“I don’t know, Goddamnit!” 

 

It’s the only thing Willy’s sure of, and he keeps shouting it at the cop. In the dark room, a spotlight is burning his eyes down to the sockets. It’s a basement of sorts, the ceiling a crisscross of piping and duct work, industrial grey and dark green. The spotlight sends streaks into his eyes every time the cop steps out of the beam. 

 

“What did you do last night? 

 

“I told you, I don’t know.”

 

He’s struggling against the strap that’s tethering him to the chair. His hands are bound in cuffs on a table top, gripping something. He can’t see what it is for the spotlight’s afterimages streaking across his vision.

 

The cop punctuates each word with the smack of a nightstick against his palm: “Just— tell—me—what—you—did.” 

 

“For God’s sake, I don’t know.” 

 

“Cinch this around his head,” the cop says to his assistant, handing him a strap. The guy wraps it around Willy’s forehead, twists it like a tourniquet until the bones above his temples begin to crackle. “Can’t I please just have some water?” His tongue is swollen, his throat so parched, he can barely mouth the words. 

 

The cop fills a shot glass with water, places it just out of reach. “Tell me what you did, and it’s yours.” He stares into Willy’s eyes, his face looming so close that Willy can smell his fetid breath. He bangs a fist on the table, over and over until the shot glass shatters on the floor

 

Willy is sobbing now, tears streaking down his cheeks onto his fists. Through the blur, he looks down at his hands. They’re drenched with blood, not tears. And the cop’s holding a big kitchen knife. He presses the knife point into Willy’s Adams apple. One wrong move and it will slash right into his throat.

 

Their eyes are dead level now. The afterimages begin to dissipate, and when the face zooms into recognition, it’s not a cop. It’s his father, glaring straight down into him: “What the Hell did you do, you sonofabitch?”

 

“Pa, I don’t know. Swear to God, I don’t!”

#

 

Willy opens his eyes behind a wall of glass. His hands are in his lap, unbound. No blood, no cops. Just raw blades of sunlight streaking through a car window and the vague outline of a garage door. His. 

 

No idea how or why he’s out here in his car. 

 

His eyes sweep the dashboard and the seats. His temples are pounding, his mouth a dry sponge. Whatever he did, he’s got one helluva hangover.

 

He flips open the glove compartment. The half-pint of Old Crow’s still there. 

 

Hair of the dog. 

 

It’s Louie’s favorite line. He says it whenever somebody comes to work with a hangover: “What you need is hair of the dog.” Willy puts it back into the glove compartment, shuts the door. Not today. 

 

After Willy’s last binge months ago, he’d left the bottle there as a reminder: Never take another shot, no matter what. He’d been out in the garage that weekend, tuning up the car, the bottle in his back pocket—what Lenore didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. But it tasted so good, he kept sneaking out to the liquor store, buying one half pint after another. By Sunday afternoon, poor Lenore walked out into the garage and caught the worst of it. He remembers the screaming match before she grabbed Izzy and drove away to her mom’s house. Next thing he knew, it was Monday morning, and he was sprawled on the couch with a parched mouth, a piercing headache, and a black hole where his memory should’ve been. When he went out to the garage to look for her car, it wasn’t there. Just four half pints, standing like soldiers on the window sill—three of them empty. 

 

When Lenore finally came back, he thought she was lying, but the welts and bruises told the tale. She always comes back. He loves her for that. Feels like shit afterward, vows never to touch a drink, and he means it. But after weeks or months, sometimes a year, the voices inside his head start cranking away: Go ahead. Just one drink. You can handle it. And then another. 

 

And another.

 

It’s not the booze exactly—it’s the things that drive him to it: his dad winding the screws down on him at work, bitching about every little thing, until something snaps. Next thing he knows, he’s on the couch, empty as a shot glass, no sign of his family. 

 

Yesterday was his last day at the chemical plant. He remembers that much. He’d been there almost a year, installing the piping for a new chemical process they were planning to develop. At quitting time, old man Mueller called him into the office and poured him a glass of Seven Crown to thank him for his good work. He’d walked out of the office feeling like a big shot, stopping off at Frank’s for a couple boilermakers before going home. 

 

Kenny Myers was there, shooting his mouth off, as usual. He’d won a wad of money at poker, and he lined up five shots of whiskey on the bar. “Ten bucks to anybody who can drink all five of these in under a minute,” he’d said.

 

Willy took him up on it. Downed them all in fifty-two seconds flat. Last thing he remembers, he was stumbling around the parking lot, looking for his car. Must’ve found it. Here he is behind the wheel. Did he pass out in the driveway? Lenore’s gonna be pissed.

