The Warmest December (7 page)

The walk home would seem too long and the conversation too good to move away from the storefront just yet, so they would remove the brown bags that were tucked neatly beneath their armpits, and carefully reveal the glass heads of their bottles. A hasty look over their shoulders while their fingers worked at removing the cap. Quick sips would follow and then a grateful exhale as the liquor hit the spot, filled the need, quelled the pain. The caps would be replaced and the bottle heads would vanish back into the brown bags while the conversation rolled on.

It was easier now; the words ran in steady streams, and during the lulls, scarce as they were, or the quiet considerations of words just passed, the act would be repeated— over and over again until the bottle was empty or the sun too hot, the wind too cold. But mostly, until the bottle was empty.

His drinking buddies.

Last names were a mystery between these men, phone numbers never changed hands, and invitations to a family barbecue or an extra ticket to the baseball game would never emerge. But they could share a bottle between them, wrap their lips around the glass circle and pass it on to the next man and the next man and the next man.

They would promise to do these things—the barbecues or baseball games—but a pen never seemed handy or the outing date unsure. It didn’t matter; by the time the bottle was finished those promises had been long forgotten, brushed beneath the blackness of inebriation.

We reached the corner before he spoke. “Give it to me,” he said and my heart sank. For a moment I thought of playing stupid, fluttering my eyes and cocking my head to one side in an act of idiocy. I started to do just that, staring at the callused palm of his outstretched hand.

I knew he wanted the lollipop. Hy-Lo only allowed us candy on Halloween and Christmas, otherwise he forbade it. “You think I’m going to spend my life savings getting your raggedy teeth fixed? You got another thing coming!” he would say whenever he caught us with candy. I’d find out later he had other plans for his life savings.

Delia felt sorry for us and would sneak bags of Now and Laters, SweeTarts, and Snickers bars into the house like contraband, warning us to keep it hidden until Hy-Lo was out of the apartment.

I slowly handed him the lollipop and watched hopelessly as he tossed it into the gutter.

The following day and many days after that I became his mule, walking the four blocks to Beehive Liquors, a fivedollar bill clutched tightly in my hand. I would lower my head as I crossed the threshold of the store, keeping my eyes fixed on my badly laced sneakers and far away from the wideeyed stares of the adults I took my place behind in line.

Once at the counter Hal did not offer me his wide toothless smile or his hand in greeting like he did on the day of our introduction; instead he would snap his fingers impatiently at me until I raised my hand and dropped the crumpled five-dollar bill on the wooden countertop.

“What he want?” he’d ask, his back already turned away from me. I could hear the cash register bells go off and the loud clank of the drawer as it slid open.

“A fifth of Smirnoff,” I would reply to my sneakers. I could feel the eyes of the adults behind me boring down on me. I could hear the quiet murmers of disapproval like the wings of a hundred butterflies at my back.

“Her parents oughta be ashamed sending her in here.”

He would ignore the comments, maybe even throw the person a dirty look or snuff loudly and clear his throat. Their words did not stop him from grabbing the bottle from the shelf and shoving it into the brown paper bag.

Coins would rattle and the sound of paper dollars would rustle until Hal came face-to-face with me once again. He would place the bottle gently on the counter with one hand and slam the dollar-fifty change down with the other. “Next!” he’d call out loudly, instantly dismissing me until I came to him again.

I was Hy-Lo’s liquor mule for months before Delia finally became aware of what was going on. She’d left work early one afternoon and walked up on me as I made my way back home.

“Kenzie, what you doing down this side of the avenue?” she asked breathlessly. She had not noticed the brown bag tucked beneath my small armpit. I carried it the way I saw my father carry it. I had to squeeze my arm tightly to my side to keep it from slipping out and crashing down to the ground.

“I had to go the liquor store,” I said matter-of-factly, as if this were the way of the world for a ten-year-old child. Delia’s eyes opened in surprise, she stopped dead in her tracks, and her mouth dropped open so wide that the pedestrians passing her turned to look over their shoulders in an attempt to catch the sight that so struck her. All they saw was me, a little girl on her way home.

