by Naomi West
“That sounds like a damn fine idea to me,” he says. “Come on, we’ll put on one of those romantic comedies women like so much. I’m sure we can find one. And then once you’re nice and horny from watching Matthew McConaughey woo some damsel, you’ll be ready for me to fuck you again.”
I jab him in the side. “Don’t be such a pig.” But I’m smiling.
Chapter Thirteen
Xander
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks, as I pace around the room like a dog which hasn’t eaten in a few days. And that’s how I feel, goddamn. It’s how I feel, a dog which is so hungry it might just start biting, howling. I go into the kitchen, ignoring her, and take some ice from the freezer. I bring it to my forehead, not caring when some of it slips through my fingers and shatters on the floor.
She follows me through. It’s late. We’ve fucked, we’ve eaten, and now the sun has set. It’s the first evening in months I haven’t had whisky coursing through my veins, bolstering me, making the night bearable. I’m stone-cold sober and the sun is down; it feels so strange to me I find it difficult to believe that once it didn’t feel strange.
“Xander? Are you okay?”
I’m hopping from foot to foot like I sometimes do before or after a fight. The energy compelling my body right now is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, like there’s a pinball bouncing around inside of me. “Fine,” I mutter, gritting my teeth. There’s an invisible spike in my head, buried dead-center in my brain, crushing my mind. I can’t think. I don’t know what to tell her; I don’t know what she wants to hear. I just need … I know what I need. I need it badly. But I have to stay sober just in case things get bad with Connor. I don’t want to feel resentful of Kayla or the kid, but at the same time I can’t deny that if they weren’t here, I could get shitfaced right now and there’d be no problems. They just came out of nowhere, fucking nowhere, and now they’ve taken over my life.
“Xander?”
“Mm,” I mutter, taking my cellphone and going into the bathroom. I lock the door and call Christopher.
“Kid?” he says.
“Old man,” I reply.
“What is it?” he pauses. “Are you drunk?”
“No, old man, but I want to be. I want to be so badly I don’t know if I can stop myself. Explain something to me, will you? How the fuck is a man supposed to stay sober? It makes no damn sense. Why would a man even choose to be sober when he’s got perfectly good whisky under his sink?”
“Xander,” she calls, knocking on the door. “Are you okay?”
“One minute!” I snap, way harsher than I mean to. But goddamn, can’t she just leave it be for a few minutes?
“You got a lady there,” he points out. “Maybe that’s a reason.”
“Maybe it is,” I agree. “But my head feels like it’s going to crack in half and my legs feel like they’re going to walk away from my body, so explain to me how the fuck I’m supposed to handle that.”
“Listen to me,” he says, his voice the type of grasping, serious tone a man uses when the other man better really listen. “You’re thinking of this all wrong. You’re trying to come up with reasons to stay sober, trying to get some justification or whatever the fuck … that ain’t the way to go about it, kid. You don’t wanna start wondering why you’re doing this. That comes later. For now, you just need to focus on the method. The method is all that matters. Stop thinking about why you shouldn’t be doing this, because that leads to relapse. That’s where that road leads every time. Trust me. I’ve been down it. You start wondering why you’re doing this, and then you resent it, and finally you decide that you’re tired of feeling this way and just say, ‘Fuck it.’ So right now all you need to think about are practical steps to stop yourself from drinking. Number one is to throw that whisky away. Number two is to climb into that lady’s arms, whoever she is, and forget about everything else. I’ve got some medication I can bring you tomorrow. I’d bring it tonight but I’ve got club business. Kid? You there?”
It’s only when he says that that I realize I’ve been biting my hand. I let it go. The teeth marks are deep and red. “Yeah. I’m here.”
“You hearing me?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“At the club.”
“Fine. At the club. See you later.”
“Throw away that whisky, Xander.”
“All right.”
I hang up the phone and go to the mirror, staring at myself. It’s like I’m looking at a different man. It’s the eyes that do it, red, bloodshot, the eyes of a drinker. I’ve never seen my eyes like that before. I won’t drink. I won’t give in like that. The old man is right. All I’m trying to do with this reasoning shit is reason myself back into a bottle. Kayla is waiting for me when I open the door, her hands folded over her knee. Her mouth is a strange shape, almost a curvy line: somewhere between concern and anger.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asks.
I make for the kitchen, but her expression is too urgent. I go to the couch instead; I can get the bottles after we talk. “It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just can’t sleep, is all.”
“Can’t sleep? Is that what you call jumping out of bed at midnight?”
“Yeah, that’s one way to describe it.”
“This is about the drinking, isn’t it?”
I roll my head in my shoulders. “I don’t want to talk about this, Kayla.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.” She shrugs. “I just thought you might want to. I thought it might help.”
“What, we sit around telling each other how hard our lives are and then sing some kumbaya? Next we’ll be braiding each other’s hair and doing each other’s nails.”
She folds her arms. “You don’t have to be such a jerk all the time.”
“There are quite a few folks who’d disagree with you there. But fair enough. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I really can be an incredibly polite gentleman. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder in the future.”
