wife, two point five kids, and white picket fence, Bowen’s is all bachelor pad. Male furniture, simple design, little personal effects adorning the walls.
I take the mug with a nod of gratitude. The hot, magic power of the brown liquid sliding down my throat somehow brings me half back to life. To the point where I can finally come to terms with what this day will bring.
“Where is he?”
Bowen stares straight ahead. “In the shower. I told him to wash the vomit off.”
My head drops into my hands as soon as I place my coffee on the end table. “How the fuck did we get here, Bow?”
He just keeps looking at the wall. “I don’t know, man. He needs help. We’ve tried before … but this time, it’s worse. These people, Keat, I know some of them from … before. They’re dangerous.”
I don’t need to ask what he means. Upstairs, the pipes shut off, and whether or not we’re ready to confront Fletcher, here he comes.
“Gentlemen.” He has the balls to smirk at us as he comes downstairs dewy-eyed as a schoolgirl.
Bowen is up and across the room, pinning him to the wall in three seconds flat. “That’s how you’re going to approach this, dickwad? You’re a piece of shit, you know that? Not only did you almost get us killed last night, but you also ruined my fucking truck! And you have the nerve to come down here smiling?”
I can tell that Fletcher is having trouble breathing, and he’s scratching at Bowen’s hands where they pin his neck. Rushing over, I smack at Bow’s arms.
“Bowen, let him down!”
He releases Fletcher, and my youngest brother drops to the floor in a heap.
“You don’t know what it’s like! Neither of you do. I don’t just get loaded, drink two handles of liquor and vomit or piss on myself, for the fun of it. I can’t stop this … this urge. It’s part of me. Booze is like air to me, I need it to function. I can’t just stop.”
Fletcher buries his face in his hands. A moment later, Bowen looks at me with the most pained look I’ve ever seen on his face. Our youngest brother is sobbing.
I go to him, kneel down. “Fletch, I know you can’t help it. You’re an addict, you’re sick. I’ll never know what that feels like, but I do know that there are ways you can get help.”
He throws his hands up, distraught. “I’ve tried before. All of that AA shit, rehab, all of it … it doesn’t work on me. I don’t need Bowen to choke me out to know that I’m killing myself.”
Bowen joins us on the floor, a move that surprises me. “Fletch, you might not remember what I did, but I’ve been close to where you are. I know it feels like nothing can stop this, that you’re in too deep. But you’re not. As long as you’re breathing, there is a chance for you to turn it around. Come on, brother, do this for us. Do this for Mom.”
I almost add that he should do this for Dad, but I think that would be laying it on too thick.
Fletch shrugs and mumbles, “I can try.”
I’m not convinced, not in the least, and I know we’ll have to stay on him for a long time to come. But right now, I have to get to my office and sort out a few things before I head to my mother’s house to help her with projects.
After consulting with Bowen on next steps—calling a friend who suggested a rehab center near Lancaster and keeping an eye on Fletcher for the next twenty-four hours—I get my work done by noon and then head for my childhood home.
The minute I walk in the door, I smell home. That distinct scent my parent’s house always has, that just settles in my bones. But this isn’t home anymore. There aren’t baseball cleats by the door or water guns hidden in between the books on the living room shelves.
“Why was there a message on the answering machine from Jerica Tenny?”
Christ. I knew she’d corner me at some point during this visit, but I didn’t think I’d be in a shit storm this soon.
Mom was the only person I knew who had a landline answering machine that actually voiced the messages aloud.
And shit, I should have given Jerica my number. She’s the town’s premier realtor, and I’ve been in contact with her for two months now about possibly listing