The Price - A Very Short Story
Merle was a good man. Worked hard. Made a decent living. Never raised his voice or his hand to his wife or kids. Went to church most Sundays. Helped out his neighbors when he could.
Every Fourth of July, he would put on an old pair of combat boots, climb into the bathtub fully clothed and get stinking drunk. He didn't get out for anything, so he'd end up pissing and shitting himself. He remained dead silent the entire night.
He'd spent ten months in Europe fighting the Germans. He'd had more than enough of things blowing up. Terry, his wife, left him alone until morning, when she'd help him get undressed. He'd mumble, “You're a good woman,” a few times. She'd take his clothes downstairs and soak them. He'd take a long scalding hot shower.
Merle would then come down for breakfast. Terry would make his favorite; wet scrambled eggs, sausages, country potatoes and biscuits. Those mornings, instead of using cream, he'd take his coffee black with lots of sugar. Then he'd sit on the porch, have a cigarette, seemingly quite calm. He'd smile and wave at the neighbors as they passed.
Merle never talked about this. No one else did either, not until after Merle was dead and then only in a very soft voice, as if he was still up there, getting plastered in the bathtub.
Every Fourth of July, he would put on an old pair of combat boots, climb into the bathtub fully clothed and get stinking drunk. He didn't get out for anything, so he'd end up pissing and shitting himself. He remained dead silent the entire night.
He'd spent ten months in Europe fighting the Germans. He'd had more than enough of things blowing up. Terry, his wife, left him alone until morning, when she'd help him get undressed. He'd mumble, “You're a good woman,” a few times. She'd take his clothes downstairs and soak them. He'd take a long scalding hot shower.
Merle would then come down for breakfast. Terry would make his favorite; wet scrambled eggs, sausages, country potatoes and biscuits. Those mornings, instead of using cream, he'd take his coffee black with lots of sugar. Then he'd sit on the porch, have a cigarette, seemingly quite calm. He'd smile and wave at the neighbors as they passed.
Merle never talked about this. No one else did either, not until after Merle was dead and then only in a very soft voice, as if he was still up there, getting plastered in the bathtub.