Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [72]
Come in Your sweetness, come in Your fullness;
Stamp Your own image deep on my heart.
25
Sunday, 2 p.m. | Touhy Trailer Park | Addison
Barely a sliver of sunlight invaded Brady and Peter’s tiny bedroom through the cheap, bent blinds, but it was enough to make Brady roll over and bury his throbbing head under his pillow. He let out a long groan. Why did he do this to himself?
Brady had never really liked beer, and when his friends had told him it was an acquired taste, he wondered why they bothered to acquire it. He drank only to look cool and get a buzz, certainly not for the taste. And hangovers like this—his worst ever—were the price. Every beat of his heart sent shock waves through his skull that reached his cheekbones. Why? Why?
To celebrate. Both shows Saturday had been as good as—some said better than—opening night. The local paper had shown up and interviewed everybody—cast, crew, relatives, fans—and taken pictures galore. Brady opened his eyes in the darkness afforded by the pillow and squinted against the raging pain. Before heading to Stevie Ray’s to drink himself into oblivion, he’d had the presence of mind to leave Petey a note and a dollar so he could buy a Sunday paper. If he ever felt able to get out of bed, he’d see if it was there.
Oh no. He had wet himself in the night. And his breath tasted and smelled of vomit. How come they never showed that on the commercials?
How had he even gotten home? He didn’t remember. Stevie Ray’s wife had stomped out from their bedroom periodically to quietly but fiercely insist that they call it a night. And she kept saying that Stevie should get Brady home, as if he couldn’t get there himself. But he could, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he?
Brady sat up and let the sheet and blanket slide off. He planted his feet on the floor and held his head in his hands. Never again. Never, never, never. He licked his lips, which made him gag.
“I got your paper,” Peter said, and Brady looked up. Or tried to. He forced one eye open just a slit to see Peter in the corner, watching him.
“You read it?”
“Yeah. Cool. Lots of pictures and stuff about you.”
“No kiddin’? Get it.”
“You stink, you know.”
“I know. You like the play?”
“Sure, ’course. But I didn’t know where you were last night.”
“I wrote you a note.”
“But you didn’t say where you were gonna be, so I didn’t know till Stevie Ray brought you home.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. Really late. You were laughing and singing.”
“Seriously?”
“Some song from the play, but not as good.”
“I can imagine.”
“Stevie Ray must really like you.”
“Friends help each other.”
“Help them throw up? He was in the bathroom with you while you were puking your guts out.”
“Ugh.”
“I think you wet your bed too.”
“That’s what booze will do to you, Petey. Don’t ever—”
“Don’t worry! But why do you?”
Brady shrugged. “’Cause I’m an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.”
“I don’t get it, Brady. You were so good in that show and everybody loved you. Why’d you go and get drunk after that?”
Brady shook his head. “Thought I was celebrating. Stupid. Just stupid.”
“I don’t want a brother who’s stupid. I was telling everybody who I was at the play. They said I must be really proud. I’ve never been so proud.”
“But not right now, huh?”
“Nope.”
“All right. I’m sorry, man. I really am. Funny thing is, I don’t even like beer. Stevie Ray does. Loves it. He’s learned to drink only on weekends after his gigs so it doesn’t affect his playing.”
“Whatever.”
“I said I was sorry. Now bring me the paper.”
“Take a shower first.”
“Just bring it!”
But when Peter went to get it, Brady staggered into the shower. At least they had water pressure. Not much heat, but the tepid liquid on his head offered some relief.
Adamsville
“I feel almost guilty, Grace,” Thomas said, resting on the couch with his Sunday paper, an NFL game on TV. He had changed out of his church clothes after lunch.
“This is like heaven,” she said. “You used to be so tired by now you’d doze off during dinner and nap the whole afternoon away.”
“I may yet,” he said. “What is