Walking on Broken Glass

by Christa Allan

  If the subject of Vic or the accident broke hallowed ground, there were two taboos.

  Never to be discussed in the Thornton house:

  1. That Vic was not wearing a seatbelt at the time of the accident.

  2. Empty cans of Amber Beer covered the floor of the car.

  Carl was eight years old when he became an only child. His parents, for almost ten years after Vic's death, built their business with a vengeance. By the time Carl was Vic's age, his parents had accumulated lots of stuff purchased by lots of money.

  When I first met Carl he told me his parents were in sales. There's in sales and then there's IN SALES. His parents were the second. They appeared entirely too squeamish to be making major drug or weapons runs. I knew people with oodles of money who built Amway businesses, but their products were all over their homes, their faces, their bodies, their cars. I didn’t understand what pipeline the Thorntons had located, and I still don’t. But it worked, and I don’t have to understand how. Now that I’m in AA, I can wrap my brain around that a little better.

  Landon sold things to people who needed things—sort of a one-man offline eBay, moving larger commodities. Let's say you have ten thousand whatevers and you need to sell them. Landon found someone who wanted ten thousand whatevers or two people who wanted five thousand each, and he hooked them up. He earned a commission. He never had to touch the products. Personally, I thought it was brilliant. Landon and Gloria did, too; if you asked them, they’d tell you.

  Carl graduated from college (not LSU) and thought he would work in his father's business. The machine hummed along, and Carl figured he’d play a tune or two. Landon and Gloria thought Carl needed to serve time in the “real world of work.” I guess for the truly wealthy, that's a sort of prison.

  So Carl served his time, and tonight we’d finally be able to celebrate his initiation into his family's business. At least that was the plan.

  As usual, the country club dining room was bountifully decorated with candles and brimming with bow-tied waiters. The Thorntons had a table center stage. Landon and Gloria were truly gracious to Dad. Since Mom died, I’d seen a glimmer of something in them that might be called compassion.

  The Thorntons had already ordered appetizers and a bottle of wine, something with Beernauslese in the name, and the waiter started pouring. I turned my glass over before he reached me. Gloria, always quick on the uptake, looked at the glass, then at me, and said, “Leah, dear, don’t you like this wine? If not, we can certainly order another bottle of whatever you want.” She looked over her shoulder at the waiter, “Gary, would you mind bringing the wine list out again for us when you finish pouring? I think Leah might like to look it over.” She turned to me. “Unless you want something else entirely. A mixed drink?”

  I bit my tongue. Hard. “No, thank you, Mrs. Thornton,” I said. “Gary, I don’t need a wine list. I’ll have a glass of water with lemon. Thank you.” I glared at Carl. He looked like I imagined he would at the Second Coming. Terrified. He opened his mouth, but words came of his mother's mouth instead.

  “Aren’t you feeling well since your—” she paused “—rest? Did they advise you not to drink?”

  “No, Mrs. Thornton,” I said, softly gracious, like I imagined Melanie in Gone with the Wind would speak. I placed my hand on top of Carl's clammy and shivering one.

  He cleared his throat with a wet cough. The sound attracted the attention of Landon and my father who’d almost solved all the social, financial, and political issues of post-Katrina.

  I summoned my inner Southern-magnolia and said to my Benedict Arnold husband, “Carl, honey, I thought you explained to your parents why I’m not drinking. Do you need me to tell them?”

  “No, no. I’ll tell them,” he said. His spinal fluid had probably leaked out and drenched his shirt. “The reason Leah's not drinking—” He cleared his throat.

  My father glanced over at him and reached for the bread basket.

  What followed was a disaster of cosmic voiceover synchronicity. I watched my father's mouth open just as Carl choked out his own words. In that scope of time, each one speaking over the other:

  Carl: “She's going to have a baby.”

  Bob: “Because of her alcoholism, right?”

  Gary brought my water to the table.

  He must have sensed the impending explosion, like sensing the almost imperceptible shudders of the earth before it screamed open, swallowed what fell in its mouth, and settled into a gaping yawn. Gary placed the glass and a small crystal bowl of wedged lemons down, tipped his head, and, with a small Fred Astaire move, he disappeared.

  Landon and Gloria, much to their credit, didn’t collapse on the tiled floor or leap out of their chairs. Landon straightened his array of silverware, aligning the squared ends of the utensils on each side of his dinner plate. In the meantime, Gloria lightly rubbed the front of her neck with one hand, and held the stem of her Waterford crystal wineglass with the other. She focused on it so intently, she could have been attempting to levitate the glass. Landon folded his napkin into a perfect square and placed it in the middle of his plate. He stood. “Son,” he placed his hand on the top of Gloria's chair, “your mother and I would like to speak to you, privately, in the Grill.”

  He pulled out Gloria's chair. “Please excuse us.”

  Carl didn’t protest. He looked in my direction, not really at me, and said, “I won’t be long.” He touched the top of my shoulder, then trailed into the Grill after his parents.