“Wow.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s like you’re intentionally trying to push my buttons.”
I hold my hands up. “Never. I’m a better man than that.”
“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I just think … it helps, doesn’t it, sometimes?”
I close my eyes and let my head fall back. “I’m sure it does,” I say into the personal darkness. “Let me tell you somethin’, then, since you really want to know. The day we found Arsen was the worst day of my life. I reckon you didn’t see him until we gave him to the morgue, which is why there was a delay, if you were ever wondering. But I spent some time with him. I sat with him, with what was left of my brother, just a blackened crisp. You ever got a bad potato chip, all crispy and burnt around the edges? That was my little brother. Nothing, not even human, burnt so badly I can’t even remember what he actually looked like sometimes.”
“Xander …” She puts her hand on my leg, only there ain’t anything sexual in it this time.
“So I went and did what any sane man’d do in that situation. I went to the nearest bar and I just started drinking. I’ll get shitfaced, I thought, and everything’ll seem better for a little while. And what everyone wants me to say—you, the men at the club—is that it didn’t help, is that really it makes me miserable. Maybe there’s some truth to that, but mostly it really did help. It helped me forget. It helped me laugh. It helped me not to care. When I’m shitfaced and I close my eyes, I see my little brother. When I’m sober, I see a burnt potato chip.
“So I just kept drinking, ’cause seeing my brother like that ain’t something I ever prepared for. I’m the outlawin’ one. I’m the one who deserves to be found burnt, dead and burnt. I don’t deserve to live while he’s dead. So maybe my drinking problem has got out of control. Maybe I drink too much. But the fucked-up part is that I don’t even wanna stop, ’cause when I stop I see him as he was then, and the reality is—the reality is real, and I kno
w how stupid that sounds. I want a drink right now. This time tomorrow I reckon I’ll be climbing up these goddamn walls.”
I open my eyes to find Kayla crying, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. She tries to wipe them away before I see but she’s too slow. I touch her cheek, wiping them away for her. “What is it?” I ask. “Arsen?”
“No,” she whispers.
“What, then?” I wish my voice could be kinder, but with all this withdrawal shit coursing through my system, kindness is hard to find. Instead I just sit here, watching her, waiting. Her hair hangs in curls around her eyes; her fingers worry at the couch cushions.
“I’ve never told anybody about this before,” she says. “I didn’t tell Arsen. I didn’t tell Connor. I didn’t tell anybody.”
“Okay …”
She takes a deep breath and then talks very quickly, blurting it all out, talking so fast that words spill upon words. “When I was a little girl I never knew that it was strange that my parents were always acting so weird, always sneaking around in the day and being loud and annoying, never letting me get any sleep because all they did was have parties every single night, sometimes with other people but mostly just the two of them. They were alcoholics.” She lets out another breath, this one steadier. “They were alcoholics,” she repeats, eyes glassy. “I didn’t know the word for that, then. But that’s what they were. They couldn’t go a few days without drinking. Hell, they couldn’t even go a few hours. When I understood what they were, and what other girls’ parents were, I hated them. I really hated them. They made me sick. It wasn’t fair, you know, for them to be drunk all the time, for them to not even notice me.
“Why have me? That’s what always confused me. Why have me if you’re not going to care about me, or even notice me, or even acknowledge I exist? Why have me if all you want to do is get drunk and party every day? Anyway, this went on pretty much the same until I was a teenager. And then—” She stops, fighting back sobs. “And then my dad decided to drive drunk one night and swerved off the road right into a tree, killing them both. They died instantly, or that’s what the doctors told me. I went to live with my grandma after that and things were a little better, but then she died, too.” She shrugs. “I don’t mean to drop all of this on you. I just … I don’t want you to end up like them, Xander.”
Her words thud into me. I touch her hand, give it what I hope is a comforting squeeze. “I won’t,” I tell her. I smile sideways. “I’m a great drunk driver, anyway.”
She snatches her hand away. “That’s not funny!” she hisses, jumping to her feet. She stamps into the bedroom.
I go to the sink, meaning to empty the whisky bottles, but instead I just kneel there and look at them. It’s good whisky. Just because I’m not drinking, it doesn’t mean I should waste perfectly fine whisky. I’ll give it to the club. They can leave it behind the bar. Some of the other fellas’ll get some use out of it.
I leave it as it is and join Kayla in the bedroom, lying down next to her and wrapping my arms around her. She tries to stay mad for a little while, but then she starts to snore. I kiss her on the back of the head, wishing sleep would come so easily to me.
Chapter Fourteen
Xander
I’m sitting next to the ocean. I can’t quite remember what ocean it is, but that don’t matter none. It’s a bright blue ocean, the water so clear a man can stand at the edge and see almost a mile down. There are a hundred thousand fish just in my small section alone. Next to me, Kayla and Cormac play, but they are too quiet for me to hear over the leaping fish and the whales spurting giant towers of water into the air. I lean back, smiling. Life is good. I never knew that when Kayla and I first met. I never guessed that life could be this good, this perfect, even. I look back on those times now, grinning to myself, and then turning and grinning at Kayla. Those early days were hard-going. The detox, the arguments, but we’re a family now and that’s all that matters.
