by Baxter Clare
“You do that, honey. And good luck!”
Downstairs in the Nova, Frank studied the meeting schedule, deciding on a seven thirty at Trinity Place. In the meantime, she picked up her laundry, then stopped at a breakfast joint, reading her Big Book over coffee and corned beef hash.
She was cool with Step One. Admitting she was powerless over alcohol and that her life had become unmanageable was a no-brainer. Normal people don’t sit around downing quarts of whiskey and encouraging themselves to blow their brains out. Step One was simple. But Frank balked at Step Two, which stated, “Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” She read the chapter dedicated to agnostics and left the restaurant chewing on more than a toothpick.
She called Mary but got her machine. Frank left a message that she was fine and headed for a meeting. She found Trinity Place but parking was nonexistent. Three blocks away she wedged the Nova into a space and jogged back to Trinity Place. Mary had strict guidelines and one of them was to not be late for meetings. It was distracting to others, it didn’t give you a chance to introduce yourself, and worst of all, you missed the readings. She said practically everything you needed to know about getting sober and staying sober were read in the first five minutes of every AA meeting.
Frank got into the room just as the secretary cleared her throat to announce, “Hi. My name is Jenny and I’m an alcoholic.”
As they finished conversations and fixed coffee, men and women, old and young, punk and square, responded, “Hi, Jenny!”
Frank slipped into a seat between a woman who looked like a stockbroker and a man who looked like he’d crawled in from out of the gutter. While Jenny read the AA preamble Frank marveled at the contrast between the drunks sitting next to her.
The wino smelled rank but the stockbroker hinted of very elegant perfume. She was immaculately dressed in a tailored wool suit and the wino wore what he’d found in a dumpster. He gripped his hands in his lap but they were still shaking. The stockbroker’s hands were steady and clean with buffed pink nails. Contrasts abounded in the small room, reminding Frank to look for the similarities that made her part of the group rather than the differences that kept her apart, a nice idea for humanity in general.
When Jenny asked if there was anyone visiting from out of town or new to the Trinity Place meeting, Frank spoke up. “My name’s Frank. I’m an alcoholic from Los Angeles.”
There were welcomes around the room, then Jenny went on to announcements.
The stockbroker leaned toward Frank, extending her smooth, white hand. “Hi,” she whispered. “I’m Margaret. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Frank took the hand and accepted the offer. “Black would be great.”
Leaning around Frank, Margaret touched the wino’s knee. “Mick? Coffee?”
Mick looked up with painfully red eyes and nodded. Margaret rose gracefully, returning with three cups. Frank took her cup and as Margaret turned toward the wino Frank took his cup for him. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely lift them. She settled the milky coffee between them. He smiled his thanks, managing with both hands to bring the cup to his lips.
Frank was struck by an awkward, teary gratitude, thinking that was how it worked in AA—steady hands being held out to those whose were still shaky.
Jenny turned the meeting over to the speaker, a doe-eyed waif who looked like she’d just given up the tit. For the next twenty minutes she told a story of escalating horrors that climaxed with kidnapping her sister for enough ransom to buy a key of heroin and a case of Jack Daniels. When her twelve-year-old sibling looked at her and asked why she was doing this, the waif suddenly took it all in—the stained mattress she was living on, the pain in her sister’s eyes, the hole in her gut that she could never fill, and just as suddenly she knew a case and a key would never be enough. That she’d need another case and another key after they ran out until she died like her friend had, with a hot load in her arm.
