“I thought I’d take it to Daniel.” Then he smiled that same dashing smile that had gotten him past me time after time. “You don’t mind being alone tonight, do you, Mom?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I won’t be out late,” he assured me as he headed for the door.
“Drive carefully,” I said, not even sure why I bothered. Habit I guess.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m almost out of gas, and I don’t get paid until next week. Do you think I could borrow some cash, Mom? I promise I’ll pay you back.”
I pulled my purse over and fished out a twenty and handed it to him. “You don’t have to pay me back, Jake,” I told him. “I’m just glad that you have a job and are making good choices.” I looked into his eyes and hoped that my words were the truth.
“I’m glad too, Mom. It feels really good to be clean and working. I’ve even been thinking about school.”
“Really?” I felt a surge of hope.
“Yeah. I know it’s too late for fall term now. But maybe I could look into winter.”
“Oh, Jacob!” I smiled broadly. “That would be so great.”
“Yeah, I think it’d be cool.” He nodded. “Have a good evening.”
“You, too,” I called as he left.
I suppose I wasn’t too surprised when he still hadn’t come home by midnight, but I wished I’d thought to ask for a phone number. Still, I reminded myself as I got ready for bed, Jacob was turning his life around. He was working hard, thinking about continuing his education. And tonight he’d even gone out to encourage a friend who was feeling down. Now this was a son a mother could be proud of. Right? Even so, I tossed and turned all night long. I’m not sure if it was over Jacob’s absence or the scene at the restaurant, but I know I had dark circles under my eyes the next morning.
Just the same, I was relieved to see that Jacob had come home after all. Sacked out on his futon, he still had his clothes on, but at least he was safe. Feeling somewhat encouraged, I did my regular morning run, which had increased to nearly an hour including a cool-down period. Then after my shower, I peeked into Jacob’s room to see that he was still sleeping soundly. I decided to make us both a nice breakfast of blueberry muffins and cheese omelets.
But Jacob’s breakfast went untouched as he continued to sleep. About two o’clock I decided to wake him up.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as I gently shook him.
I told him the time and reminded him about work, and to my relief he finally pulled himself out of bed, showered, and left. Even so, that same old feeling of worry began gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I wondered if this could be the beginning of trouble again.
But Jacob came home after work and seemed to be doing fine. And for the following week, we continued to live fairly contentedly in our small and slightly cramped home. Oh, sure, he got in pretty late a couple of times, but he was always in good spirits, and his explanation always was that he’d been jamming with Daniel and some friends.
“We might even try to get some gigs this winter,” he told me as he poured himself a big bowl of cereal and drowned it with milk.
“That would be great,” I said, replacing the milk jug back in the fridge for him.
And, really, I figured music was probably a good distraction for him, something to keep him away from the temptation of drugs. I knew a little about distractions myself, since I spent most of my time trying to keep myself busy these days. It was my way of distracting myself from my own messed-up life—or rather my marriage. I relied on diversions like my daily morning runs. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’d walk Rufus and then have tea with Mrs. Fieldstone.
I also busied myself by keeping the apartment immaculate. For some reason I felt that if I could keep everything perfectly in place and running like clockwork, it would make it easier for Jacob to stay on track. I didn’t even mind cleaning his room, a practice I had long since given up when we were living in our old house. But the apartment was small and easy to maintain. Even the menial tasks, like scrubbing the grout between the tiles in the shower until the little room gleamed, didn’t bother me. I’m sure the place had never been so clean. Not only would I get my cleaning deposit back in February, but in all fairness the management should thank me for leaving the place in much better condition than I’d found it. In an attempt to remove old pet smells, I’d already steam-cleaned the carpets twice and was even considering painting the walls to freshen them up.
I also distracted myself by shopping for groceries at More-4-Less, and since the store was only eight blocks from the apartments, I would sometimes walk when I only needed a few items. Sylvia had explained the concept of clipping coupons to me. So now I would search through the Sunday paper or old magazines left in the laundry room for useful coupons. These I kept separated by category in an old wallet so they would be ready when I needed them—I knew that Sylvia had little patience for customers who held her up by digging around in search of some missing coupon for fifty cents off. I also knew about “double off” coupons. Sometimes More-4-Less would honor offers made by competing stores by giving you twice the face value of the manufacturer’s coupon. Already I had saved more than ten dollars by using these.
Twice a week I busied myself by doing the laundry and had my routine down to a fine science. In my laundry pack, an old backpack I’d confiscated from Jacob’s castoffs, I kept a jug of laundry soap, dryer sheets, rolls of quarters, and a magazine or book in case I was inclined to stick around and watch the spin cycle do its thing. I would put on my backpack, then lug an extra-large basket of already separated items downstairs to the laundry room. I’d discovered the best time to find an empty machine was in the morning. And I’d learned the hard way to carefully check the machine before dumping in my load. One time I put a load of delicates into a washer that had just washed a load of what must’ve been mud-encrusted work clothes. I had to do my delicates twice. A serious waste of quarters.
Today I was doing mostly sheets and towels. I had just filled the washer, loaded my quarters, and was listening to make sure the machine was filling.
“You new around here?”
