Sorrow Floats

by Tim Sandlin

  “If you go away, I’ll track you down and shoot you,” Andrew shouted.

  “Be careful you don’t fall out that loft until I’m gone.” This was one hell of a loft, too. Built by hand, one board and one nail at a time, by Lloyd Carbonneau and Maurey Pierce. My dream was to drag all my friends and family down here and say, “Look what I did, doubters.” They would fairly swoon at my competence.

  Andrew went back to Bang, bang, then he threw a chunk of lumber at Merle—missed by two yards.

  “Bye, Andrew,” I yelled.

  “Bye, Murray.”

  “Maurey.”

  I walked over and kicked the soles of Lloyd’s bare feet until he slid out from under Moby Dick. He probably wasn’t even fiddling with ambulance underbelly parts down there but hiding from me because he knew I’d try to guilt trip him into coming to Greensboro.

  “Sharon’s just as likely to be in North Carolina or even back in Wyoming as Florida,” I said. “You have no reason in the hell-bitch world to think she’s in Florida.”

  He stood up, wiping grease onto his overalls leg. “I have a feeling in my gut,” he said.

  “What if I need you? After you leave here I won’t even have a phone number. I bet you’re the kind who says ‘Sure, I’ll write letters’ and never writes.”

  His eyes avoided mine. “I’ll write, I promise. I’ll send postcards, and after I find Sharon we’ll have you over for Christmas some year.”

  “After you find Sharon? You men are all alike, get a woman dependent on you, then run off to Florida or some godforsaken land with oranges.”

  One trick I learned from Sam Callahan—whenever you say what you really mean, make it sound like a joke so people won’t believe you. The corollary to that one is whenever you lie, be sincere.

  “You slept above me every night for three months, and the whole time you were thinking of another woman,” I said.

  The eyes went perplexed. “Well, yes.”

  Since I was leaving, I could be semi-audacious. “Didn’t you ever have one lascivious thought about me?”

  “No.”

  Lloyd sounded so sincere, I took for granted he was lying. I gave him an extended hug that was as emotional as anything I’ve ever done with a person I didn’t give birth to.

  “What do you say to someone who saved your life?” I asked.

  Lloyd smelled like barn wood. “Shane always told me to pass it on.”

  I looked into his eyes and saw pain, tolerance, humor, the ability to love—pain more than any of the others. I suddenly wanted Lloyd to find Sharon and her to be the same person she was all those years ago. I also wanted world peace, a cure for cancer, a GMC four-by-four, and true love—any of which seemed more likely than Sharon taking him back even if he pulled off the impossible and found her. But, hell, you have to start somewhere.

  “How would it be,” I said, “if I write a testimonial note to Sharon. I’ll tell her she’s amazingly lucky to have you and amazingly stupid if she doesn’t take you back in a heartbeat.”

  Lloyd took off his cap and scratched behind one ear. “Can’t hurt. I’ve got some paper and a pencil in Moby Dick.”

  51

  At the bus station in Greensboro I negotiated a cab and headed across town to one of the snootier neighborhoods, where Sam Callahan’s grandfather had built the manor house. The cabdriver had an unfiltered cigarette tucked behind his right ear and a tattoo on his shoulder—Semper Fi. He didn’t care that I was going to one of the snootier neighborhoods; to him I was another faceless fare in an afternoon of faceless fares.

  Greensboro itself was so typical you’d think a Hollywood committee dreamed it up for a movie set in Real Town, USA. Wide streets, big hardwood trees, grocery stores where you can buy milk and be back in your car in forty-five seconds. It was one of those towns where the high school kids think everyone in the world lives the way they do.

  “Do you know of an AA meeting later tonight or in the morning?” I asked the driver.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, suddenly aware that I was an individual. People like it when you admit to being Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s confessing a flaw. They compare your looks and personal hygiene with their own, searching for that detail that makes them morally superior.

  The cabdriver more or less grunted, “The Presbyterian church rec hall has a ten o’clock meeting. First one in the morning is VFW.”

  Here’s one of the lessons Lloyd taught me: When in need of a meeting in a strange town, ask a taxi driver. That’s because a high percentage of alcoholics have legal problems where driving is concerned.

  Lloyd said, “Taxi drivers know where the next meeting is, only to find out you’ll have to sit through anecdotes of the driving-drunks-home variety.”

  Sure enough, the driver went into a story about a three a.m. fare who had to be carried into the house where a pissed-off wife almost shot them both. Fairly tame stuff after you’ve heard it from the drunk’s point of view.

