Cabin Fever (12 page)

“So it wasn’t an accident.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I shove packing papers and garbage out of my way, searching for the red metal box I keep screwdrivers and my one hammer in.

“It was no accident that you’re being short with me.”

“I’m not being short with you. I’m just busy.” I catch a flash of red under a box top and move it out of the way, locating my tools. A quick inventory tells me I have what I need to get the job done.

“I may be out of practice, but I’m pretty sure I can recognize when a woman’s pissed at me.”

I stand up straight, abandoning the toolbox for a minute for some bare honesty. Maybe it’ll help him leave sooner.

“Listen, Jeremy, I appreciate all your help, I really do, but I don’t want any more of it, especially when you’re drinking whiskey in the middle of the day like it’s water.”

He frowns first at me and then at his glass. “My whiskey is what’s bothering you?”

“No, it’s
you
that’s bothering me. When I came in here yesterday, this place was covered in beer bottles. Covered. It took me hours to clean it all up. What kind of person does that? Who lives surrounded by a mess like that?”

He shrugs. “I dunno.”’

I point at his glass. “I’ll tell you what kind of person. An alcoholic on his way to the bottom of the barrel.”

He frowns at me. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Said every alcoholic since the dawn of time.”

“Yeah, but
I’m
not an alcoholic.”

I shake my head, even madder now than I was when I started being so rudely honest. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day when you drive around drunk off your ass you’ll just kill yourself and not some innocent person in another car or walking across the street.”

His face goes white and so do his fingers as the grip on his glass tightens. “I would never drink and drive.”

It’s then that I remember the story about how his wife died, and I feel instantly terrible, like the worst asshole in the history of all assholes ever.

My face falls. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you did.” He turns around and goes back to the kitchen, ditching the glass for the bottle. He drinks straight out of it, tipping his head back so far he looks like he’s about to do a backbend.

“Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” I ask, hands on hips.

I swallows an entire mouthful of whiskey and answers with a hoarse voice. “Nope.” He walks over to the couch and drops down onto it, taking another sip from the bottle.

“You say you don’t drive after drinking, but you’re supposed to be leaving here as soon as the roads are open.”

He says nothing.

“Were you just saying that to shut me up?”

“Nope.”

“You’re not planning on staying here are you?”

“Nope.”

I’m so ready to wring his neck. “Are you going to say anything other than
Nope
to me?”

“Nope.”

I grit my teeth hard to keep from saying anything worse than I already have. Instead, I throw myself into my organizing and arranging.

Two hours later, I’m finally finished. Standing at the entrance to the alcove I smile, taking in the view of my easel in the corner with a fresh canvas ready to go, already gessoed and begging for a sketch and some paint. My little IKEA table is set up, put together by the most awesome woman in the house — me —, and my water and brush cans are all resting on top of it with the paints on the shelves below. Now all I need is some inspiration.

A snore over my shoulder interrupts my thoughts and my beautiful visions. I turn around to find Jeremy passed out on the couch with almost half the bottle of whiskey gone.

Angry at his bad choices and at the world for forcing him into the bottle he’s drowning in, I storm over, grab the whiskey from his limp hand, and go right out the front door. I stand there shivering in the cold air as the liquid pours out into the snow over the side of the railing.

After I go back inside, I search through his bag in the bedroom and find two more bottles of Jack Daniels and a six-pack of beer. All of that goes out into the snow too, along with the bottles of wine I have in the fridge. If I’m going to be stuck in this place with him for another day while we wait for the snow to be plowed, I’m not going to watch him get drunk and stupid or, God forbid, see him drive away under the influence. No. When those roads are clear, he’s outta here sober, no excuses.

Chapter Seventeen

JEREMY WAKES UP FROM HIS drunken stupor as the chicken-fried steak I have on the stove starts to sizzle. I hate to admit it, because of what it says about my feelings towards this man, but I chose this particular frozen cut of meat to thaw because I’ve gotten so many compliments on it over the years. I know it’s really just greasy-spoon-diner-type fare, but I have to take the cooking compliments where I can get them. I’m no Julia Child.

