DAY TWO
THURSDAY, JULY 6, 2017
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
7:00 AM
When the morning church bells rang at seven, Maggie was still lying on the floor in her damp, now-rancid outfit. She pulled everything off and threw the clothes in a corner, took a shower, still without a shower curtain, and then dried herself with the balled-up, filthy, wet laundry. She pulled out something too feminine that Rachel had purchased and hung in her closet. Then she ran to Nick’s Deli.
“Maggie, you look great!” He applauded. “Did you go to the gym? You have color!”
“Not yet. Hi, Joe.” She waved at Nick’s assistant busy stocking shelves.
“Good morning.” He waved. His English was improving.
This was going to be her most constant relationship. The person who knew day by day what she was supposed to be doing, a tiny chance to be accountable.
“Don’t put it off. You’ll end up skinny like me.” He patted his enormous gut, barely contained by an egg salad–stained apron. “Listen, you don’t want to look at the Times today, the news is very scary. Those people in Washington, they’re out of their minds. Gives you indigestion.”
“Thanks for the warning. One mint tea, one apple, one tabloid please.”
“Good girl.” He held up the Daily News. The headline held a jarring photo of Orange yelling “I’M PRESIDENT AND YOU’RE NOT.”
“Uhm.” Maggie felt anxious. “Do I have to?”
“Good call, I’ll give you the Post. They like to pretend it’s not happening.”
She clutched the cup, wondering if she preferred mint tea. Or did it matter? Did she have to like what she drank each morning in order to anchor some kind of existence? Or was that even, as Steven Brinkley would say, the point? More important was to create some kind of stability, regardless of how it made her feel. So, drinking something that she wasn’t sure she wanted, as long as it became a ritual, was the way to replace all the bad habits. New habits replacing old. And then she realized that once more she was starting again because it was another day, and she felt lighter, somehow. And then, she remembered that Brinkley knew where she lived, and shuddered.
Outside, Maggie watched every street, and checked over her shoulder, but he wasn’t shadowing her. She made it to the meeting fairly sure that he was not on her tail. Maybe he was sleeping it off. Maybe he was writing a book about it. Climbing up the church steps, she realized she still had not tasted the tea nor bitten the apple, and had no desire to do either. So, clutching her two replacement crutches, she walked into Saint Peter’s Greek Orthodox Church, stepped through the quiet dark hallway, and then took another set of interior stairs to the basement below.
It was the playroom of the Greek school’s nursery program. From eight to nine the children had their breakfast in the church’s kitchen so the grown-ups could wail and moan, blame and progress. These walls were covered in Greek flags, finger paintings, a crucifix. Blocks with imprinted English and Greek letters, storybooks in both languages. An enterprising young teacher had posted photos of Greek poverty interspersed with ancient ruins, the Parthenon next to the contemporary landscape of Greek chaos, angry demonstrators, cities in disrepair, unemployed people with nothing to do, refugees falling off of dilapidated ships, displacement camps, all juxtaposed with the startling blue jewel of the Aegean. The world of a four-year-old. Maggie stared at a cage of gerbils running in their creaking wheels. How appropriate.
In time to do service, she started pulling folding chairs off the rack laid out by the custodian for the addicts, and herding them into a circle. It was the only physical labor she did during the day, lifting and unfolding and then refolding cheap chairs. Other folks entered in varying emotional states, mostly in business drag or headed for some kind of job. Who else would go to an 8:00 a.m. meeting? Unless it was someone who’d stayed up all night crying and hauled their ass in before the temptation of bars opening at noon. Most unemployed would definitely sleep in. When there was nothing to do, time wasters are precious commodities, and sleeping in forever was the best way to stay away from drugs. They could dream about drugs. That might be better than being awake.
As the facilitator read through the standard summations and the twelve steps were passed around, Maggie retraced all her moves the previous night. Brinkley must have followed her down Perry Street to the 1 train.
1.We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
He must have hung back and swiped his MetroCard at the last minute,
2.Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
and then jumped on the same subway car,
3.Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.
hiding down at the other end.
4.Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
He must have gotten out at her station, lurked along the platform,
5.Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
through the exits and up the stairs.
6.Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
And he must have followed her in the rain.
7.Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
He also had no umbrella.
8.Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.
Hanging back, he’d accompanied her on her thwarted bar hop to Georgie’s corpse and seen her almost sit down at the upscale froufrou place, planning which small-batch bourbon she was not going to consume.
9.Made direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
He definitely saw her glance longingly at the man smoking crack on the street.
10.Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.
He must have noticed which was her mailbox.
“It’s your turn.”
“What?”
The woman beside her handed Maggie the plastic-encased list of the twelve steps.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Number eleven,” she whispered.
Maggie looked down, and then she read out loud, “Eleven. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him. Praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.” She handed the paper to the man on her left.
