Sweet Abigail

A father finds himself in over his head.

The lighter closes with a flick of his wrist, followed by a thick cloud of smoke that hides his features in the low light of the office. He's sitting in a cushioned, maroon-colored office chair that he's barely able to move from the lack of space and low wheels that keep getting stuck in the carpet. The room is cramped, barely bigger than a walk-in closet. Office is generous, he thinks to himself. It’s a small corner of the house where the kids won't mind the cigar smoke that has now stained the once white walls and ceiling in a sickly yellow. Winchesters, little cigars, look like cigarettes. Bad habit but he needs them now.
He puts the pack on the desk and taps his fingers, hearing the weak thrum against the marble-patterned surface. He's nervous. The small bets were all losers; never a good sign, but they were nothing compared to the big one coming up. He has a lot riding on it; more than he's willing to admit to himself and definitely not to his wife. The questions would be never ending.
"Come on..." he mutters as he watches the screen. A small box television shows a snowy image of a horse race from a wooden, makeshift perch in the corner of the room. He’d built the stand himself and it shows, lacking in the signs of a capable craftsman.
The tiny television screen doesn't help the headache he's had since morning. No more coffee; not in the budget. There were still some beers in the fridge which he'd gladly helped himself to, taking note of the growing collection of bottles on his desk from other days spent alone in the office.
He palms his steel-cased lighter in one hand and opens it in a quick, practiced movement, then flicks it closed again. He likes the heavy metallic sound of the lid as it hits the casing, and the sweet smell of lighter fluid that briefly escapes after. The lighter is special and he needs it today.
The television shows a brown horse wearing blue silks with the number three in big white stitching cross the finish line, followed by a swift blur of multicolored horses trailing behind.
"Goddamnit!" he yells, much louder than he meant to. Another failed bet, fifty dollars on number six, Atlanta Natural, stupid name. His mother was raised in Atlanta but she wasn't born there. That should've been the first thing to tip him off.
"Honey?" his wife's voice is muffled by the door but he can sense her frustration in the tone she reserves for the kids. She's busy making soup again. It's cheap and can feed the four mouths they have now.
"I know babe, sorry!" he yells through the door. He doesn't get up. His mind is on the racing program he picked up that morning, skimming through the pages to find the number of races until his big one. Two more. Only two to go till their bills are taken care of, paid off, gone. He tries not to think about the money. He tries not to think about the vacation he'll take with his wife and the kids, the dinners and dates they're sure to go on again, the stress that'll disappear in just two more races. He’s always wanted to see the Niagara Falls; they’re apparently even better from the Canadian side.
His focus snaps back; he's got another bet on the next race, eighty dollars, number four, Mighty Winchester. He puffs from the little cigar and grins. They're gonna be lucky today.
Light footfalls gain momentum as they crash repeatedly above the office ceiling. His room is under the stairs that the kids have now decided to sprint down for no apparent reason. Small puffs of air push the smoke cloud against the office light in translucent circles.
"Guys!" he yells. "I'm in here, quiet please!" The bell rings; his horse is trailing out of the post and a lump gathers in his throat.
"SORRY DADDY!!!" His youngest screams. He closes his eyes, the headache coming on once again as the bright smell of celery wafts under the door. He doesn’t care; no appetite today. He puts the hand holding the little cigar to his head and rubs his temple, breathing in through his nose to feel the smoke hit his nostrils with a pleasant burning sensation, then exhales a long breath and remembers the plan.
He'd been hiding money for almost a year, waiting for the perfect horse in the perfect race. Never too much at once and nothing he couldn't easily explain away, but it wasn't enough, not for Sweet Abigail. It was the sign he'd been waiting for; an 8/1 filly posted on his day off.
His father-in-law had bought him the lighter eight years ago, the day Abby was born. Steel casing, high quality, more expensive than he could afford then or now. Engraved on the front were the words “Take Care of Sweet Abigail.” He planned to. The problem was that he'd only saved $500. He'd need at least $1000 to win any serious money.
