Drunk

Drunk

Melanie tipped the bottle up, let the wine slide down her throat. It went with such ease. She took another swig, and let it fester on her tongue. After the first cork popped out, it became easy for her to sink to the kitchen floor. She tried to erase everything, drown it out. Her ears still stung from the screech of his Mustang burning rubber down the driveway. The buzz kicked in and she lost the will to move her fingers, wrapped around the bottle with unusual tightness.

The red from the wine cast itself on the walls, the ceiling, the apples of Melanie's cheeks. She dragged her body into an awkward fetal position and held the bottle close to her chest. She brought it up for a sip but swallowed it in quick gulps. Drinking deep from the bottle, she worried she would be stuck on the kitchen floor alone with her thoughts and a mess of alcohol.

"He'll come back..." she whispered. Melanie lowered the bottle with trembling hands. "He loves me."

"He's not coming back." Melanie looked to see her sister framed in the doorway. The light climbed up her body but failed to reach her face. The woman kicked aside the knocked over trash and let out a deep sigh.

"What do you mean, he's not? He's my boyf-boyfriend."

"No he isn't," she said, "he never was." Melanie winced at the words.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa," she moaned.

"Shut up."

"But-"

"Shut up and finish your fucking wine," Vanessa said. Her feet entered the kitchen and skirted around a little puddle bleeding out from under the fridge. Melanie saw her reach for the roll of paper towels as if her hands had memorized their position and were going through the motions. "I picked up Charlotte from school." She gestured to the wine before pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. She blew out a puff of air and rose her brows. "Again."

"I'm sorry." Melanie repeated. She took a gulp and raised herself on weak hands. Her head spun and she fought back an urge to lean over and spew up everything onto the linoleum floor. The other woman squatted and soaked up some of the spilled wine, avoiding Melanie's eyes. The wine came up easy and soon the trash sat with soaked wads of moscato clinging to the sides.

"Where is she?" Melanie asked. Vanessa dried off her hands and took a good look up and down the frame of the woman crumpled on the floor. She rolled her eyes and reached for her. She hoisted Melanie up by her arms and held one of them behind her neck.

"She's in her room. You're lucky I even brought her back here. If I had it my way, I'd--" Vanessa stopped herself, bit deep into her bottom lip, and shook her head. Melanie began to sob. Tears ran down the front of her blouse. She figured Vanessa took her for a pathetic mother with an ugly habit--a mother sitting on her kitchen floor cradling the cheapest wine in the Palisades. She figured a lot of things before her body fell limp in Vanessa's arms.

***

He came on the brunt edge of summer. The suburb buzzed with the mating of cicadas and the air glued everyone to their clothes in a muggy layer of sweat. The sun had barely reached its high when his red Mustang pulled up. It purred in the driveway, spitting up clouds of exhaust and jittering like a nervous schoolgirl. The car shuddered for a moment, stalled. It let out a last bout of smoke before silencing itself, and Melanie was left facing this strange man in his strange car parked in front of her house.

She peered through the window and scanned him. The man had a sleeve of tattoos crawling up his arms in vines of ink, and his face held a determined grit. A few blemishes here and there, a dark beard catching a few grains of ash off his lit cigarette. Charlotte busied herself over some crayons, so Melanie left her be to stand by the front door. She heard the Mustang open, and waited, one eye pressed to the peephole and her breath held. As if he would somehow look less alien up close. He wore clothes Melanie's ex-husband would have deemed "unprofessional," and his steps carried the weight of a man who didn't have much better to do than to show up at strangers' houses in broad daylight. He tossed the cigarette, smeared the black mess onto her pavement like he owned it.

It took less than a minute for the bell to ring. Melanie swung open the door and scanned the man up and down before he could get a word in and say something stupid.

"Yes?" she asked. He rose a brow, peered into the room behind her. Melanie placed a hand up on the frame. He's got some nerve peeking into my house like it's a fucking zoo, she thought. He cleared his throat and took a step back. She glanced at her hand and relaxed her arm. Her face reddened.

"Ma'am is your husband home?" he said. Melanie caught herself start to nod, regretted it, stopped herself in hopes he didn't see it.

"I... don't have a husband," she replied. She chose her words carefully. "And I don't have time for anything you're selling. I'm sorry," She started to close it, but his foot squirmed its way in to catch it. Her breathing quickened. She glared at him, pulled the door back, and gave his boot a good slam. He clenched his teeth and let out a chuckle. Something about him gave her pause, whether it be the whites of his teeth or the rugged shape of his skin.

"I'm not trying to sell you nothing, but if you would kindly remove the door, I do have something for you." He fished a small muddy box from his bag and held it out to her as if it were a peace offering. "This was dropped on my porch this morning. It was addressed to a Mr...?" Melanie closed her eyes and cringed at what she knew would follow.

