A Man’s Drink

The kitchen smelled of onions and garlic, the air thick with steam from the boiling pot. The young man sat at the table, his jungle boots scuffing against the worn linoleum.

He tapped a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling. His mother stood at the stove, stirring, her back to him.

“You ought to let him have some vino at dinner,” he said.

She didn’t turn. “No.”

“It ain’t good for him,” she added after a moment.

He exhaled, watching the smoke curl. “Christ, Ma. He’s withering away. What’s it gonna hurt?”

She spun to face him. “It ain’t about hurtin’ or helpin’. It’s about what’s right.”

The son shook his head, flicking ash into an empty saucer. “Since when? Since when was it wrong for Pop to drink? He’s always had his wine, even when I was a kid. Hell, he’d pour me a little when you weren’t lookin’.”

Her jaw tightened. “That was then. This is now.”

“That’s no answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’,” she snapped. “Now shut up about it.”

He crushed the cigarette against the saucer, the ember hissing as it died. He got up and poured himself coffee.

The bitterness tasted like something old and broken in his mouth. He set the cup down hard and turned for the back room.

The man lay on the narrow bed, thin beneath the blankets. He breathed slowly, the rasp of it filling the quiet.

The son crouched beside him. “You want me to bring you something, Pop? A little wine?”

The man’s eyes opened, pale and faded. He shook his head. “No. Let it go. This way, it comes quicker.”

The son stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood and went back to the kitchen.

His mother was watching the doorway, waiting. “And?”

He pulled out the chair and sat, picking up his coffee. It had gone cold.

“He don’t want anything,” he said. “Said his death will come quicker this way.”

His mother turned back to the stove.

The kitchen was quiet except for the bubbling pot.