Fred Valentine

            . . . was not the reason I started drinking. The reasons I began to drink are exactly what I said above. Was Fred a drinking man? Yes. Everyone in town knew that, but he was such a nice guy nobody gossiped, even though he was president of Harshbarger Mills Bank. A lot of people owned homes because of him; they couldn’t have got a loan from anyone but Fred.

            Fred was Dad’s age (or Dad’s age if he’d lived) and he’d known me since I was a kid. He used to come over on Sunday afternoons after the bank closed and hang out in the garage with Dad, where they talked about the best places to catch bass and compared rods and reels. After my father died, I watched him over the years, wondering if my dad’s eyes would have turned as watery as his, if Dad’s shoulders would have stooped the way his did, and since Dad was never able to please your grandmother, whether he, like Fred, would have tried to please everyone else, instead. Catherine Valentine and your grandmother were best friends.

            Fred treated me like a daughter, a drunk daughter but a daughter nonetheless, especially as his only girl, Vonnetta, had married a dentist, moved to Phoenix, and hadn’t been home in years. 

            I’m glad I had him for a guide because without Fred everything could have turned out worse than it did. I say could have because I knew Clovington well enough to know where the ABC stores were, and though I didn’t like buying booze at night (yes, I left you children when I made my runs) nothing could stop me from going. I’d taken to alcohol like a fish to water.

            I’d buy a bottle of whiskey and mix it with Dr. Pepper (half and half) right in the car, then hold the glass with one hand and drive with the other. By the time I reached Harshbarger Mills, I was, if not drunk, definitely high. I don’t know why I never got pulled over because when I drank, I had a heavy foot, but I did have a couple of accidents. 

            One night I was so hungry for the stuff that I drank an entire glass before I got out of Clovington proper and had to pull over at Wayside Park, where I hung my head over the front seat and threw up all over the back of the car. On another occasion, I lost control while taking a curve and ended up with the front end in a ditch. It had rained the night before and when I put the car in reverse, the wheels spun round and round, digging in deeper. Then I did a stupid but smart thing and crept forward in drive, then backed out with such force that mud flew everywhere. The next day your grandmother asked me, “What in the world did you hit?” I told her the truth: “A hill.”

            Yes, the trips were beginning to be a problem. I had to have a drink, no doubt about it, but I didn’t like buying liquor every night, nor did I like facing the same clerk every night, who looked at me as though I was scum. And believe it or not, I didn’t like leaving you kids.

            I’d thought about driving to Davis County and finding a moonshiner, but I didn’t want to go blind after I’d gotten over being crazy. Besides, I liked the combined taste of whiskey and Dr. Pepper. It reminded me of the black licorice Dad had sold at his store. You can at least relate to that, Lorraine, because you had to have Ovaltine or nothing. I once tried to fool you with Nestle Quik, but you poured it down the drain after one sip. 

            Right in the middle of my dilemma Fred Valentine appeared. Fred had lived in Harshbarger Mills all his life. Besides John Lee Veach, he was the closest thing we had to a native son. He was a bank president because that’s what his father had been and his father’s father before him. I don’t know if you know this, Lorraine, but the bank in Harshbarger Mills was one of the few that didn’t go under during the Depression. That’s because Old Man Valentine had enough money of his own to keep it afloat, and it had remained in the family, independently owned. The year before your father’s death, Fred sold out to Clovington Commerce and Trust. He was still on the board, but that didn’t mean much, and after years of doing what was expected of him, he was doing as he pleased, just like me. 

            Fred lived in Harshbarger Heights, where all the custom-built homes were, but he liked to walk the streets in town at night. He kept a huge flask of whiskey in a deep trouser pocket or sometimes carried a bottle outright, holding onto the neck and pointing the blunt end as authoritatively as a gold tipped cane. I’d seen him pass behind half closed blinds, but the thought of Fred and me drinking together never occurred to me until I saw him standing under the streetlight at Holt and Buttermilk and called out. I was sitting in the swing with the porch light off, but he recognized my voice and came up and settled in the swing as though he’d been expected. After throwing a cushion out, he said, “Good evening, Miss Carmen.” Then he sniffed my drink and without a moment’s hesitation poured a goodly amount of what was in his flask in my glass. It was whiskey, and a lot smoother than what I’d been drinking. 

This will be the last excerpt from Silver Bottle. If you’d like to read the book in its entirety, a copy can be bought through Kindle, Amazon or Nook. ©Joan Spilman. All rights reserved.