She kept tears back as she continued. “My parents took the money they were going to give me for my sister and instead of just writing me off they put me into a ninety-day rehab. That was four years ago and I haven’t used or drank since.” Clearing her throat and swiping her knuckles across her eyes she said in a clear voice, “For those of you that are new, welcome. I hope you keep coming back. When I first started coming into these rooms I did the things that were suggested to me.” She ticked off on her fingers. “I didn’t drink or use between meetings. I went to a lot of meetings. I got a sponsor. I worked the steps with her. I got into service, and, well, eventually I trusted God. That was hard for me. All the other stuff was easy but I was raised in a Baptist household where there was only one, true God. And you can believe it when I say I didn’t want anything to do with that God. So if you’re new, don’t worry about all the God talk. God is one force with many faces. It’ll find you and present itself to you in a form you can handle. For me, God’s in the sun. I know I can count on it to be there every day. Always. And even at night, just because I can’t see it, that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It was there long before I was born and it’ll be there long after I’m gone. I like that there’s something more dependable and durable out there than just me.” Everyone laughed when she chuckled. ” ‘Cause relying on myself just ended up with me thinking that kidnapping my sister was an absolutely genius idea. So I’m glad to be here, I’m glad you’re here, and I’d like to call on our visitor from Los Angeles.”
Mary told Frank to share when she was called on, and to share a feeling, not the weather or how nicely the speaker was dressed. Heart racing, as if someone had jammed a muzzle against her temple, she said, “My name’s Frank. I’m an alcoholic.”
The room responded, “Hi, Frank.”
“Good to be in New York. I was born here. Great story. I didn’t kidnap anybody, though.”
There were a few chuckles.
“I just put a gun to my head one morning and was trying to convince myself to pull the trigger when I realized what I was doing. Called an old friend who’s been sober a long time and he got me into these rooms. Gotta admit it’s been an interesting ride so far. I liked what you said about the God business. I’m at Step Two and having trouble with it. Don’t know that I can believe in a god but I have to admit that something stayed my trigger finger that morning. I like the idea that God will come to you in a form you can accept. Guess I’m still looking for that form. And I hope I find it because I like being sober and I want to stay that way. Thanks.”
Other people were called on and when the hour was up everyone rose. They held hands in a circle and someone started the serenity prayer. Everyone joined in. Even Frank.
Mick immediately shuffled for the door but Margaret kept Frank’s hand. She smiled. “Welcome home. Literally and figuratively.”
“Thanks.”
Giving Frank’s hand a squeeze she said, “Don’t worry about looking for God. If your heart’s open, God’ll find you. So just relax and have faith that He’ll come when you’re ready to let Him in. Or She or It or whatever God’s going to be for you.”
Margaret moved off and a few other people introduced themselves to Frank, some offering advice.
A big, burly guy said, “I been sober twenty-eight years and I don’t believe a fuckin’ word about God. But I believe in AA and the power of the group and that’s what gets me through.”
A heavy blonde offered, “Honey, God’s always there. We turn our backs on Him but He’s always there waiting with open arms. When you’re ready to turn to Him, He’ll be right there for you.”
Frank nodded, anxious she’d get cornered by a rabid Christer. But in six months that hadn’t happened yet. AA people seemed to have a very laissez faire attitude about God, passionate about what they believed in but never foisting their passions onto her. She appreciated that, because if someone had tried to force-feed her a god she’d have been out the door faster than the old wino.
Edging toward the exit, she bumped into Margaret w
ith a cluster of women.
“We always go for dessert after the meeting. Won’t you come with us?”
Frank sucked in a deep breath. Mary also advised her to accept invitations when offered. She said the meetings after the meetings taught you how to talk without a glass in your hand and helped keep you sober another hour or two.
Sucking in a deep breath no one could see, Frank answered, “Sure. That’d be great.”
CHAPTER 27
Frank only had coffee with the ladies, and to celebrate having gone out with them when she didn’t really want to, she brought another pint of Ben and Jerry’s back to the apartment. Annie was on the phone when Frank let herself in. Curled on the couch in her fuzzy blue robe, hair wet and slicked back, Annie lifted her chin in greeting.
Scooping ice cream into a mug, Frank heard her say, “Awright, Carmy. Thanks. I love you.”
The phone clacked against its cradle and Frank looked into the living room. Annie was fetal on the couch. “You okay?”
“I don’t know. Who can do this job so long and be okay?”
“Would some ice cream help?”
“What flavor?”
