Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  “Who’s tempting? I just thought … oh, who the hell cares what I thought? If a little schnapps now and then is no good, so be it. Our son knows I want nothing but the best for him.”

  He looked at me for confirmation, which I gave with a nod as I forked some mashed potatoes. It had taken me a while—my entire life, in fact—to recognize that both my parents wanted nothing but the best for me. Truthfully, if I’d wanted the best for me as much as they had, I might not have become a lush. But I tried not to dwell on the past because, as Merv never tired of reminding me, that road led over a cliff. Best to live in the present, one day at a time.

  AA’s homilies still annoyed me, but I tried, successfully at times, not to be hypercritical. I even realized that a few of its maxims, especially the one-day-at-a-time thing, came in handy. When I thought about never drinking again, ever, I got all twitchy, but when I focused on not drinking that day I calmed down.

  “What are you thinking?” Mom said. “You look like you’re off on one of your trips.”

  “I was thinking how much you and Dad have had to put up with … from me, I mean.”

  Well, maybe I wasn’t thinking exactly that, but I’d come to realize how much fortitude it must have taken for my parents to weather two major depressions: the economy’s, which took place in the ‘30s before I was born, and mine, which started in the womb and continued to this day. I’m not sure when all this became clear, only that it was apparent to me now. Maybe sobriety had something to do with the clarity.

  “You haven’t been such a trial, really,” Mom said. “Growing up isn’t easy. We know that. Believe it or not, we were young once.”

  I believed it, mainly because a few of the framed photographs scattered about the house showed the two of them looking younger than springtime, though their clothes and hairstyles were older than parchment.

  “Hey, don’t let him off the hook so easy,” my dad said. “He may not have been a trial, but he’s certainly been a … what to call it? A challenge, that’s it. He’s been a challenge. I just hope we met it satisfactorily.” He gave me a wink, the equivalent of Mom’s pat on the arm.

  She sipped her Faygo strawberry. “Well, I think we did meet it, the thing you said, the challenge. He’s a good boy, and I choose to think we had something to do with it.”

  A good boy? She must have me confused with someone else, maybe with a twin I didn’t know I had.

  “What about work?” Mom asked. “Are you still with that paper, the Gillette?”

  “Gazette.”

  “Yes, of course. The other’s a razor blade.” She giggled. “For some reason I get them mixed up.”

  Mom had been giddy throughout dinner, and for a moment I thought this might stem from my visit, which after all had followed a lengthy absence. But I discarded the notion because it sounded so grandiose, which was another thing Merv liked to go on about. Grandiosity. He claimed, as he had when we first met, that my self-criticism was merely a pretense, that beneath it lay a superior attitude. I had my doubts about this, but then I had my doubts about almost everything these days.

  “No, I’m not at the Gazette anymore,” I said.

  “Why not?” Dad asked.

  I recounted my final assignment at the newspaper and my encounter with Doppler.

  “Hmm,” he commented.

  “Hmm,” Mom seconded.

  Though their responses were a little vague, if I had to guess I’d say they were thinking about property values in the Miller Street area.

  “Good for you,” Dad said. “You stuck up for yourself, and showed some spunk.”

  This of course proved, yet again, that I had no idea what other people were thinking.

  “Yes,” Mom said. “And that Rachel … the name rings a bell. Where have I heard—”

  “She drove me … she’s the one who brought me home that night.”

  “Oh yes, I remember. She seemed like a nice Jewish girl then and she seems so now. Are you two dat—”

  “No, we’re not.”

  The reason we weren’t was simple. Rachel still resisted the idea of dating a drunk, even a recovering one, even a cute, sexy (her words, not mine) recovering one. Plus—and this came as a shock to my system—she was concerned about her own drinking. Why, she wondered, had she gotten so plastered our last day at the Gazette, and several times since, after a lifetime of near-abstinence? She’d read up on adult children of alcoholics and discovered, much to her horror, that many of them wound up like their alcoholic parent (or parents).

  Fortunately, Mom probed no further into the subject of Rachel Solomon.

  Meanwhile, Dad stared longingly at the empty food platter. Since my reformation involved, in part, replacing grandiosity with generosity, I offered him my half-full plate.

  He accepted it with gratitude and, refortified, asked, “Do you have another job?”

  “Yes. Editorial assistant at the Detroit News.”

  “The News,” he said in awe. “My son the gantzeh macher.”

  “I’m a gofer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A flunky. But the position might lead to a reporter’s job.”

  “Very nice,” Dad said.

  “If I want it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want it, for God’s sake?”

  “Because I’m writing a novel in my spare time, and with less pressure at work I have more energy to write.”

  Next he asked, not surprisingly, “This novel-writing business, does it pay much?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “I see.”

  Mom stared at my dad disapprovingly. “If that’s what he wants, let him do it.”

  He looked indignant. “Am I stopping him?”

  “The important thing is that he be happy.”

  “I agree. So if he’s happy being a pauper, who am I to interfere?”

  “Good. Don’t interfere.”

