by Sidney Bell
She pauses, maybe hearing the strain in his voice. “Not a social call, then.”
“No. Sorry.”
“Okay, give me thirty seconds.” She covers the mouthpiece for a second and talks to someone else. Excusing herself from whatever she’s doing to give him privacy. He winces. When she comes back, she says, “Hey, so—”
“Sorry,” he blurts. “I know it’s rude. I haven’t called you in ages. I shouldn’t—It’s rude to call out of nowhere because I need something when I haven’t—”
“It’s not your job to take care of me. Sponsor first, friendly-type person afterward.” She pauses again. Then, “Have you had anything to drink yet?”
“No.”
“Good.” It’s nice that she sounds relieved. “That’s good. I’m proud of you. Where are you?”
“Home. Sort of. In my driveway.” He clears his throat. “I can’t go inside. There’s a broken bottle of tequila in my kitchen. It’s everywhere. I can’t—” He exhales hard. “I went to a meeting this morning. Doesn’t seem like it helped, huh?”
“If you haven’t put a glass to your lips yet, my friend, I’d say it’s getting the job done. One day at a time. Or are we more on the one hour at a time mantra?”
“It’s one minute at a time, at this particular second.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “It’s been eight years. Sometimes I can barely remember what it tastes like. How can I be this desperate when I can go weeks at a time without thinking of it for more than the three minutes every morning when I do my resistance training?”
She laughs. “I forgot you did that. I’m guessing that’s what’s decorating your floor.”
“It is.”
“Yeah, I always thought that was a shitty idea. Having it in your house, having a shot of the stuff right in front of you? Fucking stupid.”
“In my defense, this is only the third time I’ve broken a bottle over the years.”
“Oh, is that all?” She puts on an air of being fake-impressed. “You’re knocking my socks off.”
Against his will, he finds himself smiling. This has always been Tracy’s best trait as a sponsor, her unwillingness to let him take himself too seriously. She’s a blonde, square-faced woman in her forties, with two kids and a convoluted history of husbands. He thinks there were three or four of them in there before she got sober. She’s probably a good mom. She’s certainly kept him accountable over the years. It was what drew him to her in the beginning. AA usually recommends that sponsors be the same gender as their sponsees to help ensure that sexual attraction doesn’t screw with a newcomer’s program; as a bisexual man, Cal was out of luck there. He focused instead on finding someone who didn’t give two shits that he was famous. During their first interview, Tracy told him she listened to jazz and thought grown men should only wear leather in chap-form when there was a cow nearby. She thought Cal was ridiculous. He thought she was perfect.
“Giving myself too much credit, I suppose.” Blood is still dripping down his cheek. It splats on the driveway cement. Definitely giving himself too much credit.
“Or maybe not enough. I couldn’t do it. Have it in the house? No way.”
“I thought I was past it.”
She sighs. “We’re never past it, baby. Never, ever, ever. Constant vigilance. Isn’t that what the eyeball guy from Harry Potter always says?”
Cal’s not a Harry Potter guy; he doesn’t recognize the reference. “Constant vigilance. It’s exhausting just thinking about always being braced for a storm.”
“Storms pass. You simply outwait them.” She doesn’t say anything else, and that’s fine. He knows. There isn’t a single thing they can say to each other at this point—barring Harry Potter references—that they haven’t said a million times already. He knows the facts and the tips and the tricks. He knows what he has to do to be successful, what works for him.
Doing it is harder.
“You need me to come over there and clean up the mess?” she asks, sounding hesitant.
“No.” Tracy’s particular success is all about staying away from the stuff. He can’t do that to her. “No, I’ll figure it out.”
“If you’re breaking bottles—”
“I’ll call Zac. He’ll help. Thanks anyway. I only needed some distraction to get me through a few rough minutes.”
She knows who Zac is, though she’s never met him. “All right. If Zac is available. Otherwise, call me back and we’ll get that tequila on your floor sorted. I have teenage sons who need to build character.”
Cal manages a small huff of laughter. “Deal.”
