Six People And An Intervention

SIX PEOPLE AND AN INTERVENTION
By Derek Wheatley
WISCONSIN

A half dozen sit in a circular shape in the living room of a large house on Deerow Drive. Six people waiting, one person missing. They await his arrival. Each of the six, nervous, locked in their own anxious minds. Their bodies displaying little or none of the inner turmoil they are themselves struggling with. The house belongs to the person who hasn’t arrived yet. One of the six present rents a room in the house. He has gathered the sextet for this occasion. The six are concerned for the welfare of the one. He has been ragged lately; drifting quickly towards a bleak future of possible unemployment, followed by house repossession, social security reliance, rehab, homelessness, crippling illness, death. That is the pattern, the downfall, that each of the six here this evening have envisioned for their family member/friend. Over the fireplace, a clock ticks. There is more than an odd glance in the direction of the moving hands, by the six. The one is expected back within the next half hour, but it would not be completely out of character for him to disappear for the best part of the evening, or even the whole night. Conversation in the room is almost non-existent, and where there is some, it is small-talk or whispered words to the closest ear. They are all here for one reason: to save a soul from destroying itself with alcohol. They are here for an intervention.

The Renter’s Marching Powder:

David Kovac asks his guests if they would like something to drink. All but one asks for water; following the lead of the ever-mouthy Lily. He gladly leaves the silence of the room. Bottles of chilled water are balanced on their sides, in pyramids on two shelves of the fridge. It requires a still, delicate touch to remove the bottles without collapsing the structures. David is neither delicate nor still. His nose is itchy. He can feel the pulse in his neck beat rhythmically. A thin coating of sweat tickles his brow. The collar of his t-shirt moistens slowly, almost noticeably. The pyramids collapse into rubble. His nose is full, runny and needs to be blown badly. His sinuses are aching, throbbing with a bitter persistence which causes the odd head and earache in the left side of his head. He takes the four cold bottles back to the living room; handing each out with a fake but generous smile on his hollowed out face. He excuses himself. He climbs the stairs hurriedly. He takes a blood-crusted tissue from his pocket and relieves his nose of its contents. From his sock drawer, he produces a small bag of cocaine; his marching powder. On a vanity mirror, he tips out some of the bags goods. He takes a dusted razor blade from his beside locker and dashes it expertly through the powder. A crisp dollar bill from his pocket is rolled into a tight cylinder. He places one end in his right nostril, one end on the start of the straight line. He pushes in his left, clogged nostril tight with the index finger of his free hand. Running the dollar bill quickly across the pin-like line of cocaine, he inhales harshly. He rubs at his nose; holding back the desire to sneeze.

He rejoins the group. Silence pervades. He takes a seat on the large leather armchair where the one missing usually sits. A small marble-topped table to his left has a variety of ringed stains on it; all different sizes, depending on the vessel that the one was drinking his alcoholic beverage from on any given night: a bottle, a can, a wine glass, a tumbler. There are a few near-miss burn marks on the right arm of the chair, where the missing one dozed with burning cigarette in hand. Close escapes from a scorched death have an average of one every couple of months. David scratches the tip of his nose. His head fizzles. He is dying to speak, it matters little about what. His cocaine coated mind has so many thoughts flying about, sparking synapses lighting up like firework fuses on the 4th of July. But he lets them burn out. He waits for the one’s arrival with an expanding nervous energy.

Mom’s Many Meals:

Wilma Fontaine plugged her large frame between the arms of the rarely used armchair beside the couch. It was rarely used because it was the only chair that it was virtually impossible to see the TV from. She is perspiring a little from the 20 yard walk from the parked car to the living room. She has seen the signs of rampant alcoholism in her son growing over the last couple of years. She dropped a couple of small hints once or twice that were either not picked up on or ignored outright. He arrived at their house every Sunday for a dinner that was always high on the calorie count and low on goodness. Wilma would quite literally deep-fry everything if she was allowed to by her moaning, interfering husband. Night time was her time now. What food she had hidden away from her secret midweek grocery trip, she ate in the middle of the night; 3am, 4am, times when Richard was snoring heavily and out-for-the-count. She would sit in the low-watt light of the bulb above the oven; eating tubs of ice cream, “share bags” of Doritos, packets of cookies, bars of peanut butter infused chocolate; all things fattening and beautiful. She would wipe down everything after like an evidence-conscious burglar. She would hide wrappers in cleaning cupboards her husband would never look in; keeping them there until garbage day when she would sneak them out under the cover of darkness. She would creep back in beside her husband, her weight slipping him towards her with a dip of the mattress, but never waking him. She would tongue at her molars, savouring the lingering flavour of her post-midnight treats; her belly full, her mind celebrating the satisfaction of another night time raid gone undetected.

