Saint Nobody

Coke Bottle

45 Coke Bottle It stood on the red formica counter, mute temptor, curving green, half-full of amber nectar. While she ironed, Mother would pour herself a glass then carefully close the rounded lip with a plastic pop-cover. Between Dad’s work shirts she sipped from the bumpy tumbler, melting ice vaguely iron-scented from our well. I knew it was hers, this Coca-Cola vivid with sugar and caffeine, and that room temperature the fizz would turn acrid, the stolen sip betrayed by a tell-tale scum of brownish foam. And though the price exacted would not be great—a few sharp words, a slap— my pilferage, if found, would cost something. But knowing this could not prevent my lifting the plastic cap, tilting the bottle just enough to drink one mouthful. I felt it coat my tongue, leave the familiar film on my teeth. Ears trained toward the basement where she bent over laundry, I carefully capped the bottle, so good, so heavy in my hands. The trick was to right it without a sound, noiselessly slide it back to its place between toaster and dish-towel. She never discovered my crime, being too busy— a woman of thirty with three small children— to keep tabs on such things. Once my brother caught me, declined a sip, still didn’t squeal. Fear-giddy, I knew how much she’d miss—loving it as I did—this potion sweet and sharp, this liquid hers, left just within reach. ...