“Wait. There’s one other thing,”
I sat back down. “What?”
“I’m concerned about something, and I think you know what it is.”
“I do, and you needn’t worry.”
“So you won’t get drunk if she says no again.”
“Uh-uh.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
Well, I was.
“And if she doesn’t say no, you won’t drink to celebrate.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
This time I waited before getting up.
Good thing.
“I’ve thought of something else,” Le Voice said.
“What?”
“It’s snowing out there.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Big time.”
“I know.”
“You could also use that as an excuse to get drunk.”
“But I won’t.”
“Swear?”
“I swear. On the Big Book.”
“Funny. All right, I’ll take your word for it. Now get going.”
So I went while the going was good.
#
As expected, my tires fought for traction and my wipers struggled to keep up with the snow as I drove. Traffic was light, thank God, but by the time I parked curbside at Amanda’s house my nerves were raw. I turned off the motor and headlights and sat for a moment, taking several deep breaths. Then I got out, hunched my shoulders against the cold and snow and headed up the path.
The T-Bird’s presence in the drive—assuming that large white mound was her car—and the light visible through the living-room curtains signaled Amanda was still home. Of course, someone may have picked her up while I was en route, and she may have left a light on to discourage burglars. So maybe she wasn’t home after all. A female voice was audible inside, but that may have been the TV, also left on to dissuade intruders.
“Nate?” Le Voice said.
“What?”
“Ring the doorbell.”
I did, but got no response.
“Again.”
“What?”
“Ring it again. Maybe she’s indisposed.”
#
Meaning in the bathroom, I guess, which given the size of her bladder could well be the case.
I rang again. And still no one came.
“Again.”
“But—”
“Again.”
I rang a third time, pressing harder and longer. With the same result.
Well, I tried. I prepared to leave.
“Sit in the car and relax for a while,” Le Voice suggested. “Then ring one more time.”
I started to protest but he wouldn’t hear it.
“You’ve got nowhere else to go and nothing better to do, so don’t give up yet. Okay?”
Reluctantly, I went and sat in the Falcon.
I got out my Luckys and smoked one, then another and then another after that. Maybe I should give up smoking. After all, Zaideh had died of lung cancer, so the entire family might be susceptible. That’s all I needed was a fatal disease to go with my alcoholism.
“One day at a time, Nate. And one habit at a time.”
I couldn’t argue with that, since another one of my faults had become clear to me. I tended to overdo things. I’d start with one beer and end up drinking six or seven. I’d start with one cigarette and end up smoking the pack. I’d started breaking one habit, and here I was thinking of shedding another. I couldn’t seem to stop at one of anything.
I hated me sometimes.
But that couldn’t be healthy either, any more than hating in general was. I realized this too while doing one of the steps. Or maybe while shaving, or sitting on the can. You never knew when or where you might get an insight, or what might trigger it. I did know I’d grown tired of hating things—snow, cold, jocks, politicians, authority figures, and not least of all myself.
I extinguished another Lucky, gazed at the falling snow and wondered: could I stop hating that? Could I even make friends with it? I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try, so I exited the car and instead of hunching my shoulders I stood straight and tall—or as tall as I could stand, given my stature—and invited the snow to settle over me. Then, feeling frisky, I packed a snowball and heaved it at a nearby light pole.
Thwack!
Finally, I’d hit my wide receiver.
Spurred by success, I built a snowman, which I’d never done before, not even as a kid. The figure I sculpted in Amanda’s front yard was crude and featureless—no eyes, no ears, no nose. But it was my creation, a belated Christmas gift from me, Nate Rubin, to Amanda Fontaine. No, make that from me, Nathan Rubin, to Amanda Fontaine. And another hate bit the dust, or snow, or whatever.
I patted my creation’s cheek, then went back to the house and rang the doorbell again. While waiting—in vain, I suspected—I thought about Le Voice. He was definitely a power greater than me—steadier, more even-keeled, not as quick to anger. Indeed, he was my Higher Power, so maybe I ought to call him that.
“Yes, by all means. The nickname was cute for a while, but you need to grow up. Call me Higher Power, because that’s what I am.”
“I know. At least I do now.”
“Excellent. Also know you needn’t address me as God, because if you did you’d probably collapse on the spot.”
I was relieved, but at the same time I had to ask, “Well, are you God?”
After a pause, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Cute.
Anyway, maybe I ought to go. No use beating a dead horse, swimming against the tide or pushing the rock uphill.
Was I getting lightheaded, even sober? Could be, since now the curtains were rustling even though Amanda wasn’t home (or she’d have come to the door by now, right?).
But it wouldn’t hurt to stay another minute, just to savor being there, at the house where she lived. Would it?
“No. Stay.”
I sat on the snow-covered stoop and hardly noticed the wetness seeping through my jeans, maybe because I was concentrating on the sun fading among the rooftops, and the flurries dancing in the waning sunlight. While enjoying this sight I thought I heard the door open, so now I was not only seeing things but hearing them as well.
“Some people, they don’t know enough to come in outta the snow. Now get your skinny white ass in here.”
So I wasn’t hearing things after all. Well, yes, I was hearing things, but real things. Things I wanted to hear.
Words, her words, issuing an invitation.
Which of course I accepted.
The End
Acknowledgments
I'm indebted to my journalism professors whom I shamelessly mock in this novel, for in reality they (along with their English 101 counterparts) taught me everything I know about the written word. I'm also grateful to the U.S. Navy for expanding my vocabulary considerably; to members of the now-defunct Sedona Writers Group for bearing with me through multiple drafts of this opus; and to Mike Krey and ArLyne Diamond for their helpful suggestions.
About the Author
Bernie Silver is a writer, an editor and a former Detroiter who moved to California for its warmth, and then to Arizona for its even greater warmth. He currently resides in the Grand Canyon State with his wife, two dogs and a cat. He's no longer young but remembers vividly his misspent youth.
Contact him at mailto:[email protected].
hare
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 51