She sits with her legs crossed at the ankles, legs that are half covered by her up-riding dress. The lower half of her legs are pale and flabby with purple, vine-like veins snaking up from her feet, along her calves, and ending – at least to the onlooker – at the hem of her dress. Her stomach is groaning, but only she could hear it. She appears to be in a daze, lost in a fantasy world of chocolate cake, thickly glazed doughnuts and candy bars. It is a world that she has continuously found herself in since she was about 15 years of age, but a world that she only began indulging in, without restraint, over the last couple of years. Willpower broken, self-control abandoned. Her weight increased at an alarming rate. Now, when she sits in an upright position – like she was now – her top-half resembled the swirled top of an ice cream cone; the tip being her head. Ripples and rolls of fat are prevalent, no matter what kind of baggy top she wears to try and hide them. Her breathing is gasp-y. She continues to dream of food. She wills her son to hurry up. She is so hungry.

Best Friend Marvin, his weed and shattered dreams:

Rather than sit on an already cramped sofa, Marvin decided to stand against a wall, the surveyor of all before him. To someone who didn’t know him, Marvin could appear intimidating. He is six foot three, wears size 15 trainers and has a faraway gaze that resembles the look you could often see in the eyes of a war hero as they reminisce about the first NVA solider they shot down in a hail of bullets across a paddy field. Marvin had been a terrific basketball player in high school; so much so that scouts from some of the most renowned basketball playing colleges in the country had come to watch him in action. He was a small forward. He dominated any key he played in; grabbing at failed shots like his life depended on their catching and subsequent power dunking into the hoop. Everyone loved his goofy personality off court and how it changed as soon as he strode onto the hardwood-maple courts. He turned into a competitive beast. He was the go-to-guy. Whoever played point guard immediately looked for Marvin’s outstretched arms that waved frantically in the air, begging for the ball. He had been the missing one’s best friend since they were 7 years of age, growing up in the same middle-class neighbourhood. The missing one hadn’t much interest in basketball and never played himself, but he loved to watch Marvin on the court. He was there the day of Marvin’s 17th birthday when Marvin got bumped accidently as he dunked another basket – his 29th point of the game. He witnessed the twist of the knee as he landed, heard Marvin’s scream. The auditorium seemed to take a collective breath. Marvin’s right arm stood vertical from his torso, summoning something, summoning help, anything. Four scouts were at that game, one had even come from as far-a-field as UCLA. They would be the last scouts to come and see Marvin play.

Marvin looks over at Wilma. To him, she appeared to be putting on weight just sitting there. When he first arrived in her house all those years before, she looked down at the little black kid with the mini-afro, with some disdain. Of course he didn’t see her dislike of him at the time, but when she caught him looking now and stared back, the disdain was as obvious as her daily weight gain. Marvin’s knee still hurt in cold weather, but to counter the pain he smoked a number of joints a day, usually between 8 and 12. When he was sitting in his cast, waiting for his knee to heal, hanging around with some of the neighbourhood kids who were his friends before he had dedicated everything to basketball, he started to accept their offers of a drag on a joint. He never smoked before he got the injury; the torn ligaments took nine months to heal before he got back on the court again, but his spring was gone, as was his bravery. He no longer had the courage to leap. In fact, it wasn’t the leap that he feared, but the landing. So he gave up altogether. It didn’t take long before he was buying and rolling his own weed. He was stoned right now, but not enough to be able to handle this situation fully. He wasn’t comfortable with doing this to his best friend. He smoked a joint on the walk over, but wanted another. He puts his bottle of water down on the table to his left and slips out of the room without a word. From a silver cigarette holder he slides out a one-skin joint. He steps around the side of the house where he is out of sight, concealed by the ivy-covered fence. He lights up and sucks at the joint quickly. Whoever said weed wasn’t addictive hadn’t done their research. When Marvin needed it, he really, really needed it. Maybe it wasn’t physically addictive, but psychologically, it held him tightly in a daily habit he couldn’t escape from, even if he wanted to.

