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“But Dad, I thought I was doing what you wanted.” Orel frowned at the rug in his dad’s study, ass burning under his briefs and jeans. The man must have been really upset over having to replace that much alcohol. As if on cue, the clinking of ice cubes in his glass sounded.
“Why on Earth would I ever want you to take my precious alcoholic beverages?”
“Because you wanted me to be more adult.” It was true, and Orel was just trying his best to be a good son. As miserable as Orel was drunk—a much, much worse feeling than crack or heroin, in his opinion, draining the life out of him and leaving him with no energy—he felt like he was doing something right. It made him feel closer to his dad, like they had something new, something other than Christianity and their familial bond, in common. Maybe if Orel were a more functional alcoholic, they could've drank together, without Orel making a child of himself and being afraid he'd get caught in the study’s cabinet. Doughy and Tommy and the rest couldn't have been better about it when Orel’s dad offered them alcohol, could they? They might've been his best friends, but Orel didn't like the thought of his dad finding Doughy (or Tommy or that other kid, of course) better than him at anything. He had to make his dad proud; that would honor the man like nothing else.
“Orel, drinking has its place in adulthood. Everything has its place and purpose, just like God intended. But we shouldn't take advantage of what He’s given us. You do remember the lost fifty-fourth Commandment, don't you?” The sign hung ominously between a set of polished deer antlers: Everything in moderation! It reminded Orel of the twenty-ninth and best lost Commandment, that everything was fine, even if it wasn't, as his dad would clarify time and time again. God made the world, so it had to be fine. And, as Orel learned, if God made the world with the right amount of everything it needed, people shouldn't be taking too much from it. “It goes back to wastefulness, too. If you have just as much of everything as you need, then you can't waste it.”
“Y-yessir, but how can I be good at acting like an adult when all the adults I took notes on were drinking too much? That seems pretty important to acting m—”
“Your mother doesn't drink,” Clay deadpanned, eyes heavy and gazing deep into his whiskey. He took a sip before next speaking, voice brighter, more confident, radio-show host shiny. “Not every adult drinks at all, because they can't accept that it’s integral to fixing their adult problems. Of which you have none.” Under his breath, Clay added, “And neither does she…"
Leaning forward, elbow on the arm of his chair, Clay looked at Orel like he was a piece of plastic-wrapped meat at the grocery store. Like he was trying to find a new standout imperfection that would make the rest of their conversation useless. His brow furrowed, but he quickly shook his head and downed the rest of his glass. “Son, you can't just go destroying my entire liquor cabinet. When you drink, it should be in enough moderation to reflect what you're going through. That's why I get to drink every day, and you shouldn’t.”
Golly, was Orel’s dad brave. He couldn't begin to imagine how terrible his life would have to be to have a liquor cabinet that expansive, to blow through it all near-weekly. He hoped it wasn't his fault, because everything else was, most of the time. “O-okay. So if I only drink as much as God wants me to, He won't mind it?” In the back of Orel’s mind, he knew what he was really asking, to whom he was really referring.
“No, He won't. Only your mother will. How about you and I go to Forghetty’s this Friday, teach you how moderation works in action?” Clay had lit his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke out with his words.
“Gosh, Dad, are you sure Dolly would let a twelve-year-old drink in her pub?” With Doughy, Orel made sure they were both careful and quiet and safe to observe. Dolly was nice and all, but surely she’d turn Orel down.
Slowly taking his pipe from his mouth and raising one eyebrow, Clay once more regarded Orel. “I thought you were ten.”
“You were at that surprise party. The one for my birthday. A few days ago, remember?” At Orel’s softer tone and visible confusion, Clay chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah, sure I was. Ten, twelve, you're still a kid. To answer your question, Dolly’ll know you're with me. I think it’s time for dinner.” Clay left it at that and rose, his pants slipping to his ankles as per. Rocking back and forth on his feet, Orel nodded, forcing down the way his stomach twisted into knots at the proposal and waiting for his dad to put his belt away, back around his waist and out of Orel’s sight.
After school Friday, just like his dad told him, Orel walked to Forghetty’s, Doughy tagging along as if he had nowhere else to go. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Orel?” he asked. “You started acting pretty weird the last time you decided to become an alcoholic. And you got in trouble…”
“Of course it’s okay; my dad will be there with me! He said he has to teach me moderation.” Orel beamed at the other boy, though he couldn't help but wonder why Doughy cared that much. He wouldn’t get hurt or anything; that was the whole point of even going out, to learn when to stop before he could do anything bad to himself or anyone else.
