his jawline flexing.

What? What’s the matter? I ask.

Do you have to stay till the last drop is drunk? he says. His sole mention of my drinking, as I recall.

Which pierces me. How hard I’ve tried not to drink. I call him the fun police and unleash the litany of chores that tip me out of bed every day at five
A.M
. That this was a dead echo of Mother’s speechifying on Warren’s not being enough of a party boy eludes me. The more I drink, the more weekends I split off, leaving Warren to care for Dev solo while I take naps. Also, evenings Warren comes home early enough, I hide in my study drinking as he and Dev play at making the bed, which involves Dev bouncing as Warren floats the sheet over his head, occasionally wrestling the little ghost form down.

Through the wall, I can’t make out words, only Dev’s staccato whoops and giggles, followed by Warren’s deep-throated purr, which sounds like
hubbidee hubadub hubbadee…hum sally bum bum
. The timbre’s barely tolerable, for when Warren speaks to me, the airspace is sandpapered and abraded, spiked as a bondage collar. I can’t look at him without hearing some muffled verdict pounded out by my own heartbeat—
guilty guilty guilty
.

Across the months, I start to find myself first one place, then another, arriving in situations as if tipped out of a bucket.

I find myself in a restaurant before noon ordering a pricey Bloody Mary, telling myself the tomato juice makes it a vegetable serving.

I find myself cornered by a drunk writer of substantial reputation at a party. His expectant leer scares me out the door. At the car, I have keys in my hand but no purse. Where’s my purse?

I find myself squatting in the bedroom closet with two incongruent bottles, whiskey and Listerine—the latter with accompanying spit bowl. Despite the dark, it feels safe in here, leaning against the back wall with clothes before my face.

On one of Warren’s school nights, friends I once taught with ring my doorbell holding a twelve-pack, the ambush making me giddy as a prom queen. They pore over my shoe box of Dev’s baby pictures while regaling me with their new projects—a play at Yale, a book of short stories. But even as I giggle and suck down beers, I know Warren’s headlights are gonna swipe the house silent again. Sure enough, he comes in the back door and stops in the living room to shake hands before excusing himself. About eleven, he calls from upstairs, and I find him on the landing, shirtless in boxers.

He whispers, I can’t sleep from the noise. If you don’t ask them to leave, I’ll have to.

I hiss at him, You’re such a control freak.

He says, You knew I was like this when you married me.

The righteous cry of married men everywhere, for it’s a cliché that every woman signs up thinking her husband will change, while every husband signs up believing his wife won’t: both dead wrong.

So I send them home, then stay up nearly all night drinking and staring past the edges of the yard like a rabbit through chicken wire. What happened to those great poems I was going to set the world weeping with? Tomorrow!

How sweet its prospects for a drunkard the night before. There is
no better word. Before the earth hurls itself into sunshine, nothing is not possible. Tomorrow, I will rise at three
A.M
. and log two hours writing before Dev stumps out. I’ll take a five-mile jog, start a cheap but nutritious stew, submit a query letter to
The American Scholar
for an essay. If only I could be left alone for a few days to drink like I want to, I could get my papers graded.

Every mom trails undone chores—dishes in the sink, laundry going wrinkly in the dryer. I lug from room to office to playground reams of ungraded essays. With one hand, I use a fork to fiddle with chicken in a skillet. With the other, my red pen marks comma blunders on the counter. The papers I hand back sport grease stains and grass stains and smudges of homemade applesauce.

One night I get gussied up for a book party Warren would rather have been shot than attend, and sunk in the cavern of a leather armchair, I hold my liquor enough to hear—from the mouths of poets—work I’m itching to read, books I can vanish down into from my grind. The night is a burst of sea spray washed across my face, tangible evidence of a fresh existence only slightly out of reach.

Driving home in the spring rain, I imagine straddling my muscular husband in his desk chair and planting a soft kiss on his mouth.

But coming through the back door, I enter the household’s tentative air, drawing back from the idea like a starfish to an underside touch. I find him typing a paper with the baby monitor on his desk. He glances over. How was it?