Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  Which distinguished Rachel from other Jewish women I knew. Most of them had married right out of high school and begun breeding immediately, then flashed photos of their kids as they had their wedding rings.

  “Well, nuts to him.” Rachel said, finishing off her drink.

  A few wines later she was slurring her words a bit, so I ordered another Riesling to help her enunciate, and a Jack Daniel’s for me to keep her company. After the drinks arrived we raced to empty our glasses before the alcohol evaporated. I finished first but Rachel didn’t seem to mind, slamming her glass down to prove it. Naturally I did the same to show my solidarity.

  After one or two more rounds she glanced at her bare wrist. “What time’s it?”

  I consulted my Timex. “Almost nine o’clock.”

  “Iss too early to go to bed,” she said, then gave me an uneven grin. “Or maybe not.”

  Just how was I supposed to take that? Did she mean what I thought she meant? After missing most of Jane Bartolo’s clues, I’d resolved to pick up on female cues more quickly.

  Yes, I decided. Drunk and depressed, Rachel Solomon was coming on to me. So naturally I vacillated.

  “You’re hes’tating,” she observed.

  “No, I—”

  “Iss okay. Thass one a the things I like ’bout you. With alla yur faults … and believe me, there’s lots of ’em … you’re a man of conscientiousness. Iss that the righ’ word? Anyway, you’re not like some men I know, namely my jackass husband.”

  The Jockstrap was a jackass, all right, but me a man of conscience? She must be drunker than I thought.

  “Unless you don’, you know … unless you don’ wan’ me,” Rachel said.

  I told her I did. Definitely.

  “’Kay, here’s the thing,” she said. “Aaron ’n I are fini, pardon my French. Abso-loot-ly. And I’m a li’l high right now so I’m pract’ly throwing m’self at you—”

  “No you’re not. You’re—”

  “Pract’ly throwing m’self at you, but thanks anyway. The thing is, after alla these years I still find you, I don’ know, something. I think thass partly why I treated you so bad, to pushhhh you ’way. But now that my stinkin’ marriage … well, eassy come, eassy go.” She placed a hand on mine yet again only this time she gave it a squeeze. “I know I shouln’ be doin’ this, but I wanna anyway and screw ’em all. So less go, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, but continued to hesitate. “It’s just that—”

  “Iss juss that nothin’. No more jibber-jabber. C’mon, less get outta here.”

  As inducement, she offered another smile, this one more off-kilter than the last one.

  Still, it worked. I paid the tab and we went.

  #

  After driving a short distance I rolled down the window to let in some air. I hoped we were on the right path to my apartment but couldn’t be sure. I was a little high myself. I glanced at Rachel, snuggled next to me with her head on my shoulder, eyes closed and lips parted. Satisfied I wasn’t hallucinating, I gazed at the crescent moon while listening to the late Dinah Washington on WJR. What a difference a day made indeed. Yesterday I had a job but no Rachel Solomon, today the reverse. Today …

  The sight ahead interrupted my reverie. Barreling toward us in our own lane was a large flatbed truck, yet as it sped ever closer the driver leaned on his horn instead of moving over. He reminded me of those high school greasers fond of playing chicken in their souped-up hotrods. But I wasn’t about to imitate those morons, so I wrenched the wheel to the right and pulled off the road. Except instead of gravel I felt more pavement. Bewildered, I slowed almost to a stop, setting off another horn, this time behind me. I stepped on the gas as the flatbed sped by to my left, followed by a stream of cars headed in the same direction. Still more puzzled, I steered even farther to the right and at last heard the crunch of gravel. I stopped the car, turned off the ignition and waited for my pulse and heartbeat to slow.

  After a moment’s reflection I realized what had happened. What were the chances of several vehicles jumping the centerline at the same time? Not great. So more than likely I’d done the jumping, almost killing Rachel and me in the process. My pulse and heartbeat accelerated again.

  She must have heard them rev up because she raised her head and stared out the windshield. “Why’re we stopped? We there?”

