Bottomless Bottle of Bourbon

Boys. They're marvels. Congenitally brave, they're willing to try anything, and they're equally willing to use their ingenuity to cover up mishaps and misdeeds. The most unpromising "C" student can exhibit inventiveness, originality and out-of-the-box thinking that would put an entrepreneur to shame. There has probably been more imagination expended on covering tracks after trying out controlled substances than any other illicit activity, with the possible exception of premarital sex. Such was the case when Bill and Steve decided to sample James' bourbon.

James was never much of a drinker. Alcohol use was never discouraged outright by the family; neither was it encouraged. After youthful experimentation and his three Grand Tours ended, James settled naturally into an abstemious life, helped along by a limited income. Early training and parental example last long, however, and James liked to keep one bottle of whiskey on hand for entertaining. Not that the family went in much for socializing -- they worked too much. But once or twice a year they would get together with Aunt Gladys and Uncle Monroe, and James wanted to be able to offer Monroe a glass or two while Marian and Gladys were putting a meal together. Monroe was a bourbon man, so that was the kind of whiskey it was.

James and Marian were not the kind of parents who sat their children down and supervised their first drinks of alcoholic beverages. They told them that the bottle was "off limits" and "for Dad and his guests only" and that was that. The verbal stricture worked until Bill and Steve were in their teens, then, that bottle on the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards began to assume a Grail-like significance.

The temptation was exacerbated by the fact that both James and Marian worked. After school, the boys were on their honor for two or three hours every weekday afternoon, and sometimes on Saturday for most of the day. At last, things got to the point where no amount of mandatory chores could keep them busy enough to wipe that bottle out of their minds.

One Saturday, they got it down, and after checking the driveway one last time, they retired to their room with it and a couple of glasses. After a shot apiece, their taste buds were sufficiently overworked to bring an end to the experiment. Breathing fumy sighs of relief that they had not been caught in the act, they snuck back to the kitchen.

Steve gazed at the bottle on the counter as Bill climbed onto the step-stool.

"I don't think we can just put it back like this," he said.

"Like what?" Bill was peering at the other items on the high shelf, but did not see any other containers of forbidden things.

"The level has fallen. We lowered it almost an inch."

"How can you tell?" Bill said scornfully.

"There's a little tear in the label. The whiskey was level with it before we opened it. I noticed it."

Disconcerted, Bill climbed down and stood beside his brother. They both stared at the traitorous bottle with its marked label for a moment, certain now that James had deliberately nicked the edge of the paper with his thumbnail, just to trap them.

"We can't just add water to the bottle," Bill mused. "The color would be wrong." His youthful engineer's mind ticked on, then he had the solution.

"Tea!" he cried triumphantly. "We can replace it with tea. It's almost exactly the same color!"