Surprised, since no one had been in here when I came in, I turned to see a man standing in front of an open dryer. His weathered skin was the color of an old copper penny, and he looked to be about eighty, although I’ve never been good at guessing ages.
“Sort of,” I told him. “I’ve been here about a month now.”
He nodded as he stooped over to pull his laundry from the dryer into a wicker basket. “Thought I seen you before,” he said as he slowly stood up straight and extended his hand. “Name’s Jack.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Glennis.”
He dropped his last item into his basket and then cleaned the lint from the filter and closed the dryer door.
I smiled now. “It’s refreshing to see that some men actually know how to do their own laundry.”
He lifted his basket to the folding table and began to sort and fold his clothes. “Well, I’m very picky about my laundry,” he said as he straightened his socks and folded them together. “I like it just so.”
“I can see that.” To be honest, I felt pretty certain that his laundering skills would put me to shame.
“Reckon its the result of having been such a slob for so many years.”
I surveyed his tidy appearance. Neatly pressed shirt and creased trousers. Even his shoes looked recently polished, and he had a folded handkerchief tucked into his shirt pocket. “You don’t look like a slob to me,” I told him.
“Maybe not now. But, believe you me, I used to be.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so I just nodded.
“That was back in my drinking days.” He gave a white sleeveless undershirt a shake, then smoothed it out on the table. “Folks used to call me Jack Daniels back then.” He chuckled. “But my last name’s really Smart. Thing is, I wasn’t too smart back in those days.”
“Was tha
t a long time ago?” I asked.
His brow creased as he considered my question. “Well, I got sober on January 17, 1977. I used to keep an exact count of years, months, and days, but after I hit twenty-five years, I figured maybe I didn’t need to do that no more.”
“That’s great,” I told him as I turned to fill the second washing machine. The room was quiet as I put in a load of sheets and inserted my quarters. I almost wondered if Jack Smart had already left. But he was just watching me.
“Sorry about that.” He ran a wrinkled hand over his short-cropped gray hair. “Don’t know what gets me started sometimes. I’m sure you don’t want to hear me going on like that.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I assured him. “I think it’s…interesting.”
“Really?” he brightened now. “You in recovery too?”
I shook my head. “No…”
“Oh.”
“But I have a son with some, uh, problems.”
He nodded and frowned. “A drinker?”
“Yeah, and he’s had some troubles with drugs, too.”
“That’s a shame.” He gave a white handkerchief a shake. “Alcohol is bad enough, but drugs, well, they can really ruin a young life.”
“But he’s doing okay now,” I reassured him. “He’s got a job and is staying clean and everything.”
“So he’s in recovery.”
“Recovery?” I considered this. “Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?” Jack looked unconvinced. “That’s not exactly how it works. Either you’re in recovery or you’re not.”
“Well, he’s not in any program exactly…” Jack shook his head. “That’s too bad.”
“You think he should be?”
“I most definitely do.” He set his neatly folded handkerchief on the top of his laundry, then turned to look at me. “Maybe your boy would like to come to AA with me.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“We got a couple of fellas who’re recovering from drug addiction that come to our meetings too.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. Sometimes those two kinds of addictions go hand in hand. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if most drug addicts didn’t start out by drinking alcohol. Of course, you’ve got your purists at AA too.” He made a little chuckling sound. “There are always those alcoholics who think they’re better than drug addicts. Pretty funny if you think about it.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m in apartment 17A if your son’s interested. I don’t have a telephone. Don’t really see the need for one since I got nobody to call.” His smile faded a bit. “But if your boy wants to go with me, just tell him to come knocking on my door. Or maybe he’d just like to talk to someone…someone who’s been down some pretty hard roads and lost a lot along the way. I got plenty of stories to tell.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll let him know. Apartment 17A, right?”
“That’s the one. And the AA meetings are on Wednesdays at six thirty. I usually just ride the bus unless my buddy Hank decides to stop by and give me a ride in his Caddie.”
“Well, Jacob has a car,” I said eagerly. “If he decides to go, maybe he could give you a ride.” Already my mind was cranking on this possibility. Perhaps I could paint the picture of this sad and lonely old man for Jacob, play upon my son’s compassionate side, and encourage him to give Jack a ride to the meeting next week. It might work.
But that evening when I suggested this to Jacob, he was reluctant. “First of all, I have to work next Wednesday,” he told me. Then he frowned. “I mean I feel sorry for this old dude, Mom. But, honestly, do you really think I need to go to Alcoholics Anonymous?” He seemed hurt by my suggestion.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I told him. “I guess I just thought it couldn’t hurt, you know. Jack said that anyone who’s had a problem with addiction, whether it’s alcohol or drugs, needs to be in some kind of recovery program to get better.”
“But I am better. I mean, don’t you think I’m doing just fine on my own?” he asked.
“Of course,” I assured him. “You’re doing great. But I don’t want to—”
“You know that I’m a strong person, Mom. I mean I think this is something I can handle on my own, in my own way.”
“Right.” I nodded and told myself that this was probably best. Jacob had always been a strong-willed boy. I’d read that addicts can only recover when they choose to do so. Apparently he was choosing to do so now.
