Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth Page B

sip.
    â€œYes,” Carol says. The beer is cold, and she drinks in long swallows. Donald refills her glass. “And?”
    â€œAnd she’s beautiful,” Carol says. “She wants to be a model.”
    â€œMy wife never talked about the beauty parlor.” Donald’s tongue slides awkwardly over the last words as if he is not used to saying these kinds of things.
    â€œShe’s saving all her money to get into an agency,” Carol explains. She remembers exactly what Pamela was doing with the nail file, then the cream, then the polish when she talked with Carol. “That’s why she can’t afford bounced checks. She’s trying to earn her own way into this agency so they can get her photo work.”
    â€œDid you tell her about my wife?”
    â€œShe’s real sorry,” Carol says. Donald fills her half-empty mug. “She said to tell you she’s real sorry.”
    â€œWhat about the check?”
    â€œBecause of what’s happened and all, she says not to worry about the money,” Carol says. “She’s a very fair person.”
    Donald claps his hands as if applauding her actions. “That’s so good,” he says. “That’s just great. How am I going to pay you back?”
    â€œI was glad to help.” Carol giggles when the foam fizzles into her nose.
    Donald keeps nodding his head, giving her his approval. “You didn’t mind doing it?” he asks.
    â€œIt was fine.”
    â€œMy wife left me with a financial mess when she died.”
    The bartender flips on the television, and Carol turns to look at the images on the oversized screen.
    â€œShe wrote checks to just about everybody in this area,” Donald says. “I wonder if you could help me with another favor?”
    â€œWhat’s that?” The beer is slowing her reactions, and she doesn’t hear him.
    â€œDo you think you could talk to some other people who are bothering me?”
    â€œCollect on another bounced check?” Carol asks. “I don’t think so.”
    Donald sits back in his seat. Carol focuses on the television. It is a baseball game. Probably the Tigers, but she cannot be sure. “Why not?”
    â€œBecause,” Carol says repeating Mitch’s words, which somehow seem right, “I’m your reading teacher. I’m supposed to be helping you learn to read.”
    â€œBut I need other help,” Donald says. “That’s what you’re involved in. Doing charity work.”
    â€œTo help you read,” Carol reminds him.
    â€œI needed to read before my wife committed suicide,” Donald says. “Now I need help clearing her debts. This is the kind of help I need now.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Carol says. She feels too guilty simply to refuse, but she knows that her whole reason for volunteering was wrong. It was not to help anyone but herself. She feels selfish and stupid and terribly alone. Donald is obviously disappointed when she tells him that she’ll think about doing the favor.
    Carol has rarely been drunk in the middle of the day, and the buzz in her head feels like bursts of wild energy, though a minute later she is exhausted. Yesterday’s unopened mail is spread out on the couch, and she sits down and begins tearing at the envelopes. The mail is mostly bills. She throws the extra envelopes and perfumed advertisements into a pile before letting all the paper fall to the floor.
    The afternoon gets warmer and the streets get quieter, as if the whole neighborhood is sleeping through the heat. Carol is sweating before she wakes up. She can smell the beer on her skin, and the dizziness she felt before her nap is gone as if she has sweated all the alcohol from her body. It takes Carol a few minutes to recognize where she is, and another minute before she remembers what day it is.
    After a shower, Carol looks through her oversized purse for her hairbrush and realizes she