Written by Andi Van den Berge
Published October 2022 by The Pitkin Review
The only thing he ever lied about was his addiction, but he was a good husband. He was a good dad.
He was just afraid he’d hurt our precious angel. One day he was sitting in the yard with his back leaned against the oversized Hackberry tree. I watched it happen through the half window above the kitchen sink. He dozed off for maybe two minutes and woke in a panic.
Little Abigail was still sitting right in front of him. Her diaper and legs were covered in the dry dirt of summer. She was laughing—that pure laughter that only a young child could feel. But he couldn’t see her joy beyond his terror.
Jack scooped her up, ripped her diaper off, and ran into the house— Abigail giggling the whole way.
“Babe. Babe. I don’t know what to do. Does she need a bath? What if she gets an infection? I was only asleep for—”
I knew he was panicked but I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth floating as he spoke. “Oh hunny, you know we live on a farm. She’s bound to meet dirt somehow.”
“but…”
I grabbed Abigail out of his arms, she was a little sweaty, so I carefully sat her down on her chubby little feet. I walked back to Jack and rubbed my palm on his back, “You’re a good dad.”
He let out a sigh.
“Abbbbieee…” I cooed at her, “wanna play in the sprinkles?” – that’s what she called the sprinkler.
Abigail ran to Jack, only a few stumbly steps away, and she tugged on his dirty Wranglers, “Daddy! Daddy! Sprinkles!”
The worry melted from his face, and they went back outside. I finished the dishes and then met them with a Juicy Juice for Abbie, and two Busch lights for Jack and me.
I mean yes, we drank. But I thought he only drank like I did. A beer or two… or three in the evening, and maybe a couple in the afternoon if we both had the day off. That’s why I was stunned when I found thirty pint sized brown bags under the driver’s seat of Jack’s truck.
He was helping my dad feed and count cattle, so I wanted to do something nice for him. God knows I no longer have the patience for my Dad’s criticism at 6:30 in the morning. Jack saved me every time Dad asked for my help with the cows.
But—I thought, maybe the brown bags weren’t all his. Or—who knows the last time he cleaned out his truck. If the crumbs of dirt and crackers settled around his gear shift were any indication, he didn’t clean the thing often.
The brown paper bags had been stuck in my mind for a week, but I never brought it up to him. Jack was a good man. A good husband. And father.
But the next time I found myself on the east side of town, I decided to pull into Howards, the only liquor store around until you hit the text town—30 miles in any direction.
Gertie had been running Howards for the last five years, after her late husband passed.
“Hey Gertie, how goes it?”
“You know, not bad. Not bad.”
“I got a uhh—I got a weird question for ya…”
“Shoot!”
“Well. I was cleaning out Jack’s truck and I found a bunch of those small brown bags…”
Gertie was stocking cigarettes behind the counter but stopped to reach across the counter.
She placed her hand gently on mine.
My gut sank.
“Hunny. He’s here every morning waiting for me to open the store.”
A. VDB 