"Aldrich," she murmured, "Edgar Aldrich." The arch in his brow rose higher than his forehead would allow, and the creases were deep enough to lose a set of keys in.

"Is he here?"

"Divorced." She blinked. He blinked. It was a mutual thing, and Melanie hated it. Before he had a chance to respond, she snatched the package from him and tossed it inside. "Go on now," She warned, "Get going. Who do you think you are rolling in here and leaving your cigarette butts on my drive? This ain't your place." The audacity of this man, to peek into my house, shove his dirty foot in my door, and leave his neon sign car parked in my drive, she stewed. It was enough to make her teeth grind, but the cold blue glint in his eyes lulled her and she found herself smirking.

The man hesitated, his eyes flitting between Melanie and his car, his mouth pursing like he'd been sucking on lemons.

"Say, can I call on you?" he asked. Melanie stepped back, stunned. It took her a second to fully understand the brevity of his words.

"Excuse me?" she started. "Do you really think-"

"You've got some fight in you," he interrupted. His hand came up and rested itself by hers. "A beautiful woman with a good head on her shoulders." He looked to Charlotte sitting in the kitchen with her coloring book. "And you're raising that daughter of yours alone? Anyone who can do that is right by me." He focused those eyes on Melanie, running them up and down her body, fingers tracing the bits of her flesh. He leaned in and lowered his voice. His hot breath tickled her neck. "Saturday night, 8 o'clock. Be ready."

She wanted to protest, tell him to take his car and his tattoos back to wherever he came from, but before she knew it, the man had already hopped through his car window and pulled off. The only thing left behind was the splatter of ash on the driveway.

"I didn't even catch his name," she murmured. Emotions she didn't recognize pooled in her stomach and gurgled. They stretched up and threatened to choke her, catching at the base of her throat. Melanie swallowed them down and closed the front door.

***

Melanie heard the door open. She knew someone stood on the other side, ear pressed to the cool wood and breath quiet as to not disturb her. Her ears rang, and it made her uneasy. She assumed Vanessa turned on the lamp while she was out, because outside the sun straddled the horizon and cast up its last rays into the clouds. The grogginess remained, and it thumped in tandem with her heartbeat.

"Mommy?" Charlotte whispered, "are you awake?" With a mouth sewn shut by saliva, all Melanie could do was groan. Stay away from the big bad wolf, she thought. She lifted her head towards the door and watched Charlotte teeter in with her stuffed bear tucked under the crook of her arm. She smiled with a set of mismatched baby teeth broken up by a few tooth fairy visits and a fall off the couch. Her little feet waddled over to Melanie's bedside, and she kneeled down to meet her eye to eye.

"Hey, sweetheart," Melanie mumbled. Her hand stretched out to stroke a few of her runaway hairs back down. "How was school?" She avoided her eyes, and added, "Sorry I couldn't be there." Charlotte shrugged.

"Good!" she shouted. Her voice tore up Melanie's ears. "Nessie said you fell asleep."

"Did she now?"
"Yeah," she continued, "She told me you were sick." She leaped onto the bed, digging her bony knees into Melanie's stomach. The urge to vomit returned with a bite.

"Careful-"

"And she said Paul's gone." Melanie trembled at the name and forced a smile, forced herself to think of a lie to tell the girl when she wasn't in disorienting pain. It proved to be a difficult thing. "Mommy?"

"Yes, baby."

"Why are you crying?" She ran her tiny fingers over the woman's face. They came up shining and wet. She nuzzled herself up under her chin. "Are you crying cause of Paul? He'll come back, mommy. He will." Melanie tried to shake her head, but it only made her dizzier, tilting the room like a ride at a carnival and staining the edges of her vision black. "Don't cry." Melanie didn't have the heart to tell her.

They laid there until a second knock rattled the door.

"Come in, Vanessa," she croaked. Her sister peeked in and smirked at Charlotte.

"It's getting late--shouldn't someone be in bed?" She wondered out loud. The girl giggled and turned to look at Melanie again.

"Night, mommy," she said. She planted a circle of kisses around her face like a rosary.

"Night, baby," Melanie replied. As she left, the room grew colder and a silence seeped in through the open door. Vanessa went to the bed, seated herself on the edge, and refused to make eye contact. She waited for Charlotte's footfalls to fade before speaking.

"I'm sorry." she let her eyes drift over Melanie. Their hands found each other, and those blasted tears sprung up again as if summoned by name. "Look, I--. I didn't like him. And I don't think he was good for you. But I love you, and I'm here for you." She paused and loosened her grip. "So I'm going to have to throw away your supply." She grinned and winked. Melanie laughed, and she laughed, and they were laughing together, and the guilt inside Melanie seemed to recede, and she concluded she felt alright for the first time since that red mustang pulled away.

