The third Sunday in June is Lex’s least favorite Sunday of the year. He usually dislikes Sundays in the first place, just because they feel so off. Like someone lit a torch and snuffed it out, but the clouds of smoke and the feeling of warmth and light is still there. Sunday is the day of wondering if there is chicken in the oven, if the melancholy haze over the day will ever lift or if he’ll just have to power through it till nightfall, and awake to a new week of stresses and joys, successes and failures.

They are in their Sunday best, the three of them. Dad’s tie is just a little too long, his suit otherwise perfectly tailored, by the persistence of Mom. Mother is in a dress that would look more suited to killing a man than belonging in a cathedral, deep red satin with the back cut open. Alexei is in a starched white shirt, crimson tie glinting with a little golden tie pin. He is five years old, and it is his turn to be the altar boy.

The bottle clinks against the counter, carbonation hissing when he twists the cap off the little green bottle. Lex hates beer, but he greedily swallows the first sip with more fervor than a dehydrated prisoner. He loosens his green tie, undoes the button on his collar. Another sip, and his face crumples in disgust. Bitter, sour, not at all refreshing. Why did the others like this horse piss in a bottle?

Lexi (as the boys in Sunday school like to call him, their eyes flickering with envy and misplaced hate) sneaks into the supply closet of the church, right off the kitchen and behind a small room where the older men met during the week to discuss “important scriptural matters.” It is there he finds bottles and bottles of unblessed wine, not yet turned into the blood of Christ. That makes it okay to drink, right?

Lex slumps into the armchair, boots already neatly put away by the entrance to their home, and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. Sloppy, inappropriate, unsophisticated. Another sip of Heineken, another choked gag. He can’t buy any more whiskey until next month, and he will not go to the bar. His stubborn pride will be the death of him, or at least give him a few more weeks of sobriety.

One of the bottles is opened, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull the cork out and take a reverent sip, the same way the other men do. It stings and hurts, but it is warm as it settles into his belly. His nine year old bloodstream, starved for two hours of chanting, singing, and praying, accepts the alcohol instantly; his head is a little woozy and he can’t see straight.

The bottle is empty, and Lex is no worse for wear -- but he still hates the s**t. He straightens up, feet off the table, turning the bottle in his hand. Emerald green, like Dad’s eyes.

”Alexei Evan!”

Lex could have peed his pants right there from fright and the absolute guilt that crashed over him with the tidal wave of his father’s booming voice. It would seem that his father had followed him, keen dad senses picking his jaunty brunette head whizzing away from the unspoken necessity of the after Mass chatter cluster. Followed him right to the supply closet, and watched his son drink the unblessed wine.

Alexei’s grey, doe eyes stared up at his father, tearing up already. He was in so much trouble, he knew the belt would come--

“How was it?”

The budding tears stopped, confusion replacing fear. He wasn’t going to be spanked? Mother wasn’t going to be told. “Shitty.”

“Language.”

“It wasn’t good at all, papa…”

The man has moved to the couch, spindly body curled up to the confines of the cushions and antique wood. Grey eyes are closed, nose sniffling. He will not cry, because Dad said to shed tears were to let life get to you; the darkness’ way of drawing blood.

But God, Lex wanted to bawl. Bawl for himself, for the father he never saw after his eleventh birthday, for the world he was stuck in, for the poor souls who kept waking up and had to adjust this to God awful rock and the shitty maelstrom that enveloped it.

”That’s why it’s for adults, sweetie. You have to acquire the taste- but one day, I promise, you’ll like it as much as you like milkshakes.” His mother is chuckling, another unexpected twist of the day.

“Martha.” Nistor looks to his wife harshly, their crumbling marriage clear in his eyes with the harsh, weary glare they hold. Matha’s returned look is sharp, sickly. “Don’t encourage him. It’s hard enough to raise a boy to live a good life in this city.”

Martha snorts and shakes her head, announcing that she is going to take a nap now, because the Father’s message was so very droll that morning. Nistor turns to his son, smile forced but full of all the love a father can give. “Promise papa you’ll grow up to be a good man, Alexei.”

Lex is not dumb. He knows things are happening, he has heard the gossip from the old crones at Mass who think they are so quiet but are very loud. Still, he nods and hugs his father’s torso. “I promise papa.”

Lex does not cry so much as he does shake, back facing the world, arms wrapped around his torso. There are no tears, but there is choking, a whispered and cracking ”I’m sorry, Papa.”

He has not grown up to be a good man.