Black Label & Broken Promises

TWs: Substance Abuse, Pregnancy Loss

The darkened clouds were black still against the night sky. The slamming screen door fell on booze deafened ears. He was a kid again. He had to be old enough to have seen mama pass by now, but she hadn’t. He was playing cards with her at the table. The warm breeze carried the summer sun through the open kitchen windows. She was smiling. That kind of smile a mother gives a child that makes them feel like they’re the only thing in the whole world that matters. Then a truck door slams. The summer breeze turns bitter cold. The colors of the room that were warmly illuminated by the sun now gray-blue from its absence. The door swings open. Mama cries. He stirs in bed.

He hadn’t realized it stormed until he was filling the carafe at the sink for the first pot of the day. Looking out the window he saw that the weathervane was pointing southwest. It takes a lot of wind to make a rusty vane spin. His daddy always made him check the fence lines after hard winds. It doesn’t take much for a limb to fall and let the cattle free. He sees his boy watching him put on his boots. Can tell that he's about to say something. He hurries out of the door before the words come. 

Beads start forming under the brim of his hat the moment he steps out into the heavy, humid air. Plucking the cap off of an unbanded broadleaf cigar with the nails of his middle finger and thumb, he makes his way over to the Gator. His daddy always made him walk the fence lines on account of saving fuel. He takes a drag off of his cigar. The draw is tight. Broadleaf wrappers suck the moisture out of the humid air like a sponge, cutting off the circulation like a blood pressure cuff. He knew better. His daddy would’ve lit it up, puffed on it until the cherry was bright red and flicked it at him, coal-end first, shouting “I told you to get me a damned Habano.” Daddy hated waste unless it was out of spite. The only things he actually liked were things done his way and Evan Williams Black Label. Those two things killed him.

He turns the key and the Gator cranks. Nothing. He looks at the gauge. “Goddamnit boy!” He slams his hands down on the wheel, flicks the cigar out in the stones, and heads for the house. The front door slams into the wall, “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times! You use up the fuel, you fill it the fuck up! I have half a mind to-”

“Daddy, I ran out of fuel last night when I made rounds after the storm. I had to coast the thing down from the back pasture and you left the damned fuel can in the barn empty. I was going to tell you but you ran out before I could."

He didn’t say a word. He turned around and slammed the door on his way out.

Throwing the empty fuel can across the barn his mind goes through what he should have said. “Thirteen years old and you’re telling me I left the DAMNED fuel tank empty? Boy your granddaddy would’ve bloodied my damned lip if I disrespected him that way.” He kicks the can this time. “I was whipped for a whole hell of a lot less than that. Hell, he would’ve clocked me before he even told me what I did wrong.” He takes a breath. Then, “Goddamnit." He leans against the wall of the barn and slides down to a squat.

It’s been twelve years since the Black Label killed his daddy’s liver. Then the lack of a liver killed him. How long till the Black Label kills his ghost? Or is it what’s keeping it alive?

His mama made him promise he’d never touch the stuff. He kept that promise until the day that she died. Fortunately for her, but unfortunately for him, she only made it until he was fourteen. Daddy couldn’t comfort him, if he even tried at all. But the bottle seemed to comfort daddy, so he tried that.

He made his second promise to his soon to be wife when she became pregnant with their first child. He got his first DUI two days after the miscarriage. She forgave him even though she couldn’t forgive herself. Her grace gave him strength and he stayed dry. A couple years later they had their son and he thought they were happy, but loss changes people. A few months after their boy turned one, they turned away. He came back to take over the farm from his dying daddy. Partly because he had nowhere else to go. Mostly because he hated himself. He’s been wet ever since.

He hears the screen door, footsteps, then a voice. “I’m sorry daddy. I shoulda ran out and told you before you got to the barn.”

He looks up at the boy. “How bad’s the fence?”

“Only four spots. I got three mended up the way you taught me. I was coming back to get a saw when I ran outta fuel. The trees still on the fourth. It was a full cedar canopy came down. It spans the posts, so the cattle can’t get out there anyhow.”

He nods his aching head, stands up, picks up the can and starts towards the truck. He looks back, “you comin’?”

They both climb into the cab of the truck and roll down the windows. The truck has air conditioning, but for a twenty minute round trip, they’re better off not getting used to the cool. Neither said a word on the way to the filling station. He’s ashamed and the boy knows it. They both know it’s better to let Merle Haggard fill the air than their awkward words.

