Secrets, part one

Leta was sitting quietly in the corner of the blind pig. At any moment she expected her husband Ora to come in, but for the moment, she was desperately trying to grab hold of her own frazzled faculties. The gin helped. It was a good gin. This was not always possible at this neighborhood establishment. Sometimes all the proprietor served was rot gut. At other times, his stock was so low that he watered it down to make it last. When the liquor was particularly weak, she would simply leave. However, Ora was not as sensitive. “Hooch is hooch,” he’d tell Leta, “the more you drink, the better it tastes.” While this may have been true for him, she had a more discerning palate.

Ora could drink just about anything, even paint thinner, she surmised. Although she had never seen him try it, right now she believed him capable of nearly anything. He had startled her so severely just thirty minutes earlier that there was no base activity or inappropriate behavior that she didn’t suspect was beyond his bounds.

They had been sitting in their living room. The children were in bed. She was sewing a new shirt for her son Dale who had just undergone another growth spurt. The fabric she used came from some shirts of her late husband Albert that she had saved. While it was tricky to transform a grown man’s shirt into one for a a little boy, Leta was skilled at it. Although Ora didn’t like that she was using Albert’s shirts or even keeping them around, she responded that they could not afford new.

That they had a light supper of pancakes and strawberries started him off, but there was no money for meat. Leta tried to liven up the meal by making her own syrup out of brown sugar and molasses, but while the children were pleased and proud of her, Ora was disgruntled. He had recently started a painting job, but the money would not come in for another week, she reminded him. Until then, they had to make do.

Ora was sitting in his chair and dozing between chugs of home-made beer he was tasting for a colleague. Every five minutes or so, he passed gas, and Leta winced and grunted lightly when the stench reached her. She sewed on.

Leta heard him sigh contentedly and looked at him curiously. While she could not ascertain if he was awake, asleep or somewhere in between, she noted a slight relaxation and grin of relief, one that seemed more appropriate for an infant that just released itself than a grown man. A couple of moments later, Ora’s eyes opened completely, and he looked at her.

“What?” she asked.

He snarled.

“Why did you just do that?” she inquired.

He cursed gruffly and stood. That’s when she noticed the large wet spot around the fly of his trousers.

“Oh my goodness!” she gasped. “Did you just wet yourself?”

“Shut up,” he snapped and sauntered uncomfortably from his chair to their bedroom.

Leta had also stood, first staring after him, and then after he had disappeared, going over to the chair, still holding her sewing in her hands. She looked at the seat of the chair. There  was a wet spot. In fact, Ora’s water had soaked through and was dripping onto the floor.

She couldn’t help herself and gasped loudly in disgust. “Ora!” she shouted. “Get back in here.”

To be continued.