“Okay. You’re sure you’re feeling better?”
“I think I’m back on the one-hour-at-a-time train.” He opens the car door and sits sideways on the seat so he can put his shoes on one-handed while he talks. “I’m going to go to Zac’s. Get away from the mess until I’m solid again.”
They talk for a few more minutes, bullshitting mostly. Cal promises to call her if he needs help, whether it’s thirty seconds after they hang up or three in the morning, and then he promises to call her tomorrow to let her know he weathered the storm. “The struggle is real,” she says before she hangs up. “And you’re a fucking hero.”
He shakes his head, never mind that she can’t see it, but he doesn’t argue. She’s taking time out from lunch with someone else to talk to him, and besides, she hates it when he “attacks her with his overwrought modesty.”
He decides not to address it even though it makes him uncomfortable. “Thanks.”
When he hangs up, he finishes tying his shoes.
Only then does he remember that Zac is pissed off at him. And sure, Cal said he’d come over today, but they aren’t expecting Cal to show up in a half-resolved crisis and asking his new—whatever Zac is to him now—to clean his kitchen for him.
He tries to picture asking, and his mind flinches from it.
He’s not sure how much Zac has put together over the years. When Cal first told him that he wasn’t going to drink anymore, Zac responded the way someone might respond to a family member saying they decided to go vegan. Acceptance tinged with faint panic that they might be forced to talk in-depth about the subject. Zac didn’t complain when Cal asked their manager to ensure that their tour stops remained as nonalcoholic as possible. He never mentioned it at all.
When Cal went to him to make amends for the Ninth Step of his recovery, it turned into a confusing mishmash of Keystone Kops–level conversation. Zac barely let Cal get five words into his apology before interrupting, repeating over and over that Cal had nothing to apologize for, that he didn’t need Cal to explain, that he didn’t owe Zac anything. He blew it off so thoroughly that Cal realized Zac would be happier if Cal dropped it. And since the Ninth Step was about meeting the other person’s needs, he did just that.
Their relationship never got particularly rocky because of Cal’s drinking—Zac was partying pretty heavily at the time too, and besides, Cal’s drunken irresponsibility meshed pretty well with Zac’s natural irresponsibility. He didn’t care when Cal missed sessions or showed up late for a gig or—one particularly memorable time—accidentally dropped Zac’s car keys down a street drain. Zac found that hilarious. It was the kind of shit Zac did all the time when they were younger, so he didn’t take it personally when other people no-showed for work stuff or plans to hang out. He just thought it was their turn. It didn’t seem to occur to Zac that an apology would even be called for.
Tracy was initially worried that Cal would find Zac’s response unsupportive. That Cal might resent Zac’s easy dismissal of the whole thing. But considering the mess that the Ninth Step was with his family, Cal could only be grateful that Zac was so unconcerned. That old saying that no man is an island? Cal spent the whole amends process desperately wishing he spent his life in the abandoned, underwater city of Atlantis, down in the isolating depths of the dark
est ocean. The anxiety was so bad he only got a few hours of sleep a night for weeks. Zac’s eye-rolling offer to watch cheesy horror movies instead of talking was a refuge in comparison.
Besides, it was so Zac that Cal couldn’t take it personally. He found it bizarrely charming, actually.
It’s a crapshoot, trying to guess how Zac will respond to this. Not that he won’t help. Even if Zac’s pissed, Cal knows he’ll help. But Cal isn’t sure how much drama and confusion there will be through the process, and that’s what he can’t take right now.
Cal’s so tired. He wants to take a nap. But going back inside that echoing house and walking through the tequila fumes isn’t going to help. He’s never been desperate enough to lick alcohol from a cabinet before, but it seems like a stupid thing to risk.
He texts Anya: Can I come over?
She texts back promptly: If you bring ice cream.
He nods to himself. He has a goal. Buying ice cream will get him away from here. And maybe it’ll soften Zac up a bit.
