Before the Sky Fell

[ 3 ] Bad Habits and Good Whiskey

-3-

Bad Habits and Good Whiskey

Charlotte Tate couldn't catch her breath. The incessant pounding on the door sent splinters flying across the outhouse. Henry was drunk again.

"I'll break this damn door down!" he shouted.

I don't doubt it. She sat on the outhouse floor, her feet the only thing keeping Henry from caving in the door. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared at the ceiling. She would wait until he passed out in the grass before she opened the door. The neighbors were probably watching from their porches and whispering, "There he goes again." They were always watching and whispering.

"I'm leaving you for Annabel," Henry shouted.

At one time his words would have cut deep. He'd said he would leave her more than she cared to remember. She had cried in the beginning, when her wounds were fresh and his words were knives. But now she would just wait until he passed out from drunkenness. He wouldn't remember it when he woke, but the dark realization that she couldn't bear him children would still be there.

And for Annabel? The last thing Charlotte needed was her own neighbor against her. She saw the signs days ago, when Annabel passed her in the courtyard. They had exchanged glances, Charlotte with one of suspicion and Anabel with one of nervousness.

Her neighbor didn't even look like she had lived two decades and acted as if she'd only lived one. Annabel's two children were born out of wedlock, and their father had long since vanished. Everyone knew, whether they would admit it or not, that Annabel was loyal to no one. She was a fleeting thought. She was a siren and nothing more.

Charlotte didn't respond. There wasn't much to say. She ran her fingers along the ivory comb Henry had given her. The face of a wolf was cut into its shaft. I killed the elephant myself, he had told her on their wedding night. The best comb for the best wife. Elephants were thought to have died out long ago, and the only tales of living herds stemmed from far out lands. He must have bought it. Or traded for it. Or killed for it.

"Annabel?" she shouted. How many combs had he given to loose girls?

"At least she can bear me children," he said, kicking the door again. "She already has two. At least there ain't nothin' wrong with her."

What is wrong with me? She tilted her head towards the outhouse roof and closed her eyes. The door shook again and sent a vibration up Charlotte's legs. Her back was pinned against the wooden frame that held the privy bucket. The stench crept into her nostrils, but she would take the bucket's stench over Henry's any day of the week.

Henry fell silent. She could hear him cursing beneath his breath. Shadows ran across the gap in the door. "Just open the door. I take it back, I'm sorry. We'll talk about it. We were only drinking, Annabel and I, nothing more. You're always worryin'. Always assumin' the worst."

His words slurred together like a palette of runny oil paints, but Henry's bright colors had long since vanished. Even his skin was a pale yellow from years of bad habits and good whiskey.

"Charlotte, why're you actin' this way? Open the damn door."

"No."

He laughed. "Then I'll open it for you. What're your puny little legs gonna do about that?"

The laughter of her neighbor's children playing outside made Charlotte cringe. Where's their mother now? On her way to ruin another marriage? There was still hope for Peter, Annabel's youngest. He could grow up to be different than his mother, different than Henry too. And Maya was a striking girl a couple years older than Peter. She could grow to be stronger than the both of them as well. She wouldn't put up with a husband like this.