“Wavy Gravy.”
“Bring it here.”
Frank stuck a spoon in the carton and handed it over.
Annie struggled to a sitting position. “I got called in after you left. Mother beat her baby with a hammer. Wouldn’t stop crying. Not the first time I heard that excuse. I don’t know. It just got to me tonight. All the time I’m bookin’ her this woman’s gripin’ about her baby this and her baby that. I tell you, Frank, it was all I could do to keep from rippin’ her tongue out and stuffin’ it down her throat. I swear to God.” Squinting at a clock on the mantle, Annie said, “Nine months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours and I’m pullin’ the pin. I’m gonna retire in Florida and swim in the ocean. Eat whatever I want, whenever I want, get fat, and watch Oprah. I’m sick a this shit. You hear me? Sick of it. Absolutely sick of it. Day in, day out. I can’t do it no more. Ain’t enough gold in Fort Knox to keep me here.” After a bite of ice cream she mumbled, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you.”
“No problem. That’s probably how you stay sane, huh?”
Casting a sharp glance at Frank, she quizzed, “Do I look sane to you?”
Frank grinned. “From where I sit you look pretty well-adjusted.”
Annie kept her tired gaze on Frank. “You miss the drinking?”
“Yeah,” Frank admitted. “I do. It’s like walking around with a big hole in my heart. My sponsor says the hole is God-shaped, that only God can fill it. But I don’t get God. Can’t wrap my mind around it.”
Annie tapped her chest. “She’s right. God lives in here. Not here.” She tapped her head.
Frank put her feet up on the coffee table. “So let me ask you. Where’s your Mary on a night like this? Why does she let a woman hammer her kids to death?”
“Psh. I can’t answer that. Theologians can’t answer that. There are mysteries we don’t know. I can’t explain evil. It’s like porn—I can’t explain it but I know it when I see it. I can’t presume to know more than God. I just have to believe there’s a reason for all this crap. Just because I can’t see the big picture don’t mean there isn’t one. Like people thinkin’ the world was flat, right? Just because they couldn’t believe in a round world don’t mean it didn’t exist.” The room was quiet while the women sucked on their spoons. “It’s faith. I have faith there’s reasons for this crap, much as I hate it. I believe it happens for reasons that are completely unknown to me. My job is just to clean up the mess and move on to the next job. Beyond that, I got no friggin’ clue.”
“And that helps you? To talk about it all? The dead babies and stupidity and senselessness?”
“You’re damn right it does. My friend Bee—she works at the DA’s office—we take turns unloading on each other. That was my sister Carmen I was talkin’ to. God bless her, she listens to more of this than she should have to. And my friend Pat, too. We went through our rookie year together. We still get together every couple a weeks for lunch. I don’t know what I’d do without ‘em.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Yeah.” Annie sighed. “Truth a the matter is, I’m damn lucky. I got my health. I got my family. I got my friends. At the end of watch, that’s really all that matters.”
“Miss having a man around?”
“Oh, yeah, sometimes. But not enough to do anythin’ about it. I date now and then. It’s kinda fun but it don’t go nowhere. Maybe someday when I’m not so focused on work I’ll want one around. But for now, I barely have time for the family I already got. Besides, I need any heavy liftin’, I call my son, Ben. What else I need man for?”
“Open pickle jars.”
“Psh.” Annie waved. “Slam ‘em on the counter. You ever do that? Hold the jar upside down and give it a smart crack on the countertop? Works nine times outta ten and I don’t have to put the seat down on the toilet.”
Frank laughed and so did Annie.
“Can you beat it? The lesbian’s givin’ me advice on why I should need a man around. Ah, brother. See what I mean? Another mystery. They’re everywhere. Hey,” Annie said, hefting the carton. “Thanks for this.”
“No sweat.
“What I can’t figure is, why don’t you have a nice lady waitin’ for you at home? You cook, you clean, you got a good heart, you’re employed …”
“I used to. Gave her up for the bottle.”