“What did you say?” She was behind me again; her hands grabbed hold of my shoulders and spun me full around, sending the package flying from beneath my arm and landing with a splattering, stinking crash to the ground.

I didn’t need to repeat myself; what she’d thought she’d heard was apparently correct, the evidence lying broken and shattered on the ground before her.

“I can’t believe you’re ignorant enough to send a child to the liquor store! I can’t believe you would do something like this!” Delia was in a rage. Her face was streaked from anger and her index finger became a dangerous switchblade slicing the air. She waved it in my father’s face with reckless abandon, knowing full well that at any second he could reach out and snap it in two.

I had been sent to my room. Malcolm and I sat crosslegged on the floor, our ears pressed against the closed bedroom door as we listened to our mother read Hy-Lo the riot act.

“She is a child, for God’s sake, Hy-Lo. If you wanna drink, y
ou
go get it!” We heard Delia walk across the floor toward our room and we jumped up and scurried to our beds. Halfway there she changed her mind and turned back toward the kitchen, a new flood of angry words spewing from her mouth.

She was winning this battle only because Hy-Lo had not had a drink. If he had, Delia would have been blocking punches by this time. In his sober state, Hy-Lo was quiet, almost mouselike. Now he stood staring out the kitchen window into the backyard, allowing Delia to scream her anger in his face. It went on for more than an hour, until he got tired of walking from room to room trying to escape her. Finally he grabbed his keys and walked out of the house.

The bedroom door flew open and Delia stormed in. Her eyes were red and her face was sad and tired like an overused dishtowel. “How long have you been going to the liquor store for
him,
Kenzie?” The
him
came out like snot; the sound of it made my skin crawl. I shrugged my shoulders and picked at my cuticles. Delia sighed and came and sat beside me on the bed. She looked at me, long and hard, as if she was trying to make a decision. She pulled at the barrette that hung at the end of one of my twisted ponytails and sighed again.

Her eyes moved to Malcolm, who was lying on his back.

He had a G.I. Joe figurine in his left hand, sailing the toy through the air above his head as he sucked frantically on the thumb of his right hand. This was how Malcolm dealt with the madness that was as constant as the air we breathed.

“Malcolm, I told you you’re gonna end up with bucked teeth.” Her words were heavy but did not mask what was really on her mind. “Kenzie.” She said my name once and waited for my eyes to look up into hers.

But I wouldn’t, I just kept staring at my fingers and wishing myself far away. A long moment passed and then I felt her fingers fiddling with my barrette again, this in place of the embrace she knew I needed, but for some reason could not give to me. Delia stood and left the room, leaving the door open behind her.

After a while I could hear the pots clang against the metal burners of the stove, the squeaky oven door open and close, and then the apartment was filled with the good smells of baked chicken and simmering wild rice. My body relaxed and the knots in my stomach loosened and I was finally able to leave my ragged cuticles to their healing process.

Malcolm was asleep; his thumb hung loosely at the side of his mouth, the G.I. Joe doll rested at the base of his soft round cheek. It was only the quiet before the storm.

When the front door opened it was nearly eight o’clock. Dinner finished, the dishes washed and put away, my brother and I were scrubbed clean and in our pajamas sitting quietly on the couch in front of the television watching
The Muppet
Show.
Delia was in her bedroom on the phone. Her soft words and easy laughter sailed out into the living room, mixing in with the Muppets’ quick slapstick and odd laughter.

Hy-Lo walked into the living room and stood directly in front of the television. Neither one of us tilted our heads in an attempt to see around him; instead we straightened our backs and said, “Good evening,” in our tiny, fearful voices.

Hy-Lo’s eyes were red. We could smell the sharp scent of alcohol and cigarettes as it sailed off his breath, extinguishing the happy smells of dinner and Mr. Bubble that still lingered in the air. He said nothing for a long time and then he raised his hand and extended his index finger toward our bedroom and we understood it was time for bed.