Uncle Bert’s Thirst For Dirt:

Bert sat shiftily on the sofa. His palms caked in sweat. Once again he wipes them on his trousers; adding to the darkening strips of fabric on both thighs. He could smell perfume which always aroused him. He covered his erection with the help of his two-sizes-too-big Grateful Dead t-shirt and also in the way he leaned forward. He concentrates hard on his shoe laces, trying, failing and trying again to think of something that wasn’t either a large pair of bouncing breasts or a thick lady’s rump, slathered in baby oil. He had masturbated three times that morning; twice in bed, once in the shower. His boxer shorts are sticking to the cheeks of his ass; damp, unpleasant. His armpits are soaking his t-shirt, crusading patches running down under his arms by his ribs. Three more DVDs had arrived in the mail that morning: ‘Japanese Teens: Part IV’, ‘Butch Dutch Destroyed By Machines’, and ‘Forrest Dump’ (a graphic video that he wasn’t entirely sure about watching just yet!). He noticed Marvin slipping out of the room; remembered how good of a B-ball that kid had been, how injury had finished him off. A real shame! Bert’s erection subsides for now. He greets the extra room in the crotch area of his pants with an exhalation of relief.

Bert’s marriage came off the rails one evening four years previously. Hope – his wife – had come home from her yoga classes early because the teacher was ill. Hope found Bert spread-eagled on their king-size bed with a pair of her knickers in his mouth, one of his leather belts around his neck, the other end hooked to a rail on the elaborate metal structure that was a new-age headboard. He was naked – except for a pair of black socks – and was masturbating furiously to a DVD of two 280 pound+ women fucking each other with a massive, double-ended pink dildo. It wasn’t just this scene that ended their marriage, but this for Hope was the final straw. She turned a blind eye to the ever-increasing stack of magazines that Bert hid unsuccessfully in the garage. She had bit her tongue when he asked to “experiment with role-play”, but wouldn’t go along with his suggestion of him being the “lady” for the night. His wide-waist mini-skirt and white strap-on for her, still sat unused in a box in the wardrobe. But she had to leave after his display of auto-erotic asphyxiation atop their marital bed. Since then, he had been free to do what he wanted to in his one bed apartment. His record was thirteen successful and completed masturbatory exhibitions in one day. His lowest was two, and that was only because of some serious chaffing after three solid days of self-abuse without hand cream.

Sister Lily’s Disappearing Body:

Lily tried to breathe through her mouth, closing off her nose. Bert’s BO was engulfing her nostrils, causing her weak stomach to threaten another eviction. The problem with only breathing through her mouth was that she could still taste the aftermath of the volcanic ejection of vomit that she had dispensed with after her lunch that afternoon. The Caesar salad had hardly time to settle before she flushed its un-digested, masticated remains down the restaurants toilets. She had eaten in ‘Claire’s Deli’ with her gym partner – a slim, but unattractive blond – who she had worked with downtown in the bank for the last two years. Her greatest concern after every fingers-down-the-throat-barf-session was what it did to her eyes. They obviously watered, which was as noticeable to someone as seeing the after-effects of someone crying, but they also became bloodshot, like tiny explosions of blood vessels had occurred behind her green pupils. Maybe she was just paranoid though, maybe she was the only one who noticed her eyes. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Lily met Rosa as their gym where they worked-out vigorously for an hour and a half. What Rosa didn’t know was that Lily also went every morning before work for an hour and after work, every evening for an hour. She was shrinking fast; buying new clothes almost monthly to fit her bony frame. She survived on sugarless coffee and bananas. Her only treat was an odd smoothie. She drank 8 litres of water every day. If she had to eat with people, the food would enter her mouth with shaky reluctance, but never stay in her for more than fifteen minutes.