The trip to the bank took longer than planned, even though he was the first in line when the doors opened. The tellers all had smug looks on their faces when he asked for $700, like they knew what it was for and disapproved. He couldn't wait to bring back thousands. The stop to the OTB was quick and easy, with staff that looked happy to help him and no judgements. Just nice, good people.
$700 - enough to make the thousand, plus a couple hundred extra just in case so he could cover the withdrawal. It hadn't worked out that way.
His mind returned to the race to watch a tan-colored horse named Shady Lane run three lengths ahead going into the finish line. He felt his palms hit the desk with a slam that made the glass beer bottles clink together, followed by a loud curse that he didn't mean to say. He regretted the outburst immediately. His hands turned red and hurt for a moment before the door to his office flung open.
"What the hell was that?!" His wife stood in the doorway, sweat forming on her forehead from the steam coming off the soup. She looked around disapprovingly. "Are you serious with this again?" Her hand was waving in front of her face, pushing real and imaginary smoke away. She never liked the smoking or the bets and he'd stopped both for a long time.
"I...I'm sorry." He could see his son's face behind his wife, looking nervous like he'd been caught doing something he didn't know was wrong. He looked at his wife again and then called out to the rest of the house.
"Hey guys," he says weakly. "I'm sorry about that. I, uh...I stubbed my toe." His wife purses her lips and walks away, leaving the door open. "S**t," he says under his breath as he gets up and closes the door behind her.
He sits back down and smoothes his shirt while pushing the chair as far away from the desk as possible. One nearly-empty bottle had tipped over and spilled beer across the program. He grabs the side of his shirt and starts wiping the beer off, then takes the program and begins swishing it back and forth in the air to dry.
He could see the riders getting into position for the next race. He didn't have anything on this one; better to go into the big one with clear luck.
There came the sound of commotion outside the door followed by a light thud and his daughter's laughter.
"Stop it Abby! STOP! I'm telling!!" He could hear his son's footsteps run into the kitchen. A pained look came to his face; the boy was almost five years old and would never stand up for himself or fight back. If that kept up, he'd be primed to get taken advantage of in school. He heard the inaudible mumbling of his son's complaints to his wife.
"Abby!" His wife calls. She was still in the kitchen. "Abigail!" The familiar tone again. Heavier footsteps shadow the soft-shoed scrambling sounds of his daughter fixing whatever she did wrong behind the office door.
Not now...Not Now! His race was coming up, it wasn’t time for distractions.
"He's lying!!" a shrill voice yells. His daughter had a temper and strong pipes for her age. "I don't care!! He's a liar!"
"Abigail, you stop it now!" his wife says sternly. He hears his son crying and his wife's voice trying to calm him down. She hits the office door three times with her hand to make sure he hears her. "Can you come out here and help me with this? I have to check on the soup." He groans and gets up, opening the door. "Were you really okay to just sit there while all this was going on?" She is pissed. He stares at her blankly for a minute, listening to the end of the last race behind him.
"Alright Abigail," he says. "I heard you out here doing something to your brother, go to your room right now." She steps back, her face looking like it’s being smushed together from her chin to her forehead. She turns red and starts crying loudly.
"NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO MEEEEE!!!" Her reaction is quick and unexpected. She runs up the stairs with her arms folded, stomping her feet on every step.
"Oh my god.." his wife says, putting her hand to her forehead. "Can you go deal with that please?" He can hear the details of the next race about to begin. He turns his head and looks up the stairs, never leaving the office.
"I think she just needs a few minutes to calm down." he says, trying to look convincing.
"Ugh..." his wife looks disgusted and walks back towards the kitchen. He ducks back into the room, turning the lock on the door behind him. He grabs the chair and rolls it close to the desk, his shoulders pushed close together as his arms prop his head up. This was it. The big one.
