The Demons of Alcohol

Part of a Short Story

She watched him stagger in the general direction of the sofa, making an effort to hold up the walls as he went, his feet shuffling across the carpet. "You're drunk again." Becky's heart was pounding with anger and frustration. She knew he would deny it as he usually did, even though the whiskey fumes washed over her like waves on the shore, filling the entire room with evidence of his drunkenness. Between the whiskey and the cigarettes, Becky found it difficult not to feel nauseous when she was near her husband.

She had moved into the second bedroom several months previously but was beginning to think that even that was too close. "Would you consider going to AA?" she had asked him again a few weeks ago.

His answer had been typical of him. "No, I don't need to go."

"But surely even you must admit that alcohol has had an adverse effect on your life. Eventually your health is going to be seriously affected by it. You probably already have liver disease because of it. And you could hardly call our relationship functional. You're going to have to do something, Paul. I'm not going to continue to live like this. You're going to have to decide what it's going to be - me or your alcohol." Becky knew she was nagging but was having difficulty controlling her feelings of frustration.

He had stared at her, seemingly unmoved by her words. And then he had shrugged and turning his back on her had gone to get himself another drink. There, she thought, was her answer. She was beginning to suspect that there wasn't much mixing going on in those drinks, more like undiluted whiskey. He added a little ice but drank it before the ice had a chance to melt.

Today he sat slumped on the sofa, smoke curling around his face from the cigarette he held in his hand. Her heart continued to pound. She was tempted to just turn and leave right now. One day, she was afraid, he was going to burn down the house. He was an alcoholic, like his father before him had been. And his mother hadn't been far behind. Becky admitted to herself that Paul hadn't had a chance but if he wasn't going to help himself, she couldn't do it for him. She was slowly beginning to admit to herself that she wasn't going to let him drag her down with him into his misery and whatever hell it was he existed in.

He had lost his job about a year ago because of his drinking - drinking on the job to be exact. And every day when she arrived home from work, she found him like this. He had made no effort to look for other work and with each passing day instead had gradually drunk more until by dinnertime, he was usually passed out. It was no longer a marriage or a relationship of any kind. Nothing existed between them any longer.

She continued to watch him. "I can see you have made your decision."

He raised his head slightly from his chest and through bleary, unfocused eyes glanced in her direction. "Wh ... you talk ... 'bout," he slurred his words and then his head fell back onto his chest again. Becky knew that would probably be it until morning for him.

Walking over to where he lay slouched in the corner of the sofa, she took the cigarette from between his fingers and butted it out in the nearby ashtray. And removing the glass from his unresisting fingers, she carried it into the kitchen. The counters were littered with dirty glasses and crumbs from his morning toast. The forty pounder of whiskey sat uncapped on the table along with a glass, moist with condensation. She grimaced. Another water mark was visible on its surface.

Going back into the living room she threw a blanket over him. There was a time when she would try to get him into bed but that time had long since passed. She had phoned his doctor and told him how much he was drinking especially since his job loss and then had set up an appointment for him. That had served no purpose. On his return home he has said everything was fine.

"Did the doctor say anything about your drinking," she had asked.

"No, he didn't mention it. He said everything was good. He did say you had called him though. I don't know what you're so worried about, I don't drink much."

Becky could only shake her head. Sometime later he had complained of stomach pains and she'd suggested he go to the doctor again. Surprisingly he had gone and even taken tests. When she asked him about the results, he had only said that it was nothing serious; nothing that was going to kill him."

'Maybe not immediately,' she had thought, 'but it will eventually'. She had thought during the last few years of their marriage of the children they might have had and that she was now glad they hadn't had. She had been consumed with a deep sadness at the time when she realized it wasn't going to happen but realized later that it would have been difficult for children to witness a parent in an inebriated condition on a daily basis. What would it have done to them? What had it done to him seeing his father drunk and belligerent and very often violent? ...

