atonement?”
She nodded again. “
Somebody
had to punish me for being such an awful person, even if I had to do it myself! Anyway, after watching him kill himself like that… It’s supposed to make you forget, isn’t it? Isn’t that what liquor is for?”
“Well, that’s one of its functions,” I said. “But didn’t it make you feel a little good at first?”
“Oh, I did feel quite… quite cheerful for a while, that was in the cheap room I’d rented, and I’d bought a bottle, one of those flat ones, not the round ones. One of the bigger flat ones…”
“A pint.”
“Yes. Whiskey. Some kind of whiskey. It made me feel quite sinful, buying it. I’d never bought any liquor before. Daddy used to have a drink in the evening when he was home between assignments; it was one of the things Mother associated with him, so afterward she wouldn’t have it in the house. I forced myself to drink the whole bottle, quite slowly, sitting there in my room watching TV. Well, trying to watch TV, trying not to think about
anything
, just feeling it working in me so warm and nice. I felt so lovely and wicked, and everything got so funny and I kept on giggling even when I couldn’t get across the room anymore without knocking things down. And in the morning I found myself sprawled on the bed still fully dressed even to my shoes. Well, one of my shoes. I had to hunt and hunt before I found the other under the bed. I didn’t have enough money to stay another day, so I got out of there feeling sick and headachy, and very self-conscious about my slept-in clothes. But I found a bar that was open and after a couple of drinks I felt almost human again and it all got very funny again, and I stopped caring about being a little wrinkled and grubby. I left that place and wandered around in a happy daze and had something to eat and another drink, and another… I don’t have any idea what happened to the rest of the day; maybe I finally passed out again somewhere. Then it was dark again and I found myself stumbling down that grimy little street with my stockings all torn and my suit all dirty and my purse missing. I remember vaguely somebody grabbing it and knocking me down when I wouldn’t let go…
She stopped to listen to a man and woman moving down the hall outside, arguing bitterly in loud voices. She giggled.
“They’re drunk, too,” she said happily. Then she sighed and went on with her story: “Suddenly it wasn’t a bit funny anymore. It was a crazy, hazy nightmare, feeling so awful and being such an awful, embarrassing mess in my good clothes with my hair all straggly right there on the public street. You know, like when you dream of being stark naked at a glamorous formal ball. And not being able to walk very well and terrified that I’d fall down and have to crawl and ruin my nylons on the concrete sidewalk, except they were already ruined, weren’t they? And people staring and laughing at the staggering slob girl… And not even knowing where I was. Finally I fumbled my way into that place and was very sick in the john, and the woman let me make that phone call—thank heaven I remembered the name of this hotel—and she gave me coffee to sober me up even though I told her I’d lost my purse and couldn’t pay.”
It was quite a gripping story. “The Amateur Lush’s Progress, Or the Alcoholic Adventures of Amy Barnett.” I tried to look properly impressed and sympathetic as I figured out the combination lock of her skirt and zipped the garment open along the side. I worked it down her hips, let it fall to the floor, and made her step out of it so I could drape it over the chair, although the way it already was, a few more creases hardly mattered. She watched me, standing there in her white slip, hugging herself in the classic “September Mom” pose of any lady caught without her shirt, although the room was not cold.
I asked, “Do you want to sleep like that or can you manage a shower first? You might
She nodded again. “
Somebody
had to punish me for being such an awful person, even if I had to do it myself! Anyway, after watching him kill himself like that… It’s supposed to make you forget, isn’t it? Isn’t that what liquor is for?”
“Well, that’s one of its functions,” I said. “But didn’t it make you feel a little good at first?”
“Oh, I did feel quite… quite cheerful for a while, that was in the cheap room I’d rented, and I’d bought a bottle, one of those flat ones, not the round ones. One of the bigger flat ones…”
“A pint.”
“Yes. Whiskey. Some kind of whiskey. It made me feel quite sinful, buying it. I’d never bought any liquor before. Daddy used to have a drink in the evening when he was home between assignments; it was one of the things Mother associated with him, so afterward she wouldn’t have it in the house. I forced myself to drink the whole bottle, quite slowly, sitting there in my room watching TV. Well, trying to watch TV, trying not to think about
anything
, just feeling it working in me so warm and nice. I felt so lovely and wicked, and everything got so funny and I kept on giggling even when I couldn’t get across the room anymore without knocking things down. And in the morning I found myself sprawled on the bed still fully dressed even to my shoes. Well, one of my shoes. I had to hunt and hunt before I found the other under the bed. I didn’t have enough money to stay another day, so I got out of there feeling sick and headachy, and very self-conscious about my slept-in clothes. But I found a bar that was open and after a couple of drinks I felt almost human again and it all got very funny again, and I stopped caring about being a little wrinkled and grubby. I left that place and wandered around in a happy daze and had something to eat and another drink, and another… I don’t have any idea what happened to the rest of the day; maybe I finally passed out again somewhere. Then it was dark again and I found myself stumbling down that grimy little street with my stockings all torn and my suit all dirty and my purse missing. I remember vaguely somebody grabbing it and knocking me down when I wouldn’t let go…
She stopped to listen to a man and woman moving down the hall outside, arguing bitterly in loud voices. She giggled.
“They’re drunk, too,” she said happily. Then she sighed and went on with her story: “Suddenly it wasn’t a bit funny anymore. It was a crazy, hazy nightmare, feeling so awful and being such an awful, embarrassing mess in my good clothes with my hair all straggly right there on the public street. You know, like when you dream of being stark naked at a glamorous formal ball. And not being able to walk very well and terrified that I’d fall down and have to crawl and ruin my nylons on the concrete sidewalk, except they were already ruined, weren’t they? And people staring and laughing at the staggering slob girl… And not even knowing where I was. Finally I fumbled my way into that place and was very sick in the john, and the woman let me make that phone call—thank heaven I remembered the name of this hotel—and she gave me coffee to sober me up even though I told her I’d lost my purse and couldn’t pay.”
It was quite a gripping story. “The Amateur Lush’s Progress, Or the Alcoholic Adventures of Amy Barnett.” I tried to look properly impressed and sympathetic as I figured out the combination lock of her skirt and zipped the garment open along the side. I worked it down her hips, let it fall to the floor, and made her step out of it so I could drape it over the chair, although the way it already was, a few more creases hardly mattered. She watched me, standing there in her white slip, hugging herself in the classic “September Mom” pose of any lady caught without her shirt, although the room was not cold.
I asked, “Do you want to sleep like that or can you manage a shower first? You might
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