Linc had gone back to his chair and was working with George.
It gradually became plain that George’s father, long dead now, had not given George the right time; wanted another athlete, like George’s older brother, who also put down George, who wanted to emulate him but who was even more streaming with passion to get his father’s approval. George no good at football, went out for coaching though, against all the competition finally in his senior year (high school) made manager, brought the news as a heave offering to his father and got shot down by a bitter comparative reference to his brother’s All-State history at left half. Ignominy. Severance burned. At least he hadn’t had that to face, and then the self-put-down. His plus-strokes going for him he was only too familiar with, and in a way, though he saw that George’s problem was phantom, he envied him his humility, little as it was justified.
Linc said, rather offhand but his voice had developed and increased a certain resonant pressure, Severance could see that the rest of the group had ceased to exist for George and in fact George was sitting up straighter, had uncrossed his ankles, hands in his lap now, ‘Would you like to have a talk with your father?’
‘I guess so,’ said George doubtfully, “if only it wasn’t too late.’
‘Do you have anything you want to say to him?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway it’s impossible. Yes, I would.’
‘Okay!’ Linc got up and borrowed the nurse’s chair to put in front of George, facing him, empty. He sat back down. ‘Your father is sitting in the chair.’ Long silence. ‘You can see him.’ Silence. ‘Can you see him?’
‘Yes,’ George’s voice was far-away, hard to hear. He was staring at where the head would be.
‘What does he look like? Can you describe him?’
‘Sure. Just the usual. Like after supper, in the living-room.’
‘What expression has he got?’
‘He’s smiling at me.’
‘What do you say to him?’ Silence. ‘What do you say to him?’
‘“Hi, Dad.” ’
‘And he says?’
‘“Hi, George.” ’
‘And you say?’
‘“I miss you a lot, Dad.” ’
Severance’s eyes filled with tears, his breathing was difficult, he could only partly attend as George’s father said, “I miss you too,” and George said, “I made manager, Dad,” and his father said, “I’m proud of you, George,” and George said, “I love you, Dad.” There was more, but Severance was fighting sobs and didn’t hear it, before Linc’s voice changed, acquired a snap, ‘Now your father’s not there any more and you’re back here with us.’
George looked at him dazed, his hands braced on his knees relaxed, he leaned back, though not as before.
‘Do you remember what just happened?’
‘Sure.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Wonderful. I feel happy.’
‘You know that none of it was real. Your father has been dead for eleven years—okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘You feel okay about that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You employ four men, is that right?’
Reluctantly: ‘Yes.’
‘You’re thinking of expanding. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Three other firms like yours have failed while yours has been succeeding. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have any help in your success?’
‘Well—’
‘Yes or no. Did you have any financial backing or did you do it all yourself? Yes or no. You did it alone?’
With recovered firmness, with actual energy: ‘Yes.’
‘Climb up on your chair.’
Looking sheepish, but half-grinning, George stood awkwardly up onto his little straight chair and looked down across at Linc.
‘Now say, “I did it.” ’
George hesitated. ‘I did it,’ he said embarrassed.
‘No. Louder.’
‘I did it!’ He sounded as if he meant it.
‘Louder.’
‘I did it!’ He was crowing like a cock, and every nerve in Severance’s body was jumping. ‘I DID IT. I DID IT.’
Cheers from everybody, general exultation, universal relief and joy. Severance felt triumphant. George climbed down and two or three patients rushed over to embrace him. Out of the tangle presently he sat back down, fists on his knees, bolt upright, eyes flashing.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Okay!’
‘It’s okay to feel okay, George. Remember that. It’s okay to feel okay,’ said Linc, turning off the tape-recorder.
5
SEVERANCE REMAINED FASCINATED, all through Louise’s boring Group and lunch: he wished his problems were as simple. One in fact was the opposite. He had no difficulty indeed in giving himself credit, and over-credit the sky’s the limit, for his bloody pathetic achievements such as they were. Still it was marvellous to see a man stop beating up on himself—obeying Witch-Messages—worshipping at the resented shrine of an unjust father. Marvellous! He felt brought forward, and listened closely to Father Mankey’s one-fifteen lecture, making notes.
‘aft., 13 Oct
Guilt recognition
sorrow
acknowledgement
(restitution)
resolve not to repeat the offence
Forgiveness (based on desire to restore the prior rel’n)
David to Shemi, “You shall not die” insincere dying instr’n “Oh, yes, and kill Shemi”
Reconciliation must be based on sincerity on both sides, with trust—maybe imprudent! but—
Immense difficulty of the offending person becoming convinced he’s forgiven
(Peter’s betrayal, 3:3 “Feed my sheep”)’
Again, not his problem. He had only had one enemy in the world, so far as he could remember, and he certainly had been bitter without a ceiling against this man so long as he suffered under his authority; but after his power over Severance was taken from him by the University President Severance half-forgot him and was actually sorry when the man finally had to resign under pressure both from below and lateral, partly owing to accumulated rage over his treatment of Severance and similar power-abuses—had thought of writing him a note, desisted when he could see no way of avoiding a graceless and cruel note of triumph he didn’t actually feel, though he did feel some vindication and was happy to see that domain of the University delivered from tyranny. An able scholar too; normal corruption of office. No, forgiveness was not his sweat, and a lucky thing; he could see himself, located there, being very very hard. As for guilt, the vast business of that he’d worked through, and survived, at Howarden, in the first four or five days and nights after he was transferred from Intensive Care.
