My father's brother was an alcoholic...at least that's what they called him. He lives behind our house, a bit through the woods, so it's easy for him to disappear into his addiction. After four in the afternoon, he'd be of no use to anyone anymore because he'd be reciting the Encyclopedia Brittanica into his ginger ale and vodka. He'd be speaking French, Portuguese, German, and Swahili to the telemarketers who didn't know any better than to call in the evening. He'd witness the love of Jesus to Jehova's traveling saint brigade. He knew so much about everything when he'd been drinking that of course I'd be intrigued.
I wanted to learn from him. He was not a simple man by any means, but the leap in intelligence between sobriety and toxicity was remarkable. My first sip of alcohol, my first word of Spanish, the first dish I ever cooked alone--all under his inebriated supervision. My father would be irate beyond all comprehension when I'd come home and share my newfound knowledge, telling me that I shouldn't waste my time, I should be careful, I shouldn't put stock on his words; however, at 4:30 p.m., I'd still pretend to go walking on the vast acreage behind our country home. I never stopped visiting his brother, I just stopped bringing anything home. I'd take the beaten path that steered west of his house and the powers that be would become satiated as I grew smaller on the horizon, but I'd slide and dive through thickets and briars into my own ill-trodden railroad to his home, where he'd teach me about the things my dad was afraid of.
My father's brother doubled over in pain at 5:30 p.m. in his country home on evening. His mind went stark white, as did his weather-beaten face. His limbs grew leaves as he reached for the telephone, but we avoided the call on the caller ID, as did his sisters. After all, who wants a lay pastor saving your soul from TV dinners with his sick textbook banter? We said grace over supper and never thought of it again until we saw the red lights spill across our living room floor.
Three little words and three little numbers got him where he needed to be as his liver failed and his body rebelled against southern comfort of all sorts. Now they say he's getting better, he's not an alcoholic anymore. My father's brother is growing stronger with every day. He's looking younger, they say, and his calcified bones have snapped apart and he can walk in a straight line again. He's out past sunset, driving sober and taking in sights and teaching pretty girls things they didn't know about the Mississippi Delta. They say he's doing better than he ever has, or at least better than they've ever seen him.
I don't know who to believe. They never visited his sickbed or listened to his symptoms. They never opened the books that he wrote every night--the journals of Vietnam, of the Civil War, of World Wars I & II. They saw his illness and steered clear, letting his body break down his resolve to nip from the frosted bottle in the freezer. I haven't seen him since he's recovered because I'm not sure I'd call it a recovery.
I can't help but think of him any time I throw back a shot or a glass of wine. Does he miss me messing up his kitchen with failed attempts at culinary masterpieces? Does he still watch the weather channel from 6:30 until 7:15? Did he dream up the constellations that I reconstructed with glowing plastic stars on my bedroom ceiling?
Is being sober boring after you've held planets between your palms?
Does he miss knowing everything that everyone in the world has ever known?

Labels: alcohol, alcoholism, almost memories

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