Kissing Bottles
I thought I was ready for Ruben when he came home after midnight. He never let closing time interrupt his drinking, and night after night stood clutching the doorway with one hand, his fifth with the other. The thing was to let him rage before he collapsed onto the sofa. It was only halfway through a drunk that he was really dangerous, and as long as that happened in the living room, I could live with it. So, I scampered upstairs to the spare room, where I’d been sleeping lately.

But this time he thundered up the steps and banged on the door I’d slammed shut and blocked with a chair.

“Neely, open up, I need to talk with you.”

“Sorry honey, got to get this done first.” No sense telling him I was packing. That would remind him I was going away for a few days.

“C’mon, I need you.”

Sure, to beat out his frustrations on me. It hadn’t started out that way. In bed we’d cuddle while he caressed my hair that never stayed put and called me his little bird. His long arms felt like protection then.

He had a job at the lumberyard, and worked for contractors now and then, until his drinking got in the way and the only place that would hire him anymore was this metal shop on the edge of town where he sorted out scraps. So of course he was miserable. But he pushed away everyone who tried to help, and even attacked some of them. That side of him crawled out about a year ago, and wouldn’t go back in.

The chair didn’t hold and he shoved through the door. I closed the suitcase but I couldn’t hide it.

“What are you doing? Leaving?”

“Visit to my sister, remember? I’ll be gone for a few days.”

He lifted his bottle to his lips. Some dribbled down over the already wet bristles on his chin. He was once a good-looking man.

“Maybe I’ll come with, like our honeymoon trip to the Black Hills.”

“Not this time sugar, maybe when I get back.” I brushed hair from his forehead, sometimes that settled him.

But not this time.

He swung the arm with the bottle in hand in a clumsy circle, and I had to jump out of the way. “You think you can pet me and that’ll make everything alright? After all you’ve done to push me away, so all I have left is this damn bottle?”

That bottle could have whacked me silly. He’d hit before, but not with a weapon. He’d even threatened to kill me more than once.

I ran down the stairs to the kitchen and grabbed the little vial I stared at now and then when things got bad. That we used to get the rats out of the basement. He came after me, but by that time I was in the living room pacing behind the sofa, my fingers digging into the Afghan draped there, with one hand clutched around my little bottle.

“Come on Neely, I didn’t mean it, I love you.”

“Love you too.” Used to be I meant it.

He was weakening from all this scrambling around, and when the sofa caught him at the knees he tumbled into it and rolled with the Afghan tangled around him onto his back. He took another swig, and then his hand drooped to the floor.

From my stance behind the sofa I looked down on him. How was I going to get that thing out of his hand? Not, even in his stupor. Then my free hand rose to touch the tender place on my temple, still sore from the last time. I could leave again, but he’d always find me and hold it against me.

My grip on the vial made my fingers hurt. Don’t even think it. But on the way to the kitchen to empty it in the sink, I crept around the front of the sofa, and got a closer look at that hand that clutched his bottle, the one I’d felt as an open palm, and later as a fist. I stopped, knelt there, feeling his breath on my face, smelling the liquor on it. And then my own hand took over, and I kissed the opening of my vial to the mouth of his bottle. I hesitated, but my hand won out and a trickle streamed down inside the neck of his fifth.

Then I backed away to a good distance, and stood by the stairs. Maybe he was out for the night, and the bottle would drop from his hand. I sat on the stairs and watched through the slats of the banister. I could wrest it away from his grip, but he might still have some fight in him. My body refused as though I’d become a pillar of salt.

And then the man, my husband, lifted the bottle to his lips, and in the semi darkness I could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall. A chill shook my shoulders and raced down my back. I could call the ambulance. But I remained frozen in place and as rigid as if I’d been the one to take the strychnine. He would pass out as he had so many times before, and no one would think it was any different. All I’d done is help it along a little.

I watched. It didn’t take long. His back contracted into an arc that left the sofa and he let out a sound, half groan half shriek that went on and on. I almost got up but then it died out. Not the spasm though, which took many minutes to release his back to the sofa again.

I had to wait till morning before I left, so as not to arouse suspicion, but those last hours before dawn really hung over me, and the body of my tormenter. Fifth of whisky empty on the floor where his hand released it after his last draught. Everyone knew he was a drinker, shook their heads, said to him he’d drink himself to death. What they didn’t know and never would, is the help I gave him.

