Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  “They got into a big fight, and she said it was either her or me. And, well . . .” Julianna broke down and began sobbing full force.

  Mom and I? We sat there like two lumps of lead, neither wanting to say anything nor knowing what we would say if we did.

  Julianna was the first one to talk again but only after she’d cried herself dry. “I can’t move in with Tommy, I’m not like that.”

  “No one said you had to move in with your boyfriend,” I said.

  She shot me a glare. “And I can’t stay on campus, which means—Mom, can I please move back in?”

  I looked over at my mom, expecting her to right away say, “Sure! How can we help?” But she didn’t. Instead, Mom’s frown deepened and she said, “I need a drink.”

  My sister, she seemed crushed but not surprised. We both knew Mom didn’t like her after . . . well, after the whole baby thing. Not that it was Julianna’s fault; no one came out and blamed her. How could they? She’d done her best to help. But Mom, she held onto things and used them later as weapons.

  I cringed as I watched Julianna standing there, curling in on herself while Mom pulled a bottle of vodka out of the fridge. “You still working?” I asked, trying to cut through the tension in the room.

  Julianna nodded, never taking her pleading eyes off our mother. Poor kid; where would she go? It’s not like we had any relatives nearby. She’d have to move to Portland, Oregon where our estranged aunts and uncles lived.

  My gut twisted. Not that I was super close with my sister or anything, but we got along well, and she’d always been supportive of my acting. But what was there to be done? I may have held the golden boy status with Mom, but changing her mind was hard. As soon as Julianna had turned eighteen, Mom told her to go move in with Dad.

  Mom surprised me by breaking the next awkward silence. “Why’d Jimmy kick you out? Ticked at you having a boyfriend?” She snorted and tapped her fingers on the glass bottle of booze.

  Some of the tension in the room melted, but my sister remained stationed at the kitchen door, ready to make a quick exit if necessary. “Dad hates Tommy.” Julianna leaned back against the entryway.

  I snatched up another cookie and grabbed the funnies from Mom’s newspaper. They were among the crossword puzzle and the word jumble. Mom had erased through to the other side, tearing up most of my favorite comic, so I pushed the paper aside and returned my attention to the two women.

  Mom nodded and took a sip right out of the bottle. “Your father’s a jerk.”

  Julianna and I nodded. Me, because I agreed. Julianna, I assume, because she needed to be in Mom’s good graces at that moment.

  “You want some?” Mom said, thrusting the bottle at Julianna, who shook her head.

  “No thanks. Under age.”

  Mom shrugged as if to say, “Your loss. More for me,” and downed a few more sips. “Burns,” she said, perfuming the kitchen with the smell of cough syrup and the eggs she’d had for breakfast.

  I gagged and breathed into my shirt.

  Julianna stayed where she was, not interrupting the alcohol-ing process. Maybe if the old lady got drunk enough, they’d come to an agreement about living arrangements.

  The minutes ticked by, and Mom got more and more sloshy, until she stumbled back into her seat and groaned. “You can stay,” she said after another enormous belch. “But you gotta—hic!—you gotta pay rent.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” Julianna said, and tip-toed from the room.

  “And no messes! You—hic!—you pick up your s-sewing stuff. Stuff.” She hiccupped again and snorted before falling asleep at the table.

  Compared to me, Julianna was the perfect renter. She paid her rent on time, whereas I didn’t pay rent at all. She kept her areas clean and tidy, whereas I was allowed to throw my clothes here and there. I was, after all, the golden boy. I couldn’t do any wrong by my mom, no way.

  Fortunately, Dad continued paying for Julianna’s education, so at least the jerk was good for something. And when he broke up with his girlfriend—at Christmastime, no less—he asked my sister if she wanted to move back in. Of course she said no, which ticked my old man off, and then he did threaten to cut the financial strings.

  The last time my sister talked to him was Christmas Eve. Julianna was normally quiet on the phone, but her voice kept getting louder and louder from her room until Mom had me go over and bang on her door.