“I-I’m not sure your dad is the right person to explain mo—”
“Oh, it'll be fine, Doughy. See you tomorrow!” Orel skipped past the other boy and threw the pub door open wide enough for him to slip inside.
“Bye, Orel,” Doughy sighed. After a moment of standing there, he put on a smile and walked away.
Inside, Forghetty’s patrons were plastered, one group bickering over whether the Christfolk or Multiple Godgasm sounded better live and another table failing to stay awake, a man passed out with his face squished against the table and his wife tilting hers back on the booth. Yep, the maturity hadn't left the pub since the last time Orel was there.
It didn't take long to spot his dad at the counter, briefcase on the sticky hardwood floor and a couple empty glasses already next to him. His back was turned, and another man was seated next to him, hidden by his dad’s frame. A glimpse of the other’s grey sweatshirt was all Orel got before the man was rushing out. Distracted by another table, Orel didn't take in his features and simply made his way over to the bar, where his dad had turned to watch the stranger leave. In doing so he spotted Orel and dropped from his wistful trance to mild disappointment. “Come sit down, kid,” he said in a mix of joviality and carelessness, nodding at the barstool to his left.
“Who was that guy you were talking to?” Orel asked. Curiosity trumped his excitement at having his dad with him to talk about their days for once. They didn't get to play normal and perfect like other kids and their dads, Orel thought. At least he didn't have the same parents as some of his friends, though. He got lucky with his dad, at the expense of Clay’s emotional presence and Orel’s obedience.
“Huh? Oh, no one. No one was there. How was school, kiddo?”
Being asked such a simple question instantly became the highlight of Orel’s day. “It was great!” To Clay, the boy’s talking was white noise in the mix of everyone else’s chatter. He waved Dolly over and ordered again. She smiled at him, tight-lipped and complacent. Orel wondered how long his dad had been there before him.
“Put it on my tab, Dolly,” Clay said.
“Oh, you know I always do.” She winked before sauntering over to a table of rough-looking guys Orel would've shied away from if he didn't recognize them from church. Gosh, seeing maturity up close was so different from sneaking up on it from afar. Orel felt… involved was too easy a word to opt for, but he didn't have to think that freely about it. He actually felt grown, the pub more welcoming than Diorama Elementary’s childish playground.
He was still learning, though, always. Swiveling in his barstool to face his father, Orel asked, “Dad, what’s a tab?”
His dad smiled, and it carried to his eyes for once. Forghetty’s was a more welcoming environment for him too, Orel figured, and not only because it was mature. No Mom, no Shapey, no stress. It was the study amplified, and without any spankings or lectures, either. Just discussion. Just a means of moderating his outward resentment towards life. “Well, it just means I can come back and pay for everything later, when I have the money on me. But Dolly doesn't ever give me a hard time about it.” He drank the contents of his glass in one go, having no reaction to it.
“Wow.” Following his dad’s lead, Orel took a sip of his drink and managed to play it cool, given his still newfound tolerance for alcohol in general. Sweet and fruity, girlish, Orel found he didn't mind whatever had been mixed up for him. It hardly tasted alcoholic, nothing like the biting bottles lining his dad’s shelves at home. “Hey, this is pretty good!” he exclaimed.
“Figures. You drink all you want; your body will tell you when to stop. Listen to it.” A bit spilled onto the counter when Orel jumped. His dad had placed a hand on his knee, a gesture unexpected from the man when he was inebriated. It carried weight beyond itself.
As evening turned to night, conversation stale and heavier on Orel’s end of it, his dad kept drinking. Orel finished after a couple (all passed to Clay first, in case Officer Papermouth were to appear out of thin air, maybe) and his dad never showed signs of slowing down, even when he could hardly support himself in his barstool. His tolerance was just higher, Orel figured. His worries crushed him into a different understanding of moderation. In comparison, Orel only had to worry about keeping an A-plus average at school and how hard his dad was going to spank him for whatever misunderstanding left Moralton in shambles next. Clay’s hand kept creeping higher up Orel’s leg the longer they sat there, until he grew leaden and drifted on the edge of unconsciousness.
“Y’all need to go. Bar’s closed; party’s over,” Dolly told Orel. At a quick glance around, he saw they were the last people left. “Can you get him,” she nodded at Clay’s slumped body, “home, or do I need to call a cab?”