The house is made of bright green wood, blending into the surrounding forest. The beach is white sand and the sea is tropical, but the trees are the old pines from the campsite Arsen and I stayed at once when we were kids, our one and only holiday, when I climbed so high that Arsen started to sob because he thought he’d lost me. I go into the house and get myself a glass of water. No alcohol for me, not anymore. Those days ended when Kayla and I got serious. I won’t be a drunk. I like water. Water and the sun go together. There’s no need to add alcohol to the equation.
“Liar,” he says, stepping from behind the door.
He’s just like the last time I saw him, his body as black as burnt bacon, smelling just like that, too. I don’t know how he speaks when he hasn’t got much of a mouth, or how he walks around when he doesn’t have any muscles left. Sometimes the ash shifts, flashing a glimpse of bone, but mostly he’s just a charred husk. I can tell he’s smiling but I don’t know how; I don’t see it.
“Liar,” he repeats, walking a circle around me. “You live to be a drunk. Don’t bullshit me. That’s all you care about. We both know it. You’re a drunk and you’ll always be a drunk. It’s simple stuff. Don’t lie to me, big brother. Fucking liar. Fucking drunk. Fucking loser. Where were you?” He places his ashy hand on my shoulder. “Tell me that. When Connor’s men were barring the door and I was burning to death, where were you? Fucking Marie Keller, I bet. You were never around. You never gave a shit about me. I bet you paid Connor to do it. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I take a step back. I need to get back outside but there’s no outside left. There’s just a yawning abyss where outside once was. I try to go upstairs but there are no doors left, only this room, Arsen, and me. I drop to the floor and bring my knees to my chest, feeling weak and powerful, feeling pathetic. I won’t cry. An outlawing man doesn’t cry. And yet I am crying.
“Let’s be honest about this.” He kneels down so that he would be looking me in the face if he had eyes. “Part of you always wanted me to die. Tell the truth. Part of you always wanted me out of the way. You never cared about me, not really. I was just a burden. I was in the way. I wasn’t your little brother. I was just a pain in the ass. Remember when we were kids and you shouted at me that you wished I was dead? Well, big brother, you got your wish.”
“Stop it!” I yell, sobbing like a coward, sobbing like a girl. “Stop this right now!”
He wraps his arms around me, singeing my skin. “Never,” he says. “I’ll never stop, you evil bastard. You’re the worst brother a man could ever ask for. I hate you. I hate you.”
I sit up in total darkness, mouth dry, heart pounding like it did the first time I ever killed a man. That’s the only other time I’ve ever felt like this, like my whole world has shifted in some fundamental way. I try’n tell myself that it was just a nightmare, but I’m already in the kitchen, bottle of whisky on the counter, staring down at it and trying to fight the unbeatable urge to crack it open. Part of me knows that going into the bedroom and waking up Kayla would be better, or going to the kid and letting him grab onto my finger to remind me that there’s some good in the world. But that part of me is far away; that part of me is a different man.
I don’t want to think about that day when we were kids and I roared at him, in front of some of my friends, that it’d be better if he was dead. I thought I was a real funny guy, a real badass, bullying my little brother like that. And now I’ve gone and fucked his old lady, twice. He’s right. What sort of big brother am I? What sort of man am I? I open the bottle; I’ll just open it. I don’t have to commit to anything.
I open it, smell it. I shouted at him in front of everybody and now he’s dead. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a good man. I’ve always known that. But tonight it’s like I’m finally realizing just what a terrible man I really am. Maybe Christopher is right; maybe Kayla is right. Maybe everybody apart from me is right. But I know who’s more right than all of them: Arsen. They scratch at the truth but he digs it up. I’m a bad brother, which means I’m a shitty person seeing as
being a brother was the only thing I should’ve been worrying about.
I bring the whisky bottle to my lips. Already I’m smiling, because I know that soon this feeling is going to be gone. Maybe I’ll just have a few swigs, just enough to file down this edge a little. I take a sip, a longer sip than I intended, and the whisky burns a passage down my throat and into my belly, a potent heat that blooms throughout my body like a flower with petals made of fire. This is the thing; this is the only thing. I take another sip, another, urging on the warmth. People will tell me anything they can to try’n keep me chained down, to try’n tell me how to live my life. But that’s horseshit.
I stand in the kitchen for a long time, drinking. At some point I finish the bottle and get another one—might as well—and at some point later on, I pick up my third bottle. The world is a different place now. Everything wobbles from side to side. Nothing is the same. I can’t even remember why I started to drink in the first place. I can’t even remember why I ever wanted to stop drinking, either. Everything is a fog in the background. All I know is that I have to keep drinking, because if I stop I might sober up and that can’t happen under any circumstances. No, I have to keep drinking, just keep on, and try not to think too much. That’s my problem. I let myself think and overthink too much, think myself into a goddamn hole, and then act surprised when I can’t climb out of it.