Waiting for Morning (3 page)

Alicia nodded. She was an energetic girl, ambitious and rarely given to moments of stillness. But now she moved painstakingly slow, and Tom was proud of her. Right foot, left; right foot, left. Three feet, then four separated her and the hissing snake. Right foot, left … right foot, left.

Tom grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him. Together they backed up even farther to where Jenny waited for them. Alicia crumpled in her father’s arms and started to cry.

“Oh, Daddy, I was so scared,” she mumbled into his grubby T-shirt.

Tom could feel his pulse returning to normal, and he stroked her hair silently. He could treat snakebites when he was in an emergency room with a vial of antivenin. But here, an hour from urgent care, Alicia might not have made it. “Thank you, God.” Then to Alicia, “You did it just right, honey.”

Jenny moved in then, wrapping her arms around her father and sister. “I thought you were going to step on him.”

Alicia looked at her. “I would’ve if you hadn’t screamed.”

Both girls shuddered, and there was a pause while they clung to their father. Fifteen feet away, the snake stopped hissing, uncoiled, and slithered off the path into the shrubbery.

Tom broke the silence. “You know what it was, don’t you?”

Alicia sniffled loudly and pulled away from him, running her palms over her jeans. “What?”

“He wanted to see Jenny’s catch. Rumors spread quickly along the shoreline in these parts. He had to see for himself.”

Alicia and Jenny grinned and wordlessly cued each other so that they ganged up on him and rubbed their knuckles against his head.

“Okay, okay, come on, you monkeys.” He took their hands and led them once more toward the campsite. “Let’s get the site cleaned up and the car loaded. Mom’s waiting for us.”

Three

Brian Wesley’s body lay contorted, twisted underneath the rear axle of a ’93 Honda Civic, while heat from the sweltering Los Angeles pavement radiated through his flesh. He drew breaths in quick, raspy gulps. In the cramped, dark place where he lay, the stench of grease and gasoline was suffocating. His pulse banged loud and fast, the sound of it nearly drowning out the roar of nearby traffic. He had to get air, had to calm the wild beating of his heart, the violent trembling of his hands, and the anxiety that engulfed him.

It had been three weeks since he’d had a drink.

Brian wiped the sweat and grime from his hands onto his worn Levi’s and used the last of his remaining strength to steady his fingers. With fierce determination he gripped the torque wrench and made one final turn. There. He tried to breathe more slowly. One Civic rear axle, good as new. Three repairs to go.

If only he could take a few moments to settle his nerves, sip some cool water, maybe chew a piece of mint gum or eat a candy bar. Something,
anything
, before he lost his mind. Every part of him was screaming for a drink. He closed his eyes, and he could feel the fiery liquid sliding over his lips, satisfying the craving that coursed through his veins.

From somewhere near the shop’s office, he heard footsteps. They were loud and threatening, making their way toward him.

“Wesley!” The voice barked out over the sound of humming machinery and noisy afternoon traffic.

From underneath the Honda, Brian studied his boss’s shoes and struggled to compose himself. He had seen this coming for
days. He straightened his legs and used the heels of his worn work boots to push himself out from underneath the car.

“Yeah?” He blinked twice and felt his lip twitch wildly.

Steve Avery, shop manager and owner of Avery Automotive, sized him up like a sack of rotting leftovers. Brian stood and noticed his hands were shaking badly. He forced them into his pockets with a nervous jerk. Avery muttered something about laziness and then turned abruptly.

“Follow me.”

I’m finished
. Brian swallowed painfully.
Too many guys, not enough work
.

They made their way past several cars in various states of repair and then through a door down a long corridor. Once inside, the roar of the garage died instantly. Avery led the way and made no effort at small talk as they entered a boxy, air-conditioned office.

“Sit down, Wesley.” The boss remained standing, sifting through heaps of clutter that covered his imitation oak desk. He did not look at Brian. “I’m laying you off, effective today.”

Brian gulped and his heart rate doubled. “Me?”

Avery looked over the rim of his glasses and glowered making Brian feel like a fearful failure of a man. “Yes.” Avery spat the word. “Know why?”

Brian shook his head. He couldn’t breathe, so talking was out of the question.