Turf War

Part of a story from 'Life's Challenges, A Short Story Collection'

Head detective of the Major Crime Division, Matthew Williams, stood on the sandy beach, a puzzled expression altering the contours of his normally handsome visage. Shrugging further into his light-weight jacket, he pulled the collar up as the wind and rain continued to hammer him from the east. He turned his back to the pounding elements and pulled a notebook from his inside pocket.

"What do you make of it?" he asked his new partner, Detective Tiffany Meadows. He shook his head in an attempt to hide his smile, one that lurked whenever he thought of her unlikely name. 'She'd better change it if she plans to get anywhere as a detective in the police department,' he thought.

Tiffany's blue eyes, now clouded with concern, surveyed the small crime scene, an area contained in yellow police tape. In the centre lay a left foot encased in what appeared to be a man's good quality Nike running shoe. An early morning jogger had discovered the grisly remains and had called it in. "Why just a foot, Matthew?" she asked.

"You'd prefer the whole body, would you, Meadows? We're going to find where the rest of the body is and where this foot came from," Matthew Williams replied curtly.

"Well, right off the bat we know it's a man's foot. And we know he wasn't a down-and-outer because that's an expensive sneaker. Maybe he fell off a boat. And I doubt very much that he was a fisherman either so it would more likely be a yacht. Fishermen don't wear expensive shoes like that. Maybe we could start checking out boating accidents; especially since there's been such stormy weather lately. Have there been any missing persons reports lately?"

Williams glared at her. "What makes you think it was washed up and not dropped here?"

Tiffany stared back at the senior detective, refusing to be intimidated. "I know you don't think I'm very bright Matthew but you haven't given me a snowball's chance in hell of proving I can be a good detective. Every time I say something, you shoot me down." She placed her hands on her hips and stared defiantly into his face. His dark eyes bore into hers. "Just look at the shoe," she continued, "it looks waterlogged and, if you look closer, instead of trying to find fault with everything I say, you'd see that the part of the ankle that's exposed above the top of the shoe looks as if it's been in the water for some time, like we look if we stay too long in a bubble bath."

"I wouldn't know. Bubble baths aren't my thing. Are you trying to be a trouble maker here, Meadows?"

"You asked me what I made of it, so I'm telling you," Tiffany said suddenly flashing Williams one of her spectacular smiles. "And also, since you did ask me, you do remember, don't you that about two months ago another left foot was washed up on the banks of the Golden River. That one had a rather unusual tattoo of a dragon curling around the ankle. Wouldn't it be interesting if this one did too?"

"You don't need to act like a know-it-all, Meadows, I'm not verging on dementia. We're still working on the origins of that foot. And yes, before you get too cocky, there quite possibly is a connection between the two left feet." Matthew didn't know why she got under his skin; most times she was a major pain in the butt but, he thought to himself, she did have a killer smile. ...

The Young Girl Inside of Me

Part of a Story - from Life's Challenges, A Short Story Collection

I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles the years have worn in my face, the loose skin that hangs like appendages beneath my chin and the folds of flesh surrounding my eyes. Silver hair adorns my head like an unwanted old hat. The woman who stares at me from the looking glass is a stranger.

My hands, twisted with arthritis, move slowly through their tasks and my legs shuffle as I use my cane for balance. This stranger's body has betrayed me. It had once been my friend as it swung gracefully around the dance floor, ran up the stairs to a friend's house, took me canoeing and helped me win games on the tennis court. But I know, though no one else does, that a young dark-haired girl continues to reside deep within me.

That young girl can still feel the wind in her hair when she rides down Brickyard Hill on her bicycle as if it was only yesterday. Applying her brakes she comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of the hill where she quickly jumps off her bike. Although I can feel her spirit and the agility of her body as she moves, my outer shell no longer obeys my inner commands.

When I think of summers long past, I remember her excitement for the first baseball games of the season. While I sit with pain in my joints, I can still feel her sure-footed race around the bases. And when she stands ready on third base, her glove poised. I hear the 'whack' as the ball is hit and see it soar through the air. Her strong hands catch it and another one is out. The north island wins over the south again.