  “I’m not, for chrissake.”

  “And don’t curse.”

  “This is my house and I’ll curse if I want to.”

  “I swear, you act like a child sometimes.”

  “You see, you see, you swore.”

  Mom shook her head and I almost did the same. Much more of this and I’d go for the schnapps. I rose from the table and started clearing dishes.

  “Sit,” Mom said. “Your father and I will get them.”

  “I ate. I’ll help clean up.”

  My parents traded quizzical looks, then joined in the dish-clearing process.

  “I gotta go,” I announced after we’d finished.

  “What?” they both said, as usual not quite in unison.

  “You haven’t had dessert yet,” Mom pointed out.

  “We’ve got your favorite,” Dad said. “Peach pie. With some ice cream, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m tired and I’ve gotta go to work tomorrow.”

  I headed for the door, but then went back and gave them each a peck on the cheek.

  They were still mulling that one after I left.

  Just a guess.

  Chapter 87

  Time to call her again. After all, two months had passed since the riot, so she’d be ready to talk, right? And after five months of sobriety, I’d be ready for anything she might say, right? Glad you agree. Just know your confidence is well-placed, seeing as I passed two thorny tests this past week.

  The first occurred on Monday, soon after I arrived at work, when I bumped into another staffer in the hallway and spilled coffee down the front of my shirt. My freshly laundered shirt, I might add. Naturally I had no other garment on hand with which to replace it, so the stain remained on display all day. And just as naturally the reporters with whom I worked made a few comments, none of them as amusing as they thought they were. And yet I didn’t drink over the mishap and subsequent harassment.

  The second test came Friday afternoon, when I got lost delivering proofs to a work-at-home columnist who lived in a remote part of the city with whic
h I was unfamiliar. When I arrived at his house in a sweat, he offered me a beer. A nice cold beer. Which I managed to decline.

  All that made me confident I could remain sober no matter what Amanda said in response to my call, which I made after my usual Sunday morning breakfast of coffee, toast and the funny pages.

  She picked up on the third ring.

  “It’s me, Nate Rubin,” I said after her hello.

  “This time I recognized your voice.”

  “You were a little rushed last time I called.”

  “In July, I believe, during that damn riot. So you can see why I was eager to get off the phone.”

  “Yes, definitely. Bad timing on my part. Sorry.” I let a moment pass. “So how’ve you been?”

  “As well as can be expected. And you?”

  Since I wasn’t ready to get to the point yet, I tried scoring one. “Uh, I’ve quit drinking.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve stopped drinking.”

  “I assume you mean alcohol.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You have a problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never would’ve guessed.”

  I took advantage of the opening, slight as it was. “We never went out, so you didn’t get to see me in action.”

  “True. Was there a lot of action?”

  At one time I’d have evaded the question or equivocated, but I was shooting for more honesty these days.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said.

  “Well then, good for you,” Amanda said, making the truth-telling worth it. “I had a cousin,” she went on, “name was Bernice but we all called her Bernie. She and I were close once, but her drinking drove us apart. That girl seldom drew a sober breath, yet insisted all the while she could hold her liquor. In time, the rest of the family and I … we stopped trying to persuade her otherwise.” Amanda’s voice quavered. “Drinking finally did that gal in. Body just gave out.”

  I wanted to rush over and comfort the surviving cousin, maybe with a passionate kiss, but decided against.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Losing someone close to you like that can’t be easy.”

  “It isn’t, believe me.”

  I offered a few more sympathetic words, then posed the big question. “So, have you thought things over? Can we be friends?”

  Silence. Then, “Man, you are persistent. I’ll give you that.”

  Having scored a point I went for another. “I left the Gazette a few months ago.”

  All I got was, “You don’t say.”

  Being the persistent sort, I described my unpublished story and the confrontation with Doppler, omitting the epilogue in which the city editor and I got drunk and had sex.

  “My, my,” Amanda said with a trace of respect.

  So I returned to my original question. “Well, what about it, our being friends?”

  She sighed, a little forlornly I thought, which was not a good sign.

  “I’m sorry, Nate, but I don’t think so.”

  I’d prepared for this possibility, but apparently not enough.

  “Damnit, Amanda, why not? Why can’t we be friends?”

  “I’ve already told you, because we have nothing in common. Nothing. You’re this white guy, and Jewish at that … judging from your name and looks. We come from different backgrounds, different worlds.”

  “So what?”

  “So what do we talk about? What do we do together?”

  “We talk about who we are, we learn from each other. And we go wherever friends go … to a movie, to a concert, to a coffee shop.”

  “You can’t be that naïve. It’s impossible.”

  No it wasn’t, but instead of disputing her I said, “I don’t get your point.”

  Her next sigh was exasperated. “We’ve already been through this, but okay here’s my point. We can’t go anywhere together. It doesn’t matter what kind of relationship we have. If we’re seen together in public, we’ll both be sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you. Because nobody out there is ready for it. Not even black folk, let alone white. Do you not get that?”

