He loved karaoke for its routine and ritual: line up, pick a song, wait your turn to sing your heart out. Traveling for work, he sought out karaoke clubs like other road warriors hunted for hotels with in-room Wi-Fi or 24-hour gyms.
There was a decent crowd tonight. Ever since a city guide had anointed Trinity a top New York karaoke spot, it attracted tourists in droves.
Carl bided his time, swirling the stirrer in his ginger ale. He liked to wait until people had a few drinks in them; it made them all the more appreciative. When his turn came, he tucked in his shirt out of habit before climbing the single step to the stage. Once DJ Ken introduced him, he took the microphone and cleared his throat.
“Evening, everyone. I’m going to do a little Amphibian ditty. A favorite of mine from the seventies.”
“Phibs! Whoop-whoop!” someone yelled.
“Shut up and sing,” called another.
Ignoring the catcalls, Carl gave the DJ his cue. The music started; someone recognized the signature opening notes and hollered the title. “Rose Vol-cayyyy-no.”
Carl loved it when there were Phibs fans in the house. They exuded their own unique energy. Nodding, Carl began to sing:
People warned me to stay away but her power drew me close.
Deep as a river that scorched like fire, that woman’s name was Rose.
Carl moved easily around the stage, tapping his foot. It took less than a minute for his sure baritone to register with the crowd, for the front tables to shush talkers behind them and start clapping. He didn’t need the words on the screen:
Though her force could burn and her words could sear, it was useless to resist.
I learned this truth from her scalding lips the moment that we kissed.
He loved all of it, the adrenaline rush, the release, the adoration. By the time he reached the chorus, the whole of Trinity was with him:
I never knew what would set her off; I was helpless in that heat.
Though she leveled me with a single glance, Rose made my world complete.
Rose . . . my Rose Volcano.
By the end, the entire bar was on its feet, stamping and singing along until the final drawn-out “vol-cayyy-no.” The bride and two friends twirled on a table.
“‘Lifeboat’! ‘Cloud Path’!” Customers pressed for more Phibs nuggets. Illuminated phones in the air begged for an encore.
“Thank you, everyone.” Carl wiped his forehead with a crisp white handkerchief and stepped off the stage, applause ringing in his ears.
One and done, that was his motto. Back at the bar, Martin set him up with another ginger ale, then returned to dissecting bar fruit in front of Carl with military precision, tart citrus spraying from neat slices of lemons, limes and oranges. “Like I’ve said before, I’ve always pegged you as more Neil Diamond than Ace Ackerman.” He aimed his paring knife at Carl. “I think it’s that uniform look you’ve got going on.”
Carl glanced down at his khaki work pants, pressed navy sport shirt and work boots—a far cry from the trademark tie-dye of Amphibian’s lead singer—and supposed Martin was right. He didn’t bother much about clothes. He often had to take off on very short notice; limiting himself to a few staples made packing easier. In spite of the differences in their wardrobes, however, Ace Ackerman et al had taught Carl to appreciate a number of things in life, principally music.
Around 1:00 a.m., shortly after the bride staggered out, Carl drained his glass and dropped a couple of singles on the bar. Outside Trinity, Pearl Street was filled with people who had a lot of night left in them. As usual, he walked. He spent so much time on the road that when he did get back to the city, he left his car in the garage as much as possible. He passed an all-night bodega, its outside stands stuffed with daffodils and hyacinths, and then an after-hours club, its queue of young well-dressed customers snaking around the block.
Twenty, twenty-five years ago, he’d have jumped right in there with them. Today, Trinity was more his speed. He’d found the place by accident after he’d rented his apartment, stopping in to eat one night. Back then, there wasn’t much around in the way of entertainment, just a couple of workingmen’s bars.
Four years later, 9/11 happened. Carl thought about moving. For a while, New York seemed frozen in mourning, shunned by tourists. Then the city got its groove back, bullied by the mayor’s relentless enthusiasm.
