That evening they all went to bed early, in the hope that things would look better in the morning.
But there was no salvation to be found the next day. Work was cancelled again, and it didn’t sound like it was going to start up anytime soon. Even worse, Q’s mom’s condition was deteriorating. It was so bad that she slipped into Spanish a few times, describing the feeling of being pinched inside her chest. His dad put her to bed right after supper. It was the last time that Q would see her alive.
Q’s dad also started to go downhill. He would clutch his gut every few minutes, often with a cuss word. He seemed more worried about work than a gut ache, though, and found relief in a bottle of bourbon. He was no alcoholic but did enjoy a drink every now and then. That night he attacked the bottle with a verve that reeked of desperation.
He let Q have a drink too, which the boy thought was pretty cool. At least until he tasted the stuff. They sat around, and his dad did most of the talking. He talked about how they struggled to get to America. How they had made the most of it once they got there, and the golden opportunity presented to them when they were offered that house at a low rent. How they managed to save some money to send back to family, and their proudest moment, when Q was born an American.
He started to get a little tipsy after that, and his mood went downhill. He talked to Q about his concerns. He was worried about Q’s mother. She was in pain, and it seemed to be getting worse. He then admitted that he wasn’t doing well either. Q turned on the TV to distract him, but the news wasn’t about to improve spirits. Soon enough his thoughts turned darker.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Q...” he said.
He leaned forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees, holding a glass with amber liquid in both hands. His eyes were on the TV, which continued to deliver bad news. Q watched in concern as one of his dad’s elbows slipped slightly, making him jostle the glass. The liquid sloshed and nearly spilled over the rim. His dad didn’t even seem to notice.
“We got six hundred dollars in the bank. Six hundred. That’s not going to be enough...” His dad made a fist with his right hand and punched himself in the thigh. “Stupid! I shouldn’t have gotten the car fixed last week. We gonna need that money.”
Q was slightly taken aback. There was some serious shit happening in the world, and his dad was worried about making rent next month!
“Hey, Dad.”
His dad drunkenly turned his head to look at his son. This time some bourbon did splash over the rim. It ran over his fingers. He just looked at it in silence, before looking back up at Q.
“Maybe we should take Mom to town. To the clinic. I think she needs medical attention.” Q’s eyes kept drifting down to his dad’s wet hand as he spoke.
His dad huffed. “How we gonna pay for that?” He flinched and reached down to his own belly. “I just finished telling you. We got no money.” Subconsciously rubbing his lower belly with one hand, he raised the glass to his mouth with the other, seeking sanctity in the oblivion that alcohol offered.
“She’s really sick. I’m sure they would help her if we brought her to the hospital?” Q wasn’t ready to let it go yet.
Q’s dad scoffed at that. “They don’t help nobody. Just themselves.” He became lucid for a moment, sitting up straight and facing his son with a serious expression. “In this country, if you don’t got money... then you don’t mean nothing.”
He took a big swig of his drink, nearly downing the contents of his glass.
“They would rather let you die, than stick out a helping hand. It’s time that you learned that, boy.” He got up unsteadily and walked to the kitchen, where the nearly empty bottle awaited him. “America is great. But it is hard!”
Swaying, he poured the last of the bottle into his glass. He held the bottle upside down for a long moment, not wanting to lose those last precious drops.
“You got to be hard too, Quentin. If you gonna make it, it gonna to be on the backs of others. That’s how it works!” He shook his head as if in disagreement with what he’d just said.
Q retreated to his own room shortly after his dad started slurring his words. He undressed and pushed his window wide open before hopping into his bed. He lay there and listened. He could hear his dad moving around and arguing with himself, and he could hear the patter of raindrops as it started to drizzle outside. Q fell asleep with the sounds of angry mumblings, and the smells of oregano and rosemary.
The next morning dawned chilly but bright. Q awoke and crept deeper under the blankets. He had the tendency to leave his window open — something which he regretted this particular morning, as any movement allowed the chill air to invade the warm cocoon of his blankets.
He had the odd sensation that something was wrong as he lay there, but just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. After several minutes, he heard a solitary bird chirp.
That’s it. It’s too quiet.
Usually on a morning like this, following a night of rain, Q would expect to hear a plethora of birds in the backyard as they feasted on all the worms that in turn sought to escape a wet death.
Would you rather be torn apart or drown? Q pondered for a moment.
Glad I’m not a worm.
With that thought, he braved the cold air beyond his blankets and got up. He silently stepped outside of his room, remembering the state his father had been in the