That young girl within me remembers many of the thoughts and wishes she had as she walked to school, thinking nothing of the three mile hike each way and proud of her ability to make it in under half an hour. She feels that no time has passed since she roamed the beach in search of the ornamental shells of the oyster and water-worn pieces of driftwood, leaping confidently from boulder to boulder. It seems that it was only yesterday she sat on the rocks and listened to the waves lap onto the shore while she watched seagulls swoop and squawk as they grabbed morsels of food from the orange beaks of the oyster catchers.

That girl is very much alive but she is locked within a body whose flesh is no longer firm or supple and whose movements are no longer quick. Her skin is smooth and her hair is shining while the stranger who is home to this girl lacks enthusiasm and exuberance.

When I was busier and more able-bodied and those around me valued what I had to offer, I saw only the young girl in the mirror but she no longer looks back at me; she's no longer seen by anyone, not even myself. But I know she's still there; I can feel her and hear her, and her thoughts are still mine. Late at night when the only light are the stars in the sky, we remember the friends we once knew. They are all gone, like the young girl in the mirror.

My own children are now getting their own wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair; they have aches and pains and health issues of their own. They spend their leisure time at the gym and take vitamins hoping to hold old age at bay. How did it happen that these children of mine look older than the girl within me feels? And my grandchildren, looking like my children did only yesterday, look at me like the stranger I am. ...

The Day My Life Changed

(Part of a story)

The day began as each Saturday morning had for as long as I could remember. That is until I saw the box on the top shelf in my mother's closet. It wasn't seeing the box that caused the problem, but rather asking my mother about it that created the difficulties on that early weekend morning.

"Sit down, dear," she said when I raised the question about the box. Although not much bigger than a small child's shoe box and partially hidden, it was very much in evidence to a snoopy teenage girl.

Right then and there I should have declared an absolute lack of interest in it. But I didn't. Instead I smiled and waited to hear the lovely story my mother was about to tell me and to see the old pictures she'd show me. Waiting expectantly, I was convinced the box was also filled with beautiful old heirlooms that would each be fabulous stories in themselves.

"This box is full of history," she began hesitantly. "It's your history, dear." I had no problem with her words but an expression I could not read filled the hollows of her face and made her eyes dim with sadness. Based on the expression on my mother's face, it did not look like it was going to be a good story and I instantly regretted my curiosity about the box.

Slowly the uncomfortable feeling began to pervade my bones and circulate through my veins as I stared into my mother's forlorn face. Her eyes were the watery version of the lake at night with a full moon shining upon its glittering surface. "That's alright. I've got homework to do," I told her as I jumped up. Sixteen was too young to find out about anything that had put that kind of a look in my mother's normally radiant eyes; eyes that usually sparkled like a sunrise with the early morning sun.

"Sit down, Marsha." She emphasized her words slowly as if they had been wet mud dredged from the center of the earth. "Sit down, Marsha," she repeated as she sat heavily on the edge of her bed.

Those words again! It wasn't like she'd said, "Sit down dear and have some chocolate cake," or "Sit down dear, I have fifty dollars so you can buy yourself a new dress." Those were the words I would have rather heard but, "Sit down, dear," spoken in that stranger's voice, so unlike her own, suggested she was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear. Reluctantly I sat down, trying unsuccessfully not to look at the box. Perched as it was on the top shelf, it seemed to have grown in size while it sat there; its mystery compounding by each second that passed.

"There are things you should know," she whispered as she lowered her eyes. "Things I haven't told you before." A solitary tear crept slowly down her pale face.>p> 'Oh Gawd,' I thought. 'This is not starting out to be a wonderful conversation.' I mentally kicked myself for having mentioned the box. Words I shouldn't speak have a way of sneaking out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Think before you speak," my mother has always told me. I wished for once I had listened to her wise words but one never knows ahead of time which are the ones to listen to and which are the ones that can be safely ignored.

