“I’m an alcoholic.”
Mrs. Brazil tried the same line on Ron, a freshman from Ashland, Virginia. The expected catharsis was not there. Students did not respond well and avoided her after that. They regarded her fearfully as rumors floated around campus. Some of what was said got back to Brazil, heightening a sense of shame that drove him deeper into his isolation. He knew he could never have friends because if anyone got close, the truth would be known. Even West had been confronted the first time she had called his house. Brazil was still perplexed, if not stunned, that this had not seemed to affect the deputy chief’s opinion of him.
“Mom, how about I cook us up some eggs?” Brazil paused in the doorway.
Light from the television flickered in the dark living room.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, staring at the screen.
“What have you eaten? Probably nothing, right? You know how bad that is for you.
Mom. ”
Pointing the remote control, she changed to another channel, where people were laughing and exchanging bad lines.
“How ’bout a grilled cheese?” her son tried again.
“Well, maybe.” She changed channels again. It was hard for her to be still when her son was nearby. It was hard to look at his face and meet his eyes. The nicer he was to her, the more abusive she felt, and she had never figured out why. She would not make it without him. He bought food and kept the house going. Her social security checks and a small pension from the police department supplied her liquids. It didn’t take as much to get drunk these days, and she knew what this said about her liver. She wished she would go on and die, and she worked at it every day. Her eyes filled with tears and her throat closed as her son rattled around in the kitchen.
Alcohol had been the enemy the first time she’d ever touched it, when she was sixteen and Micky Latham took her to Lake Norman at night and got her drunk on apricot brandy. She vaguely remembered lying in the grass, watching stars reconfigure and blur as he breathed hard and clumsily worked on her blouse as if buttons had just been invented. He was nineteen and worked in Bud’s Garage, and his hands were calloused and felt like claws on breasts that had never been touched before this intoxicated moment.
That was the night sweet Muriel lost her virginity, and it had nothing to do with Micky Latham, and everything to do with the bottle in its ABC store brown paper bag. When she drank, her brain lifted as if it might sing. She was happy, brave, playful, and witty. She was driving her father’s Cadillac the afternoon Officer Drew Brazil pulled her over for speeding. Muriel was seventeen and the most beautiful, worldly woman he’d ever met. If he thought he smelled alcohol on her breath that afternoon, he was too mesmerized to put it in perspective.
He was rather glorious in his uniform, and the ticket never got written. Instead, they went to Big Daddy’s fish camp after he got off duty. They married that Thanksgiving when she had missed her period two months in a row.
Muriel Brazil’s son reappeared with grilled cheese on wheat bread, cooked just right and cut diagonally, the way she liked it. He’d put a dollop of ketchup on the side so she could dip, and he brought her water that she had no intention of drinking. He looked so much like his father, it was more than she could bear.
“I know how much you hate water, Mom,” he said, setting the plate and napkin in her lap.
“But you got to drink it, okay? Sure you don’t want salad?”
She shook her head and wished she could thank him. She was impatient because he was blocking her view of the TV.
“I’ll be in my room,” he said.
//l/i “w He dry-fired until his finger bled. He was remarkably steady because years of tennis had strengthened the muscles of his hands and forearms. His grip was crushing. The next morning, he woke up excited.