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Decrepit Remains
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A Bottle’s Worth

Robert Mitchell

    The right swing clipped Claire soundly on the chin, causing her to cry out and fall to the floor. Marlin stood over the woman, swaying a little back and forth, noticing the blood and tooth on the floor.
    “Serves you right, you faithless bitch,” he growled. “I’ve seen you looking at the butcher, Stemple. Is that where you snuck out to last evening?”
    She coughed and spit up blood. “I was out picking flowers, see!” she pointed to the vase on the rickety old table, an assortment of wildflowers in a pleasing arrangement.
    “Bah,” yelled Marlin. “I know you’re lying. I can feel it in my bones. You got it in for me, and I know it!”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I, I love you, Marlin. We’ve been together for years. Have you ever heard me complain about anything?”
    “You don’t need to complain. I see it in your eyes. Ever since I lost my job at the mill it’s been nothing but stares and unsaid words. Well, why don’t you just come out and say it! You think I’m a bum! Well, a lot of people are out of work. It’s not just me!”
    “I know it isn’t, Marlin. That’s why I got that part time job at Tom’s Market. I want to help till you get back on your feet.”
    “I am on my feet, you bitch. But, you treat me like dirt, and I won’t stand for it anymore, do you hear? Do you hear?”
    “Yes, Marlin,” she whispered.
    “Now wipe that blood off the floor and fix me something to eat. I’ve had a hard day.” Marlin wandered out on the porch, bottle in hand.
    Claire had some left over stew from last night. She’d been lucky and hit the squirrel with the first shot. Bullets were expensive. She took it out of the cold box, and warmed it over the fire, throwing in some more turnips and onions from the cellar. It would make a good meal.
    She picked up the tooth, and put it on the fireplace mantle. Then, Claire got out an old rag and a bucket, and cleaned up her blood as best she could. By then, the stew was ready; she poured some well water into a clay cup and put in on the table, along with a wooden bowl of heaping with stew.
    “Dinner’s ready,” she called through the door.
    The old man sauntered inside, another fifth portion gone from the whiskey bottle, and sat down without a word, diving into the stew. Claire filled her own bowl, got some water and sat down across from him. Neither said a word.
    Claire could still taste the blood in her mouth from the missing tooth. A bottom right incisor, too, she would miss it. She chewed slowly, doing her best with her remaining teeth to get down the meat and vegetables.
    Marlin finished, belched, took a swig from his bottle, got up, and shuffled over to his favorite chair. In a few minutes he was asleep. Claire knew he would sleep in the chair all night. She waited a while; wanting to be sure that Marlin was deep in slumber.
    Claire stepped over and picked up the bottle Marlin had left on the floor beside him. She noticed about half the original contents remained. It was just about the right amount.
    She went over to the kitchen, and set the bottle on the counter with care. Reaching into a cupboard, she removed a small clay jar, filled with a syrupy mixture that gave off a pungent odor. It had taken her several days of collecting, grinding, and compressing to concentrate the oils.
    With great care, she took a wooden spoon, and dribbled about three teaspoons into the open whiskey bottle. Then, she stoppered the bottle and shook up the contents. It seemed to fizz a little, but it should reside, she knew. Her earlier tests had confirmed it mixed well with whiskey.
    She waited a few minutes, then took out the cork, and smelled. Yes, the whiskey had almost masked the scent. Whether it would mask the taste sufficiently, she didn’t know.
    Clair hesitated, considering throwing the entire contents out the door. Then she remembered this evening’s abuse, and others she had endured during the last few years. She stiffened her will, put the cork back in the bottle, and set it on the floor near the chair. Marlin snored peacefully.
    Clair went to bed. She woke up at the regular time, a little before five; and dressed in her best ragged skirt, visited the outhouse, and washed her hands at the well. She came inside and ate a breakfast of leftover stew, and left bread and cheese on the table for Marlin as normal. She had to be at the market early to set out the vegetables, and it was a mile walk to town. For some reason, she refused to look at the bottle by the chair. Marlin still snored away.
    She worked hard that day. A lot of farmers had brought new produce to market, and her back ached from lifting heavy sacks of onions, yams and potatoes. It was almost seven when she finally staggered home, dreading what she might find.
    Claire pushed upon the frail door of the shack, and stepped inside, placing each step with care upon the boards that creaked with more than their usual protest. There sat Marlin in his chair, eyes closed, bottle on the floor, contents half spilled and leaking between the wide cracks in the floorboards.
    “Marlin?” she said. He didn’t respond.
    “Marlin, I’m home.” She approached him, and reached out to touch his shoulder.
    Bloodshot eyes opened, eyes wide with fear, loathing, and hate. He wheezed and reached out, catching Claire around the throat. “Bitch, bitch!” he croaked, spittle streaming down his chin.
    Claire pulled back in fear, and her husband followed, sprawling on top of her, his hands still on her throat, trying to choke the life from her. She pulled at his hands, and at first they wouldn’t budge, but then the grip seemed to loosen, and her own strength, hardened by years of hard toil, began to overcome Marlin’s failing body. Claire could breath some now, but her husband’s horrid face still stared into her eyes as he directed all his remaining efforts into a last attempt to take her with him into the death he knew his wife had given him.
    But it was not to be. He was too weak, his strength failing. Claire loosed his grip completely on her neck, and rolled his weight off of her. She stood up, still gasping for breath, watching her husband’s struggles grow weaker by the minute, his movements less, until even his breathing stopped, and eyes stared blankly at the bare roof above.
    With an effort, Claire dragged the body back into the chair. She picked up the bottle and wiped up the spilled, tainted whiskey. Then, she took both the bottle and the clay jar, and tossed them into the privy, each making a content plop that echoed in the darkness below.
    Claire considered her options. She’d have to go get Doc Cleaver, she thought. He was old and senile, and the best choice. Maybe he’d put the death up to heart failure, or something, and not to the hemlock. At any rate, Marlin wouldn’t need to get a job any more.
    She giggled at her joke. She’d have to get her story straight, but she could do that on the way. Well, better get a move on, old Doc Cleaver’s house is on the other side of town, and she was already tired. Still, her step seemed to have a spring not there for years, as Claire walked up the dirt road towards town.

    Randy was five feet down, and hitting pay dirt. He saw the brown neck of a bottle sticking up where the soil had been carefully removed by the small shovel. His hands caressed the glass form, clearing away clinging detritus, and a gentle tug brought out the find for inspection. He wiped away the dirt from the embossed emblem of the flask, reading it.
    “Wow, a 1906 Steinweiler whiskey,” he ejaculated. “Worth at least a hundred bucks. The wife will be happy when I bring this baby home!”



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