  “Sis, Mom wants you to cut the noise down.”

  Julianna was crying. She was crying hard. “I gotta go. No, Dad, I don’t think you should come over here. You sound drunk.”

  I rolled my eyes. Leave it to our old man to mess up the holidays. “Just hang up on him, sis.” He deserved it. Why did Julianna put up with his crap?

  “Dad, no. Don’t get all worked up. You know what the doctor said about your heart.”

  I blinked. So, he had a problem with the old ticker. Why didn’t I know these things? Probably because I was a guy and had sworn him off.

  More crying. “I’m hanging up now. M-merry Christmas, Dad. Love you. No, don’t come over,” she said again. “You stay home and rest, okay? Okay. ‘Bye.” Beep. There was silence on her side of the door for the next five minutes, and I was about ready to walk away when I heard that weird breathing she always did when upset.

  I raised my fist and knocked again. “You all right in there?”

  Sniff. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Her feet pattered across the floor toward the door, and there was more sniffing. The door remained closed. I bet she didn’t want me to see her eyes all red and her nose all snotty. She interrupted my thoughts by saying, “Aren’t you late for playing Santa?”

  I winced. It was a last-minute gig, the only thing I could scrounge up when my best friend, Danny, was fired after testing positive for some drug or other. “No, last night was the last night. You coming out or what?”

  The door creaked open, and Julianna had her poker face on. “Are you watching A Christmas Carol?”

  Hey, kiddo, you don’t have to play tough girl with me. But what I said aloud was, “Nah, Mom’s sick of it. Says it’s too sentimental.”

  Julianna, she rolled her eyes and snorted. “Yeah, she would.”

  I needed to change the subject to something safe . . . fast. “Say, you ever sew clothes for Tommy? Make him wear Julianna Couture or whatever you’re calling . . . what?”

  Her smile had widened. “Dumped him weeks ago. I’m looking to date someone else now.”

  My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. “Oh? Where’d you meet him?”

  She bit down on her grin which was threatening to take over her whole face. “School. He’s an exchange student or something.”

  I frowned. Not that I was overly protective of my kid sister, but she tended to go for the losers who weren’t good enough for her. Men kind of like . . . well, kind of like our dad. “So, he’s in fashion design?”

  She followed me down the short hall, through the living room and into the kitchen, where she poured us each a glass of egg nog. “No. He’s a friend of a friend who’s a senior in the culinary arts program.”

  “A senior?” I asked, causing Julianna to cringe. I lowered my voice and softened my tone. “Sis, you know how older guys are, right?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Guys like you?”

  “Sure. Guys like me are only after one thing, you know.”

  That made her laugh. She pulled out one of the dark wood chairs and plopped herself down with her drink. “Don’t worry, Skip; I doubt he’d even be interested.”

  “Not interested? Oh, good.”

  She gave me the evil eye, and it was my turn to laugh. “We’ve never talked,” she said. “But he’s cute and nice and a good—Oh, Skip, come on! You know I need to unload my girl talk on someone.”

  I grunted. “Then go unload it on your girlfriends. Sheesh!” But I said it in good humor, so she stopped glaring at me.

  Yawning, I picked a frosted sugar cookie off a plate on the counter and sat d
own across from Julianna. “So, if this idiot gets interested . . .”

  “But he won’t.”

  “But he might.”

  The phone rang once and stopped.

  Julianna rumpled up her hair—something she used to do when she was about to turn the conversation on me—and took a small sip of egg nog. “So, what about you and Janette?”

  “What about me and Janette?” I peered down into the depths of my glass and blushed, of all things. Why was I embarrassed? I was embarrassed for being embarrassed and ticked at my sister for even bringing Janette up. The girl was threatening to dump me if I didn’t find a more respectable job. I wanted to impress her. But she and I had different views on what made something “respectable.”

  “Is she the one?” Julianna reached across the table for my hands, which I pulled away. My sister, she laughed and her eyes grew wide with excitement. “Are you going to ask her to . . . Well, you know?”