“You stay in the truck while I run in and pay for this fuel."

“Okay."

He comes back out with a carrier with two styrofoam cups, surely his coffee the boy thinks, and a plastic bag. He opens the door and hands the carrier to the boy. “The hot ones my coffee, the cold ones a milkshake for you. Don’t tell your mama I gave you a milkshake for breakfast when she picks you up in the mornin'. It’s gonna be a hot one today. I’m just tryna keep you cool. I also got a couple sandwiches in the bag. Take your pick.”

A mile and two turns from the lane he looks over at the boy who’s silently staring out the window. "I'm sorry I hollered at you earlier. I wasn't feelin' too hot and I was worried about the cattle getting out."

The boy looks down at his empty cup. "You don't feel too hot most mornings."

"Whaddaya mean by that?"

"I don't know. Nothing I guess."

He fixes his eyes on the pavement. He knows what he meant. It's not the first time the boy has brought it up. His mind tells him to stop the truck. It wants him to look the boy in the eyes and say he’s sorry, to promise to change. But his body wants to get home. Needs to get home. His body wins again.

They pull up to the house. "I'm gonna run in quick. Take the can and fuel up the Gator. When I get back out we can head up and take care of that cedar.” He goes in the house and carefully watches through the window to make sure the boy is in the barn.

He pulls down the bottle. He grabs last night’s glass from the sink and pours two fingers. He holds the glass and gives it a twirl, watching the thick brown liquid coat and cling to the inside walls of the glass. Behind him he hears “drink up boy.”

Without turning around he replies “it’s been awhile.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“I see your boys back around. I guess his mother still ain’t got no sense.”

“I guess not.”

“You put on a hell of show this mornin’. All that carryin’ on about the empty fuel tank. Hah. I guess that fire’s bred down in.”

“I guess so.”

“C’mon now. Ain’t you got much to say? You had a hell of a lot to say about me this mornin’.”

“Then you already know what I think.”

“I’ve known what you’ve thought for years.”

“Aw yea?”

“Aw yea. I know what you think before you think it boy.”

“How so?”

“Hmmph. Cause we’re the same boy. Cain’t you see it? It’s right there in that glass you been staring at.”

For the first time in years he turns to face his daddy. 

“There ya go boy. I always told you to look at me when I’m talking to you. For years you ain’t shown me that respect, and I ain’t been able to reach hold of you and make you.”

Seeing his daddy’s face again made him tighten his grasp on the glass. Instinctively raising it a few inches towards his mouth.

“Why don’t you go ahead and finish that drink? You can’t pour more till that one’s gone. Go on boy. My grandson’s out there waitin’ on ya. You think he don’t know what you’re in here doing? You think he don’t know you’re a lush just like his granddaddy?”

All at once his shame and fear, hate and love, sent the glass flying through the air, over his daddy's head, and crashing into the wall. “You son of a bitch.”

“What’s a matter boy? You know damn well you ain’t no different than me.”

“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch!” He’s so blinded by anger he doesn’t realize the tears until they’re in his hands. “I know. Goddamnit. I know.”

“It ain’t worth fighting boy. Once that liquor takes hold there ain’t no stoppin’ it. You think you’re the first one that thought they’s strong enough to try? Imma tell you you’re waistin’ your damn time just like I did. The liquor’s got you the same way it had me and my daddy ‘fore me. Just like it’s gonna get that damn boy out in the barn. There ain't no use in fighting it. You oughta know that by now.”

He gathers himself from the floor and stumbles over to the counter. “You son of a bitch.” Reaching for the bottle of Black Label, “you son of a bitch.”

“There ya go boy. Now you showin’ some sense.”

He picks up the bottle.

“Take a nip and get your damn self under control. The boy’s waitin’ on you.”

Holding the bottle he looks out the window. His boy is squatting by the barn, tossing stones in the driveway. He sees himself as a boy. He remembers exactly how he felt then. The fear. The disappointment. The false hopes. He remembers the promise those feelings had him make to himself. That if he had a child, he would never make them feel that way. He hopes broken promises can be mended as easily as fences. He turns back towards his daddy. “You son of a bitch.”

The bottle leaves his hand, turning end for end through the air, cutting through his daddy’s chest. He slams the door behind him as his daddy atomizes into the aether.