Looking up I saw her dark brown eyes fixed intently on my face. "I should have told you this a long time ago but I've put it off. The fault is mine, darling. Your father has been after me to do so long before now," she said. "I've been afraid. Oh Gawd," she said as she buried her face in her hands. And although she made no sound, I knew it would only be minutes before her tears would spill over the edges of her cupped hands like water in an overflowing basin.

'Afraid?' I wondered. 'My mother has never been afraid of anything. She is the woman who stood up against bullies when I was eight years old even though her knees were trembling. She is the one who confronted the neighbor when his son stole my bike and, although she hated to make a scene, she marched into the school and talked to the principal when I got a detention for something I didn't do. And she stood up in front of my class when she was petrified to do so and gave a talk about her work because I wanted her to do it for me.'

As I watched my mother trying to battle her fears, I knew without a doubt it wasn't something I wanted to hear. "Maybe you could tell me later, Mom," I stammered. "If you've waited this long, there's probably no hurry to do it now. I'm sure it can wait." I quickly jumped up and escaping to my own room, closed the door behind me with a dull thud.

My mother did not follow me. She must have agreed with my logic. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I sunk down onto my bed. I never again mentioned the box on her shelf. Even a nosey stubborn teenage girl can occasionally learn a lesson or two.

* * * * * *

Over the years I had forgotten about the mystery surrounding the box in her closet and life went on pretty much ass usual as I grew into young adulthood. That is until my parents' death in a head-on automobile accident when I was twenty-one years old. ...

What Woman, Maria?

(Part of the story)

"You always do that, Campbell," Maria said as she glared at her husband.

"Do what? I have no idea what you're talking about, Maria."

"You stop talking and decide to go do something when we're in the middle of an argument."

"An argument? I thought we were having a discussion and that we were finished." Campbell shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Did we come to a solution, Campbell?" Maria's voice was beginning to reach a higher octave. Campbell didn't like it when her voice began to climb the musical scale.

"I didn't think we had a problem, Maria. I thought everything was going along just fine." Campbell threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I don't understand women at all."

"And I don't understand men. But that's the problem. You always think everything is just fine, you don't listen, you never seem to understand anything I say and you'd rather walk away than solve a problem."

"But we don't have a problem. You're making a problem when none exists. I'm going to my workshop. When I have a problem out there, I know what it is. It's plan and simple, not something that's been built up out of nothing and exaggerated out of all proportion. Keep it simple, Babe and then there isn't a problem."

"You haven't heard anything I've said this whole last week, have you? The problem is that woman, you Knucklehead." Maria's voice had reached almost the highest level on the musical scale. Not a good sign as far as Campbell was concerned.

"I'm listening and you have my attention but I really have no idea what woman you're talking about. What about this hypothetical woman?>"

"You know very well who I'm talking about; the one at Corey's baseball game." Maria banged the cupboard door to emphasize that what she was saying was something he'd better not miss.

"Which woman at the game? I still don't know what you're talking about. You know, I think this whole conversation is getting ridiculous. When you've figured out what you're really upset about, let me know. I'll be in the workshop."

Maria could feel her blood pressure soar as she watched Campbell walk nonchalantly out of the kitchen, as if he had not a care in the world. She knew he thought she was dramatizing but she had seen the exchange between her husband and Michelle, Matt's mother. And this wasn't the first time she'd noticed them flirting. She wanted him to know that he wasn't pulling anything over on her. 'And he brought me that bouquet of flowers on Friday too. I wonder if it was because of guilty feelings? I'd sure like to know what he's up to?' Maria fumed.

Campbell measured the piece of wood for the garden planter he was building for the back yard. 'What was that all about?' he wondered. 'I don't have a clue what woman she's talking about. Probably another one of her jealousy attacks.' He shook his head impatiently. 'Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. Hopefully she'll cool down by dinner time.'

As he worked, he could hear the cupboards slamming in the kitchen and an angry outburst directed at one of the children. 'Well maybe not by dinner time. Hopefully by bedtime.' He smiled at the thought of that. Maybe he'd suggest they have a glass of wine later, after the children were in bed. It had been a while. He thought the flowers would have earned him some brownie points but they probably just made her think he was up to something. Instead they had gone to bed that night and she had turned her back on him again and in only moments had fallen asleep. More times than not she was either too tired, had a headache or stayed up until the wee hours of the morning on the computer. 'The wine probably won't work any better than the flowers did,' he reminded himself.