It was her mother’s fault of course. The more Wilma grew into the flabby, face-stuffing whale she now was, the more determined Lily became to go the opposite way. They do say that daughters turn into their mothers and Lily would often day-nightmare in front of the mirror, as everyone of her limbs, digits and features expanded out and flopped down, turning her into something resembling the creature from that infamous B-movie, ‘The Blob’. She turned and gave her mother a look from head to toe. It almost physically hurt her to see the mess that was sandwiched between the arms of the chair. She took a deep breath of BO. She excuses herself, getting up quickly. She runs up the stairs to the bathroom, shuts the door and leans over the bowl. But only water came up; clean and cold. The dry-retching followed. Something in her throat stabs sharply. She sits against the bath tub and takes some large, clean breaths of soap-scented air. After a stretch, she stands up and looks at herself in the standing mirror. She lifts her shirt, poking with her index finger at each crevice between her all-to-visible ribs. She looks good, she believes, really good.

Dad’s Debts And Downward Spiral:

Richard Fontaine checks his watch again. Wilma, to his right, notices and frowns. They have been here for twenty minutes now. Richard’s watch checking pretty much coincided with every passing of each sixty second block. The Packers V Patriots game was due to start in a little under two hours. Richard has $200 on the Packers to win by 12 or more points. Their form had been good of late and the Patriots were shaky on home turf. He also has a financial interest in tonight’s soccer game in the Women’s World Cup semi-final between the U.S and Sweden, $150 on a U.S. win. He has $50 on two horse races, both races started soon. Tomorrow night’s betting interest came in the form of the final of the TV show ‘The Apprentice’. He had gone with the current second favourite Jo; a sassy, leggy brunette from Montana who – he imagined – had a past history of chewing up and spitting out the testicles of many men. He stood to win just under $3000 if all of his bets came through. Not enough to clear or even make a small dent in his spiralling debts, but enough to give him some much needed breathing space. The wolf had been knocking at the door for some time. The house was slipping from his grasp; the car was all but someone else’s now. Wilma was unaware of all this of course. She was too busy stuffing her face with sugared treats and artery-clogging fats. If he did the grocery shopping on a Saturday due to her “tiredness” -according to her - “fatness” – according to him – he bought the money saving products of everything they needed, much to Wilma’s chagrin. She disliked his habit of buying the inferior products so much that she once launched a tub of inexpensive chocolate cookie ice cream at him, which burst on impact against the wall by the fridge. It took him twenty minutes to clean up the mess. Meanwhile, she sat at the kitchen table watching him, a bowl of the melting ice cream in front of her; ice cream that she had managed to salvage by scrapping off the wall. She said it would do until he got back to the store and bought the Haagen Daz she had asked for.

$82,450 that was the current figure, all of it down to one thing: gambling. He had run out of luck 2 years, 3 months and 2 days ago. He remembers the exact moment. Game clock running out in the fourth quarter, the Lakers up by 2, 5 remaining seconds ticking away slowly, the Heat’s Michael Beasley passes it to Dwyane Wade in the bottom corner of the court, outside the three point semi-oval. The ball spins in the air. The crowd’s noise is irritating. Richard’s knees are jerking towards each other; his shoulder raise as he takes a gulp of much needed air. The ball hits the far side of the rim, drops into the hoop, and slides through the netting. The game buzzer is like a chainsaw stuck halfway through a giant oak tree. He stood to win $6340, but instead lost $1000. That was the turning point for sure, nothing had gone right since. And with his wife in danger of breaking a perfectly good bed every time she sat on it, his son in danger of suffering liver failure and his daughter in danger of disappearing whenever she turned sideways, Richard’s life was slipping away from him. He checks his watch again. Where is that little bastard?

