Don't Put the Boats Away

by Ames Sheldon

  Harriet interrupts. “The accident you had with Retta and Joey was the last straw, Mother. I can’t trust you with my children. I hate to have to say that, but it’s true. I can’t let you endanger the lives of my children.” She’s on the verge of tears but she controls herself.

  Eleanor leans forward intently. “I know, Harriet. I’m sorrier than I can ever say. I told you I promise not to drink when I’m around them.”

  George clears his throat. “You’ve made promises and quit drinking dozens of times, Eleanor, but it never lasts.”

  She’s fidgeting now with what looks like shame.

  Nat says, “There’s a residential rehabilitation center in Minnesota that specializes in treating people who drink too much—it’s called Hazelden. They’ve had great success since they started ten years ago in helping problem drinkers get sober.”

  “You’ve been discussing me behind my back. You’re ganging up on me!” Angrily she adds, “You’re calling me a drunk. I am not a drunk!”

  Nat continues calmly, “Hazelden has recently opened a facility just for women, called Dia Linn.”

  “Eleanor,” George says, “your children and I are asking you to go to Dia Linn. We believe this is the only way we can recover the woman you used to be, the woman we love, the woman we miss.”

  Harriet has never heard her father say the word love.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll go!”

  Harriet says, “Please, Mother.” Now her voice quavers with emotion.

  “I can’t stand the idea of being shipped off to some residential place, interrupting my life, people knowing I have to go somewhere to take care of some problem. What about an outpatient program? There must be something like that around here.”

  George replies, “Dr. Barnett is worried about your liver, Eleanor. He thinks Dia Linn is a good idea. It might save your life.”

  She turns to Nat. “‘Et tu, Brute?’ Do you think I need to do this?”

  His mouth turns down in a deep frown. “I’m afraid I do, Mother. Dia Linn has the best plan of recovery available. We want you to get well.”

  She stands abruptly. “I need to go to the bathroom.” She hurries out.

  Harriet looks to her father. “Should I follow her?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  Her mother has shut the powder room door. Harriet hears her open a cabinet and then, after a pause, a gurgle and a sigh.

  “Mother, what are you doing in there?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I’m coming in.” She tries the door but it’s locked.

  “Leave me alone!”

  After Eleanor flushes the toilet, opens the door, and exits, Harriet walks into the little room. She opens the cabinet under the sink and finds a bottle of Old Grand-Dad stashed next to a bottle of Listerine. This is not good. She closes the cabinet.

  Back in the parlor, her mother stands facing her husband and son.

  George says, “Eleanor, please sit down.”

  Her mother says, “I can’t go anywhere right now. Agnes and I have been planning the auxiliary gala for months—I couldn’t possibly go before the gala is over. The hospital needs the money we’ll raise for the physical therapy department. Agnes counts on me.”

  George uncrosses his legs. “You and Agnes have done yeoman service for the hospital over the last few years—starting the auxiliary, organizing volunteer committees to run the welcome desk and delivery services, the library cart, the gift shop. But now”—he leans forward—“we can’t afford to put this off. Nat made a reservation for you to start at Dia Linn tomorrow. You’ll fly to Minneapolis with him this afternoon and Nat will drive you to Dellwood tomorrow morning.”

  She closes her eyes tight. “Please don’t make me do this, George.”

  He comes over to her. Reaching out, he takes her hands in his and pulls her up. “We wouldn’t ask it of you, Eleanor, if we didn’t believe this program was absolutely necessary.”

  Tears start to roll down her face. “I don’t want to do this. I’m so frightened. What will I do when I’m dying for a drink? Will they put me in a straitjacket? Lock me up?”

  Desperately, she scans the faces of each of her children. Finally, she says sadly, ”I can’t fight all of you.”

  George puts his arms around her. “You’ll get through this, El. I know you have the strength. I’ll be here waiting for you to come home.” Then he releases her.

  Nat sighs.

  Harriet jumps to her feet. “Come on, Mother, I’ll help you pack.”

  On their way up the stairs, Harriet says, “I’m sorry to be so tough on you, but I can’t cope with having both a mother and a husband who drink too much. Maybe you’ll learn some things in Minnesota that will help Ron too.”

  November 1958

  November 10

  Dear Harriet,

  The first week at Dia Linn was hell. My hands shook terribly and my skin screamed for the soothing effects of booze while my stomach kept threatening to rise up into my throat. It’s still nearly impossible for me to stay seated during the interminable meetings with the group of women I’ve been sentenced to associate with. Everyone is supposed to spill their guts about the heinous things they’ve done under the influence. I don’t belong here with these alcoholics. There’s no one at Dia Linn that I have anything in common with.

  Has Alice telephoned you? What are my friends back home thinking about my sudden absence? Have they heard the truth about where I’ve been forced to go? Everyone knows that women drunks are even more despicable and morally depraved than men who drink too much.

  I hate everything about Dia Linn, despite the lovely grounds, the tall pines and walking paths, and the beautiful facilities. The place feels like a sanatorium for crazy people, though the doors aren’t locked, the windows aren’t barred.

