It was Saturday, nearly noon, and Leta's day was going
terribly. Not only was she suffering the after-affects of drinking too much
alcohol the previous evening, but her son Dale, while playing outside, had hurt
himself. He had been the tree in their front yard, slipped and caught his leg
on a branch, which left a large gash. While she waited for the doctor, she
attempted to make herself presentable—washed her face, combed her hair, pinched
her ashen cheeks, put on a little lipstick, and dressed.
She was just finishing when she heard the doctor drive up. She
raced down the stairs, so he wouldn’t ring the bell and quietly led him up the
stairs to Dale’s room, so they didn’t wake her husband, who was still asleep.
Vivian was still pressing rags against Dale’s leg. The doctor smiled and nodded
toward her, and she stepped away.
During the doctor’s ministrations, which eventually required
several stitches, Leta became so engrossed that she failed to hear her husband
wake. In her defense, Leech was always rather quiet, even rising after a night
of drinking. This was very different from her previous husband Ora Freeman. Ora
would rouse from a drunken sleep with a curse on his breath, loudly carrying on
until his body and head both had cleared. In contrast, Leech would open his
eyes, lie flat on his back for several minutes, get out of bed, stand for a few
more minutes to get his bearing, and then proceed steadily to the lavatory. On
this particular morning, he was drawn to the commotion to Dale’s bedroom.
“What the hell is going on here?” Leech demanded, his loud
screeching voice piercing the intense concentration of the room. Leta jumped. A
pinch of pain grabbed her head, and a wave of anxiety clutched her back.
Leech was standing in the doorway, and Leta, who had been
assisting the doctor, quickly left her son to calm her husband.
“It’s nothing,” she said plaintively, blocking the action from
him. “Dale has a little scrape in his leg, that’s all. Now why don’t we get
dressed, and then go downstairs for some coffee. I can have a fresh pot
percolating in a couple of minutes.”
“You called the doctor?” Leech continued, pushing her aside. “For
a little scrape?”
He strode over to where the doctor was finishing an
application of stitches. Then he turned to Leta.
“This doesn’t look like a little scrape to me.”
“He’ll be fine,” Leta said, wishing her husband would leave
the room. She turned to her daughter. “Vivian, go make a pot of coffee.” Then
she turned back to her husband. “Vivian’s going to make you some coffee. Why
don’t you finish getting dressed and go downstairs?”
Leech was a sight. He was still wearing his shirt from the
night before, and it was sporadically buttoned, as if he had forgotten how to put
it on. Part of it was tucked inside his undershorts, because he was not wearing
trousers. His legs were bare, and he only wore one sock. Evidently he spilled
something on himself the previous night for there was a brown stain running
down the left side of his shirt. One sleeve was rolled, but the other hung
limply.
He belched loudly.
“I don’t like this, Mrs. Hoose,” he said. “I don’t like this
at all.”
“Yes, I know,” she said quietly. “But the doctor’s nearly
finished. Now, let’s get ourselves some coffee. You’ll feel better after some
coffee.”
“I feel fine,” he grumbled, as he turned away from the room.
“Of course, you do,” Leta agreed, standing close to him, but
also clear of him. When he was in this state, he also hated to be touched.
A short time later, after the doctor left, as the two of them
were drinking coffee in the kitchen, he was mostly distant. She knew his head
was pounding. Her own was not much different. Not only had they stayed at the
speakeasy until it closed for the night, but they also drank more than their
usual maximum. He was staring at the breadbox. She was watching him. Then he
turned his head slowly toward her.
“There is no question, Mrs. Hoose,” he said, “Children are a
burden.”
To be continued.
No comments:
Post a Comment