********************

Marvin was subtly signalling to David. The signals were going unnoticed. Marvin watched as a thin dribble of blood ran from David’s right nostril, down onto the curve of his upper-lip. That was when David noticed. He touched his nostril and looked down at the blood-covered tip of his finger. He swivels and stands in one swift motion.
‘Excuse me,’ he whispers. Wilma watches his receding figure move, before disappearing up the stairs. Marvin finishes the last drop of his water. Thirst was his beast of burden when he smoked weed. He never got the whole hunger thing, but he would down bottle after bottle of water. He puts the bottle on the table next to him; it topples and hits the wooden floor with a clunk. Four heads turn, increasing paranoia. His slender frame moves in stages towards the fallen object.
‘Need some help, Marvy?’ chimes Lily.
‘I think I’m okay,’ replied Marvin through gritted teeth. Two things he didn’t like were Lily and being called Marvy by Lily. He holds the bottle in a sweaty hand. Bert was staring at him. Sweat was running from the hair above Bert’s ear, down his neck in flowing droplets. He looked the most uncomfortable person in a very uncomfortable looking room. Someone needed to talk; all five people felt the awkwardness. All five were frantically searching for an opening line, anything to break the over-whelming silence. David returns to save their restfulness.

A large clump of reddening tissue was shoved untidily up David’s nostril.
‘I don’t know what happened there. It must be the weather or something!’ But the weather was a more-than-improbable cause. It was cloudless and sunny.
‘Sure, the weather!’ Lily said with more than a little sarcasm, she winks at David, smiles. David looks at her skinny frame with a curled lip of disgust.
‘Would you like anything to eat Lily? You look famished.’
‘No thank you David. I’m good. Mom?’ Wilma had been staring at her hands, oblivious to everything around her.
‘Yep?’
‘Would you like something to eat? David here is offering.’ Richard nudged his knee against Lily’s in a plea for her to shut up. Her mouth – as usual – was running of its own accord.
‘I’m okay David, but thank you.’ She really wanted something to eat though, anything would do. Her whole frame quivered at the thought of a cookie passing her lips, or a piece of warm pie. Richard checked his watch again. He shook his head. Come on you little fuck! He ran through his bets in his head. Would the Packers win by 12 or more? Would the one tip and one wild card win their respective races this evening? He couldn’t afford to lose more than one of his bets. In truth, he couldn’t really afford to lose any of them.

Marvin excused himself again. He held his silver cigarette case in his hand for all to see, so the onlookers wouldn’t suspect anything untoward going on. They of course didn’t know what was in the case. Marvin didn’t even smoke cigarettes. He carried a couple in the case though, just for their tobacco, to mix in with some of the more potent weed, to dampen down its effects. It was humid outside. He lit up; took a drag, watched the erratic swirl of the smoke spiral from the tip of the half-joint. The door opened suddenly. Before he had even the chance to think what to do, Lily stuck her grinning face out.
‘Those smokes sure do smell strange, Marvy.’
‘Get back inside you skinny bitch!’
‘Oooooohhh,’ high-pitched and irritating, ‘maybe you need something else to relax you Marvy, the Mary Jane clearly isn’t working for you.’
‘Get your vomit-stinking-ass back inside.’ Lily’s eyes opened wide, increasing the whites to full orbs around the pupils. How did he know?
‘Fuck you.’ That was all she could get out before she shut the door and swallowed down the bubbling emotion rising from her chest. When she got back to the living room, she had to shove Bert’s knee from her place on the sofa. She rubbed at her eyes quickly. The need and want for a ferocious, calorie-annihilating workout was strong in her mind.