  I received your letter and letters from Nat and Jessica. George actually sent me a dozen red roses with a card saying “Thinking of you.” That’s a first! When each of you children were born, he gave me a new silk bed jacket. It’s almost as though I’m in the hospital recovering from a serious operation, but what I’m going through here hurts worse than that, and there’s no one who’ll give me morphine or anything else for the pain. I feel as though I’m a raging beast trapped in a cage.

  I’m not a degenerate, I am not a bum on Skid Row.

  Then what am I?

  That question makes me cry. I never meant to drink too much, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel calm. I need alcohol to muffle all the horrible feelings swirling inside. I’ve been swallowing my grief for so long that it sits like a rock at the bottom of my gut. My heart hurts so much. If Eddie had lived, he’d be thirty-three years old now—he’d probably be married with children, grandchildren I’ll never know. There’s no way to escape my losses now. I just have to sit and cry and cry and cry. And then at the end of the day, when the light fades, I long to be home with George.

  I want to come home.

  Mother

  November 23

  Dear Harriet,

  I’m still here at Dia Linn.

  Every day I’m required to attend three daily lectures on the Twelve Steps along with the other patients, but I can’t stomach the steps because they’re all about God. I’m supposed to turn my will and my life over to him, to admit to God the exact nature of my wrongs, to ask him to remove my shortcomings, to pray for knowledge of his will for me. I’ve never been comfortable with God. I believe in morality and integrity and the Golden Rule, but not in God. Nothing in my life has ever led me to believe in him.

  When I complained to my counselor Jane, she asked, “Do you believe in anything greater than yourself, Eleanor?”

  Without pausing to think I answered, “Yes, love is greater than anything.”

  Jane replied, “All right then. Simply substitute Love for God in your mind. When you recite the Twelve Steps silently, use the word Love instead.”

  This sort of works. Once I started asking myself what Love would have m
e do with my life, I had something meaningful to think about.

  I am beginning to understand that everyone at Dia Linn struggles with anger and fear and grief and shame about their drinking. Finally I am coming to acknowledge that I am just like the others here: I am an alcoholic. We all suffer from the same affliction, while many of the women here have much tougher situations to deal with than I do. That helps me acquire some perspective.

  My twenty-eight days in the program will end right after Thanksgiving—I can go home on Saturday, November 29, but I think I’d better stay a few days longer to make sure I’m strong enough to return.

  When I get home, I want to start learning everything I can about grief.

  Love,

  Mother

  January 1960

  Harriet’s very grateful that her mother hasn’t had a drink since she came home from Dia Linn. Now Eleanor is involved in a weekly grief group that she started at Plainwood Hospital; she helps to facilitate it along with a licensed social worker, and this seems to bring her a lot of satisfaction. Her father is in the process of seeking a buyer for Sutton Chemical. At age sixty-six, he tells Harriet he wants to set up a philanthropic foundation with the proceeds from the sale.

  Retta, eleven years old, is happy to attend the school at which her mother teaches, and Joey is working hard to master his multiplication tables at Warden, the boys’ school.

  Harriet enjoys teaching chemistry more than she ever imagined she would. Ron seems to be getting on too. He was named a junior partner at Smith Barney a few months ago. The only problem now is his drinking. He gets loaded almost every night. After struggling with her mother over alcohol, it seems unfair that she would have to face the same challenge all over again with her husband.

  She doesn’t wait up for him, but tonight when she hears the garage door open but then no other sounds, she goes down to investigate.

  The car is still running but he has passed out.

  She turns off the car and reaches in to get him. When they move into the kitchen, he collapses, slamming his head on the ceramic tile floor.

  She kneels quickly and tries to rouse him, but he doesn’t respond. Terrified now, she leans down to make sure he’s still breathing. Then she races for the telephone.

  When Eleanor answers, she cries, “Help, Mother! Ron is unconscious—I can’t wake him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He just came home really drunk. He fell, hit his head. I’ve got to get him to the hospital.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “You’ll get here faster. Father can help me move Ron into the car. You stay here with the kids.”

  “Of course. We’ll be right over.”

  “Please hurry, Mummy!”

  After opening the front door, she returns to Ron’s side. She takes his hand and squeezes. “I’m here, sweetheart.” He reeks of booze. She used to love the smell of his sweat, but she hates this stench of alcohol. When was the last time he smelled good to her? Tears threaten to fall but she blinks them back. She needs to stay strong.

  When her parents finally arrive, she makes way for her mother, who squats down. Eleanor takes Ron’s arm to feel his pulse. Then she slaps his face. No response. She slaps harder. His eyelids flutter.

  “Ron,” she says, “you need to stand up.”

  “Wha … ?”

  “We’ll help you to your feet. Come on.”

  Eleanor and Harriet grab his arms while George puts his hands underneath Ron to lift him up. They walk him out to the Lincoln in the driveway.

  George speeds off to the hospital with Ron and Harriet in the back seat.

  In the emergency room the physician tells Harriet that Ron will need to spend the weekend in the hospital. They’ll watch him for signs of concussion.

  As she and her father drive back to the house, Harriet says, “It’s a relief to leave Ron in a doctor’s care for a couple of days.” Days she won’t have to worry about his drinking. “I don’t want the children to see him in this condition.”

