Raging ... he yanked the liquor bottle from the cabinet. He strode across the kitchen tiles, the utility room with its built-in washer and dryer. Out the back door, slamming it behind.
"Howard," she yelled, "come back here!"
Beyond her voice he could still hear the drone of the television. Damn her, he thought, damn her to hell anyway. He kept moving. Through the yard, knocking the gate open with the heel of his palm so it banged against the fence post and the length of the structure rattled. Feeling the sting upon his palm, the jarring to his elbow as a kind of satisfaction, he started up the hill which rose behind the house.
A clear night for the Valley, for anywhere in the Los Angeles Basin. Despite the city lights for miles in every direction a smattering of stars prevailed. The climb was mostly dirt, some bushes and weeds, a few scraggly trees Howard had never been able to identify. By the time he was halfway up he was breathing heavily. He was no longer young and each day there were reminders.
Slowing his pace he uncorked the bottle, took a pull and coughed in surprise. The mouthful erupted back onto the earth. He had meant to grab the scotch and had somehow come up with the creme de cacao. Cursing his wife once more, Howard continued to climb.
What the hell, he thought, he didn't really want to get drunk. He'd been on top of the booze for months and wasn't about to go back to it now. Of course every time he even sniffed a cork Beverly was after him about it. She was always starting something, he thought. He'd already forgotten what had set her off tonight. Sure enough it had ended with the same stupid and vicious game: each of them dredging up the past, hurling back and forth resentments stockpiled over the years of their marriage.
Howard took another drink. His face scrunched up at the unpleasant taste. He swallowed anyway.
)