  I refused to sit in the middle of the country club dining room to wait for Landon and Gloria to finish their grown-up time out with my husband. “No problem. Take as long as you need. Dad and I are going home, so if you’ll hand me the car keys.”

  “You and your father don’t have to leave,” said Landon, and he truly sounded kind.

  “I know we don’t have to. I just think it's best.”

  Dad still held the bread basket like he’d float off somewhere if he let go. “Don’t you want to wait for Carl?”

  “I’m sure his parents wouldn’t mind driving him home,” I said, as I took the keys from my husband. “Dad, let's go.” For a minute, I thought the bread basket might be going home with us. I was so hungry, I almost hoped it would. Dad set it on the table, then stood and shook hands with Landon and Carl and gave Gloria a brush-by kiss on her cheek.

  “Well, good to see you, um, thanks. Maybe we’ll get together before I leave,” Dad said.

  I slid my chair out. “Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, thank you for everything.”

  We waited quietly until the valet brought the car. Dad buckled in, reached over, and patted my back, “So, you and Carl are going to have a baby. That's great. That's great.”

  I ordered pizza after we got home, then Dad and I watched a golf tournament Carl had TiVoed a few weeks ago.

  At nine o’clock, I kissed Dad good night.

  “I didn’t know Carl hadn’t told them yet, honey.”

  “It's not your fault, Dad,” I told him and went to bed. I fell asleep before Carl arrived home.

  41

  On Saturday morning I had two legitimate reasons to leave Carl and my father alone. First, after the previous night, they deserved one another, and second, I was on my way to meet Molly for our Saturday walk.

  With Molly and Devin focused on in vitro again, I’d hoped to postpone our baby news. But with Carl's job, AA, and his parents knowing, I wanted Molly to hear it from me before the gossip grapevine strangled her with the news.

  “My thighs wiggled with anticipation all the way from the house,” I told Molly and hugged her, willing every ounce of gratitude I felt to seep through my skin and into hers. After a lifetime of struggling to define emotions, I hoped God created a way to give them physical forms in heaven. We could have guided tours: gratitude and joy on your right, peace and thanksgiving on your left. I’ve spent more time contemplating heaven now that I’ve included God in my contact list. Even before AA, I knew it was important to know whe
re I was going; otherwise, how would I know if I’d arrived? In my meditation last week, I read a passage from Corinthians where Paul said that when Jesus returns, we’ll all have new bodies for heaven. What a spectacular going-away gift.

  “I’m glad we’re doing this again,” she said. “I feel like we haven’t spent time together in years instead of weeks.”

  “Crazy, huh? Summer's almost over. At least I’m not manic trying to get ready for school again. A one-year sabbatical was a brilliant idea.” I’d bent over to grab my ankles to stretch out when the baby reminded my digestive system s/he didn’t care for that position. I straightened my body and settled for side stretches instead.

  “And whose idea was that?” Molly teased. She’d thought to mention it to Carl and me the first week of rehab.

  Of course, being the consummate overachiever, I bristled. “I can handle sobriety and students,” I’d told her.

  “Not the point. You have the time coming to you, take it. Why set yourself up for failure?” She bristled herself on that one.

  I relented when I’d thought about using the time to take classes … not at the university, but yoga and cooking and spin. On this side of rehab, I couldn’t imagine preparing for school. Not to mention my extra cargo. And Carl's new job. I didn’t know it then, but now I realized God had spoken to me through Molly. I could just hear Him telling Mom, “She wouldn’t listen to me. No, of course not. What do I know? But Molly, she’d listen to. What's a God to do?”

  I was glad we had the tree-shaded trail to escape the sweltering outdoor oven. No one joked about frying eggs on streets and sidewalks in the heat of a Texas August. We’d bring along bacon too. During the brain-boring summers when we were still too young to be double digits, Peter and I would dare one another to walk down the driveway. Barefooted. The prize for the one who reached the edge of the driveway first or at all was an extra Popsicle. We’d race to pull off our Keds, and “eech and ouch” and “I-yia-yia-yia” down the cement fire. Peter lost almost every time. I reveled in my victories, too dumb to consider he was the smart one.

  “Tell me about dinner last night. How’d it go?”

  “Honestly, it made me acutely aware of how sober I was, and how dangerous it could’ve been if I’d been drinking,” I said.

  “You’re kidding? Were Carl's parents that obnoxious? You’d think with your dad there … and they knew you hadn’t been home long. I’m surprised.” She shook her head. “I gave them more credit than that.”

  I stepped up my pace, so I wouldn’t be talking to the back of Molly's head. I told her, “You’re going to pass out when you hear this, but I can’t hang this one on them. They were the innocents last night.”

  She didn’t stop on that, but she slowed down enough to give me a friendly push, “Get out!” In Molly-speak that translated to, “You’ve GOT to be kidding.”

  I spent almost the next mile relating the airport to dinner table timeline of the previous night, up to the Carl/Bob chorus. I stopped and tugged her off to the side of the trail.