Today, Carl could barely get a newspaper without circumventing a stroller or two; his lower Manhattan neighborhood had become so gentrified. Workers hung around instead of jumping on the first train home; residents of ubiquitous converted lofts and crystal towers spilled out of their boxy homes like ants most nights. College students were everywhere, and arrogant.
It was as though secret crews worked through the night on the city’s transformation. Often, when he returned from a trip, the local landscape had shifted again—a new coffee place where a bookstore had been, another doggie day care. It was like solving that puzzle in the back of the children’s magazine, trying to figure out what was different.
With all the upscale changes, he was just grateful to hang on to one of the few remaining rent-controlled apartments. His buddy Jimbo had turned him on to the building when they’d gotten out of the service. Carl’s Pearl Street one-bedroom suited his spartan lifestyle—ideal for someone living alone.
Half a block from home, he ordered a gyro from a street vendor, the 24/7 availability of food a perk of gentrification. Waiting, he reminded himself to drop off the Suburban at Randall’s tomorrow for service. Randall was the last of a dying breed, a mechanic who would open his garage on Sunday for a loyal customer. Carl was overdue for a new car, but like everyone else coming off the years-long recession, he was gun-shy, eking out a few more miles from his current vehicle until business picked up again.
His end of the street was quiet. In the vestibule of his apartment, his BlackBerry vibrated, an unfamiliar New York number lighting up the screen.
“Begin Again Transport. Carl Alden speaking. How can I help you?”
SUNDAY
MEG
The testimonials from Begin Again parents had been like a drug. Meg scrolled and scrolled, addicted.
Thank you for the very professional service Begin Again provided for us in getting our son Eric to Resolutions Center. You turned what could have been a very emotional and angry confrontation into a very smooth transition.
—Alicia D., Nashville, TN
Your assistance with my daughter Marisol has helped to give us our lives back. I would recommend your transportation services to any parents who feel they have nowhere else to turn.
—Elsa C., Destin, FL
Nowhere to turn. That’s us, Meg thought.
She read Begin Again’s checklist for parents:
Has your teen found new friends and left the old ones behind?
Do you suspect your child is using drugs or alcohol?
Has your teen adopted an “I don’t care” attitude?
Check, check, check.
The last item:
Do you feel you are losing your teen?
A little bit, every day. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Meg watched Begin Again’s video of a simulated transport: A mother leads two agents into a teenager’s room. They talk with the girl briefly, then lead her outside to a car, the mother watching from a window. Clearly, the mother and child were actors. But the agents seemed real, the whole process humane, possible.
The cheesy two-minute movie gave Meg hope. Too revved up to sleep, she slipped out of bed and shut herself in her closet to dial the 800 number. Despite the ungodly hour, Carl Alden was gracious and professional as Meg tearfully related Alex’s story and her own plan to rescue her. It was fate that Begin Again contracted with The Birches for transportation services; Meg had never even thought to ask the school. Alden knew the facility well and spoke highly of it.
They talked for nearly an hour, Meg holding her breath at the sound of Alex finally coming upstairs, though it would have been unusual for her dau
ghter to stop by her room.
Until that moment, all that separated Alex from The Birches in Silver Mountain was a phone call from Meg and a way to get her daughter there. But in Carl Alden and Begin Again, Meg found the missing piece of the puzzle: a transporter. Alden offered references and directed her to complete Begin Again’s online Transport Request Form.
All of that had been last night. Today, Meg had printed the form clandestinely at work and had it with her now. She’d come out to the promenade, a detour after work, so she could read the form and think about what she would write. She gazed out at Long Island Sound from a bench and contemplated the ruffle of clouds stitched to the horizon like lace. A few people took advantage of the bonus hour of daylight: a bundled figure chasing a dog at the water’s edge, a fisherman sitting low in a beach chair, his twin lines anchored in the sand.