  “Uh-uh. I had to pee in the bushes. Sorry.”

  “S’okay.”

  Rachel flopped her head back on my shoulder and uttered a contented sigh, unaware of our close brush with death.

  #

  I parked in my space behind the Carriage Arms Apartments. “We’re here,” I said.

  Rachel failed to respond, so I shook her.

  Same result.

  I tried again, a little more forcefully.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “We’re here, at my apartment.”

  “Thass nice.”

  Rachel remained inert, so I exited the Falcon, went around to the passenger door and opened it. She lay on her side, looking for all the world like a napping baby. I grabbed her hand and tugged, gently at first, then harder. She mumbled something but failed to move. I pulled again and with some effort Rachel sat up. Before she could fall back and puke on the car seat, perhaps in delayed retribution, I eased her out of the vehicle.

  Serving as a guide dog, I steered her toward the rear door of the apartment building. A few steps later, apparently somewhat revived, Rachel began walking on her own. We entered and she put her arm through mine as we made our way across the lobby to the elevator. I punched up and the bell dinged almost immediately. The door opened and we stepped inside and rode silently to the second floor.

  When we got to 223B I unlocked the door, switched on the lights and ushered Rachel inside. Still not convinced this wasn’t one of my fantasies, I gazed at her, blinked, then stared. It was Rachel Solomon all right, here in my apartment. Another miracle.

  I asked if she wanted anything to drink, coffee or tea perhaps. She answered by putting her arms around me. Naturally I reciprocated. By mutual agreement we kissed.

  I was savoring the moment when Rachel stepped back. “All right, here we are at last, alone in your apartment.”

  Her voice was clear, steady, almost bell-like. What the hell? Had she faked being drunk, or had she recovered in record time? Even I, a seasoned pro, was still a little woozy.

  “Don’t get me anything to drink,” Rachel continued. “Don’t take me on a tour of the apartment. Don’t play schmaltzy music on the radio or your phonograph. And please don’t think about this. If you do, you’ll turn tail and run. So let’s do it.”

  Overlooking the combative tone, I led her into the bedroom, where, per her request, we did it.

  #

  We lay there in the afterglow, our breathing slowly returning to normal. Soon we switched gender roles, as Rachel fell asleep and I remained awake. Naturally I reran the scene that had just taken place. Rachel Solomon and I had done it, against all odds and despite the rockiest of journeys, during which at one point I’d wanted her in bed, and at another I’d wished she were dead. But now that I’d had her in bed, I was grateful for how alive she’d been, for how zestfully she’d dispelled that old myth, the one about Jewish women and sex. Rather than lying there like a slab of concrete, she’d moved with such abandon that even I came close to recklessness.

  Recklessness. The word instantly spoiled the mood by reminding me of the Great Flatbed Truck Incident, the outcome of which could have been Rachel and I lying in the morgue instead of in bed.

  This thought must have disturbed her too, because she stirred in the night. “Thanks,” she whispered, burrowing into my side, “I needed that.”

  She needed that? So I’d done a good deed? I felt better, but not a whole lot.

  #

  The sun blazing through the window brought me fully awake. I glanced at the still-slumbering Rachel, who seemed as content as I was anxious. I got out of bed, donned my briefs a
nd wobbled into the bathroom. I did the usual and, perhaps as penance, gargled with Listerine. Morning rituals completed, I sauntered into the kitchen, prepped the coffeemaker, and made us toast and scrambled eggs, mainly to be a good host since eating for me would be out of the question.

  I returned to Sleeping Beauty and leaned over her prostrate body, intending to wake her with a kiss. Before I could complete my mission, she rolled over, opened her eyes and thrust out her arms.

  “I’ve made breakfast,” I said.

  “Poo.” She waggled her fingers, reinforcing the summons.

  “Poo?”

  “Means to hell with breakfast.”

  Her arms remained outstretched.

  No use adding rudeness to my list of transgressions, so I accepted the invitation.