He went off, after two hours in his room on Step One, to First Step Prep at four o’clock in high spirits with a sinking heart, determined to Bear All. But when names had been admitted around the circle of eight or ten victims, he found Gus regarding him with unexpected friendliness. ‘Alan, it hurts my old heart to see you back’ (Gus was twenty years younger than Severance) ‘but I’d rather see you back than dead. There’s always hope, as the man says. What do you think happened?’
Severance took a deep breath. ‘Hell and shit happened, Gus. I went out cocky and never had a prayer. Six or seven slips in the first two months, all faithfully reported —practically every week—to both Dr Rome’s Encounter-Group and my AA squad, AND I got hell and hell over again. Never missed a meeting. I figure now the slips not only let me drink but kept me the dead-center attention of both groups. I never enjoyed the drinking, and in fact I didn’t even want to drink. It was whim-drinking. I remember one noon maybe six days out of hospital—Vin had me still coming to Group—I was walking down Barsnet afterward and I found myself wondering whether I would turn off right towards the University and the bus home or whether I would just continue right on to the Circle and up right one block to the
main bar I use there, and have a few. Wondering. My whole fate depending on pure chance. If that happened now, I would turn straight around and back to the hospital and sign in for more treatment. My God. Well, a few days later, of course, I took a bus to Ashville and had two or three drinks. And so on. Then after two months of this, I put my foot down. I decided I would rather die than walk in on Wednesday night and look at Dr Rome and confess another slip. No No, not for Baby. So I went two months, and that included a trip to Mexico far from easy. I sweated in the plane—my wife and daughter were in seats together behind me—and I sweated in the airports, especially San Antonio, and I sweated the week in Mexico City. It was no Programme whatever, it was pure pride and rage that kept me sober. Then I went on a trip East—trips are hard on me—and drank six days; shacked up in the end with an Arab girl here in town, totally out of touch and entirely out of my mind; formed a perfectly satisfactory suicide plan for yesterday morning as soon as the gun-stores opened, for no reason at all changed my mind, had the girl drive me home and here I am. It must have been the First Step, though God knows you seemed satisfied yourself, and brother, I’m at it.’
‘Well,’ Gus said amiably, ‘there’s no hurry about the First Step. But why do you think this time will be any different from your previous treatments?’
‘I had a heavy diminution the other morning of: self-pity, rage, resentments—a load so great I’ve spent two well-known volumes on it. I don’t depend on AA, I went every week and drank almost every week for those first two months. A new view and practice of Steps One and Three. I pray a good deal.’
‘What are you going to do when you want that drink? —just pray?’ and Mike—his old friend Mike from last Spring sitting in, formidably dry: ‘How about the gradual building up over months? How do you plan to fill all that time?’ Other questions, too, and he answered them but he sounded uneasy and he felt even more uneasy than he sounded, and he was amazed when, after the meeting broke up at quarter past five, Gus took him aside in the corridor and actually said, ‘I’m counting on you to help me some, Alan? Do you think you can?’
‘Christ, Gus,’ Severance was overwhelmed, ‘I would not like anything better in the world, if I thought I could.’
‘We’re all sick in our degrees around here,’ Gus said warmly, ‘but we can help each other even where we’re blind ourselves. You’re a nice guy, Alan. I’m counting on you, then.’
Severance was too choked-up to speak. He went to his room and sat unnerved till the gong went for dinner. ‘How’s it going?’ Charley asked, looking up as they clattered downstairs together. ‘Terrific,’ said Severance. ‘I’m not so keen on myself but Gus thinks I may be able to help him with the others.’
Though not exactly a street-angel-house-devil like his grandfather (according to his grandmother, who hated men), Severance was a man of intermittent and irreconcilable virtue. One of his heroes was some priest once read about, who ‘treated everyone with the utmost kindness: if he favoured anyone it was the most unfortunate, and especially those who rebelled.’ Severance liked that, it was just how he treated his students, and its coincidence with how he thought he ought to treat his students—and not only his students but his colleagues’ students, for Dr Severance was much applied to, his office was a sort of problem-clinic on Tuesday afternoons from three to four-thirty or six—gave him deep satisfaction: there was one corner where he was okay. He gave himself credit, vigorously. His wife he did not see in either of these positions—though he recognized daily and with bitter remorse her misfortune in having married him and he sympathized (secretly) with her rare up-on-her-hind-legs revolts against his tyranny. He was very much afraid of her and he gave her a hard time. She often complained that any damned student, especially if female, had his automatic undivided attention sooner than she did, that he was a louse, that he did not care anything about her. None of this was true, he considered. He thought about her night and day, for instance her problems and inadequacy as a teacher (for she had finally finished her training and was teaching the 6th grade in a suburban school, her first job ever). It was true he felt some contempt (carefully concealed, and he was ashamed of it) for her cowardice in not standing up to her students, of whom she was mortally afraid, every third morning at breakfast she was half-in-shock at the prospect of facing them again. On the other hand, how could he expect her to cope with aimless brutes? One of her boys, a bright little fellow named Drake, had broken a little girl’s arm in class one day; another had hoisted an atlas heavy as a boulder and slammed it down on the cranium of the little girl sitting in front of him, he might have given her concussion; the Generation Gap was real, Severance’s blood boiled, he was fertile with devices against these monsters, only he deplored her helplessness, doubted if she had any vocation. He looked at her with rage, seated on the edge of his hospital bed that evening, and said, ‘Where the hell were you? I called four times.’
