was empty.
“Too late!” he said triumphantly. “Too late, Junebug!”
“My God, Papa Larry,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re drunk.”
“Gloriously, uproariously drunk, for the first time in ages! And it feels wonderful, you hear me, wonderful! My brain is fueled and lubricated again, girl. You know a brain as creative as mine can’t run on your damned milk!”
“You old fool,” she said between gritted teeth. “You’re going to kill yourself, you know that, don’t you?”
“Then I will die a happy man and go to be with my Lucille.” He put both hands flat on the table and went on. “Have you ever been happy, Junebug? Has that cold-blooded son o’ mine ever truly made you happy? I don’t think so. Leastways, I never heard any evidence of it through the walls at night!”
I had to bite my lip to keep from saying something about how Papa Larry had directed too many Tennessee Williamsplays in his time. He was spouting dialogue that sounded like it came from a play, and not a very good one, at that.
But the thing of it was, he was drunk, and somebody who’s drunk is usually dead serious. He meant what he was saying, even if he was being overly dramatic about it, and his words found their target, too, because June turned pale with anger and hurt. She said, “Let’s get you back up to your room, Papa Larry. You’re going to be lucky if you wake up in the morning. We’ll need to get you to a doctor tomorrow. I’ll call your oncologist in Atlanta and get a referral–”
“I don’t need a doctor! I feel fine!”
I said, “We want to keep you feelin’ fine, Dr. Powers. It’s late, and you need some rest.”
“I am a mite tired,” he rumbled. He squinted at me. “Who’re you again, Red?”
I ignored the nickname and said, “Delilah Dickinson. I’m in charge of the tour.”
“Oh, yeah. I ‘member you now. How’s about helpin’ me up?”
June and I got on either side of him and took hold of his arms. I don’t know how much he weighed–close to three hundred pounds, surely–but we had to struggle to get him on his feet. He was too drunk to give us much help, but after a minute we managed to get him standing. He took a few unsteady steps down the path with us helping him, then stopped short and said, “Oh, hell. I’m gonna be sick.”
He jerked away from us. We couldn’t hold him. He lunged to the edge of the path and plowed into the shrubs, parting them with his thick arms. He fell to his knees and started throwing up.
June looked mortified. She muttered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” I told her. “And not the first sick drunk I’ve had to deal with on a tour, either.”
“I just hope he’s not throwing up blood.”
“Yeah, you and me both.” I had visions of a 9-1-1 call and an ambulance ride to the nearest hospital.
When Dr. Powers was through being sick, June and I started to step off the path to help him up. Before we could reach him, though, he slumped onto his side and lay there motionless. With fear in her voice, June said, “Papa Larry?”
He started snoring.
“You … you old fart!” she said. “Now what are we going to do? He’s too big for us to lift his dead weight.”
“Let’s see if we can wake him up enough to help us,” I said. I pushed some of the branches aside and moved into the garden, being careful to step around the place where he’d been sick. As I reached Papa Larry’s side, I knelt and took hold of his arm, giving it a good shake. “Dr. Powers! Dr. Powers, you need to wake up again for a little while.”
Papa Larry kept snoring.
I sighed and shook my head and, as I did, I looked past his bulky shape and saw a shoe sticking out from under a bush. Curious, I moved my head so I could see better and saw a skinny ankle in an argyle sock above the shoe. My heart started to pound harder. Above the shoe and the argyle sock was a trouser leg, and it looked like it went with an old brown suit.
Without
“Too late!” he said triumphantly. “Too late, Junebug!”
“My God, Papa Larry,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re drunk.”
“Gloriously, uproariously drunk, for the first time in ages! And it feels wonderful, you hear me, wonderful! My brain is fueled and lubricated again, girl. You know a brain as creative as mine can’t run on your damned milk!”
“You old fool,” she said between gritted teeth. “You’re going to kill yourself, you know that, don’t you?”
“Then I will die a happy man and go to be with my Lucille.” He put both hands flat on the table and went on. “Have you ever been happy, Junebug? Has that cold-blooded son o’ mine ever truly made you happy? I don’t think so. Leastways, I never heard any evidence of it through the walls at night!”
I had to bite my lip to keep from saying something about how Papa Larry had directed too many Tennessee Williamsplays in his time. He was spouting dialogue that sounded like it came from a play, and not a very good one, at that.
But the thing of it was, he was drunk, and somebody who’s drunk is usually dead serious. He meant what he was saying, even if he was being overly dramatic about it, and his words found their target, too, because June turned pale with anger and hurt. She said, “Let’s get you back up to your room, Papa Larry. You’re going to be lucky if you wake up in the morning. We’ll need to get you to a doctor tomorrow. I’ll call your oncologist in Atlanta and get a referral–”
“I don’t need a doctor! I feel fine!”
I said, “We want to keep you feelin’ fine, Dr. Powers. It’s late, and you need some rest.”
“I am a mite tired,” he rumbled. He squinted at me. “Who’re you again, Red?”
I ignored the nickname and said, “Delilah Dickinson. I’m in charge of the tour.”
“Oh, yeah. I ‘member you now. How’s about helpin’ me up?”
June and I got on either side of him and took hold of his arms. I don’t know how much he weighed–close to three hundred pounds, surely–but we had to struggle to get him on his feet. He was too drunk to give us much help, but after a minute we managed to get him standing. He took a few unsteady steps down the path with us helping him, then stopped short and said, “Oh, hell. I’m gonna be sick.”
He jerked away from us. We couldn’t hold him. He lunged to the edge of the path and plowed into the shrubs, parting them with his thick arms. He fell to his knees and started throwing up.
June looked mortified. She muttered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” I told her. “And not the first sick drunk I’ve had to deal with on a tour, either.”
“I just hope he’s not throwing up blood.”
“Yeah, you and me both.” I had visions of a 9-1-1 call and an ambulance ride to the nearest hospital.
When Dr. Powers was through being sick, June and I started to step off the path to help him up. Before we could reach him, though, he slumped onto his side and lay there motionless. With fear in her voice, June said, “Papa Larry?”
He started snoring.
“You … you old fart!” she said. “Now what are we going to do? He’s too big for us to lift his dead weight.”
“Let’s see if we can wake him up enough to help us,” I said. I pushed some of the branches aside and moved into the garden, being careful to step around the place where he’d been sick. As I reached Papa Larry’s side, I knelt and took hold of his arm, giving it a good shake. “Dr. Powers! Dr. Powers, you need to wake up again for a little while.”
Papa Larry kept snoring.
I sighed and shook my head and, as I did, I looked past his bulky shape and saw a shoe sticking out from under a bush. Curious, I moved my head so I could see better and saw a skinny ankle in an argyle sock above the shoe. My heart started to pound harder. Above the shoe and the argyle sock was a trouser leg, and it looked like it went with an old brown suit.
Without
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