What a joke. She could not be further from the eleventh step than from flapping her wings and flying to the moon. Meditation? She wasn’t even listening to the meeting. Why was she coming here, if she let the cacophony of repetition in her mind distract her from getting better? Let? It wasn’t that she let it. It was that she used it to avoid facing herself.
“Twelve,” the skinny man next to her, reeking of tobacco, read with a husky grief. “Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”
But by the time they went around the room with introductions and she said, “My name is Maggie and I am a drug addict and an alcoholic,” and everyone else greeted her, “Hi, Maggie,” like it was a Gregorian chant of transcendence, she knew in her heart that while Steven Brinkley was a creep, and while he was a strategist, a sneak, a liar, a predator, and a manipulator, he was absolutely not a killer because she was still alive. In the end, after all that trouble, he had let her get away. And someone who could strangle a young woman to death could strangle a middle-aged one as well.
Andrew H., a white businessman, was giving his qualification. His mother blah blah blah, the confusion, the drinking at age twelve, etc., etc., etc., the lying, the self-destruction, the hiding. All the cars he had crashed, all the people he had fucked over, but he was fine now. That was the point. That was the point sometimes of these qualifications. You could fuck people over an
d still come out on top. You could be Andrew H., with a wedding ring and a great suit. Maggie looked around the circle. How many of these people had done terrible things to others who had already overlooked or forgotten whatever elaborate transgression had been orchestrated by the deviousness of their disease? If you just get better, do the people you hurt get better, too?
Then there was Martha L., a fortysomething black woman with a short, graying, natural hairstyle in exquisite corporate clothing. Impeccably pressed. Martha’s life might be a raging torment, but she looked fabulous. She knew how to shop and how to take care of her clothes, even while she had them on. She knew how to avoid getting them stained or even wrinkled by the banalities of daily life. She was a perfectionist. Martha could have held any position in any office from CEO to receptionist, but she would always be the best dressed. Next to speak was Ramón, a Latino maintenance man, early forties, in his company-issued jumpsuit, and a logo, Freeways with a fish happily wielding a mop. He could have been in anything: aquarium, plumbing, parole. Whatever he cleaned, and whomever he cleaned up after, Ramón wore his uniform out on the street as proof of identity. He was doing okay, today. It was all about today.
The smoker to her left was revealed to be Bashar. And he had problems that were larger than his own cravings.
“I am from Qatar. I am so worried, so worried. My family. A forty-eight-hour deadline. I am so scared. Thank you.”
Then, Susannah, a white mom, capital M-O-M, was trying to get a real estate license. She wanted a social role outside of Mommyland and seemed to hate her husband and resent her kids. Her fantasy was that with her “communication skills,” or something, she would be able to “break into” real estate in New York City. The entire city was a safe deposit box for the richest people in the world, everyone knew that. Money launderers—possibly including the president—were buying multimillion-dollar apartments in cash. How was this chick going to break in? Break down was more likely when she realized that there was no way out of hating her own family. She was going to have to love them or crack up entirely. But maybe she wanted to fail, Maggie realized. Maybe, that’s why she had given herself an impossible goal, so she could end up having another child and continue avoiding the problems that made her feel so bad. Supposedly, if the Program worked, a person could end up loving themselves no matter what they did for a living, or who they were related to. The family situation will improve, the Program boasted. But at the cost of what? Of justice?
Next was Ronald, a student, who was one of those buff Asian good-old-boy, all-American types who wore shorts over their gym pants. He carried an NYU travel mug. He just wanted to stay sober. No matter what. Then there was Scott, a young white businessman; Omar, a middle-aged Arab guy dressed in clean, well-fitting jeans—could have been gay. Charles, another white businessman, spoke next—he could have been sober for thirty years but alcoholism had taken its toll. He was constantly licking his lips, glancing about, and looking uncomfortable in the world. Next to him, Carlos, an older Latino executive type; Steven, a weathered black man who seemed absolutely miserable; Monica, a washed-out loser who seemed high; Katrina, a Russian model or would-be model, that was unclear. There was Sheila, an Italian American middle-aged secretary with a mustache who had barely made it out of bed. And on.
“And, here I am,” Joseph was finishing his three-minute share. “Today, triumphant. Thank you.” Another one of those. Maggie rolled her eyes, and then felt ashamed. Who was she to judge?
Everyone clapped, some with enthusiasm and hope that someday they would have the spouse, the good job, or just feel the love that was already there. They were all trying their best, and Maggie was not. That was evident, and she had to admit that they inspired her. Maggie raised her hand and in a miraculous act of mercy, Joseph called on her.
“My name is Maggie and I am an alcoholic and an addict.”
“Hi, Maggie.”
“Hi, everyone. Thank you for your service.”
She always said that because somehow this was the aspect of sharing at a meeting that impressed her the most: that telling other people the truth was “service.” Nowhere else on earth was this the case. For most people the telling of the truth was worse than the awful truth itself.
