The Letter

The bottle sat in the curio cabinet on a shelf all its own for twenty-two years. Full and factory sealed, until today. It had been a test of my sobriety. To keep it within arms reach but never to touch a drop. My sponsor told me more times than I care to count it was dangerous to keep an egg sucking dog in a hen house. He died five years ago. He was sober fifty years when he got taken out by a drunk driver. The bottle ended him one way or another. One of life's ironic, cruel jokes.
I knew the misery I was about to unleash. I sat it on the table beside the humidor filled with Cuban cigars. The seal broke easier than I expected. The aroma of the bourbon crawled up my nose like an old friend coming home.
A knock came at the front door. An impolite racket, too loud and long. Like trick or treaters or some overzealous court official serving a warrant.
Usually, Mary would have run to answer. She was good that way. She left me alone with my writing. I miss her every day. Especially at moments like this where the lack of her presence is so apparent.
I looked through the peephole to see a man in a grey uniform. Even ax murders could buy a costume. But then I realized it made no difference anymore. He would be doing me a favor if he was one. I unlatched the three chains and opened the deadbolt.
"Special delivery," said a young man with freckles, bright red hair and a cap two sizes too big. I signed his form, took the letter and closed the door without acknowledging his status as a human being.
I sat in the high back chair by the door. I opened the envelope from my editor. Inside was a sticky note attached to a letter. ‘Bob, this came to the office. It looked like fan mail. Sorry I couldn't make the funeral. Call me when you're in town. We'll do lunch at Charlene's.'
I opened the letter. Dear Mister Hanson. I wanted to let you know how much your books mean to me. I don't get out as much as I used to. The nursing home doesn't allow us off the grounds, and my relatives no longer visit. I find reading takes my mind off of the pain. Your characters are so warm and vivid. I've read every one of your books and look forward to the next one. Sincerely Martha Jean Taylor.
I walked back into the study, folded the letter and placed it in the drawer. I looked at the bottle hard and long. I screwed the lid on and returned it to where it sat so many years. I pulled my typewriter close and began to type. If I can't have a life I can live with, I can always create better ones.