"That's perfectly fine," Melanie replied, "Take it all, I don't care what happens to it."

"Well I hope so," Vanessa turned to face the door. Her hand slipped out and drew back into her folded arms. She leaned over and cut the lamp off. "Because I'm not leaving until I know my niece is safe with you." She stood and left Melanie to mull over her words in the dark.

***

Saturday came and along with it came the Mustang. Melanie felt unsure of what do with herself, so she opted for a coat of mascara and a swipe of red lipstick. Vanessa sat with Charlotte in the kitchen. She had asked her sister earlier to come watch the girl, a tinge of guilt in her voice. Vanessa agreed, but Melanie sensed her suspicion. She noted the lowering of her eyes and the tensing of her shoulders upon hearing the description of his "visit."

Now, as she glanced out the bedroom door and peeped the two laughing, Melanie nervously bit her nails and tossed thoughts around her head. I feel bad leaving them here to go off with him, she thought. It isn't right. That concept of right versus wrong didn't last long. The low drone of an engine floated in through the window. She picked up her purse and hurried towards the door, towards the tattooed man in his polished car. Melanie threw the two a wave of her hand and stepped into the open air.

He revved his engine as she made her way down the porch. His eyes hidden behind a pair of shades, his hair tucked under a baseball cap-- she couldn't distinguish the look on his face. She opened the door, nodded at him, and sat down. The car door shut, and his right hand flit to a tissue in his glove box. He raised it to her lips, wiped off the layer of lipstick, and tossed the filthy thing in his backseat. She blushed and smacked his arm.

"Don't touch me like that," she warned him. Instead of giving her a response, he lit another cigarette and inhaled. The smoke hit the windshield and slithered back out his window.

"Sorry," he said, "It just pains me to see someone pretty like you covering it up with shit like that." She sat back and let her eyes wander as he started up the car and took off down the driveway. The night stuck to the streetlamps, clung around the light and cast shadows over the car in a slow pattern as they drove on. Melanie squirmed in her seat, and the two didn't exchange words again until they reached the outskirts of the suburb.

"Where are we going?" she asked. He slowed the car until it rolled gently past the last house in the neighborhood.

"I'm going to take you stargazing."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep. And then maybe go for a swim."

"But I don't have anything to swim in." He laughed and let his eyes glaze her body.

"I know." The car continued on into the woods. The sound of crickets serenading one another created a wall of sound that felt intimate as the car weaved along the dirt road through the trees. Melanie knew these woods well. She recalled spending her childhood hiding behind the big oak trunks and swinging off a rope into the watering hole in the deepest recesses of the forest.

"What's your name?" Melanie whispered.

"Paul," he answered. Paul flicked his bud into the trees and used his free hand to pop a mint in his mouth. "I don't think I caught yours either."

"Melanie." she said.

"I figured."

"How's that?"

"A beautiful woman deserves a beautiful name."

"You're good at throwing around those compliments."

"I know." And with that, he killed the engine. Melanie found herself in front of a large clearing. Trees bordered the field of tall grass as if they were circling up for prayer. Paul climbed out his window and went to open her door, and she stepped out onto the wet grass. Her arms shook as the cool night air licked at bare skin. Paul removed his coat and wrapped her up. She didn't push him away. Something instinctual pulled her close to his side, and even with the stench of tobacco still on his breath, she felt safe. He grasped her hand and led her to the center. With a huff, he plopped down and laid himself out like a child doing snow angels. She held down her skirt and joined him.

"When was the last time you did this?" she turned to him. He licked his lips and kept his eyes on the stars.

"When I was a kid," he said. "I used to want to be an astronaut. I would come out here every weekend and sit with my telescope, or just be with my thoughts." Melanie stared at their hands linked in between them and pulled hers out. She tucked it under her dress.

"I wish I could do that sort of stuff again," she mused. "Now I'm old and my daughter doesn't like going outside much."

"You're not old," he argued. "What do you think we're doing right now? Just because you've got some years on you doesn't mean you can't lay out and look at the stars."

"I guess so--"

"No, not 'I guess so.'" Melanie held her breath and resisted saying much else. For some reason, she let a tear slip out and run down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and glanced at him. He stared at her and shook his head. They stilled, their bodies stiffening as the grass embraced their curves and merged with them. The moon held Melanie in a trance and the stars twisted into different shapes. They were only there an hour before Paul reached for her hand again. She gave it. They rose, and Melanie was at once in the car and gazing out the window.

He drove deeper. The trees thickened, and the road grew rough as they hit roots and potholes.

"Where are we going now?" she told him.

