Night Cap

Papa drank one scotch a night. Brown liquor on ice cut three fourths with water in a crystal bell cup. A murky lake. Me on his knee, him sneaking me sips at three, five, seven. He ate dinner at nine, after all of us: Mama had done the dishes, her face a crumpled wet rag; Fratello found the lock on his bedroom door and played no music, maybe Nintendo. Papa fed me mushrooms from the Chicken Marsala. Wine and scotch sugar tongue. At eleven I wanted water. I sucked the scotch from the ice cubes, left the liquid. Was I drunk? I never made it to the kitchen for a drink, halted in the hallway between bedroom and living room by the voice of a preacher on TV. “There is a cure.” Mama asked Papa, “Are you still attracted to women?” I slid down the wall and went thirsty.

One Response to “Night Cap”

  1. rebecca Says:

    i am really in love with your words…

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