My mother seems too busy to have lost any dreams, and she never talks to me about things like that, only about house things and taking-care-of-your-brothers things, and sometimes don’t-do-that-or-you’ll-never-marry things.

Sometimes my father loves my mother—and the rest of us—so much that he becomes a kissing and hugging machine. Sometimes, though, he is an angry machine that sees suspicious moves in every breath. But most of the time he is sad, his thoughts somewhere I cannot visit.

I’ll tell you what the scariest thing is: when he drinks. He doesn’t do it that often and he doesn’t have to drink that much before his eyes become bullets, his fists the curled hands of a boxer, and our living room the ring of Monday Night Wrestling.

“It’s fire from hell,” my mother says about the liquor.

I believe it. One time I went into the yard to look for a ball I had lost in the bushes the day before, and I found my father drinking. He grabbed my arm and held his bottle in front of me. “Drink,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Drink, girl. What’s wrong with you?”

“You said we should never drink from that.”

“Well, you should always do as I say, and I want you to try it this time so you know what not to drink.”

It sort of made sense, but I had a feeling I should not do it.

“Drink,” he insisted and stuck the bottle under my nose. It had a horrible smell and I turned my face away.

“Drink, girl, and you’ll never have to drink again.”

I took the bottle, held my nose, and put it to my lips. As I lifted it in the air I felt fire catch on my lips and in my mouth and I spat it back out. My father glared at me. I got the stomach feeling.

“Drink.”

I lifted the bottle again and I felt the burn on my tongue, on my throat, and down the inside of my neck. I swallowed fire. My father just sat and stared. He took the bottle from me, closed the top, put it back in the box, locked it, and stood up. I remained where I was, but the fire went from my belly to his eyes and he pulled me by the arm and then by the ear and dragged me into the kitchen where my mother was cutting vegetables.

“Oh Mother of Shit,” he called to her. “Your little dog of a daughter has been drinking. Smell her mouth.”

My mother leaned over and sniffed my mouth and I closed my eyes. She slapped my face and the fire came back to me.

“He made me drink it,” I screamed, and saw my father’s eyes enlarge.