"Swimming." Melanie didn't protest. Paul took her to the center of the wood, the old swimming hole coming quickly into view. He parked right by where the rope used to hang and left the car running with its headlights piercing the treeline in large yellow shafts. He stripped down to his briefs, Melanie to her bra and undergarments. His tattoos snaked from his arms across his chest, made a loop around his abdomen and crawled back up to just under the base of his neck. They were jumbled up images, fragments in a funhouse mirror warped and faded in some areas. A thin layer of black hair ran over his chest and down the valley of his stomach. She gulped and turned her attention to the swimming hole.

Her eyes peered over the grassy ledge and widened at the sight of the black water, still save for a few occasional ripples. She closed them. The sound of running feet came in every direction until she looked to see Paul leap out into the night. His body floated for a second as the beams from the Mustang hit his tattoos and then, he plummeted. The splash he made set off a family of annoyed birds hiding out in the trees and the black mirror shattered into hundreds of shards reflecting the sky overhead. He came up, took in a gulp of air, shook his hair, met her staring eyes, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted for her to jump in--the gleam of the moon on his teeth and a brightness in his eyes. Melanie grinned and let her feet lift off the ledge. She raised her arms and fell into the water, and into him.

***

The air fell upon the grass and left a layer of dew. Melanie clutched a mug between weak fingers and pretended to drink it, her sister sitting adjacent to her on the bench bolted to her front porch. The brisk air whispered things to Melanie, things she didn't want to hear. He left you because you're a drunk. He left you because you can't raise your child. He left you because you're too much to handle. The thoughts came in steady streams and her hands shook with their potency. She took a sip. The black coffee stung and scratched the back of her throat. The pair looked out onto the lawn, the sprinklers going off, the birds frozen on the low telephone lines.

"I miss him," Melanie started.

"You never told me what happened," Vanessa said. She shifted to meet her sister's eyes.

"He left me. He caught me in the kitchen, yelled at me, and left." Melanie fought to get the words out. "They always leave." She struggled to remain calm as the wind picked up around them and stirred up the birds and the trees. Vanessa took her hand and squeezed.

"What do you mean he caught you?" She waited, tucking a chunk of hair behind her ear and out of the wind. Melanie shook her head. She seldom shared these types of things with her sister. And even if she wanted to, the words refused to string together properly and the choked-up feeling in her gut threatened to rise up at every opportune moment. Melanie assumed she gave up after a minute of cold glances and faltered breaths shooting steam between them. She took another sip of the coffee and left herself grow numb to the frigid air. It would be warming up soon, and her daughter would be stirring awake in the bed her ex-husband bought, wrapped up in the blanket Paul bought. This thought did not offer her any reassurance.

"He took me places I wanted to go, brought me back to places I never thought I'd see again. He was who our mother always warned us about. And being with him was like experiencing what I couldn't have. I was free. I wasn't like... this." The quick darting of her sister's eyes told her many things--frustration, anger, confusion.

"I-I'm going inside," Vanessa murmured. She rose and left her, just as Paul left her, as Edgar left her. Melanie bundled herself deeper into the wool shawl, feeling the slightest bit empty. A flask came out her pocket and emptied itself into the mug. She turned to look back into the front window, raised the cup to her lips, and shared a drink with her reflection.

***

"What the hell are you doing?!" Paul shouted. His hand came up, Melanie screamed, the bottle smashed against the wall, she hit him in the chest, he grabbed her by the fists, she stumbled back into a chair and broke down. The event played out in less than a minute, but Melanie felt it all happen as a month of arguing, fighting, shouting, and drinking erupted in the small space of her kitchen. He stepped away from her, his boots grinding glass into the linoleum, his face sweating out into the leather of his vest, and his eyes wavering at the sight of her slumped on the chair with her face in her arms and her screaming in his ears.

"I'm sorry," she wailed, "I'm sorry." Paul knocked over her pile of bottles lying on the table and sent them crashing.

"This is the last time, Melanie!" He threatened. "I told you to stop sending these, and to put the fucking bottle down for more than two seconds! Was that too much to ask?" She cried out in response and shrank down in front of him into a pitiful mess.

"I love you," she replied. His fists tightened and the whites in his knuckles almost broke the skin.

"You don't love me," he whispered. "If you loved me, these fucking boxes would've gone away." He kicked over the cardboard absorbing the wine. "You would've stopped when I told you to stop." She didn't see his tears as he stormed from the kitchen. The newest package addressed to Edgar Aldrich sat on the floor, torn open in a fit of rage. Letters of reconciliation torn into shreds. Gifts tossed in the garbage. Lipstick prints smeared. Delivered to Melanie's bungalow earlier that morning, the box's return to sender label held Melanie's address in cursive letters.