The Drowned Life by Jeffrey Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

Because the world was teeming with night predators then, and because early man was only recently descended from the treetops, those who became drunk automatically knew, as a means of self-preservation, to climb up into the trees tosleep so as not to become a repast for a saber-toothed tiger or some other onerous creature. Dr. Kvench, citing Carl Jung, believed that the imperative to get off the ground after drinking the Night Whiskey had remained in the collective unconscious and had been passed down through the ages. “Everybody in the world probably still has the unconscious command that would kick in if they were to drink the dark stuff, but since the berry doesn’t grow anywhere but here now, we’re the only ones who see this effect.” The doctor nodded, hiccupped twice, and then got up to fetch a glass of water. When he left the table Jolle looked over at my mother, and she and he and my father broke up laughing. “I’m glad he’s better at pushing pills than concocting theories,” said the sheriff, drying his eyes with his thumbs.
    At about midnight, I was reaching for yet another beer, which Reed had placed on the bar, when my grasp was interrupted by a viselike grip on my wrist. I looked up and saw that it was Witzer. He said nothing to me but simply shook his head, and I knew he was telling me to lay off so as to be fresh for the harvest in the morning. I nodded. He smiled, patted my shoulder, and turned away. Somewhere around two a.m., the lottery winners, so incredibly drunk that even in my intoxicated state it seemed impossible they could still walk, stopped dancing, drinking, whatever, and headed for the door. The music abruptly ceased. It suddenly became so silent we could hear the wind blowing out on the street. The sounds of them stumbling across the wooden porch of the bar and then the steps creaking, the screen door banging shut, filled me with a sense of awe and visions of them groping through the night. I tried to picture Berta Hull climbing a tree, but I just couldn’t get there, and the doctor’s theory started to make some sense to me.
    I left before my parents did. Witzer drove me home and before I got out of the cab, he handed me a small bottle.
    â€œTake three good chugs,” he said.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    â€œAn herbal tonic,” he said. “It’ll clear your head and have you ready for the morning.”
    I took the first sip of it and the taste was bitter as could be. “Good God,” I said, grimacing.
    Witzer wheezed. “Two more,” he said.
    I did as I was told, got out of the truck, and bid him good night. I didn’t remember undressing or getting into bed, and luckily I was too drunk to dream. It seemed as if I’d just closed my eyes when my father’s voice woke me, saying, “The old man’s out in the truck, waiting on you.” I leaped out of bed and dressed, and when I finally knew what was going on, I was surprised I felt as well and refreshed as I did. “Do good, Ernest,” said my father from the kitchen. “Wait,” my mother called. A moment later she came out of their bedroom, wrapping a robe around her. She gave me a hug and a kiss, and then said, “Hurry.”
    It was brisk outside, and the early-morning light gave proof that the day would be a clear one. The truck sat at the curb, the prods strapped to the top. Witzer sat in the cab, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. When I got in beside him, he handed me a cup and an egg sandwich on a hard roll wrapped in white paper. “We’re off,” he said. I cleared the sleep out of my eyes as he pulled away from my house.
    Our journey took us down the main street of town and then through the alley next to the sheriff’s office. This gave way to another small tree-lined street, where we turned right. As we headed away from the center of town, we passed Darlene’s house, and I wondered what she’d done