  #

  I felt someone shaking me awake and opened my eyes to see Rachel staring at me, head bent over mine, tousled hair hanging loose and tickling my nose.

  “I’m famished,” she said.

  I had no idea what time it was but that hardly mattered, since neither of us was due at the office. But was Rachel due at home?

  “Did you and he …” I began. “I mean, are you and your husband separated?”

  She drew back. “What? Why are you asking me that?”

  “I’m curious. You said last night that at first you were going to separate. Then you found out … you know … so I was wondering if you did.”

  “Did what? Separate? What difference does it make? Together, separated, we’re getting divorced. Period.”

  “It’s just that if you’re still living together and you go home … he’ll … you’ll …”

  “God, you’re impossible. Stop thinking for once. Stop wondering about things that don’t concern you. Yes, the bastard and I are separated. I’m staying with Ellen until I can find a permanent place to live.”

  She hopped out of bed while wrapping the sheet tightly around her. “Now go warm up breakfast. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I got dressed, made fresh toast and nuked the eggs. Rachel appeared a few minutes later, fully dressed, hair brushed, makeup applied. I motioned her to the small wooden table in my tiny kitchen and served us both.

  She looked around, then at me. “This is cozy.”

  Without another word she dug into her food while I sat there and watched. Again I admired her gusto and lack of artifice. Unlike me, she was simple and honest and forthright. I thought of following her lead and divulging the details of our ride home, but decided not to spoil her appetite.

  After emptying her plate, Rachel tongued a morsel of egg from a corner of her mouth—casually, unselfconsciously—then leaned back in the chair.

  “You’re not eating?” she asked.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Not hungry?”

  “Not feeling too good.”

  “I see.”

  Rachel, meanwhile, showed no signs of suffering.

  “Don’t you have a headache or an upset stomach or something?” I asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you had a lot to drink and—”

  “Oh that. Yes, I did, but I’m fine. Fried food isn’t a problem for me either. I must have a strong constitution.” She segued from that to, “I enjoyed last night, and this morning,” and followed up with a sunlit smile.

  “Me too.” But I couldn’t just leave it at that, could I? “Um, where do we go from here?”

  Rachel frowned and seemed to ponder this. “Wherever we go, we should go slowly,” she said. “Very slowly. And who knows, maybe we’ll just be friends.”

  Just be friends? After last night and this morning? Yes, I wanted to be friends with Amanda Fontaine, but not with every woman I cared for.

  “My life is upside-down now,” Rachel said. “And I’ve got things I need to do, like get with my lawyer again, find a place to live and search for another job. Little things like that. And you’ll be busy too, no?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, though the thought of job-hunting compounded my headache.

  “So now’s not a good time to start something serious,” she said. “Right?”

  I chanced a nod, which proved a mistake. God, I hated hangovers.

  “So maybe we can get together from time to time,” Rachel said, “compare notes, check on each other’s progress. You know?”

  I knew I was disappointed, maybe even depressed. And it must have showed, because she gave me a sympathetic look, then got up, came around behind me and massaged my shoulders.

  “I want you to know how grateful I am,” Rachel said. “I was in desperate need of comfort last night, and you were there to provide it. So no matter what happens, I’ll always appreciate it.” She stopped massaging and moved around to face me. “But honestly? You’ve got problems, Nate. You know it and I know it, and we both know what kind.” Apparently I wasn’t squirming enough, so she moved closer and stared at me with unblinking eyes. “Get help, my friend, and know that I’m here for you.” With that she straightened. “Now drive me to my car, please.”

  I did as she requested, before the woman drove me crazy.

  #

  I returned to my apartment shortly after noon and made a fresh pot of coffee. I poured some into one of my chintzy cups, sat at the kitchen table and got out my Luckys. I had a lot to think about, including my curious relationships with women and my need for gainful employment, but most of all I kept returning to yesterday’s near-death experience. The prospect of my own demise didn’t bother me so much—well, yes, it bothered me a lot, but not as much as the idea of causing another person’s death, especially a person like Rachel Solomon.

