The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes Short Fiction

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Vodka, Wine, Milk • Mary Wilson He only drank expensive vodka—something about filtering it through charcoal and resting it in special tanks lined with tile. It made me laugh that vodka should "rest." He had brought home another expensive bottle, made in Holland, he said, and put it in the freezer, which barely had room.

We had gotten that bag of ice at the convenience store and it filled up half the freezer.
I told him, "I don’t know why you waste your money on that vodka."
"When you start working you can complain."
"You don’t drink it for the taste, I just don’t see…"
"That’s your problem," he said. "You just don’t see."
He mixed himself a drink, vodka and cider, because it was fall, and we had the week-end before stopped at that store that sold pumpkins and cider and specialty jams.
"Want a drink?" he asked.
"Yes."
He mixed them generously and I appreciated it. He took the bag of ice out of the freezer and slammed it on the floor. The sound hurt my ears.
"Why do you have to do that?" I asked.
"What?"
"Slam the ice on the floor."
"How else am I supposed to break it up?"
"We should just use the ice trays."
"You never fill them," he said.
"Neither do you."

And it was true. We bought ice because we could never get around to filling those ice trays. We had bought three of them at a yard sale. They were blue and had a positive "plus" sign on one end and a negative "minus" sign on the other. It was so you could know how to stack them—plus on top of minus on top of plus. Or minus on top of plus on top of minus. I guess it depended on how you put them into the freezer, depended on the position of the bottom tray. But they sat there empty, until we finally took them out to make room for the bag of ice.
I wondered if the people we bought them from had done the same—started buying ice instead of using the trays. She was fat, as I remember, and wore glasses that were too large for her face.

I sipped the drink. It was good vodka, he was right, could barely taste it. Just a faint tartness on the tongue. Tart and sweet. In my girl scout troop we had pressed apples one year and filled gallon milk jugs that we had sanitized with bleach water.
He put music on the stereo and let it play on random.
"Did you have a good day," I asked, even though it was night.
"Yes."
We didn’t talk much anymore. I guess we had said all we had to say. Or more precisely, he had said all he had to say.
I drank my cider and listened to the music. It was dark outside—the air was crisp. Or tart, one could say. Things seem to get tart before they freeze.
"Were you busy?" I asked.
"Yep."
"I did some wash today, and planted bulbs."
"That’s good."
The bulbs were cheap, and I had a feeling I would not see them bloom.
"Hope the rodents don’t eat them," he said.
I had missed him during the day, and washed his shirts, smelling them first. I liked his smell. Not just his cologne, although I liked that too, but his smell. It was musky and strong.
The stereo skipped to the Janis CD I had been listening to earlier. He picked up the remote and forwarded it to another band.
"Why do you put her in there, you know I don’t like Janis."
"I like Janis. That’s why the CD is in there. Are you a misogynist?"
I giggled. He did not.
I could have cemented myself into his silence, my spirit as the rebar holding it together.
He poured himself another drink.
"Want another?" he asked.
"OK."
"Come out to the kitchen, then."
He started to hand me the bottle of Holland booze.
"I like how you mix them."

He made eye contact with me, and I understood that he liked to be the one doing the mixing. It was Christmas and we had a bottle of red wine. I had bought it at the supermarket. Our dinner was fish and he said that white wine went better with fish. I had cooked it in a special mixture of ginger, soy sauce, orange juice, and Dijon mustard.
I had put out the cloth napkins and had covered the table with the white lace tablecloth my mother had given me before she died. It was our second Christmas together.
He watched football while I finished cooking. I used the wooden spoon to place the rice, fish, sauce, and asparagus onto the plates. I carried them to the table.
"Dinner is ready."
"The game," he said, "it’s close."
I took the wine opener and placed it atop the bottle and began screwing it into the cork. It was a fancy wine opener, all chrome, and its arms raised up as the screw sank deeper into the cork.
I tried to push down the arms, but it wouldn’t move.
"I can’t get the cork out," I said.
"OK. I’ll be there in a minute."
The bottle sat on the table next to the crystal glasses, also from my mother. Sat there with its arms extended as if it were ready to do calisthenics, or be crucified.
"Should I put the plates back in the oven?"
"It’s almost over. It’s so close."
It seemed that the empty glasses were laughing at me. I began eating. When I was halfway finished, he came in.
"Why didn’t you wait for me?"
"The food was getting cold."
He turned the head of the opener a few times.
"I think you fucked up the cork," he said.
"Probably."
He pulled out the cork with a pop. Ragged bits tendrilled from its base.
"We better filter it," I said.
I got a coffee filter and put it over the top of the bottle, securing it with a rubberband. It dripped onto the tablecloth when I filled our glasses.
The TV was still on.
"The food is good," he said. I smiled.

The wine made the dead skin on my lips purple. We spoke about the weather, and my job search. I told him how much I liked the bracelet he had given me that morning, its box wrapped in gold paper, with a red bow. They had done that for him at the store, I was certain.
"Do you mind if I go over to Rick’s to watch another game?"
"No. Have fun." I started clearing dishes. I had a cheesecake in the fridge but I was full. "We can have dessert later."
"I didn’t know there was dessert."
"We’ll have it later."
We didn’t.

I poured myself another glass of wine.
Those stains never did come out of the tablecloth. It was spring when he left. Timothy was still in diapers and my breasts were swelled and sore.
He left me an envelope on the table, filled with five hundred dollars and a note.
"This should help with rent," it read. "I’ll call you when I get a place."
But he didn’t. Call, that is. He did get a place on second avenue, I heard.
One night, he called me.
"I miss you."
"Timothy would like to see you."
"He must be getting big."
"He is starting to walk."
I sat on the couch and let Timothy nurse while I spoke on the phone.
"Can I come see you?" he asked.
"You can see Timothy."
"Do you have someone else?"
I didn’t reply.
"You do."
I didn’t.
"It figures," he said.
"What?"
"It figures that I’m gone for six months and you’ve already got another guy to take care of you."
"I have a job now."
"I heard," he said.
"I’ll be here Saturday if you want to see Timothy."

That Saturday, I waited, but he did not come. Timothy and I sat outside under the apple trees and I watched the streaks from planes in the sky emerge and then disappear. The bugs weren’t out yet.
I would need to pump my breasts soon, and put the bottles in the fridge, ready for Monday. I let Timothy nurse, and this relieved some of the pressure.

© Mary Wilson Feb 2005
mjarrettwilson@yahoo.com
Congrats to Mary on the birth of her first child.

Also by Mary - King Dust

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