  I took a sip of egg nog—too bad the stuff only had rum flavoring in it—and shot her a look. “It’s a little early to be thinking about that, isn’t it?”

  Julianna drew her knees up to her chest and shrugged. “Not really. Most girls start thinking about marriage before they even have a guy.” That startled me. Did Janette expect me to propose?

  I turned the tables on my sister. “Have you got your wedding all planned?”

  Now she blushed. “Might’ve dreamed about a thing or two,” she said, and we both started laughing.

  The phone rang again, three times, the caller hanging up before Julianna could get there. She looked at the caller ID. “Huh.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Dad’s cell.” She held the phone in her hand like she was weighing it. “Maybe I should call back and see if he’s all right.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said, moving to the counter to refill my glass. “He’s probably butt-dialing us or something.”

  “Why didn’t he call my cell? Mom told him never to call the home line.” She began dialing.

  “Don’t do it. He’ll just yell at you.”

  She paused, dialed one more digit, and hung up. “You’re right. When I talked to him a little bit ago, he sounded like he’d been drinking or something—not making any sense.”

  I snorted. “Sounds like our old man, all right. Well, I’m off to bed.”

  “It’s kind of early for that.”

  I chuckled and downed the rest of the egg nog in my glass. “You know Santa won’t come if us boys and girls are awake.”

  “Oh right. But don’t you want to watch a Christmas movie or something? Or we could watch your favorite action flick.”

  “Which is a Christmas movie,” I said as she made a mocking face at me.

  She rolled her eyes. “Guess you grown-ups have to sleep.”

  “What are you? A vampire?”

  “Close. College student.” She got to her feet, too, and grabbed me around the middle. “Thanks for hanging out with me, bro.”

  “Er, sure thing, sis.” I patted her on the head, pulling out of the hug before she could get clingy.

  That night, when I was in bed, the phone rang again. It rang five times before the answering service picked up. And five seconds later, I heard Julianna’s cell ringing in her room. It was Dad’s latest girlfriend; Dad had had a stroke. He was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Scotch

  2014

  Something has changed in me. When I get up the next morning, I don’t immediately reach for the bottle. In fact, I forget about it as I hop into a steaming hot shower and lather up.

  I am midway through washing my hair when I get soap in my mouth. Choking and laughing, I spit the foam from my mouth, finish rinsing off, and jump out of the shower.

  Yes, something has changed. I’m blowing my hair dry, helping the curls by scrunching up my locks as they’re hit with blasts of heat. When I am finished, I even take out my ancient curling iron and work on taming the beast. The auburn nuisance will be worn down again today in soft ringlets around my face and down my back.

  Once I’ve applied my makeup, I slip into an outfit from the far left of my closet, another dress from my favorite internet store. It’s a navy chiffon mini dress with a V-neck and a crème sash sewn into the waist. I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, tamping down a few stray hair frizzies here and there. My eye shadow runs a bit dark, but it’s a nice smoky look. A little sexy for me, but I like it. My face, as always, is pale, but I managed to bring some color to my cheeks, where I’d applied the precious little bronzer I had left. I couldn’t find blush anywhere, so this will have to do. Besides, it covers the tiny spray of freckles on either cheekbone, which someone once called endearing . . . Someone I can’t remember.

  I find a pair of crème pumps and slip into them before skipping out my door. That’s when I see it sitting on my counter: another bag of booze.

  My boss stands there, his smile strained as he says, “Come on, see what I bought!”

  Something in my expression should tip him off: I don’t want a drink, but he motions for me to come over. I know I’m going to drink this, that in days the whole lot of bottles will be consumed.

  “Wow, thanks,” I say, trying to keep a bitter edge from creeping into my voice.

  Ringmaster frowns, but only for a moment, and he shows me what he bought. “Again, they’re small, but I know you don’t mind.” He looks at me, and I can’t quite place the expression on his face. It’s somewhere between crazed and sleep-deprived.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Just trying to keep you happy.” A pause. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes?” It is a question, but my boss doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he is all relief.