“Today is my second day of work sober. Ever. I’ve been through detox and rehab, court, a halfway house, and I have been trying to live on my own for one week now. I . . . lost my child.”
This was the moment when she was supposed to say how she felt. How do you do that? Keep It Simple was the slogan. Don’t tell the long story. As a police detective, she knew that the truth lay in the details. She could hear Julio say it over and over again. What was the order of events? What was the originating action? What were the consequences? What did each person do and why did they do it? What did they hope would be the outcome? And most importantly, what was the actual outcome? But here, in 12 Step–land, somehow that wasn’t supposed to matter. The specificity, where the truth lay, was not important. It was the simplicity; it was through the looking glass. Because in Program they were not trying to figure out who was going to get punished.
How do I feel?
She felt afraid. She wasn’t afraid of Steven Brinkley. But she couldn’t explain all that in a three-minute share. No, he wasn’t going to be the one to hurt her, that was a fact. What scared Maggie was that she had gotten rattled so fast. That, sober, she had no more cool to lose. It was gone, the foolish bravado that she was untouchable. What was she supposed to do? Find a way to get foolish bravado out of mint tea, or find a way to be terrified all the time and let that be okay? Sobriety was all about disappointing choices between flawed options. Could that really be . . . life?
“I am scared.”
Some of the folks nodded. They lived to identify. When other people felt bad, sometimes that gave them hope that they could feel better. Each of them lived to be forgiven.
“That’s all I want to say. Thank you.”
Hands shot up. She was lost in a swirl of pain. Everyone was staring. Was she really that much of a freak? The whole room was looking right at her with desperate neediness and their hands above their heads. What had she said that was so objectionable and urgent?
“It’s your turn to call on someone,” muttered Bashar, the forlorn young student from Qatar. He had wasted his own share on how much he didn’t want his country bombed because a greedy, impulsive ignoramus was president of the United States. That wasn’t going to keep him sober.
It was not a group wave. It was her responsibility to call on the next speaker. Maggie chose mousy Monica, who seemed to be on the nod.
At the end of the meeting, Maggie picked up her now-cold mint tea and finally took a sip. She still couldn’t tell if she liked it. Was it bitter? Was that bad? She held the apple. It was so unattractive and had nothing to give. The red looked fake, and it felt mealy in her hand. She picked up her purse, placed the apple in her bag, continued to grip the tea like it was the propulsion handle on a jetpack, and started toward work. At the top of the stairs, through the dark hallway, now filled with squealing Greek children, all of whom understood that they were sooooo lucky to be in America and not back home where there was no food, stood Omar, knapsack over one shoulder, waiting for her with the door held kindly open.
“I’ve been there and I know how hard it is,” he said softly. Slight accent. “You’re worth it. Just keep coming back.”
“Thanks. Omar, right?”
“Yeah. Do you have a sponsor? It really helps.”
“Yeah.” He was doing service. “Rachel. She’s a lifesaver.”
“Good. You can’t miss.”
“I’m so lonely.” There, she’d finally said it. “Facing myself.”
He smiled very warmly, seemed to be a kind of relaxed professional. Maybe a college professor. “Just stay around Program people for a while. It makes a difference.”
“I wish sober people went to bars.”
“There is a Program dance tonight at Saint Luke’s.”
“Dance? I’ve never danced sober. I can’t even imagine it.” Dancing is all about sex, and sex is all about . . .
He smiled. She looked for a wedding ring. He must be gay. The ring Frances had given her was rolling around her finger. Their relationship was long ended and Frances had gotten married to someone else, but Maggie had never taken it off. Yet. And her finger was smaller or thinner now, or else that ring was trying to get away from her, too. Gay people wear wedding rings these days. Frances was wearing one, when Maggie had last seen her, which was in court. She looked at her own ring. She twirled it with her right hand. No, she just couldn’t take it off. That ring meant Alina.
“I know you can,” Omar said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
9:10 AM
Craig was waiting for her outside the church, just as he had promised. Now that they were out on the street together, his lack of height and the girth around his middle were both a lot more prominent. Apparently, he was reliable, despite his constant displays of irritation. He paced, mumbled, showing in all possible ways his desperation to get every show on the road. He was the kind of person who walked up the stairs deciding exactly what he was going to do when he got to the top. I will turn left, then check my phone, straighten my tie, and then turn right. It made it all make sense. He needed to understand what came next, and when the road was clear, only then could he advance. Maggie saw that as hurried and overburdened as he seemed to always be, Craig was never, ever late. This contributed to his general state of annoyance, which scampered before him, like a puppy. People who are always on time consider it a sign of decency, based on the principle of keeping their word. Saying “I will meet you at nine” is a promise, something the promised can rely on, and in turn they are then free to make and keep promises to others predicated on everyone being predictable. I can meet you at 9:10, because Craig is meeting me at 9:00 was the imagined domino effect he craved and was so proud to be a part of.
Maggie Terry Page 10