Bert thought of the busty Latino DVD that he had enjoyed himself to the night before; their sallow skin, dark hair and eyes, their thin frames with large tits and huge dark nipples. He felt the growing concern in his pants. Marvin returned soundlessly, the hum of smoke from him swung around the room. Bert could smell it and also something sour, not unlike vomit or rotting garbage. In an attempt to subdue his erection, he stared at his sister-in-law’s bulbous calves. Images of Latino girls, eager to please, were now interspersed with Wilma’s fat ankles and veined legs. But his erection stood firm. David got up from his seat again and disappeared up the stairs. He would have another quick line. This time through his blocked left nostril; hoping the cocaine would burst through the levee of mucus in there. Downstairs, Bert managed to squirm in his seat enough so that his erection was now pointing towards his stomach, the tip of his penis catching under his belt. He turned to Lily, whispering.
‘Where is the bathroom in this place Lily?’
‘Upstairs, the door straight in front of you.’ She was turned towards her father as she spoke, decreasing the attack of BO wafting in her direction, and eliminating the prospect of making eye contact with the heavily-stoned eyes of Marvin. Bert moved quickly out of the room before his penis had the chance to slip out from under his belt and jut out for everyone to witness. He bolted up the stairs, two steps at a time, and went straight into the bathroom. David’s face was dipped close to the mirror, just vacuuming up the last of the large line he was treating himself to. His head shot up and he instinctively rubbed at his nostrils.
‘Oh shit, sorry, I eh.....’ Bert didn’t form a proper sentence before shutting the door. David cursed silently at his mistake of not turning the key in the lock. He cleaned up quickly. Outside, in the hall, he passed Bert. They said nothing to each other. David went down the stairs. Bert slipped into the bathroom; fumbling at his leather belt before the door was even closed out completely. He didn’t make the mistake of not turning the key clockwise until he heard the click.

‘Excuse me David, but could I get some water please?’ Wilma was speaking softly for no apparent reason. David pulled the red tissue from his nose. He leaned over towards Wilma.
‘What?’ He wasn’t even sure if she had spoken.
‘Water, can I get some please?’
‘Sure!’ Too loud David, calm down, he told himself. He hopped to his feet.
‘I can get it, sit down.’
‘No, no, you’re a guest!’
‘Yeah, but I would like to stretch my legs.’ Wilma was wiggling from her seated position; David almost expected to hear a pop when she finally managed to unplug herself from the seat. He was grinding his teeth, not realising that Lily was watching every movement of his jaw. Wilma walked out of the room, various parts of her body jiggling. In the kitchen, she could smell the different aromas of previously cooked food still clinging to the surroundings. She opened the fridge. There wasn’t much in it: water, cheese, eggs, milk, butter, some old-looking cartons of takeaway food. But then she noticed something in the crisper shelf. She pulled the drawer out. A large bag of M+Ms, containing the small fun-size bags. She attacked the bag, pulling out three of the tiny packets. She emptied the contents of the first bag into her mouth, biting down on the crisp shells, into the smooth chocolate. Endorphins immediately flooded through her; an orgasmic burst of pleasure. She opened both the second and third bags, downing the contents. Her mouth was bulging, heaving with wondrous flavour. Footsteps clopped across the kitchen tiles. She tried to swallow down her mouth’s contents behind the opened fridge door. Half an un-munched M+M tried to slip down the wrong way. She coughed; shards of shell and dollops of semi-melted chocolate shot out into the fridge, covering the bottles of water inside.
‘Wilma? What are you doing in here?’ It was Richard. She closed the fridge, wiped her mouth, leaving smears of melted brown across her lips. Richard sighed at the sight of his once beautiful wife and what she had now become. ‘I thought you saved these sort of binges for the early AM’s?’ He knew. Wilma said nothing, she continued to chew. ‘Oh and where is he Wilma? He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!’

