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.
The sun was shining, and West had promised to take him to the range again late
afternoon to work with him further. It was Monday, and he had the day off. He didn’t
know what he would do between now and then, or how he would make hours pass.
Brazil could not endure free time, and usually gave it away to some project.
The grass was heavy with dew when he slipped out of the house at half past seven.
Carrying tennis rackets and a hopper of balls, he walked first to the track, where he ran
six miles and did push-ups, sit-ups, and crunches, to get his fix of endorphin. By now,
the grass was warm and dry, and he lay in it long enough for his blood to stop pounding.
He listened to the buzzing of insects in clover, and smelled bittersweet green vegetation
and wild onions. His gym shorts and tank top were saturated as he trotted downhill to the
outdoor tennis courts.
Ladies were playing doubles, and he politely trotted behind them on their court, going to the other end, so he could be as far away from anyone as possible. He didn’t want to
disturb people with the hundreds of balls he intended to kill. Brazil served in deuce court
and ad court, on one side, then the other, picking up after himself with the bright yellow
hopper. He was slightly annoyed. Tennis was unforgiving if he didn’t practice. His
usual precision wasn’t there, and he knew what this boded. If he didn’t start playing