  “What's wrong?” She tucked her hair behind her ears and pressed her hands together.

  “Nothing, nothing.” I pulled up the neck of my T-shirt and bent my head so I could wipe the sweat off the sides of my nose. “I need to tell you the good news, so you’ll understand why the other news is so bad.” I paused, braced myself for the aching happiness that would fall like a veil across her face. “I’m pregnant.”

  She hesitated, then wrapped me in her arms. “That's so wonderful. Oh, my gosh. I’m so happy for you. That's great. That's great.” She let go and ran her fingers underneath her eyes. “I’m about to have raccoon eyes. These are happy tears. I promise.”

  I believed her, but I saw the brief shadow in her eyes, and I hated I was so helpless. “I know, and I so love you for that. It didn’t make sense that we were surprised with a baby, while you and Devin are investing everything to have one. But I’m learning, sometimes the hard way, to trust God. This baby, this baby … is such a gift.”

  “It is a gift. And God's going to take care of Devin and me. I know that. This is almost too much news at once. I don’t know what to ask about next. You have to finish the dinner story, then we’ll do the baby story.”

  We started back down the trail, and I told her about Carl and Dad's double-barreled announcements. She had a five-second gasp, then laughter contractions.

  “Molly, it's not funny. Once again, Carl lied to me about telling his parents.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m cracking up thinking about Landon and Gloria just sitting there, with their wine glasses frozen between their mouths and the table. I wish you could’ve taken a picture. Priceless. Priceless.” She shook her head.

  “Maybe I’ve lost my sense of humor, but the whole night is still a nightmare. We were going to tell them about the baby. That was supposed to be the surprise. Was Carl thinking he’d never have to tell his parents? I don’t get it. With my dad there, did he really think the subject wasn’t going to come up? He should know by now my dad's missing that little person who's supposed to sit on your shoulder and warn you not to say things.”

  “Wait. What did Carl say?”

  “No idea. I was asleep by the time his parents dropped him off. He must have slept in one of the bedrooms upstairs because he didn’t come to bed, and he wasn’t on the sofa when I left this morning.” I shrugged.

  “It's a shame this all had to happen at what was supposed to be a celebration, but now everybody knows everything. It's going to get better.”

  “I’m counting on it,” I said. “If it doesn’t, I’m moving in with you and Devin.”

  Molly had a giggle about that one. The last laugh might be on her because I wasn’t kidding.

  The sizzling steam of frying bacon met me at the back door to our house. If I hadn’t heard Dad's voice, I might have thought someone else had moved in.

  “Come on in. Serving breakfast now,” Dad called from the kitchen as I pulled off my walking shoes.

  “Did you get permission to—” Carl was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, so he had to know bacon was splattering demon grease everywhere.

  “How was your walk?” Carl closed the paper and folded it in half.

  “Nice. Hot. But it was good to talk to Molly.” I asked Dad to fix me two eggs over easy. “So what time did you come home?”

  “Probably right after you left for your walk,” he said.

  “What? This morning?”

  “We were at the club later than I thought we’d be. Didn’t want to wake you up, so I just went home with my parents. My father dropped me off on the way to his game.”

  “Here they are, honey. Eat while they’re hot,” Dad said, and slid the plate with two fried eggs and wheat bread in front of me.

  “That's so considerate of you, caring about not waking me up.” I broke the white tops and dipped my bread in the eggs.

  “Don’t be like that. You know how I feel about your sarcasm,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “And you know how I feel about you lying to your parents and to me, but you did that … twice.”

  “Do you have to be so loud? We can talk about this later.” He looked at my dad and back at me.

  We didn’t talk about it later, and I was the one who regretted it. I didn’t get too many answers from Carl because Dad had his own agenda. He heard us, of course, and told me I was “overreacting.”

  “How did I do that? I’m not the one who sold me out.”

  “Carl, she's right. You should have been honest with your parents, especially your dad, talked to him man to man. He could have told your mother. Heck, you could have just talked to her, if you didn’t want to talk to both of them. One could have told the other.”

  Carl nodded. “I know. I know.”

  “And Leah, all I’m saying is maybe, you know, you’re better now. Maybe you could have a drink every once in a while now that you know what to do. Moderation, isn’t that what they say?”

  �
�It doesn’t work like that. Alcoholism isn’t cured. I’ll always be an alcoholic.”

  Dad looked wounded. “Now, honey, don’t say that. You don’t know … ”

  “No, Dad. I do know. I can’t drink like other people. I never did, I never will. But I’m a recovering alcoholic now. That's what matters. If I was suicidal, would you say I could shoot myself every now and then?”

  “Now, baby, we both know that would be just stupid.”

  “Exactly. It would be just as stupid for me to drink. It can kill me too. I just take it one day at a time.”

  “I’m glad it's working for you. I’m glad. Besides, you have to take care of yourself. You’ve got that baby to think about. How about you, Carl? Awfully quiet, there.”