Meg chose a different bench every time she went to the water. She was a few yards away from where she and Alex had fought over the boarding school idea; today’s bench was “Your Wish Fulfilled.” For five hundred dollars, the town soldered a personalized plaque to a bench. Dedications were strung along the walkway like love letters, bouquets lashed to the benches on birthdays and anniversaries, wreaths and even some battery-powered fairy lights attached at the holidays.
Meg wanted her own bench one day. She’d thought about surprising Jacob with one for their twentieth anniversary. They’d certainly logged enough stroller miles with both kids. After Jack’s colicky infancy, they’d jokingly crafted their inscription: “Silence Is Golden.”
Obviously, that bench wouldn’t happen now, Meg thought, lighting a cigarette filched from Alex. The dog on the beach now obediently fetched the driftwood its owner hurled into the water, dropping it back at its master’s feet. Digging in her pocket, she pulled out Begin Again’s form and unfolded it. The first part was simple enough: name, address, contact information. Next, the legal mumbo jumbo. I have full legal custody and rights to place this minor in the services of Begin Again Transport. She squirmed before checking the box. Describe any unique custody arrangements. Meg could state with a clear conscience there were none. If anything were to change, it would be after the divorce. She dragged deeply, rolling the word “divorce” around in her mind. Why was Jacob so willing to take the easy way out?
Next, Alex’s physical characteristics. Height: five foot five, Meg having lost the height advantage. Eye color: green, since hazel wasn’t an option. Date of birth: September 9, 1995. Seventeen this fall. Identifying physical characteristics: lip ring, sanctioned by a well-intentioned Jacob after the accident; no tattoos Meg was aware of.
On to Transportee history. “Extremely helpful in assembling the right transport team,” Alden had said when he walked her through the form last night. She pondered its questions now: Is your child a flight risk? If so, please explain.
The child in the video had gone docilely. Meg had asked Carl what would happen if Alex tried to flee. For kids deemed a flight risk, Carl brought an ex-military or police officer, but from what Meg had shared so far, he told her, that didn’t seem necessary. In Alex’s case, a female guide would sit in the backseat with her at all times. He trained his staff to de-escalate volatile situations with something called Positive Control Systems. Meg had made a mental note to look that up.
Has your teen exhibited violence and/or aggressive behavior? Alex periodically flew off the handle, but had never gotten physical.
It was obvious Alden painstakingly matched the transport team to the child’s physical and emotional state—like a bizarre dating service, Meg thought, pocketing the form. Alden had calmly assured her during their phone call that he used no physical force to move the child from bedroom to vehicle, the most vulnerable time of the transport. His secret? With the parents out of the picture, he said, emotions were less likely to flare.
“When the child meets us, they’ll weigh their options: run, play possum, fight or cooperate.” His team could read body language and act accordingly.
A light wrist hold was sufficient to manage most kids, he had assured her, and the auto’s basic child locks contained all but the most hyperactive teens.
If things escalated, there were restraints, but their use was extremely rare—with one in ten boys, maybe one in twenty girls, he estimated.
“Ultimately, your child will realize her best option is to cooperate with us.”
Meg had found it difficult to swallow, suddenly. “I can’t believe I have to resort to this.” Carl was sympathetic as she explained how she had tried to talk to Alex about The Birches. “I know she won’t go with me willingly,” she said. “But this . . .”
There was a lot of judgment about using a transporter, Carl acknowledged. “I talk to families like yours every day. The best thing would be to take your child yourself. But if it puts either your child or your family at risk, is it worth it?”
It wasn’t. Carl had made the trip to The Birches several times. Begin Again’s time from Alex’s bedroom to program would be five to six hours, he estimated. Working together, the school and Begin Again could operate on very short notice, should Meg decide to schedule the transport. He had urged her to think seriously about it.
It was all Meg had thought about for the last twelve hours. Alden struck her as attentive, even calling her at work earlier that day to see if he could assist her further.