Red-faced and short of breath, Bert returns to the living room. He sits down onto the sofa with a heavy slump. The air produced by his momentum hit Lily directly in the face: BO and something else now, something familiar which she couldn’t quite identify. Marvin had slid down the wall onto his ass. His legs felt heavy. He was parched, his lips creating sounds like peeling sticky tape whenever they parted.
‘Hey David, can I get a water?’
‘Shoot!’ Marvin struggled to his feet. He measured each of his steps past the staring eyes. Paranoid and hot, he got to the kitchen unscathed.
‘David, have you guys got the racing channel here? I got a tip off a guy earlier and placed a $10 bet on the horse.’ Richard was staring at his watch, not looking at David, but feeling Wilma’s angry eyes to his right, glaring through him. David turned on the TV, and with the remote flicked through the numerous flashing channels until he found the station that neither he nor the missing one ever watched. The flashing stopped just in time, it had been hammering at David’s retinas. His nose had stopped bleeding for now, but his left sinus throbbed like it might rupture at any moment. David stood staring at the TV set, in everyone’s way.
‘You okay there David, you look a bit zoned-out?’ sneered Bert. David turned quickly, angrily. He was bright red. He looked Bert up and down.
‘You’ve got a mark on your pants there, Bert.’ Bert looked down. Lily – suddenly alive and alert from her daydream of running through post-apocalyptic streets, as the weight quite literally fell from her body – sat up and followed Bert’s eyes down to his crotch area, where a pretty obvious white stain – which Lily noticed was in the shape of Florida – had not yet fully absorbed into the pant fabric. Lily whimpered and moved closer to her father. Richard hardly even noticed. On screen, the horses were being directed into their gates. Bert muttered something about eating a custard donut earlier that afternoon. The lameness of his excuse fell on deaf ears. He sits forwards; embarrassed, unable to move whilst everyone is staring at him

Marvin returned to the commotion. Wilma was shaking her head. She knew all about Bert’s “problems” after more than a few long phone conversations with his estranged wife. She hadn’t looked at Bert the same since. She had spoken to Richard about it but he waved it off as “just a phase”. At the time, it got Wilma thinking about Richard’s gambling and whether that was just a phase also. She watched him watching the race. She noticed how his legs twitched, his feet tipping up onto their toes. How he silently tried to drive his horse on with a tilt of his head or the erratic jerks of his jawbone. She wasn’t a fool; she knew he had more than $10 on this horse. She had seen the bills with the red stamps of “Final Notice” on the envelopes. But she wasn’t fully aware of the extent of his debts. But as the race finished, she knew by the sudden slump of his shoulders that the horse that had won wasn’t his. It made her stomach ache with pity for her husband. She loved him dearly. Or was that ache just another hunger pain? Sometimes it was hard to tell. David sat in his seat, looking over at Wilma. She noticed and smiled at him. One of her front teeth was covered with something dark and brown, parts of her lips showing traces of shoddily wiped away food. He thought of telling her, but there was too much going on in his mind to worry about someone else at the moment.

Marvin took half the water in one go. Sticky, sharp pieces of candy come away from the bottle onto his hand. He wipes his hand on his shorts with some disgust. He knew it was Wilma’s doing by the chocolate smears still present in the corners of her lips. His best friend was now forty minutes late. Marvin began to think that he might not be coming at all. They had all left their cars at home so as not to arouse suspicion; apart from the missing one’s parents, because of Wilma’s “bad back”, which made walking more than a problem. Marvin feels heavy, even as he sits. The lids of his eyes slip towards each other. Usually around this time, he would be curled up into Camille on their sofa, sharing a joint and watching the latest comedy box-set she had purchased; giggling incessantly, even at the parts that weren’t necessarily funny. Marvin watches Lily jump to her feet and leave the room. The front door closes softly. Has she had enough? His lids close for a few seconds, the hushed-sounds of the room fade to nothing. The only sound he hears now is his own breathing. Bert gets up and goes to the kitchen for a bottle of water, and to wipe the stain off with a wet cloth. He is perspiring profusely. He pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, lets the fabric flap, and welcomes the cooling breaths of air float down his damp chest and stomach. He spots a bobbing head go by the kitchen window. Who was that? He takes a bottle from the fridge and drinks. The head appears again seconds later. It is Lily, jogging determinedly, a look of pain or concentration on her face, or both. He pats at the semen with a wet kitchen towel, tiny dots of the towel stick to the stain. He wipes at the specks with his dry hand; holds his warm palm to the stain in hope it will dry quicker. He thinks about which DVD he will watch first when he gets home. Another stir in his trousers, as Lily floats by the window once more.