I had to. Otherwise he’d get around to fulfilling his promise to kill me, eventually.

In the last hour of darkness I got up and walked close to stand over him. His face still in the grip of his last grimace, and one eye glinted in the slit where its eyelid hadn’t finished closing. Could he see me? I shuddered, and resisted an impulse to pull the Afghan over his head. That’d be the end of me.

I went back to the stairs, not wanting the comfort of a chair, not deserving it. Sky with the first gray of dawn, only half an hour to go. If Jill across the street saw me go, she’d know it was because I needed to get an early start to make it to Colorado where my sister lived. Everyone knew, friends at the coffee house, school colleagues, one last trip before school started.

They’d suspect me. How could I not know he was dead before I left? But I’d say he was sleeping off another bender and I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. Little knowing that he was already dead on that sofa.

Could be no one would check for days. Maybe I’d call the police from the road, say he hadn’t answered, that I was worried. Yes, in a day or two. No, tomorrow, I was a good wife. What was I thinking, not the police. I would call him tonight from the motel and leave a message. Try again in the morning, then call Sam next door to check on him. He could handle it.

I left the house with my one suitcase. Just a trip to see my sister. I would come back of course. Yes. To grieve and put him in the ground, and say how tragic. He was such a good man when he wasn’t drinking. I wouldn’t have any problems saying that. I could pull that off. If I had trouble I’d count on my acting skills. Been in lots of plays with the Village Players, Four Corners’ community theater. Even played a widow once, standing over the pit as the stage casket was lowered with ropes, making tears with the help of a menthol stick smeared under my eyes.

Six AM. There were already lights in a few houses in the neighborhood, and I think I saw Jill’s curtains part. Stopped at Kwik Star, they know me there. Ida asked why the early drive and I said hadn’t seen my sister in two years, COVID you know. Wanted to take the chance before school started.

“You still teaching those first graders? So lucky to have a smart girl like you with all that energy. Jamie loved all that art you had them do, there never was enough room on my fridge.”

“Jamie’s what now, seventh grade?”

“No Dearie, he just started high school!”

Good thing Ruben and I never had kids. Enough to keep track of my students. And how messed up they’d be by living with a violent father and a victim mom.

On the highway out of town, I dared take a deep breath. Not that I was off the hook, but it was a step. Even figured how to use cruise control, and make sure I stayed under 55. No sense getting caught in some small town’s speed trap. By the time I got to Manly the town was waking up, people going to work, kids on screwy little bikes that looked like motorcycles, ranging the side streets.

I made it all the way to Kearney that day, on the Platte in Nebraska. Even had time to go to the Archway Museum. I’d call tonight. No one would know yet. I’d be the one to alert them, like a good wife.

At the beginning of the exhibit a long escalator climbs to the first exhibits. In one a Conestoga wagon tilts on a dusty incline and life-size models of people and oxen struggle to move it along. A small woman pushes against the rear of the wagon while her skirt drags in the dust and thunder rolls. She has an impossible task, and her face is so real I want to help her. An actual woman stood next to me, taking shots with a professional style camera. I decided to take some myself, would be good to show my first graders.

We smiled at each other and ambled along, taking pictures of the same things. At one exhibit the pioneers unload belongings they can take no further up a stony mountain pass.

I ventured, “Can you imagine hauling all that stuff and then having to dump it?”

“Sewing machine, tables, stuffed chair, what were they thinking?”

“Is that an organ? They must have had no idea what they were up against.”

The woman asked me, “You traveling west?”

No harm in saying. “Yes, but how would you guess?”

“You are drawn to the pioneers I think, so maybe going the same direction.” She untangled her arm from a camera strap and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Darlene, also traveling west.”

I took it, though I hadn’t imagined meeting anyone till this business was done. The actress in me said to dial normal. “Neely, from Iowa.”

There was something solid about this woman, I couldn’t figure out why, not her height which was taller than me, like almost everybody. Maybe because she could stand still and watch. A photographer has to do that to take a good shot. I had to do that last night. Another shiver, which I translated into an urge to move along, arms, legs, on the way to the next diorama.