* * *
He shows up at Zac and Anya’s big gray board-and-batten house with seven tubs of ice cream in three sacks. He knows Zac’s favorites—Moose Tracks and Mint Chocolate Chip—but not Anya’s, and he might have overcompensated a little.
He sits in the driveway for a minute to collect himself. With the engine off, summer is pushing against the windows within seconds, but he doesn’t mind. He never feels comfortable adding his opinion to the ongoing struggle that is the renovate vs. move debate Zac and Anya have engaged in since PJ came, but if Cal could choose, he’d want them to stay. He loves it here. They live on the east side of Venice, where the houses are a mishmash of styles and colors, and they have one of the few lots in the area that doesn’t have five neighbors living right on top of you. The property’s gorgeous—mature, leafy carrotwoods to deliver privacy, a solid stone wall to keep the more lascivious fans at bay, and even a pond in the back, although they don’t keep it stocked with anything more exotic than goldfish. The house itself is tall and dignified, an old Queen Anne with a large porch and an overwhelming number of narrow windows. It stands out from the usual blur of stucco, cement and adobe that overflows Southern California, which must have been a point in its favor when Anya and Zac were house hunting. Anya says it looks both vintage and elegant. Zac says it’s only a matter of time before they pick up a ghost or two.
Cal just thinks it feels like a home.
He uses his key and goes into the kitchen, setting the bulky bags on the counter with a wince, imagining their faces when they see how much he’s brought.
A kids’ television show blares from the living room, and it’s possible no one’s noticed him coming in. He’s tempted to hide in the kitchen. He has a balled-up, bloody napkin in his pocket that he grabbed from a dispenser at the ice cream place to clean up his cheek before he got in line. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it soaked through a few dozen napkins first. It’s deeper than he first thought. People at the ice cream store were staring at him.
He hopes nobody recognized him or took camera footage. He can picture the clickbait now: Hyde bassist caught with bloody face—the result of a jealous girlfriend? Is his already-dubious beauty destroyed forever? Is he buying ice cream for a secret, pregnant wife? If not, how much ice cream does this guy eat, Jesus? He’s almost forty. His metabolism has got to be something mythical by this point. Look at those ABBBBBSSSSS, boys and girls! Also, protein gets rid of belly fat! Our celebrity trainer breaks down Calvin Keller’s workout even though it’s little more than a guess because he’s never met the guy, let alone worked with him! Page 42!
He hears footsteps then, and the babble of a baby, and Cal’s chest tightens. A moment later Anya walks in, smiling until she catches sight of him. “Cal! What did you do to yourself?”
She gives him PJ to free up her hands and proceeds to grab his jaw, turning his face this way and that so she can stare at the cut on his cheekbone.
“It’s nothing, just a—I don’t want to make a big thing about—”
“Oh, you wouldn’t make a big thing if you cut your finger off. Shut up.” Her eyebrows do something scornful. He shuts up.
“Zac,” she calls over her shoulder. Then, to Cal, “He knows you’re here. We were talking when you pulled up. He went upstairs to pout, but I think we’re going to have to take you to get stitches, so he’ll need to suck it up.”
“I don’t need stitches.” He tries to duck away and give the baby back at the same time. Neither works.
“Zac!” she yells, voice sharpening. Then, to Cal again, she adds, “Yes, you do.” She pokes him in the cheek, not very hard, not even particularly close to the cut, but he feels it split open, and the blood flow isn’t exactly minimal. “See?”
“Because you poked me.”
“Life pokes you. If you don’t take care of the bleeding, that’s how life beats you.” She turns back toward the stairs. “Zac, stop being a little bitch, I need your help.”
There’s another riot of feet now, and then Zac’s snapping, “What, what is it? Is it PJ? Is it—? Fuck, man, what’d you do to your face?”
Zac’s brow furrows and Cal feels his cheeks turning red. Great. He read once that most people stop blushing by the time they’re twenty, and he’s had his fingers crossed ever since that this will be the year when his embarrassment reflex gets the message.