“Complaints, Wesley. That Honda was supposed to be done two days ago. These past three weeks you’ve had more customer complaints than in all your six months combined.”

“Well—” Brian tried to steady his voice—“I know business is slow and, uh, with less guys we each have a lot more work and all. So, uh, if you wanna cut my hours some maybe we could, you know, work something out.”

Avery stared at him, one eyebrow slightly elevated. “This has nothing to do with slow business. It’s you, Wesley. You’re the one who’s slow. You’re lazy and you’re making stupid mistakes.
There’s no discussion here. You’re finished.”

For an instant Brian thought his anger might actually overcome his anxiety. “Now wait a minute—!” He rose to his feet.

“Sit down!”

Brian’s knees buckled as he collapsed back onto the metal folding chair.

“You’re not pulling your weight, Wesley. Get your things and leave.”

Brian hung his head and rose slowly to his feet. Before the door closed behind him, he felt the distinct blow of one more verbal dagger.

“Too bad you gave up the bottle.… You work better drunk.”

Brian stormed around the garage while the others worked quietly, keeping to themselves. He snatched his extra work shirt from the office closet, grabbed his power drill off a dusty shelf, and painstakingly picked up dozens of bits and ratchets, organizing them into his tool chest. Finally, he rolled the ten-drawer red steel container toward his pickup and, with the help of a buddy, heaved it into the bed of his beat-up, white Chevy pickup.

He climbed into the truck, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and dropped his head in defeat.

Brian knew Avery’s dig was a lie. He wasn’t a better mechanic when he was drinking. Fast maybe, but too sloppy. It was why he’d lost every job he’d ever gotten in the past five years. Customers smelled alcohol on his breath and reported him to the boss, or he’d drink through lunch hour and forget to report back until the next morning.

The drinking had been killing him, destroying him and Carla and everything he’d ever dreamed or desired.

He had tried to quit once three years before. He’d lasted two days. Two lousy days before he woke up in the front seat of his parked car, outside a shady liquor store, at four o’clock in
the morning, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying on the floor next to him.

After that he’d been a binge drinker for two years. There were five DUIs, two license suspensions, numerous alcohol education classes, and two separate car accidents—once when he rear-ended a neighbor’s car and wound up in a head-on collision with a maple tree a block from home, and again when he pulled onto the freeway headed the wrong way. Someone had flashed headlights at him, and he’d turned into a guardrail, narrowly averting a tragedy. No one was really hurt in either accident, and he continued to drink—often waking up with a raging headache and no idea how he’d gotten home.

Carla cried and begged and threatened to leave, but she wasn’t serious. Life would always go on as it had—his addiction far more powerful than he.

But all that changed six months earlier when Carla gave birth to their first child, a son, Brian Jr. The boy was a precious reminder of everything Brian had forgotten about life, a tiny living incentive that kindled within him a strong desire to change.

After Brian Jr.’s birth, Brian got the job at Avery Automotive and cut back on his drinking. Finally, three weeks ago, he quit for good. It hadn’t been easy. He’d been forced to break ties with Big Al, his drinking partner, and he’d avoided driving by his favorite bars. His hands trembled nonstop, and he had frequent anxiety attacks.

But for the first time in his twenty-eight years, he believed he was a different man. He pictured himself putting in another two years at Avery Automotive and then taking a job with one of the dealers. A high-paying job with medical benefits and a dental plan. He’d buy a new truck and maybe some better tools. Eventually, he and Carla and Brian Jr. could move out of the noisy apartment and rent a small house in a safe neighborhood.

These were big dreams for Brian Wesley, and they had kept
him sober when he didn’t think he could last another moment. Now, though, his dreams were good as dead.

He drove out of the shop’s parking lot and considered his options. Left turn or right? Left and a mile west on Ventura Boulevard was The Office—a dimly lit sports bar where Brian had drunk away numerous paychecks in the past decade. Right and two miles east was the apartment complex where Carla and Brian Jr. would be spending the afternoon blissfully unaware of Brian’s job status.

Right
.
Turn right
. His hands trembled more violently and a thin line of perspiration formed on his upper lip. Panic simmered in his belly, and he gripped the steering wheel harder.