  “Good. So, when your English guy shows up today, you can tell him I didn’t hit you last night. In fact, show him what I got you.”

  “Show him you got me booze?”

  Then I realize: my boss is still terrified of Ardal. “Sir,” I say, trying to sound soothing, “he’s not going to hit you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ringmaster doesn’t sound convinced. “You tell him I’m treating you good now, and I even got you a gift. Yeah, and show him what I got you.”

  “But—”

  Ringmaster’s voice is a strangled whisper as he says, “Please.”

  Ardal isn’t thrilled about my name, let alone the fact that he thinks I’m an alcoholic . . . Am I an alcoholic? Well, whatever the case, he is not seeing this shopping bag full of amber bottles. “I’ll show him.” It’s a lie.

  Ringmaster’s shoulders relax. “Thanks, Scotch. Say, I’m not stopping in tonight, so if anyone asks, I didn’t skip town.”

  I laugh, but it doesn’t sound like a joke. “Sure thing.”

  “Can you manage to scrape up dinner on your own?”

  No longer laughing, I let my eyes drift to the till. “Uh, I don’t know . . .”

  Ringmaster swears as he fishes around in his pants pocket. “All right, all right. Here’s a twenty. Get delivery, and no generous tips. We’re not out of the woods, not yet.”

  “Yes, I know. Go.”

  “Something you want to tell me?” He looks me up and down and makes a face. “Do you normally dress up for work?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “I was thinking of re-doing the window display,” I say, steering him away from his suspicions. Taking a seat behind the counter like I’m going to stay there, I pull out a sheet of paper and a pencil and begin sketching out some ideas. “We might draw more people in if our display was updated.”

  “No. No, we can’t have people dropping in.”

  I blink. “But you’re saying things are tight.”

  “They aren’t anymore. We’re just not out of the woods until Leo and I pay off—Well, that’s none of your business. I’m still the boss here, right?”

  This is odd. What has his knickers in a twist? I open my mouth to inquire further, but he holds up his hand.

/>   “Drop it. Please, I mean. Please drop it.” Ringmaster sighs, looks at his reflection in an antique mirror and says, “Don’t forget to collect business cards, and no one comes in after closing. No exceptions, not even for your English friend.”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean it, Scotch.”

  It’s fine. I don’t plan on letting anyone into the shop tonight after closing. But I must seem overly excited to him. In truth, I am. “Don’t worry, sir. No one comes in after closing. Got it.”

  Ringmaster frowns at me. “And no one goes out.”

  Ouch. Not happening. “All right, all right,” I say, getting on the defense. “Get out of here; you’re scaring away customers.”

  He eyes me askance, mumbles to himself, and heads toward the door. “Enjoy the booze.” Ringmaster laughs, and I hate him almost as much as I hate myself. All the excitement leaks out of me, and I slump forward.

  My head hurts so bad. I reach for a bottle, open it, and breathe in. “To Nothingness,” I say, lifting the opening to my lips. My hands are shaking, and it’s amazing I don’t slosh any of the drink onto my front. I take one sip, one tiny sip, but that isn’t enough. The miniature circus stares at me from its place on the shelf, and some things are too painful to remember. I guzzle.

  And as inebriated as I want to be, my brain does not slosh around merrily. I am laughing rather, and my head hurts even worse. Stashing the other bottles behind my counter, I know my plans for visiting next door are as good as ruined.

  I look into the same mirror Ringmaster had been studying and glare at what I see. “Alcoholic,” I say through gritted teeth. I am all shame and half-buried memories as the front bell tinkles. I don’t even pause.

  “Hey!” says a concerned English voice.

  “Be right back,” I say, with no intention of coming out of my apartment. Not for him. Not ever.

  “What is this?”

  His words freeze me to the spot. He is moving closer, judging me. If only I could get my legs to start working again.

  “Please don’t leave. I’m sorry.”

  I turn around, allowing him to see my too-red cheeks. “Sorry for what?”