Page 77 of Property of Whiskey

The plastic Santa keeps smiling at me from his box.

“You shut the fuck up,” I mumble through the gag.

He remains smug.

I turn my attention to the shelves.

Boxes.

Old toys.

Photographs.

One cardboard box has JIMMY’S SCHOOL written across the side in thick black marker.

Interesting. Jimmy?

I use the broom handle to drag it toward me.

Inside are old yearbooks, notebooks, a baseball glove, three trophies, and a school photograph.

Whiskey.

Maybe sixteen.

No beard.

Longer hair.

Same eyes.

Same expression like somebody already pissed him off before breakfast.

I stare at the picture longer than I should.

He was cute.

Fuck.

No.

Not relevant.

I shove it back into the box. Another photograph slips loose.

Whiskey stands beside a woman I don’t recognize, both of them younger. He’s holding a little dark-haired girl who can’t be more than two.

I lean closer.

Before I can study it, footsteps sound upstairs.

Shit.

I use the broom to shove the box toward the shelf.

It stops halfway.

Perfect.