drinking more and more. He never
came home from work sober. An
average day was a six-pack of beer
after work. Weeknights he’d have a
buzz on. Some Fridays and
Saturdays he just didn’t come
home.
When Abel drank, his eyes
would go red, bloodshot. That was
the clue I learned to read. I always
thought of Abel as a cobra: calm,
perfectly still, then explosive. There
was no ranting and raving, no
clenched fists. He’d be very quiet,
and then out of nowhere the
violence would come. The eyes were
my only clue to stay away. His eyes