Meg stubbed out the cigarette and stuck the papers back in her pocket, sure of what she would write.
Arriving home, Meg had all intentions of putting everything on the table. Jacob raised a hand to her from the den. “We left some pizza for you.”
She had half hoped Jacob would cook tonight. She loved coming home on Sundays after he and the kids commandeered the kitchen and spent the afternoon cooking. It was worth the mess that remained to see Alex and Jack beaming over their efforts. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
Alex was out tonight, Jacob said—something about a study group. Meg could only imagine what they might be studying. Once Jack was in bed, she confronted Jacob in the den, standing between him and the television. He fixed her with a heavy-lidded stare.
“I’m very worried about Alex,” she began. “She’s really floundering.”
“I talked to her about the party, Meg. She promised it won’t happen again.”
“I know a way to make sure it doesn’t.” Meg perched on the ottoman. “I found this place in New Hampshire that would be amazing for her.”
“New Hampshire? You want to send her away because of a trashed house?”
“Of course not. This isn’t sending her away; it’s sending her to a place where she’ll thrive.” Meg launched into The Birches’ philosophy, its success rate with kids like Alex, its family-focused approach.
“You mean, we’d sit around and share our feelings with strangers? We don’t need that touchy-feely stuff.” He leaned around her to see the television. The salt-and-pepper waves grazing the neck of his T-shirt were out of character; he usually took such care with his appearance.
Cursing herself for having led with that, Meg changed gears, pitching the school’s self-sustaining farm that taught the students responsibility, accountability. She didn’t mention she’d seen it in action—droopy-jeaned boys yawning while they milked cows at dawn. “You know Alex is crazy for animals. Remember Clara?”
Clara was the matriarch cow at London’s, their local farm stand. They stopped there often when Alex was small, holding her over the fence to stroke Clara’s snout.
Jacob smiled. “How about that card she made for Clara’s birthday?” The yellowed drawing was still taped to the farm’s register. “There are animals here, Meg. We’ll get her more hours at the animal shelter.”
“She hasn’t volunteered there in months.”
Jacob shifted on the couch. “How much does a place like The Birches cost, anyway? We’ve got college to think about.”
“If we don’t do something soon, she might not make it to college.”
“Don’t
be so dramatic. How are we going to afford some ritzy New Hampshire boarding school?”
Now Jacob chose to be fiscally responsible? He might have begun a few months ago by persuading his mother to scale back the Sweet Sixteen gala she had insisted on throwing for Alex. Their daughter would have survived. If they had to accept Miriam’s largesse at all, her funds could have been used to offset their mounting bills instead.
But Jacob had balked. His mother just lost her husband, he argued; they should let her throw a party for her oldest granddaughter. Her mother-in-law had attached one odd stipulation: that her role in Alex’s celebration remain a secret, Miriam’s way of massaging her son’s ego, Meg surmised.
“The Birches is considered therapeutic,” Meg continued. “It’s in our insurance network. We’re covered as long as Alex meets their criteria. They think she will.”
“Do they? So you’ve already talked to them.” He aimed the remote over her head. They sat in stony silence while a 60 Minutes reporter grilled an oily haired man about a phony drug cure he’d been peddling to desperate cancer patients.
At a commercial, Jacob muted the sound. “Suppose for one second I go along with this. Do you think Alex will magically agree to go this time?” He stretched his legs alongside her on the ottoman. “She wouldn’t even talk to the school counselor. Or Dr. Fallon.”
Dr. Fallon had been Alex’s therapist for a brief period. Alex had allowed Meg to sit in on the first session, probably because Alex already had decided not to cooperate. When Alex did volunteer something, no matter how trivial, Dr. Fallon would ask, “And how does that make you feel?”
Meg didn’t blame her daughter for shutting down, refusing to see the doctor. She went back to the drawing board, setting up appointments with two more therapists, both younger and more relatable, she thought after speaking with them on the phone.
Deliver Her: A Novel Page 3
