The Alcoholic's Daughter by David Sherman

Author:David Sherman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781771831604
Publisher: Guernica Editions
Published: 2017-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

The escapes to the motels and the country homes were no longer enough. God, Evan wanted to love her, but the affection was as ephemeral as smoke. He began to dwell on how to get away, just for a while, maybe to heal, to get on his feet, to take a breath. Put some miles between them and then come back when the wounds had closed. He knew if he got away for a bit, she would soften. At least for a while.

To sleep he conjured new fantasies. In the latest variation, he’d spend the summer driving between folk festivals, across the country in the little car, him, the guitar, his computer and cheap motels, play music, write songs, work on a play and breathe. Yes, and maybe meet a woman or two who liked him. He fell asleep to that one many nights.

The best times were when her niece and nephew came over with the little ones and Annie got lost with the babies, playing with toys on the floor, being the grandmother she would never be with the grandchildren she would never have. He loved watching her at these times, the only moments she would gladly put work aside. He would shop and cook and serve so she could play. They loved Evan’s cooking. Annie was torn between her pleasure with the children and her jealousy of the affection they showed Evan and how much they liked his food.

On a Sunday in autumn, the kids were her break from anxiety over work and money, and, well, life. But Annie seemed to need more control. So she busied herself between the kids spread out in the living room, her niece dozing on the sofa, her husband on the floor with his sons and keeping an eye on Evan lest he make too much food. He was standing at the counter slicing onions and peppers for the pasta sauce. Annie was stalking the kitchen, standing behind him.

“Don’t make too much pasta,” she said.

“I’ll count every strand,” he said, moving the box out of her reach. The last time he had cooked linguini she had removed what she thought was a sufficient portion and put the box back in the cupboard. After supper, he made himself a sandwich.

“You always make too much,” she said. She pushed her hand across the counter and scooped up an onion peel and a rind of pepper.

“I’ll clean up when I’m done,” he said. “Why don’t you go play with the kids?”

“You never clean up, you never clean up, you always leave the counters full of peels and stuff.” She took a few garlic ends and then wiped the counter with a filthy cloth she dropped in the sludge fermenting at the bottom of the sink. She was speaking barely above a whisper, she didn’t want the kids to hear her. Evan took deep, long breaths. Annie knew what she was doing, Evan realized, and she could control it. She was afraid the kids would hear, afraid of what they would think.

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