I Used To Like Scotch

My husband was a sweet man when I met him. Time had turned him into a bully. I was never good at speaking up so I endured him in silence. I’d just figured if I didn’t provoke him, he wouldn’t treat me like garbage.

When he yelled at my son, I realized my mistake.

Divorce wasn’t an option. He was a lawyer. He and his friends would make sure I lost everything. Perhaps even my son. I couldn’t risk that. Everything but that.

I couldn’t get help, either. Nobody would believe me. In public, he acted like a perfect man. He was good at that, controlling himself when he wanted to. That was his strength. But he had one weakness, something he couldn’t control: his passion for scotch. Once he opened a bottle, he rarely stopped before finishing it. And by the sixth glass, he was always helplessly drunk.

It was a Thursday and sunset’s fading light tinted my whole house in a deep orange. My husband was sitting on our gray couch watching television. I walked there from the pantry holding a scotch bottle and said over the sound of the sports commentator,

“Hey, since we have the house to ourselves, I was thinking we could have a drink to celebrate!”

My son was at my sister’s house for his cousin’s birthday. He would spend the night there.

“Celebrate? Celebrate what? It’s not our anniversary, right?!” he said, his eyes still fixed on the TV.

“No, but maybe we could celebrate us, you know? I bought some scotch.” I showcased the bottle on his peripheral vision.

"Scotch?" He said, glancing sideways towards the bottle.

"Yeah. We can’t celebrate without scotch! And it’s a pretty good bottle.”

“I have to work tomorrow.”

“Hum, you’re right. Then, I think I’ll just call Jeannie."

“That Jeannie can’t tell scotch from spiked punch." He snarled, looking at me for the first time in the conversation.

"I know, but I like scotch and she might be free…”

"No. I’m free. Come on, let’s do it."

"Are you sure?"

“Yeah, I’m sure!”

"John, no; You’re right. It’s a week day and you’ve got to work tomorrow... Jeannie—"

"Enough with her. I don’t have to get in until eleven tomorrow and I won’t have you drinking anything good with her. She can’t tell the difference between Scotch and spiked punch!”

John muted the TV, took his glasses off and went to the kitchen. I followed him, grabbed two whiskey tumblers from the wooden cabinet and poured some scotch on both of them. We silently stood by the kitchen counter bathing in the orange sunlight coming through the window for five minutes. I looked down, barely sipping my whiskey. He stared at me and finished his.

“We should go to the yard. Enjoy the fresh air.” I said.

“We can drink here.”

He poured himself more scotch. The sunlight gradually grew dimmer as he finished his second glass.

His eyes softened.

“Come on, let’s go outside. It’ll be a beautiful night. Full moon.” I said.

He stared at me long enough for the kitchen to grow a shade darker.

“Let’s go.”

We walked outside while he poured himself another glass. I pressed the ‘open’ button on the swimming pool cover. The water glimmered in the waning red tones of dusk and reflected the already visible moon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

We sat on the two nannette chaise lounges by the deep side of the pool.

"This scotch," he said, “is good."

"It’s a single malt."

"Describe me the label. I don’t have my glasses on."

"The label is red bordered by a golden band. The letters are also golden. There’s a black bear roaring. It looks like it’s protecting something."

"What’s it called?"

"Cleary’s"

"It’s good!" he said taking a sip.

Two fireflies floated down from the sky, flying to and away from each other, locked in a mesmerizing dance over the red reflection on the pool.

"Look at them." he said.

"They’re very pretty."

"They’re very close to the water. It’d be sad if they drowned." John said looking at me with a cartoonish upside-down smile hanging on his face. He then finished his third glass.

"You could jump in and rescue them.”

"Ha! Can you imagine?"

"Ha! Can you imagine?" He said pouring himself another one.

“You should stop. If you keep drinking you’ll have a killer hangover, and you’ve got to work tomorrow." I said, trying to sound concerned.

"Enough! A hangover won’t stop me from working. I’ll be fine. Drink." he added, refilling my glass. Then, his face relaxed and he shot me a warm smile.

"I drink," he said, "to my beautiful wife,"

"And I to our marriage."

He took my hand and downed his fourth glass.

It was night time now so all the reddish hues in the air turned silver with the moonlight. We could still see pretty well, except for colours.
Everything was black and white. Only the fireflies stood out, flickering in a dim yellow.

“Oh no! One of them fell to the water,” I said, pointing to the pool.

“It’ll be fine." He said. " it’s probably drinking, like us. Let’s finish the bottle."

He filled his empty glass with scotch, and emptied it in one long exaggerated chug, almost falling off the chair. It was his fifth. His eyes shone fiercely. It may have been the light of the drowning firefly. Or maybe it was the whiskey.

“I think you were right. Tomorrow I’m gonna have quite the nasty hangover. I’m going to bed.” he said, struggling to stand up.

“Okay. There isn’t a lot left in the bottle. I’ll finish it.” I said as flatly as I could.

“You’ll finish it?”

“Yes. It’s good scotch,”

“You’re right: There isn’t a lot left. I’ll help you finish it,” He said.

Standing by the chaise lounge, he poured himself his sixth glass.

“Do you think the firefly is still alive?” I said.

“I don’t see its light.”

He staggered to the edge of the pool and took a deep breath. The yard was so silent, I thought I could hear his fingers rubbing against the side of the cold glass and his throat swallowing the last of his whiskey.

He was trying to look for the bug. It wasn’t an easy task. The water reflected the moon and the stars so the light of the firefly would only be distinguishable by its soft yellow tint. His body was bathed in white moonlight, casting a long shadow on me. I felt invisible. In the silence, I heard my heartbeat quicken as I stood up. I heard my steps on the concrete edge of the pool. And I heard the splash after I pushed him.

His fall sent ripples through the water distorting the night sky's reflection. I could no longer see the moon and stars in the pool, I could only see my husband.

“Rescue the firefly!” I said.

"The firefly!" he gasped, barely capable of staying afloat.

“Yes!" I replied.

My husband flailed his limbs in an attempt to swim to a place shallow enough to walk. I strode to the pool cover touchpad and pressed ‘close’. The sound of John’s thrashing was soon drowned by the whirr of the cover’s engine. In a few seconds, my husband and the fallen firefly had been replaced by the polyethylene blue cover.

I closed my eyes and listened to the muffled sound of John’s drunken voice coming from the pool
.
“Get me out this instant! What do you think you’re doing?”

“No.” I whispered.

“What?”

“No.” My voice was colourless, like the rest of the moonlit yard.

“Get me out!”

I felt this sudden pressure rising from my gut, through my chest, all the way to my face. I started crying tears of rage.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

I don’t know how long I stood there, shouting and listening to the sound of his fingers scratching the pool cover. By the time I left, there was only silence, the moon and a single dancing firefly.

I took my glass to the kitchen — the bottle and John’s glass were in the pool with him— turned the lights on and put the glass in the dishwasher. I took five slow breaths, slowly calming myself down. Then I walked to the living room and turned the muted TV off.

I went to bed smiling that night.

Next day, I woke up at nine, opened the pool cover and called 911. John’s death was ruled ‘accidental’. They told me he must’ve been drinking that night, after I went to bed. They told me he fell and was too drunk to get out. He had probably passed out straight into the pool. They offered me their condolences. I didn’t need them.

It’s been 10 years since that night, and my son no longer remembers John. He just knows I used to like scotch.