A Bag of Snickers
By Carl Purdon
Cort Hatcher
hadn’t always been a drunk, but a drunk he was and there was no denying it. He
opened the door of his mobile home and stepped out onto the plank porch in his
bare feet. It was cold, the first cold morning of the season. Soon the frost
would come and coat the landscape with brown. His was a small lot but private,
with trees of varying species dotting his yard. Fall was his favorite time of
year but it never failed to plunge him into melancholy.
He
eased himself into the wooden swing that hung from the rafters by chains and
cradled a hot cup of coffee between his massive hands, hands that had once been
hard and calloused. A gentle breeze blew right through his white cotton t-shirt
and green checked pajama bottoms.
“It’s
cold this morning.” Sometimes Cort talked to himself. He raised the blue cup to
his lips and took a sip. “That’s hot. Feels good, though.”
The
coffee warmed him but his system needed more. “Not today. We’re not giving in
this time.” Even as he spoke the words his mind slipped through the door, to
the kitchen, and into the cabinet beside the refrigerator. Whiskey. “No. It’s
Halloween and I can’t be drunk when they come this time.” He remained in the
swing and took a deep breath. It was not quite cold enough yet to see his
breath when he exhaled. “Not this time.”
Every
year Cort decorated his yard with square bales of hay and jack-o-lanterns.
Ghosts and goblins hung from his trees by the dozen. Some people go overboard
with Christmas decorations but not Cort. Halloween was his obsession. When he
finally rose from the swing he descended the concrete steps, three of them, and
made an inspection of the decorations. It wouldn’t do to appear sloppy tonight.
Each
tick of the clock brought Cort one second closer to nightfall. His hands
trembled as his internal organs thirsted for alcohol. By noon his head pounded.
Even his eyes ached. “Just a few more hours. We can do it. A promise is a
promise.” He paced the floor, ate a sandwich for lunch, then went out into the
yard and checked he ghosts and goblins again. Not a second passed that the
bottle in the kitchen didn’t cross his mind.
At two o’clock
he drove to town and bought a single bag of miniature Snickers and a dozen red
roses. When he returned home he placed them on the coffee table and stood back
to admire them with a strange sort of reverence, then sighed and checked the
clock again.
At
long last the sun began to slide below the tree line. Inch by inch is fell
until all that remained was a faint splash of orange in the western sky. They
would come soon. He had to be ready. How surprised they would be to find him
sober this year. He made one more pass through the yard, this time lighting the
candles inside the jack-o-lanterns. Nine glowing pumpkins would greet them.
Last year there were eight. Next year, ten.
Cort
stepped back inside and turned off the living room light, leaving the porch
light on of course, lest they think him not at home. There was no bottle on his
mind now, not now. Sobriety felt strange to him, though, like some long lost
recollection that can no longer be. “They should be coming any minute now.” He
waited.
An
hour passed. They were late. Then another. Perhaps they weren’t coming this
year. Suddenly he wondered if their visits had been no more than drunken
fantasies? His heart raced. His throat grew tight. He needed a drink. “No! Not
yet. They’ll come. They have to come.”
Fifteen
more minutes and still not lights in the driveway. The tremble in his hands was
violent now, so violent he could barely hold a glass of water without wetting
the floor. “Just one little drink. Something to calm me. They can’t see me
shaking like this.” He rushed to the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet door.
There it sat. All day it had taunted him. He reached in and grabbed it, then
hesitated. “Just one drink. One! Not two.” He twisted the cap off and raised
the bottle to his lips. The aroma of the dark whiskey calmed him. The doorbell
rang.
“Trick
or treat!”
Cort
jumped at the sound. “They’re here! And to think I almost ruined it.” He
recapped the bottle and returned it to its spot beside the crackers then
hurried to the front door. On the porch stood a boy of six and a woman of
twenty seven, both dressed in costumes. Cort knew their ages because he knew
their identity.
“Ah,
look at you! You’re a pirate this year. Grand.” Cort pushed open the door and
stepped out onto the porch and immediately fell to his knees in front of the
boy. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.” He reached out but the boy withdrew.
“Yes, I’m sorry. No touching.” He looked up at the boy’s mother and strained to
see her face behind the black veil. Her costume never changed. She wore the
garb of a lady in mourning.
“Take
off your mask, Timmy, and let me look at you,” Cort said to the boy. The boy
raised the pirate mask and smiled. “I’m sober this year,” Cort said. “Just like
I promised. Are Snickers still your favorite?”
“Yes,
daddy,” the boy said.
“Oh,
look at me,” Cort said, fighting back the tears in his eyes. “I’ve forgotten to
bring them out. Wait right here. Don’t leave.” He pushed himself to his feet
and quickly retrieved the bag of candy and the roses from the coffee table.
When he turned back toward the door his visitors were gone. He ran outside and
called for them, yelled for all he was worth, then fell to his knees and sobbed
like a child, clutching the bag of Snickers and the roses to his chest. Almost
an hour passed before he righted himself and began to walk down the driveway.
When he reached the road he turned left. Gravel crunched beneath his feet with
every step.
With
nothing but the moon to light his way, Cort walked for two miles then turned
right into a narrow drive, then through a metal gate. He could navigate the
cemetery with his eyes closed, as the moon was not always so bright when he
came here. There is nothing more private than a cemetery at night. He walked
leftward, along the fence for twenty paces, then straight right for fifteen
more. Sometimes he counted them off as he walked, but not tonight.
Two
headstones stood side by side, the bottom dates the same. Nine years ago today.
Halloween. “Timothy Ray Hatcher. Born June 23, 1995. Died October 31, 2001,” he
said aloud. There were no tears now. He had cried himself dry. “Janet Ann
Hatcher. Born August 3, 1975. Died October 31, 2001. In God’s loving arms.”
Cort
stared at the granite for a long time, then placed the bag of candy before one
and the roses before the other. It was a slow walk home. At times he forgot
where he was or what he was doing, such was his grief. When he reached the end
of his driveway the eastern horizon had an orange glow. The nine jack-o-lanterns
in his yard were silent, their faces dark. The ghosts and goblins hung
motionless, as if out of respect, as he made his way up the driveway, onto the
porch, and into the kitchen. “Three hundred and sixty five more days,” he said,
as he opened the cabinet beside the refrigerator.
____________________________
Carl
Purdon lives in Pontotoc, Mississippi with his wife and two of their
four children. Pontotoc is halfway between Tupelo, which is the
birthplace of Elvis, and Oxford, which was the home of William Faulkner.
Since he can’t sing, he writes. Since he’s not an expert on anything in
particular, he writes fiction. In February of 2012 he released his
debut novel, The Night Train,
and is currently working feverishly with another cast of characters in a
manuscript that has not yet been named. Between scenes, Carl blogs about writing, and has an interview series devoted to all areas of the reading and writing community. This short story, A Bag of Snickers, is part of a collection of short stories and poems available on Amazon.
Contact Links:
Website: http://www.carlpurdon.com
Blog: http://www.carlpurdon.