fumbling and tired, weary appearance, he managed to
get through the show. When we returned to the motor
home, he did not, as was his habit, immediately begin
to drink. He said he would drive a little and get some
sleep. I made him something to eat, a scrambled egg
sandwich, and he ate and drank some coffee. Feeling
hopeful. I went to sleep myself. Perhaps this near
professional disaster indeed had woken him up to
what was happening. I thought.
However, when I rose in the morning. I found
him like always, sprawled on the sofa, his arms
twisted and his leg dangling, the emptied bottle of
whiskey on the table. We had one hundred seventyfive miles or so to drive, which wasn't all that much
considering show time, but he was just as incapable of
driving this day as he had been the day before. Once
again, he went into the bathroom and vomited.
Afterward, he stumbled back to the bedroom. I cried to myself and waited, hoping he would
rise, shower, dress, and drive, hoping he would
somehow restore himself as he had miraculously done
before. When he didn't come out. I reluctantly went to
the driver's seat and started up the vehicle, hoping the
sound of the engine and the movement of the motor
home would raise him and bring him to his senses, but
he didn't emerge from the bedroom.
I was following the map we had but realized
about a half hour into the trip that I had missed an
important turn and had actually gone a good forty
miles out of our way. I pulled the van over and
studied the map, searching for the best way to repair
the itinerary. It meant taking a side road through what