‘Did you? I’m sorry, Alan. I was so exhausted from the six days’ strain I just went to bed right after dinner, even before Rachel did, taking the phone off the hook so I wouldn’t be wakened by one of your damned fans ringing up from distant States in the middle of the night.’
‘That’s not my fault, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Well, you complain, but in my opinion you get a charge out of it. I don’t.’
‘Didn’t you know I’d want to see you and Rachel?’
‘Frankly, no. You were so weird that night, I didn’t know whether you’d ever want to see me again, and—even more frankly—vice versa. I’m grateful for your coming home at last, but I was half out of my mind. And I’m not going to reproach you about that girl but that wasn’t an entirely agreeable experience either.’
‘I know, Ruth. I was insane. She took care of me.’
‘I bet. Actually though, I was sorry for her later. It probably wasn’t her fault and it can’t have been pleasant for her having you agree with me—finally—that she really had to leave. If I knew how to reach her, I would have called to say I understood and didn’t blame her. Do you happen to know how?’
‘No,’ he lied, ‘it’s all very vague to me. She’s somewhere in Ashville Heights, all I remember. Never mind. How is Rachel?’
‘Well, I didn’t tell her you’d called from the airport, she thought you were still in the East. She’s sorry you’re back in hospital. Alan, she knows far more than you think, and hurts more.’
‘It kills me. I know. I’ve remembered things. At Howarden, when I was working on the Fourth Step, I said to myself: At least my drinking hasn’t done the baby any harm, she’s too young. But last Spring, here, I woke up. I remembered two little things. When she said to you once, “Daddy dinks too much,” and you told her, “You mustn’t say that, Rachel,” and you and I laughed. Ha ha. Then when she said to you, “Daddy never plays with me,” and she cried, my God when I heard that I thought I would die.’
‘All past, Alan,’ she said looking at his bowed skull kindly. ‘You’ve been very good with her all summer. Much much better. Do you want to go down and see her.’
‘Better not. I feel torn to pieces. They’ve had me going like a maniac all day. Listen, will you bring my old First Step over tomorrow, it’s in the pile on top of Webster up in the Study.’
‘Yes. It does seem to be the First Step, doesn’t it?’
‘What were the goddamned cops doing there, anyway? And Oliver, for God’s sake.’
‘All that was pure coincidence. I hadn’t asked any of them. Oliver had alerted the campus police and two just stopped by to see if I could give them any pointers. We didn’t know where you were, except something you said to Floyd over there one night drinking and something you said to Amy. They’d only been there five minutes. Wilbur and Rose had come to hold my hand. Nothing was planned.’
‘Well, I nearly went crazy. My own house!’
‘It’s our house.’
‘Okay!’
They patched up a hostile reconciliation. At least she hadn’t been planting
authorities on him and he had been forgiven (maybe) the six days berserk and the Arab girl and you name it. Wince for the baby. He lit a cigarette, blanketed his feelings, and went to work. Rapidly he listed his qualities—his equipment, after all:
‘arrogant
sensitive & madly nervous (except performances etc)
hard-working
authoritative but suum cuique
witty
loyal
kind: cruel as Pharaoh
indifferent, bored; procrastinating
devout; & “national”
ambitious
guilt-ridden
obstinate
an attentive listener; impatient
“daring,” “courageous,” “dangerous”
blunt
“original”
learned
resourceful
power of connexion (the point, for my type of mind)
despairing, afraid of suicide
tired’
Not so bad after all. Better than he expected. Promising.
It was eleven at night in the Snack Room and Severance and Jasper Stone were seated at the little table walking stiff-legged around each other. Jeree sat with them, looking inert. A shitass orderly lounged against the freezer. Severance could tell you something about him.
‘I don’t think much of your Nation stuff,’ the poet said airily, ‘when I see one. I admit your Courbet a while ago was amusing but your attempt to supply the jerk with a spiritual life was pathetic.’
Severance, pleased but stung: ‘So you’re an expert on Courbet, are you?’
‘Are you?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But isn’t it likely I know more about him than you do? You haven’t seen Boudaille’s book.’
‘Isn’t it a fact that he never painted a religious subject in his greedy life?’
Recovery Page 3