Just one drink
, another voice argued.
One drink with the guys, enough to find the courage to face Carla
. He could feel the cool glass, smell the heady scent of forbidden liquor.
One drink. Just one drink
.

He turned his head and stared east.
Carla and Brian Jr
.

Carla would be so disappointed. Especially after he’d struggled to stay clean these past weeks. His arms were shaking now, his knees starting to knock. The drink was calling him, insisting.
One drink … one small drink
.

Three weeks of sobriety had to be worth something, some kind of reward. Besides, if he went home now, he and Carla would have it out, and he’d only wind up out after dark looking for any bottle he could get his hands on.
Do it now
, the voice said.
Just one drink. One drink. Calm your nerves and then go home. She’ll never know the difference
.

“I can’t … can’t let ’em down,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He could go home now, tell her the truth, and by tomorrow have a job somewhere else. There were dozens of garage jobs out there. “Just go home.” He could feel the anxiety choking his voice, making each breath a struggle. “Come on. You can do it.”

He inhaled. It was hard to get enough air. He set his jaw and forced the wheel to the right, toward Carla and Brian Jr.
Then, at the last possible moment, he wrenched the wheel in the other direction, and his pickup swung to the left.

In three minutes he was at The Office. And as he walked inside he could almost feel that first drink sliding smoothly down his throat, washing away his fears and anxiety—and all that remained of his dying dreams.

Nick Crabb was tending bar at The Office that afternoon, straightening bottles and wiping down the counter when a wide-eyed man walked in and stared at him.

“Where’s Rod?” The man’s feet seemed planted in the entryway.

Rod Jennings was manager at The Office. He worked five days a week and from everything Nick knew about him, he hadn’t missed a shift in two years. Rod had a special thing with the regulars, and the guy standing before him had the unmistakable look of someone who had done a great deal of drinking.

Nick dried his hands on a damp towel. “Sick. Food poisoning.”

The man blinked and then his shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Figures.” He moved toward the bar slowly, hesitating with every step. His hands were shaking, and he glanced over his shoulder nervously.

“Get you a drink?”

The man continued forward in jerky motions until he worked himself onto a stool. “Whiskey on the rocks, straight up.” He drummed his fingers anxiously on the bar, his eyes darting from bottle to bottle.

Nick hesitated for a moment. There was something strange about the guy … still he was a customer. Nick grabbed a tumbler, filled it with ice and whiskey, and set it on the bar. “You know Rod?”

“Yeah … old friends, Rod and me.” The man’s hands trembled
so badly that when he raised his glass he lost a few drops. Then he put the glass to his mouth and the drink disappeared. He set the glass down hard and with more confidence nodded toward the bottle. “Another.”

In the other room the opening theme to
Rocky II
began playing. Nick poured a second drink. And a third. And another and another and another.

By the time the sad-looking man at the bar was on his twelfth or thirteenth drink in less than two hours, Nick was beginning to get worried. If only Rod were there. He would know whether the man had passed his limit. As it was, Nick had no idea. He was new at The Office—working to pay tuition at California State University Northridge. He watched the man nervously. He’d never had to cut anyone off before. Besides, the guy was Rod’s friend. The last thing he wanted to do was offend the boss’s buddy.

Nick wandered into the lounge where
Rocky II
was down to the final fight scene. Over the past two hours, an occasional customer had wandered in for a quick drink, but for the most part it was just the lone customer at the bar. From across the room Nick heard the man tap his glass impatiently.

“Another. Get in here and give me another.”

His speech wasn’t slurred. But he was getting loud and overbearing. Nick sighed and returned to the bar. “You sure?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Don’t get smart with me.”

Nick shrugged and reached for the bottle. “You might want to give it a rest, that’s all.” He nodded toward the television. “Catch the last part of
Rocky
or something.” He splashed house whiskey into a fresh glass of ice, and the man took it roughly. He downed it in three gulps and tossed several ten-dollar bills in Nick’s direction. He stood then, somewhat slowly, and reached into his pocket, fumbling for something. Nick was about to offer to help when the man stopped and stared at him, his expression suddenly vulnerable.