Sweet Abigail is wearing orange silks with the number eight stitched in the side in white, proving that fate was on his side. A sound clicks as the commentator microphone activated.
“We’re ready for the start...." He digs his fingers deep into his palms, his heart beating wildly in his chest.
"...And they’re off!...And Snowboy has a great start out of the gate!”
His daughter's footsteps pound on the ceiling of the office, shaking the desk with an off-rhythm drum beat . Her screaming cries bounce off the walls of the staircase.
"I HATE IT HERE!!" she screams. He can hear his wife yelling something in the other room.
“A ground-saving run for Musket Man who’s right behind Sweet Abigail as they hit the first turn.”
"Abigail! You stop that right now, the neighbors will hear you!!" Abby continues to stomp her feet on the stairs. The doorknob of the office jiggles, followed by his wife's hand hitting the door.
“No excuses here for Arizona Wind, he’s in a perfect spot.”
His wife bangs on the office door again, matching the strength of Abby's feet above the ceiling.
“Then comes Sweet Abigail, firing on the outside. A length away…”
"You need to take care of this now!" she says.
"I can't right now...just..." he stops himself, watching the screen. Every muscle is tense; his teeth begin to hurt from clenching his jaw too hard.
“...Sweet Abigail has loomed up...Here comes Parisian Pink. He’ll be five behind heading into the turn. Sweet Abigail is a length ahead, as they come to the top of the far turn....” His daughter's pounding feet are joined by his son's loud crying. His wife raps the door again.
"Just what? I need your help out here, what are you doing?!" The doorknob jiggles more. A frame is knocked loose off the wall from the vibrations above.
“Sweet Abigail leads with Snowboy closing in. On the outside Musket Man. Parisian Pink is coming up quick. Parisian Pink looking for a way through AND DIVES to the inside!!”
"Hello?!" his wife yells.
"GODDAMNIT GIVE ME A MINUTE!!!" He jumps up, grabs a beer bottle, and whips it at the door, accidentally kicking back the chair. The bottle shatters as the chair snags on the carpet and trips forward, pushing the top of the head-rest against his calves, almost knocking him down. He grips the side of the desk so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
"Arizona Wind kicking on late. On the outside, Musket Man trails. Sweet Abigail with a short lead. ."
There was silence from outside the door for a moment, the only sound coming from the television. His ears are pounding with his heartbeat and for a second, he is sad. His son breaks the silence with a loud, piercing wail that is joined a moment later with a louder cry from his daughter. The pounding above the ceiling stops. There's silence from his wife.
"Here comes Parisian Pink gaining ground! Sweet Abigail in front, Parisian Pink, Musket Man back three lengths..." He swallows his breath and holds it, his eyes squinting from a tense frown of anxiety. This is it. This is it!
"Parisian Pink and Sweet Abigail are head-to-head. Parisian Pink and Sweet Abigail, these two, down to the line together!! OHHH!!! TOO CLOSE TO CALL!!!!!”
His chest and shoulders seize as his arms flex involuntarily. A strange sound escapes him. His grip loosens on the desk and he falls forward, his abdomen hitting the side of the desk, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Through fits of coughing, he can hear his wife's footsteps walk away from the door, ushering his daughter down the stairs and carrying his son into the other room.
I'm an a*****e, he thinks to himself, knowing it to be true. He sits up on one arm just long enough to see a photo finish determining that Parisian Pink is the winner.
He lets out a long, low moan, curling into a fetal position on the floor of his office. His stomach is on fire as he catches his breath in shallow gulps. He lays his head against the floor, staring at the ceiling, unblinking, trying to breathe. His eyes dry out and his vision darkens, creating the sense that the walls of his little office in the corner of the house, the one where the kids won't mind the cigar smoke, are literally closing in on him.

Author's Note

None of the formatting transfered over. Let me know if it's confusing and I'll edit it.

Reviews

[Sara Lufrano]

Hi there! Thanks for writing a long-ish story with multiple characters and a lot of action! Overall I liked it. There were some slow parts at the begining but once the family got involved more and gave it that tension it clipped along nicely. I'd also like a change in him, or a confirmation of no change. What does he do or think besides being an "a*****e" while the walls are closing in on him? Again, thanks for the read!