Her tone was poignant and made Orel cringe in response to his dad’s state. “We’ll be okay. Thank you.” To Clay, he said, “C’mon, Dad. S’time to go home.”
“God bless you, kid,” Dolly muttered under her breath. She left them alone, Orel practically carrying his father outside, letting his dead weight rest on his shoulder. They stumbled home together like that, Orel trying to keep his nonsensical, semi-comforting, wholly religious ramblings quiet so he wouldn't risk a beating the moment they reached home. His dad was dead silent. He grabbed Orel’s wrist hard, nails digging into his skin, when he almost tripped. Orel just watched as Clay pulled himself back up. His briefcase was all but empty when it popped open from the impact of being dropped.
Walking seemed to have brought some life back to his father, but Orel was wary of it against his own wishes to be a good son. He didn't know how the man would act once they got to the house. Drinking in his terms of moderation left him unpredictable in the worst ways. Orel hoped he'd never see what too much looked like in Clay’s eyes.
“We’re going to my study,” Clay said. The house was unlit, unwelcoming, stiff plasticine. Shapey was still up and screaming from his bedroom; Orel’s mom was presumably asleep. Not that Orel expected her to greet them if she wasn't in her chair knitting, but the only noise from that side of the house was a dull, repetitive buzzing. “Now, Orel.”
Orel gulped, senses never too dulled to fear that phrase. “Did I do something bad? I thought I was, was listening to you, for once.” Nothing good could come from being in there this late, locked in the wolf’s den with no convenient people or timing to drag him out. “Can’t you just lecture me tomorrow? Please?”
The living room was dark. The porch lights shone just bright enough to be seen from the front door, but inside, the house was a swarm of shadowy blue-black, bruised. Clay leered down at Orel. His shadow was darker than the rest that blended into the floor. “Now. Don't make me repeat myself again, young man.” A chill hit Orel with the dark of his dad’s tone. Thinking anything was beyond his capabilities. He was tired. He wanted to be good, always wanted to be good, but it felt like a safety net thousands of feet down to catch him before he landed all the way in Hell.
“Yes, sir.” Orel drank moderately, he kept himself safe, and he tried to keep his dad safe, too. Everything in moderation, at the sacrifice of drinking himself lower than he’d been his first go at being adult-y. And he managed to be a problem despite his best efforts. Frozen in the cold dark sober perfect of the living room, Orel watched his dad’s shadow slink away. It looked like it had teeth of its own.
If the rest of the house were a block of ice, the study was a steady flame working away at it. Clay threw his briefcase to the ground and his cardigan atop it, respectively replaced with yet another chipped glass of whiskey and his robe. Orel merely watched from the threshold. Clay took his seat and glared across the room in understood expectation. “Keep your pants on,” he said, “I’m not lecturing you.”
“Oh.” It took some internal strength not to drop to his knees and beg God to let him go. At his father’s request, Orel sat on his lap, as little contact as he could keep between them. That same chill from before found him with the hand on his cheek, guiding him to look up at Clay. He looked sick, but not lie-down-and-take-some-medicine sick. Whatever was trapped inside him wanted a way out and couldn't disguise itself for much longer. That kind of sick. He hugged Orel more forcefully than Orel could ever recall him acting in the past, their faces close. The hand previously on Orel’s cheek drifted from the boy’s back to his hair, carding through it.
“Your mother doesn't love you,” Clay mumbled against the junction of his son’s neck and shoulder, the cotton of Orel’s button-up soft on his own skin. “She doesn't love you because of me.” His chapped lips snagged on the fabric beneath them as he spoke, and it must've felt weird, because he shifted forward to rest his chin over Orel’s shoulder.
“What? I don’t—I don't get it. What did you—”
“Orel, look at me. Look at us; look at this room. There's nothing here for her. She wants nothing to do with me, and you're… Well, you're just half’a me, if you think about it.” The silence meant to be filled by an awkward laugh pressed Orel deeper into his dad’s chest, or maybe that was just the hand on his back, slipping lower and beneath Orel’s shirt without him paying it any mind.
“What about Shapey?” Tears pooled at the corners of Orel’s eyes, as tired and languid as the rest of his body, unable to fall. He rubbed at the silk of his father’s robe between his fingers, clinging to the man’s back for dear life. He felt something beneath him that probably wasn't supposed to be there at the present moment. Usually Orel only felt that stiffness between his dad’s legs when he was bent over his lap, taking yet another punishment. This was a new kind of punishment, then, if Orel was right in his taking it as a sign from God.