  During a long afternoon of coffee and cigarettes, the thought occurred to me that I might have to give up booze—finally, at last, once and for all—if for no other reason than to avoid killing someone.

  Chapter 81

  Besides sheer willpower, of which I had very little—okay, none—I knew of but one other route to a boozeless life and that, I hated to admit, was Alcoholics Anonymous. So the following Monday I returned to the Church of the Christ Almighty. I was so serious about recovery this time that I grabbed a front-row seat, making escape impossible without calling attention to myself.

  And then the meeting began. Which is when I again realized that AA members and I lived on different planets. Or to put it another way, I realized that I had about as much in common with these people as I had with little green men.

  Take our lifestyles, if theirs could be called that. One drunk had lived out of his car for the past five years, with only a jug of vino to keep him warm. Another had scavenged for food in garbage cans and washed the scraps down with whiskey. And still another had sold all her possessions, including her body, for a steady supply of gin. I couldn’t imagine sinking to any of these depths.

  But our contrasting ways of life—or degrees of desperation, if you will—weren’t the only things separating me from the aliens. Another was the amount of alcohol we consumed. Granted, I drank a lot, maybe sometimes more than I should, but I was practically abstinent compared to AA members. This one inebriate, for example, testified to swilling four bottles of vodka a day, between, or instead of, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Another told of drinking enough wine per week to keep a vineyard in business. And as for the beer drinkers, that college student, the troubled quarterback, wasn’t the only one who drank it by the case, and several members even outdid him. Of course, not all these people swilled vast amounts of alcohol on a daily basis. One or two so-called “binge” drinkers went through dry spells that lasted for months. But then they caught up in a matter of days.

  I will say this on the drunks’ behalf. Some of them were very creative, especially at hiding their drinking from other family members, say their spouses or kids. They were particularly adept at concealing their stash: one hid his bottle in the toilet tank, another in her laundry basket and yet another in a light fixture.

  While listening to these people I also began to doubt AA’s ef
fectiveness. I mean, half the members seemed to spend their lives climbing on and off the wagon. Some even fell off after many years of sobriety—and meetings. I wanted no part of this on-again-off-again routine. Maybe staying off the wagon was the best way to go. And no, I hadn’t forgotten what brought me to this meeting in the first place. Yes, I’d almost crashed the Falcon, but keep in mind that I hadn’t. And to ensure that I wouldn’t in the future, I merely had to avoid driving while drunk. And I could do that easily enough by taking a bus, or calling a cab, or bumming a ride, or, if all else failed, sleeping it off in the car. That was the lesson of the Great Flatbed Truck Incident. What made me think otherwise? And who planted the idea in my head that these misfits, or this organization, could help me? Jane, Ellen, Rachel and my mom, that’s who. They should be here now, listening to these tales of inebriation and degradation. Maybe then they’d get off my back.

  And if the sordid confessions didn’t get them to stop bugging me, maybe all the religious hooey would. Only Ellen could tolerate the sappy praise these people heaped on their God. The speakers, and I mean all of them, gushed about how they owed everything—their lives, their fortunes, their sacred sobriety—to God, or the Deity, or their Higher Power, or whatever else they called that great Phantom in the sky (and by the way, to catch you up, that Something in the sky I’d experienced during my heroic skydive—I’d decided that was, to use the military phrase, shit on a shingle). Anyway, I found it interesting how members thanked God for their temperance and the good things that happened to them as a result of it, but refrained from blaming the Deity for their drunkenness and its consequences, such as divorce, job loss, bankruptcy, foreclosure, liver disease and who knows what all.

  About three-quarters of the way through this confession-fest I considered fleeing, and screw anyone who objected. But instead I chose to remain, taking comfort in knowing I’d never return. In fact, with time left for only one more speaker, I went one step further than staying. I got up and spoke.