Children of Alcoholics

Children of Alcoholics

They walked. The ten-year-old girl and her tow-headed younger brother traveled, in a circle, the relatively short distance of the kitchen, living room, and dining room. The floors of two of these rooms have lush wall-to-wall baby blue carpet, which for the girl when she was younger, had always evoked an image of clouds and paint not yet dry - too delicate and picturesque for feet. The kitchen was tiled, but it was a pattern of white and a very light gray. It was smooth and slippery, and sock- covered feet could glide across its luminescent surface. For the girl, it used to transform easily into a frozen pond or dance floor. For the boy, it was simply just a fun place to slide.

Today, they walked carefully. Their feet navigated among their litter of scattered toys, and their eyes surveyed beer bottles. Some were empty, some were not, and some were stuffed full of wet cigarette butts. These discarded bottles were on the tables and counters. They were on the top of the television. They covered the surface of things like newly fallen, tossed and scattered, autumn leaves. The television had been left on, and it was still dark enough in the living room, with all the shades drawn, that the TV's myriad of light and color reflected across some of the bottles, reminiscent of a Christmas tree. Candles had been neglected last night too. Misshapen firm pastel puddles harmonized with the reflecting bottles and the lit-up TV.

They looked for evidence. They wanted some thing that might help them understand. They searched for clues to uncover the identities of last night's visitors or to unravel (or ravel) the events of last night. They had both long ago developed, by some survival type of instinct, the ability to obtain a full night's sleep through loud conversations, favorite songs played repeatedly, unrelenting laughter, nonsensical arguments, phones ringing late, car engines coming and going outside of their bedroom windows, or just the uncertain and unsettling sounds of their mother alone late at night. However, before they had acquired such a sleep as a refuge, they had lain quietly in the dark, trying to silence their breathing as to hear better the night voices. They had then tried to shift among them for reoccurring voices or voices they knew.

This time the girl thought the boy had found some real hard evidence as she had seen him grab something quickly off the counter. She questioned him. He gave his sister a conspiratorial look but withheld the evidence. He claimed there was nothing in his pocket.

Curiosity and sibling dynamics prompted the girl to continually ask about the secret contents in his pocket, and as the dynamics played out in typical sibling style, her voice became more forceful and her hands began to grab. The younger boy (as he would always eventually have to do at the end of his sister's frustration limit) made a run for it. He ran out to the backyard. He didn't even make it as far as the swing set when she tackled him. He told her what it was so he wouldn't have to relinquish it.

“It's a cell phone.”

She just raised her eyebrows in response.

“Maybe it's Dad's,” offered the younger brother.

The sister's hands moved quickly as if with a life of their own and again began to try to grab, but the boy moved quickly and held on tightly. The girl was left only with her voice as a tool. She spoke with authority, “Let me see. I can tell if it's Dad's.”

“It is.” His voice was forceful this time. He was trying to mimic her authority.

With her frustration level climbing again, she tried sarcasm. “No, it's not. They're divorced. Remember?”

The sister saw her brother's eyes turn luminescent and shiny like the kitchen floor of long ago. She softened. “Dad wouldn't be here. He hasn't been here yet.” This only increased the shine in her brother's eyes. She tried to make it better. She tried to instruct. “Things weren't super good when he was here either. Remember?”

He said in a quiet and flat tone, “It was better”.

She looked away towards the house feeling the anger his words had surfaced. It was a big anger. It was complex. It was an anger based on disappointment. It was towards them, the parents. It was a wish too - to make every beer bottle disappear forever. However, all of these feelings were difficult for her to direct, and it was simply easier to turn on her brother, which she did.

Therefore, she again made a demand for the phone. “Let me see.”

No answer.

Her voice knew, and had learned, how to belittle. “I don't know why you won't let me see it. It's not good evidence. You can't tell whose someone's cell phone it is. And you can't use it. You don't know even know to use it.”

He answered stubbornly, “Yes I do.”

She resorted to threats saying at last, “No you don't. Plus I'll just tell Mom and I get to see it eventually.”

Sitting outside on a swing in a green backyard of a nice suburban neighborhood, they were in stalemate.

The boy was thinking of a good hiding place.

The girl was pretending she wasn't interested.

Both their eyes traveled towards the side of the house to follow the telephone lines from the house to the street till they ran out of sight.