  “Yes … no … but—”

  “People give me looks and call me names when I’m alone. What’ll they do, to both of us, if they see us together? Last time you visited, one of my neighbors, the bitch two doors down, saw you go into the house. And don’t think I didn’t hear about that the next day. Called me a whore in addition to the usual. And such things don’t happen only in Dearborn. They go on everywhere. And please don’t tell me times have changed, because they haven’t. Not really.”

  “Amanda, even if times haven’t changed … which they have, but even if they haven’t … we can help change them.”

  Listen to me. Hi-yo, Silver. Awaaaaaay.

  “Hey,” Amanda said, ‘I’m trying to change things here in Crackerland, and I’ve already told you what that’s like. I don’t need any more changing in my life.”

  “And how exactly are you trying to change things here?”

  I thought I knew, but wasn’t sure.

  “By being here, and urging other blacks to be here, until we multiply enough to gain power, meaning to win elections.”

  Stubborn beyond redemption, I countered with, “Paving the way for mixed couples would take less effort than changing things in Dearborn.”

  “So now we’re back to being a couple.”

  She would pick up on that.

  “Friends, pals, couple … call us what you will. All I know is that I want you in my life, and I don’t see why you can’t be. Assuming, of course, you want me in yours. I mean, you don’t hate me, do you?”

  This sigh was soft, like a whisper. “No, I don’t hate you, Nate. I … that is … well, as long as we’re being honest, I lied before. I do remember liking you. And I still find you appealing in some crazy sort of way, especially now that you’ve left that newspaper.”

  She doesn’t hate me. She likes me and finds me appealing. Were those rays of sunshine poking through the clouds?

  “Well, why don’t we …” I began, not sure where I was going.

  “Why don’t we what?” Her voice was gentle, not so challenging, like she really wanted to know.

  If only I knew. Since I hadn’t a clue, I offered a suggestion I hoped I wouldn’t regret.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ve both been through a lot lately, so why don’t we give it another month. I’ll call you again in October. It’ll be hard for me to wait that long, but good things come to those who … you know.”

  Christ, was AA’s fondness for platitudes rubbing off on me?

  “What say we wait until after the New Year begins,” Amanda counter-proposed. “I’m going on vacation soon, to Hawaii with a girlfriend, and I’ve got things to do before I leave. Then when I return I’ll need to decompress. But I promise to think about this some more.”

  “Amanda—

  ”I’m not convinced you’re right, but I do admire persistence. So say no more or you’ll try my patience.”

  Since that’s the last thing I wanted to do, I kept my mouth shut.

  Except for saying “Enjoy your vacation” before hanging up.

  Chapter 88

  November marked my seven-month anniversary, but something told me—practically yelled in my ear—not to get cocky. Maybe because a major challenge lay ahead, one that made all those preceding it seem trifling. That test would be the holy trinity of holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. My favorite time of year to get wasted. After all, ’twas the season to eat, drink and be merry, and while I tended to ignore eating and merrymaking, I usually threw myself into the middle part of this triad.

  So on a Saturday morning in the early part of the month I sprawled on the couch and pondered how to remain sober during this treacherous period. Something suggested—whispered this time—that I act contrary to my nature and connect with other people. I tried to dismiss the thought but, like a dog with a bone,
it would not let go. Finally I capitulated. If connecting with others would keep me sober, I’d do it, maybe by arranging to meet someone for coffee or lunch or whatever. But not drinks.

  Before I could change my mind, I picked up the phone and dialed my beloved sponsor.

  “Yeah,” was his genial greeting.

  Merv’s curt phone manner usually irritated me, but in the true spirit of the holidays I forgave him this time.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Me? I don’t know anyone named Me. You must have the wrong number.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t.

  “It’s Nate, Merv.”

  “Nate? Who’s Nate?”

  I counted to ten. Twice. I’d just finished the second set when he said, “Sorry. Guess I’m feeling a little giddy with the holidays approaching.”

  “That’s okay. Happy pre-holidays.”

  “Thanks.”

  I heard the flick of a lighter. “Okay,” he said after exhaling, “let’s cut the bullshit. What’s going on with you? We haven’t talked in … how long’s it been?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks.”

  “You’ve taken a tumble.”

  This was more a statement than a question but I treated it as the latter. “No, I’m still sober.”

  “Excellent. Glad to hear it.” Pause. “You been attending meetings?”

  “Yes.”

  “And doing the steps?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No.”

  Another pause. “You’re still not working the program after how many months?

  “Seven … seven sober months.”

  “Bravo. But you gotta do the steps.”

  “I realize that.” Which I didn’t.

  “Then why don’t you do them?”

  “You know why.”

  “The bogeyman.”

  “Right, God, whom I don’t believe in.”

  “Tough shit. You have to do the steps regardless. God’s not even mentioned in most of them, and as I’ve told you many times, where he is mentioned you can make something up. As long as it’s a power greater than yourself. A higher power.”

  At this point I thought it best to move on.

  “Merv?”