  “I haul a lot of alcoholics,” the cabdriver said. “They have me drop them off at a meeting, then pick them up an hour later and take them to a bar. I want to say, ‘What’s the use?’ but it’s none of my beeswax.”

  “Maybe they don’t know where else to go.”

  “My old lady wanted me to join AA, but I don’t like all that religious stuff. If she can’t accept me the way I am, to hell with her.”

  “You sound like a scratched record,” I said.

  He didn’t know what I meant, so he decided I was a nutcase and dropped the conversation. I was categorized again—nutcase—back to nonindividual.

  Not that I cared. I was more interested in being nervous about Shannon. Seeing your child who doesn’t live with you is a lot more nerve-racking than people who haven’t tried it think. There’s a guilt ratio involved. Will my daughter hurl accusations of abandonment? And a fear of discomfort. What happens if we’re strangers? I’m supposed to have a deep bond with this person I hardly know. What if we have nothing to say to each other?

  Here’s another lesson Lloyd taught me: Just because you stop being a drunk doesn’t mean the world will turn hunky-dory overnight. Sober people have problems, too.

  The driver took the cigarette from behind his ear and tapped it on the dash. “She thinks I can’t control it,” he said. “I can control it, I just don’t want to.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  ***

  I stood on the manor house steps between two fake Greek columns, concentrating on my breathing. Lloyd says if you focus on deep inhale-slow exhale, your brain won’t explode. It’s very important that recovering alcoholics avoid brain explosions. I wanted to waltz into Sam Callahan’s front room tanned, strong, and self-assured, which is how I felt, sort of, but feeling like your shit’s together and acting that way aren’t always the same.

  The neighborhood seemed colored from an eight-color box of crayons—green yard, blue sky, paper girl riding a red bicycle, wearing a yellow sweatshirt. Piano music came from inside the house—Für Elise. Music for daughters. Across the street, lawn sprinklers circled slowly clockwise, whirred back counterclockwise, then circled clockwise again, and far off a siren chased down someone else’s emergency.

  I imagined I’d just dyed my hair blond and was poised on the edge of a room full of friends and family who weren’t expecting a change. The most pain-free way of making the transition would be to slip in unnoticed and get on with life, but they won’t let you do it that way. They have to make a big deal over the new you—touch you and say that you’re much improved, even though you know a certain percentage are lying through their teeth. Everyone who was once one way I could count on would be different now. And I wouldn’t know if they really were different or it was me.

  The girl’s arm cocked back and she threw the newspaper in a graceful arc across the lawn onto the front walkway, where it slid gently against
my day pack. In a single, fluid motion, the girl waved to me, then dipped her hand into the bag for the next-door neighbor’s paper. Two doors down a kid yelled, “No way!” as his dad slammed the trunk of the car. Time for me to either move forward or backward—some direction. Wouldn’t do to hyperventilate out here and be found passed out on the doorstep.

  As I bent to pick up the newspaper, Sam Callahan’s old cat, Alice, came bounding around the side of the house, giving mean excuse to put off the entrance deal. I knelt and said, “Kitty, kitty,” and scratched under her neck. Sam and I got Alice from Pud Talbot almost ten years ago. She and I had always been friends in spite of her one and only trick, which was peeing in open suitcases.

  “Well, Alice,” I said. “Time to dive in.”

  She flipped onto her back and mewed.

  When I rang the doorbell Für Elise stopped and I could hear the clatter of a piano bench being shoved back and someone young running across the room. Biting my lower lip, I touched my hair, inhaled deeply as possible, and made my face smile. The door was flung open and there stood my Shannon, taller than I remembered, wearing a sky blue jumper and white leotards. She didn’t recognize me for a half second, then her eyes lit like sunlight on the Rockies and she said:

  “Mama.”

  About the Author

  Rebecca Stern

  Reviewers have variously compared Tim Sandlin to Jack Kerouac, Tom Robbins, Larry McMurtry, Joseph Heller, John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, Carl Hiaasen, and a few other writers you’ve probably heard of. He has published eight novels and a book of columns. He wrote eleven screenplays for hire; two of which have been made into movies. He turned forty with no phone, TV, or flush toilet, and spent more time talking to the characters in his head than the people around him. He now has seven phone lines, four TVs he doesn’t watch, three flush toilets, and a two-headed shower. He lives happily (indoors) with his family (wife, Carol; son, Kyle; daughter, Leila) in Jackson, Wyoming.