Time For Love

The kitchen was organized for ease of use and by the time of day. The first cupboard over the dishwasher held the utensils he needed to make breakfast—spatula, frying pan, a small plate and fork. The cupboard in the corner held his lunch supplies—napkins, peanut butter, bread and a knife. The cupboard next to the stove held his dinner needs—a small saucepan, a bowl, a soupspoon. The spice cupboard held his stash of alcohol, hidden behind a tin of cinnamon and a bottle of vanilla. In the corner, near the door that led to the backyard, was a red braided rug with Dolly’s food and water feeders. He let her out at three-hour intervals—six, nine, twelve, three, six, nine. And took a nip of alcohol each time.

Then his carefully organized life had been thrown a curve. Diabetes required a different diet—vegetables were in his fridge for the first time since Helen had died. It also required lots of pokes—fingers for blood-sugar readings and his abdomen for shots. Becca stopped by twice a day to help him with the pokes and blood-sugar readings. And now, on top of everything else, Dolly needed walking.

Kathy had shown up promptly at three thirty during a commercial break. The change in schedule required a second nip of rum. Now it was after four. Wilson rocked in the living room, waiting for her to return. He couldn’t watch the late-afternoon movie if he was interrupted, so he watched nothing at all.

One thousand twenty-three rocks later, there was a knock on the door. Kathy brought Dolly inside and removed her leash.

When she’d arrived, Kathy had looked as worn-out as Wilson’s brown carpet. Now her expression seemed bright and cheerful.

“You’re late,” Wilson said, holding out a ten-dollar bill.

“I know we agreed on twenty minutes. I didn’t think you’d complain if it took me longer.” She produced a treat from her pocket and fed it to Dolly.

“Should you be doing that? She’s supposed to be losing weight.”

“It’s okay. Dolly needs protein after all that exercise. And...” Before he knew what was happening, she’d crossed the room and hugged him. “Thank you for believing in me.”

What began as a loose, comfortable gesture ended with her jerking away from him. She stared at his face as intently as a traffic cop studied a driver caught weaving. She stared into his eyes, his dry-as-a-wheat-field-after-harvest eyes.

She smelled the rum.

“My wife was an alcoholic,” Wilson blurted. What was he doing telling her this? No one knew. No one had to know.

Kathy, the recovering alcoholic, stood frozen, the joy stolen from her face. Her bright red hair made her skin look white as a sheet.

Wilson almost felt guilty. Almost. But he wasn’t hurting anybody. And he wasn’t drinking to excess.

Butshe knows, she knows, she knows. He wavered from nonchalance to near panic. No one knew his secret, because no one needed to know.

What if Kathy told someone? “Living with Helen was the hardest thing I ever did. She said she needed chaos to stay sober. It... I used to be an engineer at the mill. I like things just so.” If only he could hold a shot glass in his hand. Even an empty one made him feel more in control.

Kathy’s gaze cataloged the family pictures around the room. Helen in her Sunday best and pearls. Their kids—two of his, three of hers. Grandkids. Kathy didn’t speak. She was waiting for him to admit that he had a problem. That was what recovering alcoholics did. That was what Helen had done.

Familiar anger shuffled through his veins. Wilson didn’t have a problem. He didn’t overindulge and drive drunk. He’d never flown into a drunken rage and beat his wife. He wanted a little nip now and then. That didn’t mean he had a problem. Not like Helen. Not like Kathy. They couldn’t control their urges.

Finally, she asked, “How long was she sober?”

“Our entire marriage. Twenty years.” His voice had turned into an unrecognizable thing, twisting and twining like a lying snake. “If you need to talk to anybody about...you know. You can come here. Anytime. Come back tomorrow at three thirty to walk Dolly. Don’t be late.”