The sound of my mother’s voice disappeared as soon as Hy-Lo had walked in. I supposed then that the bubble that seemed to surround me whenever I was in my father’s presence had locked out the sound. But I know, now, that my mother had uttered a quick and quiet goodbye to her friend and had hastily placed the receiver down in its cradle and waited for whatever was to be that night.

Without objection, my brother and I stood, turned, and walked quietly to our bedroom, each of us throwing a pleading look at Delia as we passed her open door. The show was not over and bedtime was a full hour away.

Delia shook her head, but said nothing. She had already fought her battle earlier that day.

We cried ourselves to sleep, weeping pitifully into the softness of our pillows, feeling angry that we could not delight in the make-believe world of Kermit and Miss Piggy.

We heard his shoes fall heavily to the floor and the sound of the bedsprings as they gave way against the weight of his body. I imagined that Delia must have been blue from holding her breath, bracing herself for the fight that she was sure would come.

I could hear him mumble something to her and then the low curling chime of the rotary as she dialed the seven numbers that would connect her to Pastalo’s Trucking. “Yes, um—this is Mrs. Lowe. Fine, thank you. Um, Hyman—yes, no, I know … but he’s very sick. Fever. Vomiting …”

Delia spilled out excuses, her voice sickeningly humble while Hy-Lo’s boss screamed and threatened her husband’s future with his company. They knew he was a drunk. He’d been sent home at least once every month.

“Yes, thank you,” Delia said and then hung up. I could hear her swallow and the loud splash as her pride plunked down hard into the pit of her stomach.

My body tensed and the sound of my heart echoed in my ears. I remained that way until I heard the heavy snoring sounds of my father and the lonely words my mother spoke aloud to herself as she sat smoking in the kitchen.

Chapter Six

I
sat huddled in a corner at the back of the room, a Styrofoam cup of bitter black coffee in my hands. Cigarette smoke loomed around me like a gray cloud and quiet chatter cradled the screeching sounds of chairs being moved and rearranged.

I wouldn’t speak today. In fact, I hadn’t spoken at all since the day I first stepped foot in this room. Six months and counting and not a word had I uttered. I just needed to be there with people who were like me.

I didn’t even speak to Glenna about the time I spent in those rooms, among those people. She never really asked me how it was going; she was good about things like that. She didn’t want to make me feel different, even though I was. Well, maybe not different, but definitely sick. It got so that whenever we were together Glenna would look straight into my eyes to make sure they stayed clear for the first time in years, and so she had her answer without ever having to ask.

This particular meeting took place in a public school, in classroom 316. Artwork and graded spelling tests that held large smiley faces or red metallic stars hung from the walls of the room. I eyed the scraggly letters and poorly painted flowers and was reminded of my own third-grade handiwork and my eighth year on earth with Hy-Lo.

I shuddered and wondered if these children had fathers that polished off a fifth of vodka while forcing them to sing—over and over again—the alphabet song because they just couldn’t seem to get it right once they got to the L-M-N-O-P part.

I hated that damn song.

“Hello, my name is Joseph and I’m an alcoholic.”

I tilted my head to see Joseph the alcoholic, but his face was blocked by someone who hadn’t found a seat yet. “Hello, Joseph,” the crowd replied. “Hello, Joseph,” I said to myself and sipped my coffee.

Um, Joseph, do you think the parents of the children here make them
sing the ABC song? Did your parents ever make you sing the ABC song … over and over again—Joseph? Joseph!

I tried to shake the words from my head. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, forcing my brain to concentrate on something other than my thoughts. I had had these episodes before, days when my mind just freaked out and ran amok.

Days when I was sure I was insane.

Joseph, did he, Joseph, did he? abcdefghijklmn …

I was going to lose this battle, my mouth was going to open up and the nonsense running around in my brain was going to spill out and then everyone would think I was crazy.

I gulped the hot coffee until my tongue went numb and my throat closed up. My brain rattled on for a while, but my tongue was dead and my throat was swollen and finally my brain surrendered. I had won the round.

The meeting went on for almost two hours; it was almost ten-thirty by the time I stepped out into the cold black night. I felt better having spent time among others with stories so similar to my own. It felt good to know that I was not suffering alone and that so many others shared my fear.