by J J Hebert
“You make me proud.”
* * *
Each weekday morning, before work, I visit Meranda. The days resemble one another: She answers the door sober, smelling of perfume instead of whiskey. We don’t go to Perk Up Café; instead, we stay at her house. She tells me about her most recent AA meeting. She says she hates the meetings, that she dreads going but feels it to be a necessity to her staying sober, and she wants to stay sober. “I need to face this,” she says often. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to be free.”
We go for walks, and one day, a Monday, she says that she feels diseased. Entirely diseased. She talks about the slang used in AA, how the redundancy sometimes angers her. Some of the most common phrases and words, she explains, are: Newcomer, which she is; Running and Gunning, which relates to active drinking; the Big Book, which is basically AA’s Bible; Normie, AA’s description of non-drinkers; Higher Power, the label many of the members use for God; Stinking Thinking, thoughts that lead to drinking. She says, “Going to Group is like being part of a secret sect; they have their own language, their own beliefs, they’re separate from society, and they’re shadowy. Anonymous. The fact that the meetings are held in basements of churches adds to the feel of secret sect.” She says they use the Serenity Prayer at the beginning of every meeting, and this makes her want to cry every time.
When we are together, she smiles often, laughs frequently, and begins implementing AA language into our conversations. There are no dirty dishes in her sink. The house is dust-free and vacuumed without my assistance. “Gotta stay busy,” she says. She tells me that she still has the desire to drink, that some nights she wakes drenched in sweat, needing and wanting whiskey, feeling the urge crawling beneath her skin. Some nights before going to sleep, when she’s alone, she gets bored, but then she thinks of me, and our upcoming time together, and the AA meetings, and she knows drinking isn’t worth the temporary numbing of feelings.
On a Thursday, as we sit on her porch, listening to the birds sing and watching them fly, she points to one of them and says, “I want to be like that. I want to soar.”
I say, “You are, Meranda. You are.”
She explains how different she feels lately, more awake, with heightened senses. She likes where she’s headed, toward sobriety. She talks about the “Chip” one of her fellow AA sect members received last meeting. “And I’m not talking about a potato chip,” she says. “They gave it to him to mark thirty days of sobriety.” She tells me that she wants to get a Chip, too, dammit. “I don’t expect a Normie like you to understand what I’m talking about, though,” she says.
I chuckle. “Don’t use that AA slang on me, young lady.”
She laughs, and I ask her if anyone from Group has spoken of AFGO yet. She winks and says, “Yeah . . . A flippin’ growth opportunity . . . that’s what this is.”
I continue the playfulness, tell her to stay away from the thirteenth step. She says, “What are you talking about? There are only twelve steps.”
I tell her there are actually thirteen. The “thirteenth step” is when you date someone from Group. She assures me that won’t happen, that the others are too crazy for her, and quite frankly, they remind her of herself too much.
* * *
I walk to my mailbox, flip the lid, reach into the box, and pull out the mail. Mixed in with the rest of the parcels, I discover a notice informing me that I need to collect a package from the post office. Roughly thirty minutes later, I’m at the post office, at the counter, showing the notice to the postmaster. He takes the slip from my hand, walks out back, and returns with a large, bulky envelope, which displays Arthur’s return address. The postmaster hands me the package, nods, and says, “There you go, son,” and I cradle the envelope at my hip and depart the building into the noonday sun, grinning.
I take the manuscript home, scour it for Arthur’s queries [comments and suggestions made within brackets], find two in the first chapter, three in the second, one in the third, and so forth. I read fifty-five pages before work, find his editorial skills superb, as usual; he’s incredibly talented at spotting inconsistencies and minor flaws and resolving the problems or at the very least, explaining how to resolve a particular blemish. I call him and thank him for his fine performance.
“You’re very welcome, my young protégé.”
“You’re a good friend,” I say. “I’ll never forget this.”
At work, my body is busy, but my mind focuses on the novel. Eight hours scream by. I come home, eat a microwavable dinner, and submerge myself in The Forsaken World, not for an hour or two or three, but all night, through the hooting of owls and creaks from swaying trees and talking crickets, I read and read and read. The sun ascends into the sky, announcing a new day, and I’m still sitting at my desk, staring into the laptop.
At ten o’clock, I tend to Arthur’s final query, which pertains to pacing and suspense. I correct the problem by adding three paragraphs, nearly a full page of text, which slows the pace and consequently builds suspense. I save the file, turn off the laptop, and crawl into bed, wired and exhausted at once. Back of my head on the pillow, legs stretching to the end of the bed, I think of my next move: Tomorrow, after I wake from this nap in five hours, and after another night of janitorial work, I will formulate a general query letter to send to new literary agents regarding The Forsaken World.
* * *
Inside the janitor’s closet, as I’m filling the mop bucket with water from the hose attached to a faucet, I get a feeling like someone is watching me, maybe a secret admirer. I spin toward the door. Dad is standing in the hallway. Definitely not my admirer. I turn off the faucet and step out into the hall.