“Ahh, that’s a shame,” Annie said shaking her head, digging into the carton.
“Yeah. She’s a good woman. She deserved better.”
“You straighten up and fly right, cookie. You got a lot to offer someone.”
Frank grinned. “Think so?”
“Hey, don’t go fishin’. What are you doin’ out so late anyway?”
“Went to a meeting then went out for coffee afterward. It was nice.”
“Good for you. That AA thing’s workin’ for ya?”
“Seems to be.”
“Good. You stick wit’ it. Told you about my nephew, right? Worked miracles for him. I seen it work for others, too. Tougher nuts ‘an you.”
Ice cream and talk settled the women down and soon they headed for bed. For the first time in at least a year Frank slept straight through the night.
CHAPTER 28
Sunday, 16 Jan 05—Canarsie
Here I am. Sitting in a cemetery. Guess it beats lying in one. Grumpy sky. Looks like more snow on the way. Got to admit I don’t miss the dirty slush plowed up against the curb.
Quiet yesterday. Couple funerals but no one near the grave.
Went to a good meeting last night and afterward went out with a couple ladies. I was of course the youngest one there. They had twelve, ten and seven years of sobriety on me. Felt like a four-year-old hanging out with her sister from Vassar. But it was nice. They’re pretty serious about their sobriety. Talked a lot about the “G” word. They all reiterated that if I was willing to believe then eventually I would. That’s the thing, though. Am I willing to believe in something greater than myself? Why am I so stubborn about this? Christ, that business at Mother Love’s should be enough to convince anybody. Why not me? Self-reliance almost bought me a bullet to the brain. Why can’t I just say, yeah, okay, uncle, there’s something bigger out there than me?
All right. Bottom line is it’s scary. Scary to think I might not be in charge here. How fucked is that? Not like I’ve done such a great job of it lately. You’d think Td want someone else to be running the show. Like those ladies last night, Mary says I just have to be willing to believe. Fact I called her before I went to bed last night.
She said, “Just be willing to entertain the possibility. And that possibility can be anything. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, the London Bridge—whatever floats your boat. Just take one step toward God and he’ll take five to you.”
I said she makes it sound so simple and she countered that it is—I’m just
making it harder than it has to be. Said Tm creating “paralysis by analysis.” Told me to stop thinking about what God is and just hang with the idea that God is.
Smart ass that I am, I had to say, “So I could use the Empire State Building as my God?”
“Absolutely,” she says—got a fucking answer for everything. A friend of hers who’s been sober nineteen years walks the Golden Gate Bridge every morning because that’s where she feels closest to God. Says it doesn’t matter who we send our prayers to because they all go to the same address.
I said, “Like all those letters the post office gets for Santa Claus.”
She laughed and said, “Yeah, but those don’t get returned. Our prayers do. Not always the way we want them or expect them, but God always gives us what we need.”
“Always?” I asked.
“Always,” she answered. “Like it or not.”
She said she thinks of God as a good parent. We’re the kids always asking for something—the new toy, a candy bar, day off from school—and does a good parent give her kid everything she asks for? Hell, no. The kid would be sick as a dog if you let her eat everything she wanted. The kid can’t understand that, of course, and gets frustrated, but the parent is taking good care of her by not indulging her every wish. A good parent is concerned with her kid’s long-term health, not her immediate gratification for things she doesn’t need. Mary thinks that’s how God is. Might not always give us what we want but we always get what we need. Didn’t Mick Jagger say that? Damn, maybe he’s god. That’d work for me.
So I’m trying to be open-minded about this thing. Willing. I’m willing to be willing.
Think I’d be more willing if I hadn’t watched my father bleed to death or my mom go crazy or Maggie drown in a sucking chest wound. Or Noah. Christ. Barely forty and his sternum gets crushed against a steering wheel, so three more kids grow up without a dad. What’s that about? Kind of begs the question what kind of a heartless bastard would let this shit happen, but hey, what the fuck do I know? I was the one eating a nine mil, right?