He gets off the couch and stumbles into the bathroom, bumping into furniture and walls as he goes. I’m torn between being angry and sad as I watch him go. Is this what he does every day? Gets fall-down drunk and ignores everyone and everything around him? And how long has his wife been gone? Hasn’t it been almost a year? That’s a lot of alcohol for one liver.

When he comes out of the bathroom and looks over at me, I force myself to look and sound cordial. “Did you have a nice nap?”

“I didn’t take a nap.”

“Oh. Well, you were snoring, sooo…”

“I passed out. That’s not the same thing as a nap.”

I nod. “You’re probably right about that.” At least he’s not in denial. That’s one step in the right direction, I guess.

“Where’s the Jack? I know I left it on the table.” He looks around the room and rubs his head, making his hair look even worse. “At least I think I did.”

I shrug. “I have no idea. I was busy building my IKEA table.” I gesture over to the alcove to get his mind off the missing bottle. My heart is thumping away in nervousness. He’s going to figure out what I did eventually. And what will he do in response? I probably should have thought that plan through a little further before executing it.
Oops
.

“Cool,” he says absently. Instead of taking the bait and admiring my furniture construction skills, he wanders around the room, looking under and behind things. He stops in the kitchen and lets his eyes roam the space. Then his gaze lands on me.

“Did you put it somewhere?”

“Put what somewhere?” I’m getting irritated now as I flip the two fried steaks in the pan. Why can’t he just let it go? Is my company so lame he has to be wasted off his butt to enjoy it?

“The whiskey. What’d you do with it?”

“Nothing. I’m cooking dinner in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, for the last ten minutes, maybe. What else were you doing while I was passed out?”

I don’t answer, but dread builds as I hear his footsteps fading out towards his bedroom.

“Goddammit!”

I guess he discovered my little invasion of his privacy.
Oops again
.

I just keep on moving the steaks over the greasy pan’s surface, trying to act like I’m too busy to pay him any attention.

“You had no right!” Long strides have him just a couple feet away from me in seconds.

I reach over and take hold of a nearby knife, just in case. Not that I feel threatened, but he’s still pretty drunk if the smell of his breath is any indicator.

“No right to do what?” I’m feigning a casualness I do not feel.

He’s super pissed, practically growling at me. “You know very well what you did. You hid my alcohol.”

Despite his obvious anger, he reminds me of Jaws. All bark and no bite. I release my hold on the knife and pick up the spatula instead.

“No, I did not hide it.” I did much worse, actually. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. He seems pretty worked up about it. Maybe him drunk and passed out would have been preferable to him drunk and angry.

“I’ll find it, you know.”

“Have at it,” I say, waving my spatula around like I could care less.

I’m going to leave the knife on the counter, certain now that he won’t touch me, even if he is madder than a wet hen. I’ve met his family and heard his story. He split all my logs knowing he was going to be leaving soon. He’s not an angry drunk, he’s a sad one.

“I will,” he says, sounding like a huffy kid.

“Knock yourself out. See if I care.”

I flinch and cringe as he throws things around and tips over furniture, but I don’t say a word. I’m not going to defend my actions. Let him come to his own conclusions about my motives. They were pure, and nothing he says or thinks will change that.

He storms outside, and a few seconds later, I hear a roar that’s almost inhuman.
There’s that bear again.
I guess he found the stains in the snow or maybe the empties. I hid them in a garbage bag under a bush; it was too cold to move them very far away from the porch steps.

The door bangs closed, and Jaws growls from his blanket on the floor in response.

“You dumped all my stuff out in the snow, didn’t you?” His voice is calm. Way too calm.

I turn around to face him, finding bravery in the knife on the counter at my side. “Maybe.”

“Why would you do that?”

I shrug. “Maybe because I don’t like seeing a perfectly healthy guy try to kill himself.”

“What I do with my life is none of your business.”

“It’s my business while you’re in my cabin.”

His face goes beet red and he yells at the top of his lungs. “This is not
your
cabin! This is
my
cabin and that was
my
whiskey and
my
beer and you had
no
right to go through my things!” Every vein in his neck is bulging out and I’m pretty sure he showered Jaws in spittle with every word.