“Do you have a minute?” Dad asks, hands in his front pockets.
I shrug. “Sure.”
He leads us to the library and shuts the door. We sit opposite each other at one of the square wooden tables. He wastes no time. “I’m going to be moving to San Diego,” he says.
I shiver. “Really?”
He nods twice. “The house sold and I got a new job.”
I let out a sigh as though Jackie Chan just roundhoused my gut.
“Are you all right?” Dad asks.
I try to force composure upon myself. “When are you moving? What’s your new job?” My tone speaks of worry.
“We’ll need to vacate the house by September first,” he says matter-of-factly. He pauses, reaches in a pocket, and pulls out a stick of gum. “Then I’ll move in with a friend for a few months.” He tosses the wrapper onto the table and smacks the gum. “I’ll be moving to California the first of December,” he says, virtually expressionless.
“And your job will be?”
Impassively, he tells me it will be a customer service position for a five-year-old company.
“When did you interview?” I ask.
“A week ago, over the phone.”
“And they gave you the job just like that?”
“Based on the résumé I sent them and the phone interview. Yes.”
“Who are you gonna stay with until December?”
“Candace.”
“I didn’t know you knew a Candace.”
“I didn’t until a couple weeks ago.”
I curl my upper lip.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re going to move in with someone you met only two weeks ago? Where does she live?”
“Boston.” His passive tone turns aggressive. “And I can make whatever decision I want, thank you.”
“Why are you getting so defensive?”
“I knew you’d react like this.”
“How else am I supposed to react? My dad sells the house I’m living in out from under me, says we need to leave it by the first of September, says that he’s going to move in with a woman named Candace, whom he’s known for two weeks, and doesn’t once mention his son in the equation! Where am I in all of this?”
He shakes his head. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
/> I toss my hands up. You thought wrong. “What are you gonna do for work until December?” I ask, vehement.
“I’ve saved plenty of money. I’ll be fine for a few months.”
I only have four hundred dollars in my account! “So, then, you’re closing this business when?”
“As of August 25, the last day of the school’s summer vacation. I’d like you to stick it out if you can.”
I issue a laugh, not one of glee but out of nerves and anger.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Who knows where I’ll be,” I say.
I think he senses my resentment, because he quickly overcompensates with uncharacteristic optimism, “James, look at it this way: You never liked cleaning the school anyways, so pretty soon you won’t have to. That’s good news, right?”
He’s treating me like a child, and I’m not amused. “Sure, Dad.” Whatever you say.
* * *
The movie ends, and the credits scroll down the screen. From Leigh’s couch, she and I speak over the faint music, lying intertwined on our sides.
“That movie didn’t help take my mind off anything,” I say. We sit up and face one another.
Leigh grabs the clicker and turns off the television, eyes steady on my face. “Talk to me,” she says.
I ease into conversation. “There was a time when I thought Dad was gonna be doing janitorial work until the day he died.” I pause, then chuckle. “I’m the one who was supposed to get out of cleaning the school, not him. I’m the unconventional one.”
“You’re going to get out, and your dad, too,” she says. “Your dad’s business won’t exist after August . . . What are you gonna do now that your dad’s leaving is a reality, not just conjecture?”
“I wanna write. That’s what I’m good at. That’s what I love.”
“Be rational, James. What are you gonna do for work?”
“I told you. I wanna write.”
“And I told you. Be rational.”
“Rational from whose perspective?” My voice rises.
She shrugs and shakes her head. “It won’t be the end of the world if you have to work two or three jobs. People do it. They survive.”
“I don’t want to merely survive, Leigh. I wanna thrive . . . I wrote a new query for agents. I’m gonna send out that letter to a bunch of them.” I pause, collecting my thoughts. “Think outside the box, Babe. Why are you so afraid of doing that?”
“I don’t want to have unrealistic expectations. It hurts too much when things don’t work out,” she says. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again. I saw what happened the last time things didn’t work out as planned with your writing.”
“My expectations are realistic. To me. It’s not like I sit in a closet, dreaming, doing nothing to fulfill the dream.”
“You truly believe writing is what you’re supposed to do?”
I think about her question. “It’s where I wanna be,” I say, eyes locked on her, unblinking. “It’s where I need to be. If I’m not writing, where will I be? Working at a grocery store? A gas station?” I halt, take a breath, body tensing. “Why’d Dad have to go ahead and pull this? It pisses me off!”
Her eyes widen. “You’re not at all happy for him?” she asks.
I lack a response.
She says, “You’ve told me how selfish you think your father is, but, James, you’re being selfish, too.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Be happy for him. Forgive him. Accept his decision. Love him.”
“Don’t you understand? Once he leaves, my whole family will be gone. Nevada and California. Across the country, Leigh.”
“Your whole family won’t be gone.” She smiles, rubbing her thumb over my palm. “I’m here,” she says.