‘Shouldn’t someone call him?’ Marvin asks. He is on his feet again. It is over an hour since the missing one was due home. Wilma nods in agreement.
‘Call him David. See where he is.’ David doesn’t protest. If his landlord isn’t coming home, he at least wants the house back to himself at this point, to turn on some music and to snort his blow wherever he chooses, rather than having to hideaway in the bathroom. He leaves the room. He is bursting to talk, to ramble, for his mouth to work overtime, spitting out anything at all. Three rings before an answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Where are you dude?’ Are you coming home for the game?’
‘I was, until I saw my parent’s car parked outside!’ David swears silently, clenches his empty fist.
‘What’s wrong with your parents being here?’ They just stopped by for a few minutes. They were passing. I’m sure they won’t stay long.’ David gradually zones-in on the familiar background noises of an early-evening bar: loud voices calling out their orders, TV’s blaring in every corner, music playing, the computerised pings of gambling machines.
‘I don’t want to listen to Dad talk about his debts and I don’t want to hear about Mom’s eating. I hear too much of that shit over at their place on Sundays.’
‘Awh come on dude. They just want to see you.’ David can hear the sound of glass on teeth, the swallow of liquid as it slips down the throat. ‘Come home for the game.’
‘No chance David. I’ll see you tonight or maybe tomorrow.’ Click, the calls dies, he’s gone.

‘He’s not coming.’ They all sit up in tandem. David notes Lily’s absence.
‘Why?’ Wilma shrieks.
‘He saw your car.’
‘So? What, he doesn’t want to see his parents?’ Richard sits wide-eyed, his voice loud. David shrugs as if he doesn’t know, but his shrug is unconvincing. ‘Well, doesn’t he?’
‘I’d rather not say.’ Richard stands up. His second horse had just finished in fifth place. He is angry.
‘Listen you little cokehead. What did our son say?’ David clenches both of his fists. He stares Richard down.
‘What?’ Richard continues, ‘You think we all don’t know why your nose is bleeding? Why you appear a little bit more animated after each of your all-too-frequent trips to the bathroom? Why you zone-out?’
‘Hey, fuck you. I’ll tell you what he said. He said he didn’t want to hear about your debt and obvious gambling problem and he didn’t want to hear about your wife’s inability to stop stuffing her face and expanding.’ Their bodies move closer. Marvin and Bert stand up. They separate the two. Marvin stands over David. Bert steps in front of Richard.
‘Calm down Richard.’ Bert whispers to his brother.
‘Don’t touch me with those hands, Bert. They were on your cock not so long ago. What’s the matter, couldn’t you have at least waited until you got home?’ Bert pushes Richard before leaving the room. The front door slams. Marvin turns to see Wilma trying to get out of her seat. He approaches her but she waves him away.
‘I was just trying to help!’
‘By the look in your eyes, you would be more of a hindrance. Don’t think my son hasn’t spoken to us about your smoking. How many of those joint things have you smoked already today?’
‘Get your own fat ass up so. I’m done here.’ Marvin meets Lily on the front porch. She is crouched over, breathing heavily. He laughs.

Lily reaches the foot of the stairs before dropping to her knees and vomiting up a clear liquid, followed by a dozen or so chunks of stomach lining. Her frame sags after a final retch of emptiness.
‘This is because of you.’ Richard roars at Wilma. Wilma is shuffling over to help her daughter. David is sitting now. The block in his sinus has suddenly given way; a flood of blood is flowing from his nostrils. He is holding the bottom of his t-shirt up to his nose.
‘What? You don’t even get the chance to pay any heed to our daughter’s welfare with all that time you spend in betting shops, watching each bet lose!’ Richard ignores Wilma; he pulls Lily to her unsteady feet.
‘Come on sweetheart, we need to get you to a doctor. You don’t look good.’ For the first time in years, he lifts his daughter up his arms. She is distressingly light. She holds onto the back of his neck. Her breath smells of inner-decay. Wilma waddles along behind Richard. ‘Thanks for nothing David,’ is Wilma’s parting shot as she closes out the door. Another races starts on the TV, David looks around at the gathering of empty water bottles. He looks at the pool of vomit at the foot of the stairs. He takes the t-shirt from his nostrils. The blood seems to have stopped. A large dark stain covers most of the lower half of his t-shirt. He inhales through his nose. It feels a little better. He stands up, steps over the puddle of Lily’s former stomach contents and goes up the stairs to do another line.

THE END