An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [36]
"Time," he said.
"How much time?" I asked. "I don't think I can wait three years. Do I have to wait three years like you did with me and Mom?"
Speaking of my mother, there she was again, in the living room, holding a triangle of big beers in both hands. She placed one can in my father's ready claw and he immediately began drinking from it, violently, as if trying to suck up some of the aluminum from the can along with the beer. Then my mother tried to give me a beer, and I held up my hands in protest and said, "Oh no, not me."
About me as a drinker: I wasn't much of one and had a short, bad history of doing it. The few times I'd tried drinking ― in high school, at subdivision barbecues ― I either became too much like myself or not enough, but either way it was always calamity on top of calamity and I found myself saying way too much about too little and doing the wrong things in the wrong places. Once, at my boss's Christmas party (it was vodka I was drinking, more than two glasses, and so too much of it), I passed out for a minute ― passed out but still, like a zombie, remained fully ambulatory and mostly functional ― and when I came to, I found myself in my boss's kitchen, the refrigerator door open and me next to it at the counter, spreading mayonnaise onto two slices of wheat bread and licking the knife after each pass before I stuck it back in the jar. I heard someone cough or gag, looked up, and saw the kitchen's population ― there was a big crowd in there, including my boss, Mr. Janzen, a tall, stern man who had a big nose that he couldn't help, physically speaking, looking down at you with ― staring at me, all of their mouths open and slack, obviously wondering what I thought I was doing, exactly, and all I could think to say was, "Sandwich." Which is what I said. And then, to prove my point, whatever the point was, I ate it. The sandwich, that is.
"I don't really drink," I told my mother.
"You do now," she said, with such certainty that I believed her. I took the can and we all drank our big beers, one after the other, and I discovered that my mother was right: I did drink, and I learned that when you drank, things happened, nearly by themselves. It got dark, and someone turned on the light; it got too quiet and someone turned on the television; the television got too noisy and someone turned it off; we got hungry and someone produced food ― pretzels, chips, popcorn, something we ate right out of the bag. Things happened, and questions were asked, too, that might not have been asked without the beer. I asked my mother, "You got rid of your books because of me, because of what I did and what happened to me, didn't you?" and she said, "Ha!" And then I asked, "Are you still an English teacher?" and she said, "Once an English teacher, always an English teacher." And then I asked, "How can you teach English if you're through with books?" and she said, "It's perhaps easier that way." And then I asked, "Were those stories you told me, those books you made me read, supposed to make me happy?" and she said, "I don't know what they were supposed to do." And then I asked, "Why did you tell me those stories, then? And why did you make me read if the reading wasn't supposed to make me happy?" And she said, "Why don't you ask me questions I can answer?" And then I said, "Dad is a tough old guy, isn't he?" and she said, "No, he's not." And then I asked, "Will you ever forgive him for leaving us?" and she said, "All is forgiven," and raised her beer, and for a second I thought she was going to dump it on my father's head in a kind of baptismal forgiveness. But she didn't, and I asked, "Can people know each other too long, too well?" and she said, "Yes, they can." And then I asked, "What happens to love?" and she said, "Ask your father." And I said, "Dad, what happens to love?" and he said something that sounded like, "Urt" And then my mother asked me, "You have a job, correct? Are you going to work tomorrow?" And I said, "I think I'll quit," and I did so, right there, called up Pioneer Packaging and told the answering machine