Shake Down the Stars by Renee Swindle

Author:Renee Swindle
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2013-07-01T16:00:00+00:00

ten

I crawl into bed once I’m home and stay there well into the next morning. I spend most of the day throwing up, sleeping, and crying. When I finally get the strength to get out of bed, I go straight to the bottles of scotch in my kitchen cabinet and start pouring them out. As I watch the liquor run down the drain, I admit that I have a problem. I’ve been trying to trick myself into believing that because I have a respectable job and a fair number of smarts, I can handle my liquor, but I can’t. What’s more, I need to stop using Hailey’s death as an excuse to drink. What happened with the Neanderthal scared the shit out of me. I have to quit. I have to.

After emptying four bottles, I take down an as-yet-unopened lovely fifteen-year-old Glenlivet, an oak-based scotch with a hint of citrus. It’s a sad sad thing to see the golden liquid pouring into the drain, and it’s not long before the aroma overwhelms me, and somewhere near the base of my cortex, my brain begins its rebellion—Drink! Drink!—sending preliminary signals to my nerves and cells that they must stand together at all cost and break my will—Drink!

Even as I set the empty bottle next to the others, I know my brain and my body will eventually win. Sure, the kitchen is free of alcohol now, but what happens tomorrow? Hell, what happens tonight? Frustrated, I put all of the empty bottles in a bag, quickly dress, and take them to the recycling bin downstairs. I then start walking up the block with the hope that a tour of the altars will help clear my head.

I visit Tank’s altar first. The candles and teddy bears are still there; someone has added a bowl of uncooked yams and fresh flowers; the poster boards are still in place, as is Donne’s poem. Just next to the poem someone has written: I miss you, Tank. Your turn to look after me now.

I walk up to Sixty-fifth and visit Dexter Allen’s altar. Dexter’s altar is on his parents’ front lawn. There are a row of vodka bottles and candy bars spread in front of a small trickling fountain. At the foot of the fountain is a plaque: DEXTER ALLEN, SON, FATHER, BEST FRIEND. IF MY TEARS COULD BUILD A STAIRWAY TO REACH YOU, I’D CRY FOR ETERNITY.

As I come up to the corner of Fifty-fifth, I notice a ten-speed bicycle chained to a stop sign and painted entirely white. Plastic flowers have been tied all around the bike and candles placed on the sidewalk. The front tire, also painted white, is smashed and juts off at a crooked angle. A large flyer with a photo is taped to the pole: PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY AND WITH RESPECT TO EVERYONE AROUND YOU. In the photo a young man is playing outdoors with a girl of eight or nine. Beneath that are the words MICHAEL, WE WILL MISS YOU AND LOVE YOU ALWAYS.

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