Maria came in to the workshop and saw him bent over the pieces of cedar, tape measure in hand. Picking up the pieces, he began to walk towards the table saw. "Campbell, dinner is ready."

"What? Oh, okay I'll be right there."

'He probably hasn't given what I said another thought since he came in here. It's so typical of a man. Everything in one ear and out the other. He's so good at tuning me out,' Maria thought angrily. "If you wait too long, it's going to be cold," she said as she flounced out of the room. "Then you can bloody well heat it up yourself."

Campbell glanced after her and wondered again what had brought this whole thing on. Shrugging, he decided to cut just a few more of the board lengths before going in for dinner. He knew it would probably be another ten minutes anyway before it was on the table. He'd rather be out in the workshop than go into the kitchen and feel the below freezing atmosphere there.

Whistling as he worked he was planning the other planters he was going to make for the deck. 'And maybe a bench with planters at each end with a trellis behind. That would be nice,' he thought, 'to have clematis growing up behind where you sat. A nice colorful area to sit in and relax.' Coming to the end of his cuts, he suddenly became aware of the feeling of daggers driving their sharp edges into his back. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. 'It has been half an hour, at least, since she called me in for dinner. She's going to kill me.'

Turning slowly, he pasted what he hoped was a charming smile on his face. 'Wine probably won't help tonight, I'm guessing,' he told himself. "Sorry, Honey. The time kind of got away from me."

"So I noticed but why change now?" There was no warmth in her voice, and no humour and definitely no smile on her face. "You know Campbell, it doesn't take much to make me happy."

"Yeah? The flowers I brought you on Friday night didn't seem to make you happy."

"That's the first flowers you've bought me in three years. They made me more inclined to wonder why than to be happy about them. All I need are little things. If you were to come home from work and put your arms around me and tell me you loved me regularly, I'd be ecstatic. And not just when you want a toss in the hay. You rarely do it even then, Campbell."

"We're married for Pete's sake, Maria." He ran his hands angrily through his hair making it stand up in spikey blonde tufts.

"So you don't think you need to show affection when you're married?"

Campbell, looking confused, shrugged. "I show you affection."

"When Campbell?" Maria stood with her hands on her hips. "When we're having sex?"

"Well, yes." Campbell was wishing he'd gone in for dinner when she'd first called him. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. He hated talking about touchy-feeling things like Maria always wanted to do. 'And she always thinks she's right about everything,' he thought angrily.

"You're not affectionate then either. You don't tell me you love me even then. It's an act for you, a physical release I guess you men call it; it's having sex but has nothing to do with making love."

'Wow!' Campbell thought. 'Who the hell is this woman she's been yammering about? That's what probably got all of this started. Now she's going to drag out every little thing that's been bothering her for the last five years or so.'

"I've been thinking, Campbell. I think we should go and see a counselor together."

'Yup, here it goes,' Campbell thought. "A counselor? What in the hell for? I thought we were getting along just fine. At least until the last few days when you started harping on me. I don't get it, Maria. I really don't."

"Because you're a man. Any woman would understand and feel exactly like I do."

"You know, Maria, I'm going to go and get my dinner now. And I know," Campbell held up his hand, "it'll be cold. I don't really care at this point."

"You're running off again, Campbell. We can't have any discussion without you doing the disappearing act. I'm going to make an appointment with a counselor," she said as she brushed past him and did her own disappearing act.

As he put his plate of food into the microwave to heat, he thought, 'I think I'll save the wine. It would just be a waste of good wine now.'

* * * * * *

Lost Treasures

As the mother of five, four of which were boys, I was almost a stranger to 'tidy'. I had always appreciated and enjoyed this state but unfortunately, my four boys did not feel the same way I did. They equated 'tidy' with 'loss'.

