The basement air was thick and clammy. A hunter-green Formica bar stretched along the back wall, beneath well windows long since claimed by spiders whose webs hung like stained lace curtains. Mirrored shelves support-ed countless bottles of liquor—clear, amber, and deep brown. Cassie’s fingers left tracks in the caked-on dust as she trailed her hand along the bar. She’d urged her friend Tracy to remodel her basement for the last three years.
Brett hedged his way down the creaking steps. “I’ll have three fingers of scotch.”
Cassie shushed him. “You’ll wake Tracy’s kids.” The bar stood between them, a blockade of pressboard cabinetry. “I thought you weren’t going to drink anymore.”
Brett shrugged, sinking onto a cracked vinyl barstool; the seat hissed a dying breath. “Given the circumstances, I’m making an exception tonight.”
Turning her back to him, Cassie walked her fingers from bottle to bottle. Her press-on nails clinked against their glass necks, playing a broken-toy-piano tune. She pulled bottle of scotch off of the shelf and stared into her own dark eyes, which reigned over dark circles. “Fine, just the one glass. There’s no ice, though. I know you like it on the rocks.”
As she unscrewed the cap, it slipped from her fingers and fell onto the stained linoleum floor. The stinging aroma pierced her nose, like tiny needles hooking into her nostrils and climbing down her throat. “I don’t know how you drink this crap.”
“The ice usually helps.” His eyes locked onto the fallen cap, leaning over the bar to point. “Are you going to get that?” Cassie rested the bottle on her hip, her arm wrapped around it as though holding a toddler. “Do you want your drink or do you want me to pick up the cap?”
“Sorry.” Brett straightened, and scratched at the side of his head. His thin-ning hair silvered at his temples. A three-day-old, patchy scruff grew in along his jaw, his stubble like remnants of a forest fire.
“You need to shave,” Cassie muttered, turning her attention to the tumbler she’d set out on the bar. She tilted the bottle, and the booze swayed, like surf, lapping at the bottle’s neck. Brett threw his hands up, letting them fall onto his legs, slapping his jeans. “I’ve been a little busy, Cass. Going to the house to meet the claims adjuster, going to the insurance company, picking up the report from the fire depart-ment… what have you been doing, exactly?”
“Me? I found us someplace to stay, didn’t I? Tracy is my friend, and if you don’t keep quiet, you’re going to wake the whole house.”
Brett snatched the glass out from under her and knocked back several gulps. Coughing, he let the glass fall back onto the counter with a high-pitched thud. “You’re the one who got us into this mess with those candles of yours. How many times have I told you, I don’t like open flames burning in the house?”
Cassie stooped to retrieve the bottle cap. She started to screw it onto the bottle, but stopped when it jammed on the threaded glass. “You lost the dog. I wouldn’t have left candles unattended in the house if we didn’t have to go chasing after your mutt. And stop raising your voice—you’ll wake them.”
“You’re the one going on like a banshee,” Brett snapped back. “And don’t blame my dog.”
“I apologize. You’re right—it’s not the dog’s fault. But you never even asked me about adopting him.” She replaced the bottle on the shelf. “Now we are homeless, Brett. Homeless.” Cassie punctuated each word with a forced breath through her quivering lips.
“Don’t start crying again; it’ll be alright. We have a place to crash for now.”
“I’m not crying,” she insisted. Her hands landed on her hips. “I’m going to bed. Don’t you dare have more than one, Brett. I mean it. We’re not going back to that.” He finished his scotch in one more gulp. “I know.” That gruff affirmation was all she needed. Cassie ascended the steps barefoot, her shoes swinging from the ankle strap she held in one hand.