This one was a gorgeous desert scene with three pioneers: a man holding the hand of a small girl, and a kneeling woman who bowed in reverence over a new grave. My tears came. I could think of this when I had to look into the pit I had condemned my husband to. No, he did it to himself. I have to remember that.

I glanced at Darlene, who let her camera dangle and clasped her hands in front of her chest.

I didn’t want to intrude so I waited till her hands came down and her head lifted. “You’ve lost someone,” I said.

“Haven’t we all.”

She picked up her camera but it was only to fiddle with the controls, not to take a picture of the mourning family. I was going to take a shot myself, but I couldn’t after that. I was sort of hoping she’d start off to the next exhibit, but she stayed put and said, “Look how the painter got the desert landscape with that bluff on the left, and the blue mountains in the distance.”

“That they knew they’d have to get across.” I appreciated the surroundings but couldn’t take my eyes off the face of that kneeling woman.

Darlene sighed and swept a hand across her hair. It only looked dark because of the dim lighting, I realized, something like light brown, and sort of fluffy, so it sprang back after her hand passed over it. “People say I’m too young to be a widow but I’ve known I’d be one for a long time.” Then she told me about her husband who had practiced family law in their little town in Indiana, loved by all, friends by his side the whole long downhill journey of Parkinson’s. He’d died a few months ago, and this was her first vacation in years.

Why was she telling me, a stranger, all of this? Maybe because I was a stranger.

My feet started towards the next exhibit, but I couldn’t leave her there, so I made them come back. I felt like some cold hand grasped the back of my neck which sent a freezing bolt down my spine. I was also a widow, for less than a day. I should feel such relief, but here in front of me such grief.

Darlene turned towards me, “Sorry, I’ve been doing all the talking.”

She could have asked about me at this point, but I continued. “It’s fine, I’m a good listener. Have to be in my job.” I talked about my first graders. How I had to find out who each one was so I could help them along without making them fit some mold, and still keep control of the classroom.

“You’re good at that, I can tell.”

I was too, the parents said so, and so did my principal. I’d be going back to them soon. She let me talk and didn’t press. Nor did I with her. And because of that we each opened up more. But of course I couldn’t really.

After going through the whole museum we hung out at the gift store where I bought an Archie, the cute furry bison mascot for the museum. The kids would love it. Darlene took a photo of me hugging it. She already had a motel room and I found one in the same place. We had supper together at Panera’s, I like the warm bowls. She told me how she ran the office for an accounting firm.

All this time helped me not think of what I had to do. Until we parted and went to our own rooms. OK, I could do this. My heart rate ramped up and beat even faster when I had to wait for all those rings before the message came on his phone.

“This is Ruben, leave a message.”

Gruff and short. He hadn’t listened to me when I’d told him he could sound more inviting, like, say “please.”

“Hi Honey, just wanted to see how you’re doing. Give me a call when you have a chance. I’m having a good trip, staying in Kearney. I’ll try you again tomorrow. Bye, love you.”

I put the phone down before it fell out of my shaking hand and panted like I’d just run a mile. He’d be long past cold by now, stiffening there on the couch.

I could call again, worried, and then when he didn’t answer, ask Sam to go look in. But I’d seem too impatient that way, like I knew he was in trouble, and I had no reason to think that. So I had to wait. I couldn’t sleep until around four AM when I must have dozed off, because when I did wake up, it was almost seven. Still too early.

Darlene called at seven thirty, did I want to have breakfast?

In bright colors and sunshine she was more clearly drawn than yesterday in the dim museum, mended somehow of yesterday’s leaking grief, holding herself in, which made it easier for me to do so too. While we waited for our eggs, I put on a performance of concern for Ruben, since he hadn’t called back. Said he was often out late, needing to relax after a long day at work.

Right there I left another message on his phone. “Hi Honey, are you OK? Please give me a call.”

If they asked her, she could say I looked very worried though I made a show of trying to hide it, not responding right away to her talk of plans to see Yellowstone, the Tetons, smiling thinly. Since my brain really was elsewhere, this wasn’t hard to do.

Yes, she could be a witness. Even better if she stayed long enough to see a little more.

“Neely, if you’re worried, maybe you should call a neighbor to check in on him.”