The loss of a treasure equaled, in their eyes, the absence of a dear friend on vacation. Or worse, because that treasure was gone forever. In their eyes, I became an Ogre, belching fire as I tossed and sorted.

In any small boy's room, as most parents of boys know, there is a discrepancy in definition - garbage versus treasures. Every discovery and every possession is a veritable mine of treasures to a young boy's eye.

To a mother's eye, these treasures often mean something quite different entirely. I once discovered a dehydrated frog lovingly tucked away. I shall probably never know whether it was already in this state when it was so carefully placed there or whether nature stepped in later. For this lack of knowledge, I am eternally thankful since a certain degree of ignorance no doubt, helped me retain my sanity during my sojourn as the mother of five children.

Among other 'treasured' collectibles discovered was chewing gum covered in lint, orange peelings, chocolate bar and gum wrappers, broken crayons, hockey cards, prized broken toys, old game score sheets, special 'collector' rocks, reams of old art work, crumpled posters that couldn't possibly be parted with, and many an only sock, always lacking its mate.

The toy box was usually the receptacle for the above collectibles but was also home to pajama tops or bottoms, (never the whole pair), or one shoe or mitten. There seemed to be an unwritten law at our house against two of anything ever being in the same place at the same time. But I could always be sure that the second one would turn up when the need for it had passed, been thrown out, or been outgrown.

When cleaning my sons' rooms, I found it necessary to follow some very basic and simple rules: never, never, never do it while they are around. On one occasion, I didn't follow this necessary rule and after hours of wading and sorting, discovered that ninety-nine percent of these 'treasures' had found their way back to their original place. Those tearful pleas, 'But you can't throw this out, it's still good,' were difficult to ignore. The fact that its wheels were missing was of no consequence, it was a valued possession in the eyes of its owner.

And this one is the toughest of all. After I had sorted the 'extra special drawings' from the 'ordinary' drawings, they gathered up the reject pile and said, 'But Mom, I drew these for you.' I probably don't have to say what happened to those drawings. Yes! They were taped to the hallway wall, the fridge and the kitchen walls. I drew a line at the entrance hall however.

The second most important rule to follow was to never spread the job over two days. 'Attack when unsuspecting', was my motto. While they were still wondering what was happening, the task was complete. If this rule wasn't strictly adhered to, all that would be accomplished was that the room would be rearranged but relatively intact.

I was always disappointed that after hours of working my way through the jungle, the response was not, 'Heh Mom, thanks' as I might possibly have expected but instead was, 'Heh Mom, what did you do this for?' or 'Heh Mom, you threw out all the good stuff!'

I will however, leave you with this heartwarming thought. You have my word, as the voice of experience, that the room always reverted back to its original condition in less than a week, (whether I followed the rules or not). However, a particularly enthusiastic child could do it in less time than that.

The heartwarming part, you ask? I always had artwork taped to my hallway and kitchen walls so painting was never a requirement. The heartwarming part for other parents was the fact that it was taped to my walls and not theirs.

Life is Great

As a young mother of five, I thought life was great,

Instead of joining the rat race doing work I would hate,

I stayed home with my children and taught them to be kind,

To love, and to share, and to care, and to mind.

We went on excursions I knew they would like,

We played games, and sometimes we'd hike.

Our home was a place other children came to,

And often the line-up was long at the loo.

A three-story treehouse we had high in our trees,

And one day I counted twelve boys through the leaves.

The forts that they built covered the floor,

With hardly a path there was to the door.

And when it was bedtime, we made it a game,

We'd race down the hallway; it was always the same.

They'd beat me by a long, long mile,

But I'd give them a kiss and then I'd smile,

And say, "Next time I'll win, you wait and see."

They'd just grin their mischievous grins at me.

Then a grandchild I was blessed with from heaven above,

And then there were six more for me to love,

When I look into each sweet trusting face,

Holding chubby hands, I feel my heart race,

Of my flesh and blood, I swell with pride,

And with happiness, I've sometimes cried.