I’m proud of how calm I still am, all things considered. I speak to him like a teacher would to a recalcitrant student. “Be that as it may, there’s nothing you can do about it now. Why don’t you sit down and eat some dinner? Maybe tomorrow the plows will come and you can leave and go drink yourself to death then.”

“You think after you steal my things and violate my trust like that, that I’m going to sit down at the dinner table with you and eat like nothing happened?”

I laugh. “Aren’t you being just a little dramatic? It’s only alcohol.”

“It’s not
only
alcohol!” He’s back to yelling like a maniac again. “It’s my medicine!”

My eyes bug out a little at that. He sounds serious. “Your medicine?”

“Yes! My
medicine
!”

“I know your brother’s a real doctor, so I’m preeeetty sure you haven’t been given a prescription for Jack Daniels.”

“Fuck my brother and his prescriptions.”

“Okaaaay.” Wow, there’s some venom in those words. I wonder what happened between them.

“I need a drink.” He comes over to the fridge and yanks the door open.

“You’re not going to find anything in there other than orange juice and milk.” I go back to moving my steaks around in the oil. They’re almost ready.

“You had wine in here earlier, I saw it.”

Turning the heat off the meat, I use the spatula to transfer them over to the plates. “Not anymore. I dumped those bottles out too.”

“Why in the hell would you do that?” He sounds like he’s about to cry.

I turn to face him. “Because, I didn’t want to tempt you with something you shouldn’t have.”

He comes at me so fast, I don’t have time to grab the knife. His body is pressed up against mine and his face is bearing down over me. “I need that whiskey.”

I look up into stormy blue eyes and nearly cry for him. He’s so sad. I can see it so clearly now. It isn’t anger and maybe it’s not even addiction driving him to drink. It’s his wife. His dead wife.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy, but there isn’t any left.”

He glares at me, his mouth trembling, his eyes going red and tearing up.

I put a hand on his arm and squeeze gently, trying to show him that I understand. “Why don’t you just sit down and eat with me?”

He spins around and roars, yanking his arm away from me, his hands flying out to his sides as he half spins back towards me.

“I can’t eat dinner with you! I need to
forget
, don’t you understand?!”

“No!” I shout back, worried he’s about to lose his mind and we’re out here in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea how to help someone who’s so tragically broken. “I don’t understand at all! And I’m sorry about that, I really am!”

He glares at me, his face a mottled red. “You stand there in the kitchen cooking and making those faces at me, and I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t care! I don’t
care
, do you hear me!”

“Well, you’re shouting, so yes, I hear you loud and clear, but that doesn’t mean you’re making any sense, Jeremy.”

“I need the whiskey,” he mumbles, wandering over to the couch. “I need the beer.” He pulls his jacket from the bunch of blankets and shoves his arms into it.

“Where are you going?” I’m worried he’s thinking about going outside.

“I need it. It’s my medicine.”

I move to block the front door. “Medicine for what? What’s your illness?”

He walks towards me, stopping when he’s just a couple feet away. “My illness?” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Memories.”

“Memories?”

“Yes. I need to forget how much I’m missing her.”

I try to sidestep and block his progress, but he gets around me anyway, taking me by the upper arms and setting me off to the side.

“You can’t go outside!” I shout. He’s crazy. It has to be below zero out there right now, and with the windchill factor, I’ll bet minus thirty or more.

A blast of cold air comes in and makes me grab for my chest as I try to hold onto the last bit of warmth I have.

“Watch me.” He walks out the door and slams it shut behind him.

I run to the window and see him fighting through the drifts of snow as he heads down the driveway. Within minutes, I lose his dark form in the swirls of white that are heavier now than they were just ten minutes ago.

My chest hurts with the pain I feel for him, but I’m not sure whether it’s pity or anger fueling the emotion. I’ve known people who’ve lost spouses before, but I’ve never seen anyone fall as far as this guy has. And he has a baby he’s left behind too. What a horrible thing this whole mess is. And here I am taking over his cabin — the place he came to escape everything and everyone.