* * *
On a Friday, after a long discussion about AA, Meranda says, “I’ve got to be honest with you.” Her right arm lies on the couch’s armrest. “I don’t know if the longing to drink will ever go away completely.”
I lean back on the couch. “You’ve gotta stay busy.”
“But I can’t clean my house and go to AA meetings round the clock.”
I grin. “How about writing?”
Her focus plunges to the carpet. “It’s been so long. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Yes, you would. You’re a great writer. That’s not something one loses.”
She raises her head, eyes on me. “I miss Eddy so immensely, Jimmy. He was a great man. You would’ve liked him.” She pauses. “He would’ve liked you.”
“What do you miss the most?”
Eyes dampen behind her glasses. “His adoration for me and for life, and his absolute belief in my writing.”
“Then don’t you think he would want you to write?”
She takes a deep breath. “I know he would.”
“Then you owe it to him.”
“I’m scared, Jimmy. What if it isn’t good enough?”
“What if it is good enough?”
She laughs. “What am I going to write about?”
“You’re the award winner.” I smile.
She parallels my face and says, “I’ll need to be inspired . . . I should start reading again. That may help.”
“You could go to the library . . .”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
She beams. “I’m blessed to have you in my life, Jimmy. And just to think, I almost didn’t go to the Luncheon.” Fondness arrives in her eyes. “Why haven’t you asked me yet?”
My eyes shift in my head. “I don’t quite understand.”
She speaks at a snail’s pace. “You write and I’m looking for something to read. Do you see a connection here?”
“You wanna read my book?”
She laughs. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I present Meranda with The Forsaken World the following morning. She places the stack of loose sheets on the kitchen counter.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say.
She’s holding a broom. The kitchen is the cleanest I’ve ever seen it. She’s Alice now. “Reading your book is the least I can do for you, Jimmy.”
* * *
All of the next week, throughout five visits to Meranda’s house, she doesn’t utter anything relating to my novel. Rather, she tells me about AA, as usual. The first visit, she tells me that yesterday she spoke for the first time at Group. “I said ‘Hi, I’m Meranda, and I’m an alcoholic’ and afterward, everyone greeted me in unison like you see on those stupid TV parodies.” She tells me that she told them her life story, and they listened well. At the end of her speech, a guy spoke using “I” statements, which is common with AA. He said, “I can relate to losing a spouse and allowing that to affect me. I lost my wife five years ago, and that’s when I started to drink. I’ve been sober for sixth months.”
On the second visit, Meranda tells me she’s proud that she’s been Cleaning House. “And I don’t mean literally cleaning the house,” she says, although she has been.
“I know,” I say. Cleaning House, in AA slang, means that one is getting their life in order. “I’m proud of you, too, Meranda.”
The third visit, she tells me that the man whom she told me about before—the one who lost his wife—is now her Sponsor. A Sponsor, in AA terms, refers to an alcoholic who has experienced progress in Group and recovery and shares his or her experience with another alcoholic. She says they met last night for dinner and shared experiences. “I like The Sweet Widowed One,” she says. “When I talk to him, I don’t feel so alone in this process. I feel like I’m not the only one diseased.”
The fourth visit, she tells me that she has fallen into some Stinking Thinking lately. “I don’t want to relapse,” she says.
The fifth visit, she says, “I met with The Sweet Widowed One again last night.”
I ask her how old he is.
She blushes. “I’m two years his elder.”
“I sense a crush.”
Silently, I wonder if I should take her silence regarding my novel as a sign that she dislikes my story.
* * *
Sitting on my bed, I tear open an envelope from one of the agents to whom I sent my newest query letter. The agent says he doesn’t have room on his list for The Forsaken World but that he wishes me the best of luck. I call and thank him for the good wishes and tell him that I’m sorry he chose to pass on my novel.
I worry that soon Brad could find his way out of the pit.
* * *
The FOR SALE sign on the front lawn vanishes. Around the house, cardboard boxes appear. They sit stacked in the living room, in the kitchen, in the basement, each box full of Dad’s belongings. I never see him pack any of his things, which leads me to believe that he fills the boxes while I’m at Meranda’s house or while I’m with Leigh on the weekends. Perhaps little leprechauns do the grunt work while we sleep . . .
* * *
The first Saturday morning of August turns up. I travel thirty-five minutes to Staples, purchase moving boxes and bubble wrap, return to the house, and start packing. Moving is imminent like the Second Coming of Christ. I remove from a wall the collage Leigh gave me, and from another wall, Robert’s letter. I wrap them in bubble wrap and set them in a box. Next, I box my books and my DVDs . . . After three hours, I’ve packed all my possessions, save the bed, the desk, and a few other stationary items.
I stare at the boxes, my life in cardboard.
* * *
I pray nightly. God, I need one of these agents to respond favorably. I need to have one of them scoop me up as a client. I need a publishing deal, God. I’m trying to have faith in this. Trying to believe you won’t let me fall. Don’t let me fall, God. I’ve paid my dues. I’m ready. I’m so ready, God. I couldn’t be more ready . . .
