While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [19]
“Don’t worry about the drink, Ned,” said Charley.
“Did I say I was worried?” said Ned.
“Doesn’t take much imagination to guess what you’re thinking,” said Charley. The most obvious trap that an alcoholic could fall into was a celebration, and Charley knew this perfectly well.
“That’s the most flattering thing anybody’s said to me all week,” said Ned.
“This is no ordinary celebration,” said Charley.
“They never are, Charley,” said Ned.
“What I am celebrating today,” said Charley, “is the one thing that really turned out well.”
“Uh huh,” said Ned. His face remained cheerfully quizzical. “Go on and celebrate if you want to, Charley—but not in here.”
Charley closed his hand around his glass. “Yes—” he said, “in here, and pretty darn soon, too.” He had been planning the dramatic gesture of the drink too long to be talked out of it now. He was fully aware of the danger the drink represented. He was scared to death of it. It represented as terrifying a test as walking a tightrope across Niagara Falls.
But the danger was the whole point.
“Ned—” said Charley, “that boy is going to watch in horror while I swallow this drink. And would you like to know what is going to happen to me?” Charley leaned forward. “Nothing,” he said. He sat back again. “You can watch in horror,” he said, “and anybody else who wants to can watch in horror, too. Sell tickets. It ought to be worth a pretty good price of admission, because Charley Brewer is going to take his first drink in eight years—swallow it right down—and that drink isn’t going to touch him!
“Why?” said Charley, and he put the question so loudly that it was heard across the room.
“Why isn’t this stuff poison for me today?” he said, pointing down at his glass. He answered his own question softly, sibilantly. “Because today I have nothing but a complete success to think about, Ned. This is one day my failures won’t come crowding in on me, gibbering and squawking.”
Charley shook his head in incredulous gratitude. “That kid—that lovely kid of mine,” he said. “I can take a drink today, Ned, because today I am not a disappointed man.”
Robert Ryan, Jr., parked his car in the paved lot behind the Atlantic House. It was the first stop in his married life, and his new bride was keeping track of all firsts.
“This is our very first stop,” said Nancy Holmes Ryan. She pretended to memorize the place, to find love poetry in the backs of a dime store, a shoe store, a radio store, and the Atlantic House. “I’ll always remember this place as the very first place we stopped,” she said.
Robert got out of the car promptly, went around to Nancy’s side, opened her door.
“Wait,” said Nancy. “Now that you’re married, you’ll have to learn how to wait a little.” She turned the car mirror in order to see her own reflection in it. “You’ll have to learn—” she said, “a woman can’t just rush into things like a man. She’s got to get ready a little.”
“Sorry,” said Robert.
“Especially if she’s going to meet a new relative,” said Nancy. She frowned at herself in the mirror—and then she tried, in quick succession, a whole series of expressions by which she might be judged. “I—I hardly know anything about him,” she said.
“Uncle Charley?” said Robert.
“You haven’t said much,” said Nancy. “Tell me—tell me a few little things.”
Robert shrugged. “Dreamer,” he said.
Nancy tried to make something of this, could make very little. “Dreamer?” she echoed.
“Lost everything he had in different crazy businesses,” said Robert.
Nancy nodded. “I see.” She still saw very little. “Bob?”
“Hm?” said Robert.
“What does that have to do with dreams?” she said.
“Never sees things the way they really are,” said Robert. His