I do a little research on the computer before I go to bed. It's all really confusing because one line seems to contradict the next. After writing down several vague notes I go to sign out. But something stops me. I Google Kathleen's name.

Not sure what I expect to see but when I read the headers I wish I hadn't. There are eleven possible choices. Green eyed vixen, show stopper. Dynamic duo - sister act.

I click on show stopper and there she is. All this wild looking auburn hair spilling down, barely covering her naughty bits. She's wearing this tiny bikini thing that evidently is a patriotic nod. The kicker is Nightingale's Gentleman's Club seems really proud of the fact they let military men in for free. My guess is Kathleen thinks she's doing her part by wearing the red, white and blue sequined thong and looking at the camera with a seriously, um, un-patriotic look.

Her picture makes me very uncomfortable. It makes me feel almost guilty. They say that every picture tells a story. One thing I know, I don't want to hear the story that goes along with this picture.



The smell of coffee wakes me. It's still dark outside and I check my alarm clock. It's almost five in the morning. I get up, get dressed and go down the hall. My dad is on the couch, head leaned back and he's still dressed in the clothes he wore to the power plant yesterday. He must have come in awfully late, because I didn't hear him. I feel bad for him having to work two jobs. I know it's only once a week, but it's all he does. He never goes out, not to a movie or a ball game. Nothing. He has no life and it's kind of pitiful.

I take the afghan from the back of the chair and gently lay it over him. As I go to step away, I notice the cup that is wedged between the arm of the couch and the cushion. The smell of pine solvent, or something like it wafts up as I go to move it. But when Dad makes a groaning sound I smell it again. It's his breath.

The cup has little more than an inch in it, but it nearly burns my sinuses when I lift it up to sniff it. Without thinking, I dip my finger down into the cup and wet it. Then I touch my tongue. My tongue goes numb first, then it tingles.

Oh my God, my dad has been drinking.

A million and one questions come rushing into my head like a hurricane. What do I do? Who do I tell? Why would he do this? He made a promise to me when I was born. He's told me that story over and over. I wonder if I should call Grandma Carolyn. But I have a feeling that might make things worse.

What would have made him break his promise?



I don't smell the booze when I get home and the cup is washed and laying in the drying rack when I check. I hear his truck pulling up to the house and try to gather my wits about me. He's going to know I found the cup. Maybe he doesn't care, but I do. I just want to know why he took a drink.

He steps into the house and looks towards the kitchen. "How was school?"

"Good."

"Early practice today?"

I study him. He seems nervous and keeps breaking eye contact. He may think he's the king of body language but I'm a close second. He's hiding something.

"Dad, what was in the cup?"

His shoulders sag and he rubs the back of his neck. "Sit down."

He sits on the couch and stares first at the floor then he looks at me. "I just a had a splash of shine," he says.

"'Shine?" I repeat. That's what he used to call me, his 'shine baby. He says he was drunk on moonshine when I was conceived. So drunk that he doesn't even remember said conception.

"I didn't finish it, Rory. I'm not like I used to be. Don't go getting all bent out of shape over this. Promise me."

I nod, only this time I can't look him in the eye. Maybe because I already know I'm not going to keep it. Maybe that's the French way.