 

His eyes flash at his watch. “Jesus Christ.” Supposed to be at Mrs. Curtin’s in fifteen minutes and still in his dirty work clothes. No time to change. He stumbles out and heaves the garage door up. No sign of Lenore’s car. Calm down. She probably drove Izzy to school.

 

Christ. He’ll have to track her down later, concoct a story. First, he needs to get to work, try to fix his splitting head.

 

He’s streaking down Saint Paul’s street when he glances at the gas gauge. Empty, shit. A few blocks later, he swerves into Eddie’s. He can duck into the john while Eddie pumps the gas. 

 

Eddie saunters out of the door, a free tumbler in his hand. Lenore’s collecting them. He can bring it home tonight, a peace offering.

 

“Hey Willy. What’ll it be? The usual?” 

 

“Yeah. Two bucks, ethyl. I’m gonna use your can, okay Eddie?”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

He walks to the bathroom, throws open the metal door. The smell of urine mixes with the nausea brimming in his gut. He pees forever, then turns on the faucet, running water into his hands and gulping it down. He splashes his eyes, slapping himself hard in the face with both hands. “Wake up, asshole. Goddamned house calls.”

 

When he slides back into the front seat, .Eddie’s hanging the handle on the pump. 

 

“That’ll be two bucks,” Eddie says, holding out a palm.

 

Willy reaches into his back pocket. No wallet. What’s left of his stomach lurches as he fishes around in the car seat. 

 

“Jeez Eddie. I musta’ left my wallet home. Can I pay you later? I’m running late.” 

 

“Sure thing. Just bring it whenever.” Eddie hands him a tumbler with rainbow stripes. 

 

He drives to the shop. Pa’s truck’s not there, thank God. He runs to the back room, grabs some washers and a roll of plumber’s tape, then runs to the truck and heads down Fourth Street.

 

He knows why he’s on the house calls and Louie’s at Muellers’ finishing the job today. It was the job offer that riled Pa up. Six months ago, old  man Mueller called him into the office:

 

“We are very pleased with your work, Willy. ” 

 

Through his thick German accent, Willy could hear the admiration in his voice. The Muellers were rich as thieves and nutty as bed bugs, but the smartest old Germans he’d ever met.

 

“Just doing my job, Mr. Mueller.” 

 

“No, Willy. You’ve done a lot more than your job.”  

 

A year ago, they’d built the annex for the new chemical process, and Willy had been their jack of all trades. He’d designed the intricate routing plan for the piping, fabricating the supports and flanges from Mr. Mueller’s sketches. He could weld a pipe, fix a sputtering engine, and climb to the top of a tall smokestack for repairs in the same day. 

 

“You see, Willy, we need someone with your skills full time, and we’d like to offer you a position.” 

 

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mueller, b . . .”  He pictured the look on Pa’s face at the mere mention of leaving the business. 

 

“We’ll double what your dad’s paying you and give you retirement benefits.” 

 

The only benefit he’d ever got from Pa was a halfhearted hint that he might inherit the business when he finally kicks off. Sonofabitch will probably die in his work boots.

 

“Well, that’s certainly tempting Mr. Mueller, but my dad depends on me.”

 

“I understand Willy, but we’ll be opening a new factory in California soon . . .”

 

At the mention of California, Willy’s heart had jumped. He thought back to his army days in Fort Ord: the walks down Cannery Row in Monterey, the girls with picnic baskets beneath the cypress trees. The best two years of his life.

 

He walked into the kitchen that afternoon and caught Lenore by surprise: “How’d you like to move to California?”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Yeah. Old man Mueller offered me a job.”

 

“In California?”

 

“Yup. They wanna double my salary, then promote me in a year and send me out there. I’d be construction boss for their new factory.”

 

“Double it?” Lenore bit the inside of her cheek.

 

“That’s what he said. Plus they’ll give me retirement benefits.”

 

She fidgeted with her wedding ring. “I don’t know, Willy—your father’ll have a fit.”

 

“I know.” He could feel the heat of Pa’s rage. 

 

“It’s just so much to think about. Izzy’s in school here, and we’d have to sell the house. And what if they laid you off for some reason? You could never go back to your dad.”

 

He pictured himself, hat in his hand, begging Pa to take him back. 

 

“Yeah. Probably a bum idea. Nice to be asked though.”

 

He’d tried to keep the offer a secret from Pa, but somehow the old man found out.

 

“So, I heard you’re jumpin’ ship here. Signin’ up with Mueller.”

 

“Where’d you hear a thing like that, Pa?”

 

“Never mind. I just know.”

 

“Aw it’s just gossip, Pa. I wouldn’t do a thing like that to you.”

 

His dad squinted sideways at him. “Why would somebody make that up?”

 

“Damned if I know, Pa. Honest to God.” 