“Son, he's… different. What I’m trying to get at is that in this household, you've got me, and you've got God. That's it. I've got ol’ drinky,” he said fondly, for his tone to drop again afterwards, “and I’ve got God. That’s it.”
“I’m here too.” Not crying was tough. Being mature was tough. “I know I’m not as good as the good Lord, but I-I wanna help you, Dad.” All Orel wanted was to please God by pleasing his earthly father. He shifted to get more comfortable, since they'd probably stay in the study awhile, and his thigh brushed against that spot under his dad’s robe in doing so. Seated square in the man’s lap, it was impossible to ignore. Clay was silent save for his ragged, whiskey-tinged breathing. Quietly, to keep God from hearing, or something, Orel asked, “Is that… is that your Johnston?”
The corners of Clay’s eyes crinkled. It was interesting to see someone smile without their mouth emphasizing the action; Orel hadn't seen it the other way around. “Yeah.” Now he was the one gulping. The roles didn't feel reversed, though. They’d both been dragged down to the same level to some extent. “You, uh—you love me, right?”
“Well, o-of course I do, Pop. How could I not love you? You're my dad, and, and what you said about Mom…” She was in bed, but Orel was terrified of what might happen if she heard him crying. It was scary enough crying in front of his dad. His bottom lip quivered, and the back of his throat stung with unshed tears; the alcohol was an afterthought. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his dad. “I don't think I could ever not love you.” Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God…
Before Orel finished whispering out what he hoped was already common knowledge, his dad had started toying with the buttons on Orel’s shirt and muttering to himself. Orel caught a hushed “good boy” amongst mentions of that dreaded dead-end job and loveless marriage. He wanted to be good. However, whatever Clay’s intentions were, he took too long for the concentration he put into undoing the bottom button alone; if Orel weren't so lost in the moment, brain addled and turbid, he might've cringed away. Rather than give the man reason to whip out his belt and escalate what could’ve been a perfectly normal situation, Orel took it. He swiped the wetness from his cheeks and let himself give by tolerating it, because all he did was take and take and assume it was for the best. His dad wanted something from him, and he didn't take from Orel that often, so it seemed alright. Being quiet was being mature, if Orel had learned anything from his previous actions. So he took it by giving himself.
When Orel woke up the next morning he was in his bedroom, thankfully. His head hurt. His whole body hurt, but that was new, different from the past however many on-and-off days of sluggish, feverish aching caused by immoderate drinking. He wished unfamiliarity applied, but he recognized the ache deep inside him from a fuzzy, buried night or three so many years ago it came as a shock to his albeit hungover system. Alarm clock repeating Orel’s Bible verse of the day, the boy winced at seeing his father in the room next to him, perched at the foot of the bed. Watching him. “Why are you in here,” Orel asked, exhausted beyond emotion. Throat dry, his words came out scratchy.
Clay coughed and picked at a loose thread on Orel’s comforter. “I don't remember what happened last night, but don't tell your mother anything that might get us in trouble with her. The last thing I need is you running your little mouth and ruining your daddy’s life even more than it is. Whaddya say we just forget about it together?”
Humming in contemplation, Orel forced eye contact with his dad. The man had shed any of his desperate hunger from their time in the study. The cool brown of his eyes was a snuffed fire, only the ashes and scorched wood of the morning after. Whiskey-dull as his first drink of the day, a thin sheen of the glass’s condensation dripping down Clay’s hand with none of the burning sting of the liquid going down his throat. The last thing Orel needed was landing on his dad’s bad side. He had to be mature. An apology would've been nice, but seeing the man care enough to address what little he could recall was a pleasant surprise in itself. “Hmm,” Orel went, “okie-dokie!”
It happened again, because Orel was disobedient and got hard from being hit. He knew he deserved whatever came his way.
And it happened again, because Orel’s mom ruined Christmas and said she wanted a divorce. His dad had to get that anger out somehow.
And it happened yet again, because Orel was asleep and couldn't stop his dad’s drunken urges.
And it almost happened on the hunting trip, but his dad had other plans that clawed their way out and sunk sharp teeth down to the wire. Everything in moderation, unless you finally got what you wanted, the ease of taking and taking and leaving nothing left, a feral instinct broken loose. God didn't seem to mind.