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Show Woodworth/108 sink, behind the bottles of cleansers, so her mother won't see it and ask if she paid for it. One of the cans of cleanser tips over, and when she leans over to pick it up, she notices a mayonnaise jar full of amber liquid behind the last curve of the drain. She opens it. Sniffs. Bourbon. Her throat constricts, her stomach heaves against her sides. This is real alcoholism. Like movies, or television. She imagines her mother, down on all fours, crawling behind the spare bottles of Joy and Comet and Bold, sitting back on the kitchen floor with her labelless mayonnaise jar and drinking like a child, her eyes wide open on both sides of the bottle, watching for an intruder. She puts the bottle back carefully. Takes the bag out, arranges the cleansers in their careful rows. Pushes the bag under the sofa in the living room, and leaves the house through the back door to the sanctuary of the willow tree. It's all right. It's all right. Ruth doesn't come down to dinner that night, so "arty tells Ned that she has found an apartment. "It'll just make it easier to get to work," she tells him. He keeps his face turned from her. "It's been nice for your mother and I to have you living here," he says. "It'll just be more convenient. For everyone." Ned looks down at his plate. "Well, we've certainly enjoyed having you around." "I'll probably come out a lot on weekends and stuff," she promises. "Does your mother know?" |