Anya peers at him critically, then makes a disgusted clucking sound and hauls him to the sink to wash the cut. He has to contort himself in order to hold PJ and lean over the drain at the same time. The soap stings, and he winces, immediately feeling stupid.
“Easy,” she murmurs, her gaze darting back and forth between the wound and his expression. “It’s okay, Cal. We’ll take care of it.”
When the cut is clean, she grabs some paper towels and presses them to his cheek.
He wishes she would take PJ. As long as he’s holding the baby, he’s stuck in this spot, letting her do whatever she wants. But maybe that’s why she won’t take the baby. He wouldn’t put it past her to be that Machiavellian.
“What happened?” Zac demands again. “Did you get in another car accident?”
Cal’s spine stiffens at the memory—his old Range Rover, the trip home from the hospital, June’s words hitting him like bullets, knowing it was deserved, every bit of it deserved.
“No. No car accident.”
“You were in a car accident?” Anya applies direct pressure to his cheek to stop the bleeding. “Was it bad?”
“Yes,” Zac says, at the same time that Cal says, “No.”
Anya raises an eyebrow. “When?”
“It was, like, seven years ago,” Zac tells her.
“Eight,” Cal corrects.
“Eight, yeah, whatever. That’s how he broke his nose.”
Anya surveys Cal’s face critically. “I was hoping for a more romantic story.”
Cal can’t quite make himself smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
She waves her hands as if she’s tired of him. “I’ll get over it.”
“Focus, people,” Zac snaps. “What the hell happened?”
“I broke a bottle of tequila,” Cal admits. “The glass ricocheted off the counter, I guess.”
Anya nods like it’s no big deal—hey, people drop things—but Zac’s eyes narrow to slits. He stares at Cal with an intensity that gives him the sensation of ants crawling on him. Zac doesn’t say anything, though, and then he still doesn’t say anything, and then his silence gets so loud that it’s deafening.
Anya gives up on Cal’s cheek with a dissatisfied scowl and throws the bloody paper towels away. “Zac could stay here with PJ while I take you to get stitches.”
“We’ll call a sitter,” Zac says. “I’m going too.”
“I’m fine.” The idea of trying to sit through a busy ER for a few hours to get stitches for a
cut that he brought upon himself in the stupidest of ways has Cal’s blood pressure rising. He can’t stop thinking about that tequila splashed all over his cabinets. “Really. I don’t need stitches.” He pokes at the cut again (albeit much more lightly than Anya had) and is gratified when it doesn’t reopen this time. “See?”
Anya glares at him. “I don’t like it. You could end up with a scar.”
“Chicks dig scars.” Cal tries to sound unconcerned. He jiggles PJ a bit, using the baby as an excuse to avoid eye contact.
She snorts, but subsides on the subject of the ER. She leaves for a second, abandoning him to Zac’s judgmental silence, only to return with a colorful box of bandages. “Here.” She sticks a big square one to his face, a wicked, amused twist to her lips. “You get Cookie Monster.”
He feels stupid with the bandage on, but it’s a fair punishment for his stubbornness. He’ll take what he can get.
“Thanks.” He hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed to kiss her. She lifts an impatient eyebrow and he hurries to press his lips awkwardly to her temple. “Right, yeah, thanks.”
She smirks at him, then goes to the sink to wash her hands, dodging around her husband as he suddenly rounds on the plastic bags. He unpacks the ice cream with big, furious gestures, wedging cartons into the freezer and hitting them with the side of his fist when they won’t conform to the available space.
“Anyway—” Cal starts, making his tone light and casual.
Zac talks right over him. “Hey, Animal, can you take PJ for a minute? I want to talk to Cal outside.”
Cal shakes his head at Anya, a desperate attempt at self-protection, but she’s not an idiot, and after a glance at her husband—Zac is shoving the freezer door closed despite the fact that that much ice cream should be physically impossible to fit into the available space—she takes her son back.
“I’m not living in the dark forever.” She drifts into the living room, muttering under her breath about how dumb men can be and that she hopes PJ will be smarter when he grows up.
