ONE HAND ON THE SINK

Chapter 2

In Pennsylvania, hard liquor was only sold in establishments known as state stores. Mike had been in states — including neighboring Ohio and West Virginia — where a drunk could buy a bottle in practically any convenience store or gas station. Not so in his home state, where the legislators had long ago determined that only the state itself was capable of doling out the spirits and, of course, raking in the hefty profits.

Those establishments were liberally spread across the Commonwealth and, as luck would have it, one of them was less than two miles from Mike's house. It was even closer to the apartment where he and Steph lived when the kids were small.

As Mike put the car in gear and headed for the shopping center, an unwanted memory associated with the same store popped into his head. It must have been around 2006, just a few short years before everything fell apart and his life choices devolved into either putting the cork in the jug or losing the wife and kids.

On that day, Steph had taken the minivan shopping on a Saturday afternoon and left Mike alone with the four kids, who at that time ranged in age from nine to four. Dealing with his young kids was often more than Mike could handle even when his wife was home to do the heavy lifting, and being alone with them while he was sober was often overwhelming.

His oldest son, Ben, had already come to understand at age nine that it was his job to keep his younger siblings in line and somewhat quiet if mom was out. Otherwise, a session of loud play could end with dad screaming and/or hitting. So Ben listened intently when his father called him over and explained that he had to run up the street and needed Ben to watch the other kids. He'd only be gone a couple of minutes and would get lunch for them when he got back.

Mike told Ben to get the rest of the kids into the living room. He then snuck quietly out the back door and headed for the shopping center and the state store less than half a mile up the road. He had become somewhat of a regular customer at that store, and even if there was no welcome like the "Norm!" that greeted Mr. Peterson on Cheers, Mike harbored no illusions that he was unknown to any of the employees. He knew exactly what he wanted, precisely where it sat and the cost to the penny, including tax. He was in and out in a flash, and the trip only took about 15 minutes, despite Mike being in pretty bad shape and having to make it on foot.

Just as their apartment building came back into view, he stopped abruptly as the cold reality of what he had just done — and the potential catastrophic results — struck him. In his hurry to get the vodka and thinking of little else, Mike had left three children under the age of eight alone in the care of their older brother, who was just nine himself. The number of things that could go horribly wrong even in that short span of time was mind boggling.

As he stood there, he became convinced that when he made the final bend and saw his own back door there would be a police car parked outside. He could see the next scene clearly, as if he was watching a movie. He saw himself walking up the back steps, the officers standing just inside the door and eyeballing him the whole way. He'd turn the knob and open the door. He could even smell something that didn't quite belong. Is that gas? Then the cops would ask if he was the children's father. He would say "yes," trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Why are you here? What happened?"

And they would tell him.

Mike turned the corner, and although there was no police car in sight, things were not exactly the same as they were when he left. 

The apartment building itself, of course, was unchanged. It was a nondescript little brick structure on a tiny lot in a not-especially-thriving town in western Pennsylvania. There was no yard there in the back (and only a very small one in the front), although a thin strip of grass stood between the stoop and the parking area for the building's tenants. Mike noticed that the grass needed cut.

For a moment, it hit him that instead of owning a house in the trendy municipality to the south, as he and Steph had planned, they were still renting in that crappy little spot. They had moved in when Ben was a baby with the idea that it would be a short stay — just until they could gather a down payment for a place of their own. That day had still not come and, in fact, they were no closer to that becoming a reality than they were when they moved in. Although he didn't know it at the time, the day was quickly approaching when even this depressing apartment would be preferable to the place they'd be living.

On his way out, a quick glance back had shown only the empty kitchen, but now as he approached, with brown paper bag gripped tightly in hand, four small (slightly dirty) faces clustered against the smeared glass of the storm door. Shame and anger fought for space at the front of Mike's mind as he quickened his pace, lest any of the nosey neighbors see him returning while the kids stood inside. The little apartment complex was filled with people who stayed home during the workday, and some of them would surely be aware that Steph was gone for the day. Mike hustled into the kitchen and began shooing the kids toward the living room at the front of the house. He went to grab Ben so he could scold the boy for not keeping the other kids away from the back door, but one look told him Ben already knew what was coming. In fact, Ben looked even more distressed than he should have for such a minor offense.

"What's wrong?" Mike asked.

Ben opened his mouth to respond, but before he could his brother Ethan, the 7-year-old, ran back into the room. "Benny broke the lamp!" Ethan said and then scurried back into the living room.

Mike looked down at Ben and saw an emotion bordering on horror spreading across his oldest son's little face.

"It's not broke, Dad. It just fell over. I tripped on the cord again," he stammered. "It still works. I checked."

Ben ran over and turned the light on so that his dad could see it was true. The shade was askew and was dented in more than one spot, but it was hard to say if the damage was new.

Mike, of course, knew what Ben meant about the cord. It ran down from the lamp and across the doorway between the living room and the short hall that led to the kitchen. Not ideal with four small kids scampering across that threshold all day long, but there was no outlet on the wall behind the table where the lamp sat. Mike was certainly not capable of installing one himself. It was one of countless small projects that needed done around the place that both he and Steph knew would never be completed due to a lack of money or know-how. Or both.

Shame rose again in Mike partly because of the less-than-ideal conditions his kids were forced to live in but more so because of the fear he saw on Ben's face. Fear of how his dad might react to him tripping over a wire that had no business being where it was and thus knocking over a cheap, second-hand lamp. 

"Sorry Dad," Ben said.

Mike never spent much time examining the reasons he drank. He certainly was not aware — at least on his mind's surface — of the shame, guilt and fear that he kept locked away deep inside. All he knew was that drinking made him feel ok in his own skin, at least for a little while.

Without a word, Mike turned from Ben, went back into the kitchen and took a glass out of the cupboard above the sink.

He poured.