But after a couple of weeks at his job, and after getting his first paycheck, Jacob started staying out all night again. He’d usually come back to the apartment to clean up and change his clothes around noon the next day, and then he’d go in to work like nothing was wrong. But then he’d stay out all night again, and I wouldn’t see him again until the next day. Naturally, I wasn’t sleeping too well anymore. But when I would question him, he’d simply say,“Mom, I was just at Daniel’s again. No big deal. We were just doing music and lost track of the time, so I crashed on the sofa.”
At first I tried not to worry too much because Jacob had told me over and over that Daniel was a good influence. I knew that Daniel was a drummer who, according to Jacob, took his music seriously. But when the manager from Mama Mia’s called one afternoon, asking where Jacob was since he hadn’t shown up at work, I knew we had a problem.
Of course, I had no phone number for Daniel. I didn’t have phone numbers for any of Jacob’s “friends” anymore. But I knew that Daniel lived in a duplex not far from Mama Mia’s. So I decided to drive over to that neighborhood and see if I could spot Jacob’s car anywhere nearby.
It wasn’t the first time I’d gone out looking for Jacob. I couldn’t count how many times I had cruised around in my conspicuous Range Rover, going down one street after another in search of my wayward son. Just like before, I was racked with worries today. What if Jacob was in some kind of trouble? What if he’d been hurt? What if he’d gone back to drugs? Could he have overdosed? Same old questions but with a fresh intensity that always seemed to grab me by the neck and threaten to squeeze the life out of me.
Frightened and numb, I drove around and around until I finally spotted what appeared to be Jacob’s car. It was down a deserted alley that had become a kind of panhandle lot. I parked the Range Rover on the street and walked down the drivewaylike street toward a structure that did indeed seem to be a duplex—a very run-down and decrepit duplex with pieces of broken-down cars and old furniture strewn across the tall brown grass that had once been a lawn.
As I got closer, I knew by the distinctive dent in the left-rear fender that it was Jacobs car. I peeked into the Subaru, just in case Jacob was sacked out in the back, but only saw a messy pile of blankets and clothes and general Jacob debris. Taking a breath for courage, I went up and stood before the front door. A broken lawn chair was propped against the porch railing, and the paint on the siding was blistered and peeling. To my left, I noticed what appeared to be a bedroom window, but it was broken and “repaired” with duct tape and a weathered piece of cardboard and appeared to have been like that for some time.
It was broad daylight and about three in the afternoon, so I wasn’t feeling concerned for my own welfare, although I was certainly uneasy and apprehensive about knocking on a strangers door. But, I reassured myself, my son was probably inside. No need to be afraid of my own son. I took another deep breath, remembering Dr. Abrams’s exercises for centering myself, as I pressed the doorbell. Then unsure as to whether the bell worked or not, I knocked lightly and waited. It seemed I stood there for about ten minutes, knocking again and again, a little louder each time, but when the door finally swung open, I felt my mouth open right along with it.
The smell hit me first. A sickly sweet, nauseating mixture of rotten garbage, filthy laundry, and various human body odors. I must’ve stepped back when it assaulted my nose.
The young woman who stood at the door looked to be anywhere from fourteen to twenty-four, but I couldn’t be sure. She wore plaid boxer
s and a skimpy, stained undershirt that left nothing to my imagination. Her bleached-blond hair fell in greasy tangles around her face, which was extremely pale, and her eyes were glazed as if she wasn’t quite focused on me.
“Is Jacob Harmon here?” I asked in a voice that reminded me of an old curmudgeon principal I worked for before Sarah was born.
“Huh?” The girl stared blankly.
“Jacob Harmon,” I repeated a bit louder, looking past her bare shoulder to the cavelike interior splayed out behind her. The room was dark and shadowy, the result of blankets that were hanging over the windows. But I could see a couch with what appeared to be a person, not my son, sleeping on it. And in what seemed to be an old recliner was another person, again not my son.
My heart began racing as I stood there witnessing what was obviously some kind of flophouse, a place for people to get high. For all I knew there could be a crystal meth lab percolating away in a back bedroom. Maybe the cops were on their way over to make a big bust even as I stood there gaping.
“I’m, uh, looking for my son,” I said and took a tentative step into this den of horrors. “Jacob!” I called loudly enough to echo through the whole house, but the two sleeping bodies didn’t even flinch.
I could see the kitchen from where I stood, and it was piled high with filthy dishes, rotting food items, and dozens of empty booze bottles and beer cans. A couple of partially filled garbage bags littered the floor, as if someone had begun cleaning and then given up. Not that I could blame them. It would take days, maybe weeks, to clean up something like that.
“Jacob!” I yelled again.
“Oh, you mean Jake,” said the girl as she rubbed her eyes, now waking up.
“Yes!” I nodded. “Is he here?”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I think he’s back there in the bedroom.”
I swallowed hard, trying to hold my breath against the stench all around me. “Uh, do you think you could go get him for me?” I asked.
Then she actually smiled, and it was really a rather sweet smile, and it occurred to me that this was someone’s daughter. Someone’s beloved little girl. And did her parents have any idea where she was at this very moment?
Crystal Lies Page 12
