In Vino Veritas?

It all started with a glass of red wine. 

My sister, Lisa, visited last week, and on Saturday night, we planned a big country supper: barbecued ribs, fried okra, corn on the cob, squash with onions, and cucumber salad.  More than the two of us could eat, I invited my friend Pat, who lives in the cabin up the hill.

Pat and I became close ten years ago when she did a complete makeover on my cabin, painting the living room “Cornstalk” gold and “Indian Pudding” red.  She shopped thrift stores for a drop-leaf table and discarded objets d’art; sawed-off the legs of ladder-back chairs; found fabric to match a painting and made curtains with pinking shears and a glue gun. She spray painted the paper-towel rack, the napkin holder, the clock, and light-switch covers to match the trim.  Brought “doo-dads” from her house to decorate the eaves.  Everything on a thousand-dollar budget.  Walking into the changed space was like being on HGTV.   

During the summer, Pat and I frequently share meals.  If one of us is cooking, it’s understood that the other is invited.  So her inclusion in Saturday night’s feast was a given.

For her contribution, Pat brought an over-sized jug of what the local supermarket calls “economy wine.”  My sister and I were nursing mojitos made from wild mint, so we declined.

After eating all we could, we decided to play cards, a typical way to spend an evening at Pine Log.  By this time, Pat had refilled her wine glass several times, and Lisa and I had switched to beer. The music was playing, the card game was in full swing, the scores neck-and-neck, when it became clear that Pat had crossed a threshold. 

Like many up this way who are strung out on “hillbilly heroin,” Pat relies on pain pills to treat fibromyalgia.  If a doctor tries to cut her off, she goes shopping for a new doctor and seems to have no trouble getting a steady stream of hydrocodone.  To sleep, she swears she needs Xanax.  There are other pills for other ailments; I can’t keep up with them all.  I do know they shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol, but Pat’s 72 years old, hard-headed, even contrary, so I knew she’d scoff at the suggestion she should slow down.

And who am I to say anything?  Just the night before, my sister and I had indulged ourselves, sang along to favorite cd’s, told family stories and laughed uproariously.  Have I ever over-indulged while playing cards?  I can’t count the times.

But Pat was getting nasty, calling me “asshole” and “bitch” when I’d roll my eyes because she couldn’t play her cards correctly, mistaking clubs for spades, dropping her hand on the floor.  It was time to wrap things up for the night, but I couldn’t convince Pat that she’d had enough.  Then she knocked over a newly-filled glass of red wine. Too hammered to clean it up, she ran to the bathroom while Lisa and I sopped up the mess.

Without so much as a “good-night,” Pat staggered out of the bathroom and headed to her car.  Although a walkable distance, it is all uphill, so she often drives down when she knows she’ll be here after dark.  I grabbed a flash light, ran out, and told her it would be better if she walked, that I would walk with her.  “I need my car,” she slurred. 

“I’ll drive you home and walk back,” I said.

Ignoring me, she got in, gunned the engine, spun the wheels, sprayed gravel—her two precious little dogs that go everywhere with her, who are beyond beloved, were skittering to get out of the way—and she bolted up the hill.  As she turned into her driveway, I heard her smack the outdoor light at the end of her drive, heard glass breaking.  Unaware that she’d hit something, she got out and shouted down the hill where I stood watching, “I made it.  See, I made it.” 

The party clearly over, my sister and I turned in, but I had trouble sleeping, worrying whether Pat had made it all the way to bed, worrying that she wouldn’t wake up in the morning, worrying whether I was responsible for letting her drink too much, wondering whether I really am a bitch and an asshole.