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from the curb and coast down the hill.
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    Once inside his car, Walter wiped the rain from his face and ran his fingers through his wet hair. He had worked all day and so he was hungry. But he had to leave the house and Sarah’s infuriating questions. He turned the ignition key. There was no way to control his anger—no way except to drown it in bourbon.
    The windshield wipers smeared grime into black semi-circles and even with the headlights on, he strained to see the road clearly. Months of street ash and mill soot made Warrenvale indecently filthy. A polluted black puddle at the bottom of the hill glittered as it reflected the street light. Walter lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat until he reached Tavern Row. The sewers were backed up. When he stopped the car, it was up to the hubcaps in sludge. 
    A red Ford truck was parked in front of Mickey’s Pub. It looked like his brother Nick’s truck. Walter drummed his stumpy fingers on the steering wheel. Nick lived in Pittsburgh. So, what was he doing in Warrenvale?
    Nick was ten years old when Walter was born. As Walter grew older it became obvious that Nick had bought into his father’s twisted reasoning. He really believed that his younger brother’s birth had killed his mother.
    Walter was barely walking when he knew instinctively that out of four older siblings, three boys and a girl, Nick was his father’s favorite. When Walter was six, Nick stole money from his father’s wallet. He blamed it on Walter. “I saw him do it. Look in his pocket.”
    His father had reached into Walter’s pocket and pulled out three crunched up dollar bills.
    “I didn’t take it!”
    “You lyin’ little son-of-a-bitch! I’ll teach you to steal!”
    Sixteen-year-old Nick gloated in the background.
    Walter’s eighteen-year-old sister, Mary, rushed into the room. “Daddy! Stop! He didn’t do it. He was with me all morning. We cleaned out the basement. Honest, Daddy. He didn’t take that money.”
    Walter thought his little arm was being pulled from its socket when his father dragged him through the house. “So you cleaned the basement, huh? Well live in it!”
    By the time young Walter hit the dirt floor at the bottom of the basement steps, he was unconscious. In what seemed like only a second, he awakened terrified. He crawled into a dark corner near the coal bin. The next day, when his father was at work, Mary dared to bring him upstairs. She tried to comfort him. He wouldn’t talk. For two days he vomited most of his food.
    Looking again at the red truck, he thought that maybe he should go to another pub. He put his hand on the ignition key, but didn’t turn it. Instead, he opened the car door, stepped into black muck up to his shoelaces and went into Mickey's Pub. If his brother was looking for trouble, Walter was ready. The last time they had seen each other, at least six years ago, a few punches were thrown. Nick, had backed off so Walter quit swinging and just laughed at him. Walter no longer feared Nick. And after what just went on at home, he was more than ready for a good fight.
    Walter entered the pub immediately spotting not one but two of his brothers seated at the far end of the bar, each with a mug of draft beer. Andy was five years older than Nick, with a bald head and huge gray mustache. Walter had no quarrel with Andy. However, Mickey’s Pub was Walter’s territory and he felt invaded.
    “What’re you doin’ here?” Walter asked.
    “Lookin’ for you,” said Nick who was now permanently bronze from years in a Pittsburgh foundry and had wrinkles so deep it looked like cats had attacked him. Nick’s blue work shirt seemed several sizes too big.
    Walter wanted to ask him if he had been sick. Instead, he asked, “So why not call?”
    Andy ran a finger over his sweaty beer mug. “We don’t have your number.”
    Walter slid onto a barstool next to Nick. The bartender poured a double Jim Beam. Walter drank the shot in one