Grace by T. Greenwood Page A

only way Kurt could monitor his drinking now was by measuring how much was left in the bottle when he got there on Friday nights.
    Kurt returned to the living room after shoving the perishables in the fridge and tried not to look at the mess on the counter and in the sink. Last week’s bottle had about a finger left in it. “I said, Are you okay? ”
    â€œWhy don’t you ask that bitch from across the road?” he said.
    â€œTheresa?” Kurt asked, sitting down on the couch next to a stack of newspapers and his father’s breakfast plate slick with congealed eggs and bacon grease. Theresa Bouchard had been in Kurt’s class in high school. They’d even gone out once or twice, but after graduation, he’d never called her again. Now she was a single mom, raising five boys, or maybe it was six. The rumor was every single one of them had a different father, though they all looked the same to Kurt. Dirty little buggers with hair in their eyes and runny noses.
    Pop’s eyes were glassy, and there was a sweating tumbler between his legs.
    â€œWhat’d she say?” Kurt asked.
    â€œSaid she’s gonna call the county, get the house condemned.”
    â€œWhat?” Kurt asked. He felt sucker punched. “For what?” Though he knew exactly for what.
    Pop shrugged. “Complainin’ about rats and raccoons. One of her snot-nosed kids come over and says he got bit.” He reached for a new cigarette and lit it with the tip of the one still burning between his lips. “When I was a kid, that was called trespassin’. Those little shits are always comin’ around, stealin’ stuff. They’re lucky I don’t shoot ’em.”
    Kurt lifted his chin and rubbed his hand across his head. “Well, let’s get it cleaned up, then. If it’s just the trash out front, I can make a couple trips to the dump this weekend. Let me put some of those boxes on the porch into the garage. What else?”
    â€œBe a good kid and get me a fresh drink?” his father said then, holding out his cup to him like a beggar, shaking it so the remaining ice cubes tinkled inside. His eyes looked as watery and viscous as the whiskey.
    Kurt went to the kitchen and made a weak cocktail, loading it up with ice. He turned on the faucet to water it down, but the pipes only clanged and hissed. Jesus. “Pop, did your water get shut off?” Kurt was seething. His father always seemed to wait until the last possible moment to let him know there was a problem.
    Pop stared at the television.
    Kurt rubbed his temples. “Jesus, Dad. Why didn’t you tell me? We can pay your water bill. How much do you owe?” Kurt had no idea how he was even going to pay his own water bill this month.
    â€œBah,” Jude said.
    â€œDad, this is serious. If Theresa calls the county and they find out you don’t have running water, you’ll lose your house. What will you do then?” Kurt asked, though he knew exactly what he would do then. He’d have to move in with him and Elsbeth. Christ. He knew he was going to have to call Billy and ask him to send a check.
    â€œListen, Dad,” he said. “I’m gonna bring Trevor over this weekend and we’ll work on the yard. And I’ll figure out what to do about the water. But you’ve got to let me help. You can’t get all sentimental about stuff. It’s time to hoe out. I’ll call Bill.”
    â€œDon’t you even think about calling that little prick,” his father grumbled, slamming the cocktail down on the end table.
    â€œHe’s your son,” Kurt said.
    â€œHe’s no son of mine.”
    On his way home, Kurt called Billy on his cell, knowing he wouldn’t pick up. It was Friday night. Billy might be out after work. Kurt tried to imagine him sitting down in some dark bar, loosening his tie, ordering a drink. He tried to picture the contents of his briefcase as he