The guest room was silent and dark, save for the jingle of Rufus’ tags when he lifted his head within his crate. “Not a word out of you,” Cassie whispered to the dog. The last thing she needed was for him to start barking. The frown melted off of her face when he rested his heavy head on his blanket again. In a way, she felt bad for Rufus. Brett had rescued the pit bull from the kill shelter one day before his designated destruction. Two months later, the dog was once again without a home. She crouched beside his crate, salvaged because it’d been in the van already from a vet visit when the fire started, and reached between the bars to scratch between Rufus’ eyes. He let out a deep sigh and relaxed.
She pushed herself up from the shag carpet and changed, climbing beneath the blankets. Cassie stared at up at the ceiling. The door opened, spilling light into the room. “Did you brush your teeth? I hate the way your breath smells after you drink.”
“I did.” Brett approached the bed, looming over her, expecting, she guessed, a kiss.
Cassie leaned away. “Did you drink anymore then?”
“No. I said I wouldn’t.” He straightened and walked around the bed, sitting on the edge. Actually, you never did say that. You just said, ‘I know,’ and that was the end of the conversation. You always end the conversation. But we’re not doing that again. You hear me? I don’t want to see you down in that basement the rest of the time we’re here.”
Brett said nothing. He swung his legs into the bed and pulled the blankets up to his waist. “You say that, but you’re the one who poured me a drink.”
“Like you wouldn’t have poured it yourself? I figured one is better than the whole bottle.” Silence nestled between them, like a child between parents after a nightmare. Only Cassie took no comfort and gave no comfort. She turned onto her side, burying her hands beneath her pillow.
Cassie shivered as she woke the next morning. Brett had stolen the blankets. Both Rufus and her husband remained asleep, snoring softly. The stereo-sawing hurried her out of bed. She pulled her robe off of the chair and put it on, tying the sash as she slid her feet into what used to be plush slippers, the fleece inside tamped down by years of wear.
The house was silent in the pre-dawn hours. Cassie opened the door to the basement. There was a television across from a small couch—the same couch that Cassie and Tracy had in college—and the squishy cushions were always good for a nap. Before she sat down, Cassie glanced toward the bar, frowned, and then walked behind it to stare at the shelves of bottles.
There were two bottles missing. Scanning the labels, she couldn’t find any scotch.
She spun on her heel and yanked the trash pail out from beneath the bar. There were two bottles—the one she’d opened for Brett the night before and another. Her vision blurred as tears flooded her eyes. Cassie tugged her wedding band off of her finger and flung it into the trash. She stomped up the steps. Cassie threw open the door to the guest room. Rufus growled low and Brett stirred, reaching up to rub his eyes.
“You liar,” Cassie breathed, stalking toward the bed. “We’re through, Brett. I mean it this time. You and Rufus can leave today.”
“What are--”
“You drank way more than one drink!”
“Keep your voice down.” Brett pushed himself up to a sitting position and Rufus quieted.
Hands perched on her hips, Cassie shook her head. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Well, then, I guess there’s nothing left to say.”
“You aren’t even going to fight for us?”
Brett laughed. “Why, do you want to fight? I think we’ve argued enough. I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of it always being my fault.”
“You’re the one who blamed me for our house burning down.” He stood and threw his hands up in the air. “I didn’t mean to, okay? But I’m not going to fight you on this. I’ll go grab a shower and then Rufus and I will leave. I know you never wanted him to begin with.”
“It’s not that I never wanted a dog. You never asked—you just came home with him one day and--”
“I rescued him from a kill shelter. There wasn’t exactly time to stop and consider for weeks and weeks. You’re not known for your decisiveness.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault—my fault that the house burned down, my fault that someone was going to kill the dog, and my fault that you drink. And it’s my fault that our marriage is over and--”
“Cass?” Tracy stood in the doorway, eyes only half open. “You guys are shouting. It’s not even six in the morning.”
“Yeah? I was just sleeping peacefully; it’s Cassie who started yelling.”
Cassie glared at Brett. “I’m sorry, Tracy. It won’t happen again. Brett is leaving today.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “You know what? I’m tired too. Go and shower, Brett, and then take Rufus and go somewhere else.”