“Oh he’s probably just sleeping it off.” I had mentioned he liked to drink.

“It would ease your mind though, wouldn’t it?”

Wonderful, it would seem to be her idea, not mine.

With our plates empty and coffee cooling, I made the call to Sam, our next-door neighbor, and didn’t have to leave a message.

“Hi Sam, Neely. Sorry to bother you but I’m out of town and Ruben’s not answering his phone. He’s probably fine, just sleeping, but I’d feel a lot better if you could go look in on him.”

He agreed to go over. I’d have to be ready for his call back, right in front of Darlene.

Darlene reached over and touched the white fingers that gripped my coffee mug. “Don’t worry, he’s probably fine.”

It took so long I wanted to be out of there, and was getting up to pay the bill when my phone buzzed.

“Neely, are you sitting down?”

“Oh my god Sam, is he alright?”

Darlene clutched my forearm on the table. I dared not look at her yet.

“I’m afraid not, Neely, I think he’s dead.”

I did well on the next bit, but to my surprise it wasn’t really acting.

“No Sam, how could he be.” My voice went high and shaky.

“Look Neely, stay where you are, you won’t be in shape to drive. I’ll call you back when the ambulance comes.”

Darlene came over to sit next to me, cradled me from behind, held my hand. I could curl in that way, and sob. I thought of things to say. “How did this happen? I wasn’t even there. Oh this is horrible.” I took out my menthol stick when she wasn’t looking, but I didn’t need it. Tears came anyway.

She stayed with me, paid my bill, took me back to my room. Listened to me saying how I loved him, even when he got drunk and swung at me. She’d be putting it together, without me having to spell it out. The guy boozed himself to death.

Sam called back. “Looks like his last drinking spree put him over the edge. I’m so sorry Neely, but it doesn’t surprise anyone really.”

He didn’t say it was a blessing, but it was as if he did, and since I had my phone on speaker, Darlene heard it too.

I cried and I cried. But I couldn’t tell anyone why. Darlene was great. She volunteered to drive me home. It was fine, she didn’t have any reservations. She could rent a car and get back to Kearney to pick up her own later.

On 90 going east, we swept past fields of corn still green, but heavy with cobs. I imagined being lost among those identical stalks, that had no clue about cars and highways. But though Darlene respected my silence, I could no longer.

“I have something to tell you Darlene.” I couldn’t even take one day of the prison I was in.

Darlene at the wheel, stared hard at the highway. “And bind me to hold your secret?”

“No, I don’t care, you can tell.”

“Either way, think of the burden you’d put on me. Not nice even if it’s something like your real feelings about your husband.”

“It’s worse.”

“Then keep it to yourself.”

“I gave him rat poison.”

I should have waited till she’d passed that semi. She nearly veered into the center ditch.

“What did I tell you,” she shouted. She pulled over to the shoulder on the interstate, folded her arms over the steering wheel and rested her head on them.

I hung forward too, elbows on knees. Then I put my hand on one of hers. “Sorry.”

She took deep breaths, head still pressed on her arms. “The funny thing is I thought many times of doing the same for Milton.”

I sat up and studied the place where her cheek met her ear. It was the only part of her face I could see.

“But you didn’t.”

“And we both suffered for years.”

A state trooper pulled up, and when he came over, Darlene straightened up and opened the window with a smile, “We’re fine officer, we hit a retread and it threw my steering off a little, just wanted to get back my composure.”

He took off his shades, which made him look more like a human, said glad we were OK, and sent us on.

“Nice job Darlene.”

“No thanks to you.”

She smoothly rolled out into the right lane, and the trooper passed us with a wave. We were quiet till Omaha. I offered to drive but she said no way. We fueled up and got sandwiches at a gas station, but I couldn’t eat. It took me till we passed the rest stop in western Iowa with the huge upright fin of a wind generator for me to say, “Sorry I burdened you.”

“Yes OK, and I told you what I almost did, so that eases it up, don’t you think?”

Since there were no car rentals in Four Corners, I took her to a place in Cedar Falls. I offered to pay but she said, “Nope I can take it from here, and so can you.”

We hugged, but no selfies, and we didn’t exchange contact info. It was probably best that way. I watched her go into the rental office before I turned back to my car. By then I felt able to drive the rest of the way home.