 

But his father had his number, today’s the proof: He’s on the house calls, and Louie’s at Muellers’. 

 

#

 

He turns onto Chambers Street, pulling into the Curtins’ driveway, cutting the engine, and walking up the sidewalk, still steaming about the house calls. He spots a Jack o’ lantern on their front porch, and suddenly, the image of a smashed pumpkin and a butcher knife flashes before him. 

 

Did he carve a pumpkin for Izzy last night? 

 

More flashbacks begin to fire through his brain like gunshots: Loud banging on the front door last night. Lenore running to answer it. Izzy on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. Asleep? It’s coming back in bits and pieces now. He’s running through the porch and out the back door, his feet slipping on wet gras. He pictures his car lurched sideways in the driveway. 

 

What the Hell?

 

He closes his eyes, desperate to slow down the cascade of images, zooming in then receding— and slowly—fading . . .  

 

“I’m so glad you came.”

 

When he opens his eyes. Mrs. Curtin is standing in the doorway in a bathrobe and pin curls, a seat wrench and a paper bag in her hands. She’s muttering about how her husband bought all these parts at the hardware store, and now the tub faucet’s leaking worse than ever. 

 

He shakes the nightmares out of his head, gathers himself, turning the wrench over in his hand. 

“Pete didn’t try to replace the seat did he?” 

 

“No, it’s the bathtub faucet, not the toilet seat.” 

 

He looks into the bag. Just as he thought. Couple of washers and a brass faucet seat. Leave it to a do-it-yourself plumber to strip a seat, he thinks, and turn a five-dollar job into a fifty-dollar mess. 

 

“Don’t worry Mrs. Curtin. I’ll take care of it.” 

 

He walks down the hall. He knew it No access door behind the tub. Bathtub’s a hundred years old. Seat’s probably stripped and stuck in the corroded threads. He’ll have to cut a hole in the plaster to fix it, then make a new access door. A half-day’s labor. Pete will have a fit. 

 

He opens his tool box and fishes around for a flashlight, pulling out a hacksaw blade instead. He turns the jagged metal over in his hands, trying to remember something. Suddenly, more images flash out of nowhere:—a butcher knife—His hands gripped around Lenore’s—both of them holding onto the knife. He’s trying to wrest it out of her hand.

 

Please let this be a nightmare. 

 

His stomach churns. He slams the tool box shut, hurrying out to the kitchen. 

 

 “Uh, sorry, Mrs. Curtin, but this is turning out to be a bigger job than I thought.”

 

“Really? Pete said the parts only cost about a quarter.”

 

“Well, I think the faucet seat’s stripped, and I’m gonna need to saw a hole in the wall to get it out from behind.” His mind’s exploding now. Got to get out of here. 

 

“Mrs. Curtin, I’ll try to give you a fair price, but I really do need to go out and get some supplies before I know what everything’ll cost. I’ll come back later. Promise.” 

 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Grabs his toolbox, barreling down the front steps, and into the car, squealing tires all the way down the street. Houses and cars blur past on Gun Club road. He pictures Lenore and Izzy in a pool of blood. Where are they this morning? In the hospital? A morgue? Was that a cop at the door last night? Was Izzy dead, not asleep? 

 

By the time he careens into his driveway, he’s starting to talk himself out of it. Maybe it’s just that nightmare—the knife and the blood, the cop banging on the table. 

Probably just a crazy hangover dream. 

 

He pulls up the garage door. His stomach tightens. On hour gone by and still no car? He opens the front door, walks into the living room, spies the blanket on the couch. Lenore’s not the best housekeeper though. Nothing wrong with a blanket on the couch. 

 

When he veers into the kitchen, he knows it wasn’t a dream. 

 

There’s a smashed pumpkin and a butcher knife lying on the floor, chairs tossed all over the place. The back door ajar. 

 

It looks like the scene of a bar fight. 

 

#

 

He sits on the couch in the dark, his head in his hands. Been there for hours. He gets up, walks in the front door, checks again for the sign of Lenore’s headlights. Nothing but the dark driveway. Nobody answering at her mother’s house. He’s called a dozen times. 

 

He feels the familiar blackness creeping up. But this time it’s real, not just the dark scenes in a nightmare.

 

He sighs, rubs his eyes, opens the front door. He walks out to the car, opens the door, and sits in the passenger seat, as if waiting for someone to drive him home. He glances in the rear-view mirror, praying for a glimmer of headlights. 

 

Just the dark driveway. 

 

He sighs, snaps open the glove compartment, opens the whiskey, takes a long draw. 

 

He’s already screwed. 

 

What the Hell?

 

 

© 2022 Susan Hynds

 

This story was first published in 2022 in the literary journal Whisky Blot.