  “That’s understandable,” George replies.

  The next day when she visits Ron in his hospital room, a different physician pulls her aside. “Mr. Wright doesn’t seem to have suffered a concussion, but you’ll want to pay attention to any symptoms of delirium tremens after he leaves here.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “Tremors. Agitation. Confusion.”

  “Is there some treatment for DTs?”

  “We prescribe paraldehyde or some other sedating medication.” The doctor consults Ron’s chart, then looks up at her. “How much does your husband drink on a regular basis?”

  “He has a few cocktails every night. I think that’s all.”

  “Hmm.” He sounds skeptical.

  That night after the children go to bed, she enters Ron’s study and looks around. When she opens the door to the closet, expecting to find office supplies and old jackets, she discovers more than a dozen empty bottles of Scotch that he has hidden there. This is much worse than she realized.

  Is it her fault that Ron has been drinking so much? He must be unhappy. Is there something he needs from her that she’s not giving him? But this doesn’t make any sense. They have a great life together—wonderful kids, jobs they enjoy, family nearby, friends.

  She needs to talk with her mother—maybe her mother can help her understand more about Ron’s drinking.

  On Sunday night when she brings Ron home from the hospital, he says, “I am so sorry for what I put you through, Harriet.”

  “I was really scared when you passed out.”

  “I swear that I’ll never get drunk like that again.” After looking her in the eyes as he solemnly makes this promise, he hangs his head.

  “I’m counting on you to keep your word.”

  “I will.”

  “Ronnie, I’ve been thinking, from now on let’s do more of our entertaining at home rather than at the club.” That way she’ll be better able to monitor how much he consumes.

  “Whatever you want, Harriet.”

  “I was thinking I’d like to take some cooking classes in French cuisine. Then we’d have something really special to offer guests.”

  Gamely, he replies, “That sounds good.”

  “Mother suggested that I go to some Al-Anon meetings.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like AA, only it’s for family members of an alcoholic.”

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you. Mother’s an alcoholic, even though she’s sober now. I was raised by an alcoholic. Mother says alcoholism is a disease. It’s not about a lack of willpower or weakness or moral depravity. It’s a disease that impacts the entire family.”

  Ron says, “I don’t believe it’s a disease. That’s just an excuse.”

  “Well, I’m going to see what Al-Anon is like.”

  At Al-Anon meetings Harriet learns that she cannot control Ron’s behavior, or the actions of anyone else, for that matter. She can only govern herself. She signs up for cooking classes, and they’re fun; she becomes proficient at making French onion soup, duck à l’orange, cassoulet, and crème brûlée. They host dinner parties in their home, and it seems that Ron is drinking less.

  One night, two hours after they turned out the light, she awakens to see that Ron’s no longer in bed with her. She gets up and walks around the house looking for him. He’s not in his study or anywhere else. After another hour, she hears the front door open and close quietly. She hurries downstairs.

  “Where have you been?”

  He grimaces. “Country club.” Clearly he doesn’t want to be having this conversation.

  “Why did you go over there at this hour of night?”

  “Buddies, see my buddies.” He’s loaded.

  “Well, come to bed now. It’s almost midnight.”

  Suddenly, he pulls off his winter coat, throws it on the floor, and runs to the bathroom. He vomits. Then there’s a pause. More vomiting.
She goes in to see if he needs help. The toilet bowl is filled with red.

  She hurries to the phone. “I’m sorry to call so late, Mother, but Ron’s vomiting blood. What should I do?”

  “Call an ambulance. Your father is away in Wilmington on business, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  She telephones, unlocks the front door, and then she starts to shake. She gets Ron to sit on the floor in the living room with a bowl between his legs. Then she runs upstairs to put on some clothes and check that the children are still asleep.

  Her mother is entering as she descends the stairs.

  “Znot blood,” Ron slurs, “izz tomahdo jews.”

  Eleanor leans over the bowl and sniffs. “It’s not blood,” she agrees, “but you’re drunk, Ron.”

  The medics appear and quickly move Ron into the back of the ambulance.

  Harriet says, “I’m going to follow in my car. You’ll stay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Mother. I’m so glad I can count on you again.”

  After putting on her coat, she grabs her purse. Before she heads out the door, she turns around and informs her mother, “I can’t stand to see him like this. It’s too terrifying. I will never go through this again. When Ron sobers up, I’m going to tell him, never again. He can keep his bottle or he can keep me—but not both.”

  Eleanor gives her a quick hug. “I’m so sorry, Harriet. But don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

  March 1966

  After a few years of turmoil, Harriet’s life has settled down into a comfortable routine. She lives alone with her children in the house she and Ron built, and he has moved to San Francisco and started a new family.

  Today the girls in the Advanced Placement Chemistry class are fidgeting—they can hardly hold still, for spring break starts right after this class. Perched on their stools, ten juniors wearing navy blue jumpers and pale blue blouses, pencils in hand, take notes as they lean on the soapstone counter, their books shoved in between the Bunsen burners, sinks, and goosenecked water faucets. They’re asking Harriet questions that arose while they prepared their homework assignment.