The Dead Husband by Carter Wilson (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📗

I walk to the kitchen, grab my purse, and take one last gulp before setting my glass on the granite countertop.

I don’t have to pass through the living room to get back to the front door, but I do. I walk slowly, giving them one last chance to say something. All their judgment. All their thousands of decisions about my existence, all calculated instantly and without error. And now they have a new decision to make about me. A big one.

Did she kill her husband?

They say nothing. I look over to Cora before I reach the front door. She’s smirking.

Of course she is.

Nineteen

Back home, I walk into Max’s room and find him on his Xbox.

“Hey,” I say. “I thought we said no screens tonight.”

He jerks around, surprised to see me.

“Yeah,” I say for him. “I’m back early. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s not okay. I asked you to finish your homework, then you could read a book.”

“I did finish,” he says as he turns off the TV. “I read earlier, and I don’t want to do that anymore. There’s nothing else to do in this house.”

“Where’s Grandpa?”

He shrugs. “Downstairs, I guess.”

“Did you spend any time with him?”

“No.”

I sigh, walk over, and sit on his bed. “You can’t just stay in your room all the time. I need to be able to go out every now and then with other adults, so you have to be in charge of yourself sometimes. That doesn’t mean hiding in your room and playing games. Did you eat the dinner I made?”

He nods.

“Did you clean up your dishes?”

“Oh. I forgot.”

“Okay, here’s the plan,” I tell him. “Go downstairs, clean your dishes, say hello to Grandpa, and come back and get ready for bed. Do that and I’ll come say good night in a few minutes, okay?”

“It’s not even that late,” he protests.

“It’s a school night. Besides, if you truly can’t find anything to do, you might as well go to sleep.”

He seems to be debating whether or not to argue but apparently decides against it. “Okay.” Max starts heading for the door, then turns and says, “Did you have fun tonight?”

My shoulders sag, as if someone just placed sandbags on them.

“No,” I say.

“Me either.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Max isn’t quite asleep but will be soon. As I kiss him on his head before turning off his light, I briefly wonder what it is he thinks about in these moments, these minutes of stillness under the blankets, in the dark, before sleep takes over. Does he think about his father? Is he scared? Does he repeat mantras in his head like I do, something like I want to go home? I wonder this but do not ask, because I don’t want him to say something that’ll make me feel even guiltier. I can’t handle that, not tonight.

Downstairs, I pass the kitchen, where the clock above the sink reads just past nine. I never did have dinner.

I continue down the dark hallway of the main level toward a faint glow. My father’s study. Before I even enter, I can smell the trace of cigar smoke, which over the years has soaked into every surface of the room. I pass through the open doorway and find him sitting in one of two overstuffed leather chairs. He’s not smoking, but he is drinking, a cocktail glass with two fingers of whiskey, neat, in his right hand. He’s not on his phone. He’s not reading his Wall Street Journal or a book. He’s just sitting there in the silence, a solemn look on his face, as if wondering what the point of everything is anyway.

He looks over to me as I enter.

“Rosie,” he says.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Come join me.” He points to the other chair, which hasn’t had a regular occupant as long as I can remember. My father always sits in his favorite chair, and once in a while, someone’s weight might bend the cushion of the chair next to it. But mostly, I’m guessing, my father sits alone.

“Okay,” I say.

As I sit, he stands, walks over, and pours me the same drink as his, not asking if I want or even like whiskey. Fortunately, the answer to both these unasked questions is yes. I take the offered glass and sip. It burns deliciously, putting to shame the light tingle of the wine.

I clear my throat, barely suppressing a cough. “You know,” I say, “your whiskey was the first alcohol I ever tasted.”

He looks over to me without moving his head. His eyes have a look of playfulness that doesn’t match the rest of his demeanor. “That so?”

“I was thirteen. Cora and I snuck some.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was the worst thing I’d ever tasted.”

He nods and considers this.

“What brand was it?”

“Jameson,” I reply, remembering clearly.

“Well, that was the problem. You didn’t go top shelf.” He points to my glass. “What you’re sipping right there is Charbay Release III. Four hundred bucks a bottle. If that was the first thing you ever drank, you’d be an alcoholic by now.”

I take another sip and confirm my taste buds aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate the liquid flowing over them. It tastes good, but four hundred bucks good?

“Well, thank god for Jameson,” I say.

We sit there and soak in the heavy silence. There’s no tension, exactly, but it’s not quite comfortable. Like being under a blanket that’s both scratchy and cozy.

After a minute or so passes, he says, “What are your vices, Rose?”

“My vices?”

“Yes, your vices.”

I’m stumped by the question. Not because I can’t think of any answers but because my father is the one asking me. I think about it a few seconds more, then raise my glass and tilt it side to side in front of him.

“Alcohol is not your vice, Rosie. You drink, but you’re not a drunk, far as I can tell. An important distinction. You don’t smoke, at least not that I’ve ever seen. Probably don’t gamble. Truth is, I don’t know