Wilfred peaked through the Venetian blinds at the street in front of his house. Normal day. Normal people doing normal things. He sighed, lifting the bottle hanging from his fingers and took a long swallow. Absently, he scratched at his boxer shorts and wove his way back down the hall to his bedroom. The bedding looked like it had been sucked down in a whirlpool, and he stared, completely overwhelmed.

The phone by his bed rang and he blinked, dropping the bottle as he automatically reached for it.

"'Lo?"

"Mister Bates? It's Linda, are you alright? It's after ten."

"Thank you, Linda." He looked down at the contents of the bottle soaking into the carpet under his feet.

"Ten o'clock, Wilfred. You have appointments waiting."

"Hmmnn, appointments. Good, good." He stamped a foot, making a wet slapping sound.

"Are you alright? Should I call someone?"

"Plumber?" He stamped the other foot and giggled.

A call to the hospital, expressing concern but not an emergency, had a volunteer dispatched to Wilfred's house, and twenty minutes later Wilfred opened the front door after the loud banging had moved into his head.

"Miss Beangrank - hic – how can I do for you?"

Dorothy quickly determined that Wilfred was several sheets to the wind and crinkling her nose, she pushed her way in, steering him straight into the bathroom.

******

Clive listened on the phone, the pain behind his eyes growing like Topsy. Wilma was laying down the law with a hammer and nails.

"Wilma, please, I can't stop Olivia from . . . I know, but she has the picture from the paper . . . yes, I know that too, but you don't want Sean to know. How am I supposed . . . Wilfred already spoke with Sean? Then it's too late . . . ah, that doesn't sound like a very good idea . . . Wilma, don't do somethi—"

The call ended.

He set the phone down, clutching his head. If she goes to Wilfred, he'll tell her that I already spoke with him, looking for a way out. If Olivia sues, Sean will weaponize the bank against him. He reached for the phone again, punching in his contact number for Wilfred.

"Hello, is Mister Bates there?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Is that you, Dorothy?"

"Mister Pool?"

"What's going on, where's Wilfred?"

It took but a few seconds to learn she had been sent by a call to the hospital, only to find Wilfred sloshed to the gills.

"I'm coming over, Dorothy. I have to speak to him – sober."

******

"His office told me he hadn't come in and when they phoned he sounded ill." Wilma sputtered. "I came right over."

"Well, he isn't up to seeing visitors I can tell you." Dorothy returned to the kitchen where she had made herself some tea.

"Where is he?" Wilma followed her, looking around.

"In the shower. I've been turning the cold up gradually, trying to ease him back to sobriety. Was it something important you wanted?"

"It's personal. I need to speak to him?"

"Let's see." Dorothy put her tea down and led the way down the hall.

They walked into the bathroom and Wilma gave a small shriek, grasping the door frame for support.

"He's naked!"

"Well, he's in the shower, Wilma. Nothing we haven't seen before, I'm sure."

"He's naked!" She sat slowly on the toilet seat, covering her eyes, but cautiously glancing back.

Dorothy reached in and turned the water colder, and Wilfred gasped, stepping back against the wall.

"Jesus! Oh, my head."

He grabbed the edge of the stall door and stepped out on to the little bath mat. Wilma cried out, grabbing a face cloth from the rail and pushing it at him.

"Mister Bates! Cover yourself."

Chuckling, Dorothy wrapped a bath towel over him and waved for Wilma to give up her seat.

"Let's get you dried, Mister Bates." She grinned up at Wilma. "Guess we're really on a first name basis now, eh?"

The sound of the doorbell interrupted, and Wilma waved a hand, happily. "I'll get it."

Clive's double take was almost cartoonish. "Wilma! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing."

He hurried inside, slamming the door and glancing through the window pane at the street. "I have business with Wilfred."

"So do I." She turned away and hesitated, detouring to the kitchen.

"Where is he? Where's Dorothy, I spoke to her on the phone."

"Right here, Mister Pool." She came down the hall, guiding a dazed, damp Wilfred, who was clutching a towel around himself.

"What the hell . . .?"

"You said you wanted him sober. Best I could do in the time given. I'll get some coffee on, that'll jolt him awake."

Wilfred wandered away into the living room, flopping down on the sofa, head back, legs apart. Wilma uttered a small cry, turning her head and pointing.

"Good God, Wilfred." Clive went over and sat him up properly, pushing a throw cushion onto his lap.

Dorothy came in holding a mug of jet black coffee. "Here we go, Mr. Bates. A sip of this will help." He put it up to his lips and tipped it.

Wilfred's eyes shot open and he began coughing, "Christ! That's military grade!"

"Did the trick though," Dorothy beamed, sitting and forcing another mouthful into him.

The doorbell rang again and everyone froze.

"What now?"

"Someone answer it, please." Wilfred, coughed again, glaring at Dorothy.

Clive went to the door, pausing briefly before opening it.

"Pool!"

"Heston . . ." Clive turned and looked at Wilma, biting his upper lip.

"Wilma!" Sean turned on Clive, glowering dangerously as he stepped in, shouldering him aside. "Just what the hell is going on here? Dorothy? What are you doing here?"

"Should I make more coffee?" She asked, leaving Wilfred to tip over on the sofa.

"So, is this your new meeting place for your sneaky little get-togethers?" Sean leaned toward his wife, hands on hips.

"Now hold on a minute, Heston." Clive puffed up with umbrage.

"Who are you to call me sneaky?" Wilma stood nose to nose with Sean.

"Don't play innocent with me, lady." Sean aimed a thumb over his shoulder. "Just a coincidence he's here?"

"Coffee's ready." Dorothy stood in the kitchen doorway holding the pot.

Ignoring the interruption, Wilma fired back. "Speaking of coincidences, why are you here? Expecting Olivia were you? I'm surprised she isn't here."

The doorbell rang along with the phone, stunning them all into a frozen tableau.

'This is Wilfred Bates, tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth after the tone.'

"That's his answering machine message!" Sean flapped his arms.

"Who's at the door?" Wilma brushed his remark aside.

Clive opened the door and uttered what sounded like a desolate sob.

"Olivia . . ."