Authors: Tara McTiernan
She leaned in and touched Alan's arm. "Alan? Alan?"
Alan groaned again, but did not move.
Sharon prompted again, "Alan? Are you hurt? I'm going to call for help. I'll be right back."
Suddenly, Alan was shaking, pushing away from the airbag with difficulty. "No! Don't! I'm okay!" he said and then there was a click as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He looked at her and said, his words slurred and blending together, "Just get me out of here. I was coming to see you. I wanted to show you. I can drink. I can go out. I'm a man! I'm not a child. I will not be treated like a child!"
Sharon shook her head. "What were you thinking? You could have been hurt. Seriously hurt!"
"Oh, that's a load of crap! Sanctimonious crap! Where do you get off-" Alan said, and started to climb out of the car before he lost his grip on the door and fell into the creek, Sharon jumping back just in time. "Ow," Alan commented sluggishly. Sharon saw when he turned his face to her that his forehead was bleeding from where he'd gashed it on a rock.
"Alan," Sharon said, sinking down beside him. "Now you really are hurt."
"Something's wrong with my leg, I think," Alan said thoughtfully, his bluster gone.
"I'm going to call-"
"No! Don't you understand? I'll lose my license! Then what will I have? I might as well be dead!"
"That's not true. You have so much, so much you bring to the world. But you've got to stop drinking."
Alan's temper flared again, his eyebrows going down, his face terrible from the blood streaming over it. "Don't tell me what to do, girlie!"
Just then, Sharon heard a man's voice calling down to them and looked up toward the road, hoping it was a policeman, someone who could help. It was a tall gangly man stretching his neck out to look down at them. It was Dean.
Dean startled when he recognized her. "Oh, I'm sorry. I just...I thought I'd see if you needed help..."
"No!" Alan pushed himself up on one arm and squinted up at Dean. "We don't need any help! Go away!"
Dean jerked back. "Oh. Sorry," he said and then shook his head and spoke so quietly that Sharon could barely catch what he said. "Of course you don't. You don't want anything to do with me. Sorry to bother." He raised a hand at them and turned away.
"Wait!" Sharon called before she realized what she was doing. She paused and Dean did, too, turning back to face her. Was this it? Was she going to start asking for help at last? Or was she going to keep struggling on alone? She was willing to help other people; couldn't she just learn to accept some herself?
She clenched her fists, tightening every muscle in her body, and forced out the words. "Can you help me? Help us? Please?"
Walking out of the police station eight hours later into the cool gray morning that did nothing to raise her spirits, the rising sun hidden behind heavy low clouds, Sharon felt a moment of dizziness and had to pause, resting her hand against the station's gritty concrete wall.
"Are you okay?" Dean said, stopping beside her.
"Yeah. No. I'm not feeling too good. Dizzy."
"You need something to eat. We've been up all night."
"Thanks again," Sharon said, looking up at him. Dean was nothing like Jack. Jack would have bailed hours ago, only wanting to look heroic, not wanting to actually do the hard part. And Jack would've questioned her every decision or thought, made her doubt herself. Dean hadn't once. Well, once. Back in the ditch when she wavered about calling the police, wanting to protect her friend. She'd said as much and Dean asked her the ultimate question: could she protect Alan from himself? Then it was all very clear, very straightforward.
Dean said, "You're very welcome. And you've thanked me enough. I wanted to help. So, where should we go? You name the place, I'll treat."
"Do you like greasy spoons?"
"The greasier, the better."
"Excellent. I know the greasiest."
Dean drove them to Romey's Diner on Main Street. Sharon had been too shaky to drive after watching the police take Alan away, slumped in the back of the cruiser. This was after the ambulance's EMT's had given him a working over, cleaning and bandaging his cut forehead, his leg turning out to be bruised but intact. At Romey's they got a booth and Sharon slid in, feeling as if her life was a succession of booths, of scenes that were hard to bear. The thought of talking frankly about Alan with Dean scared her and now that they weren't in the station, she didn't have an excuse. Would Dean judge her for letting this happen? Had she let it happen, or had she simply been too naive, thinking Alan could get better on his own?
Dean ordered the Hungry Man Platter that came with eggs and every kind of breakfast meat in existence, and Sharon ordered a western omelet and their extra-greasy home fries. "Heavy on the butter," Sharon said, handing the huge laminated menu to the waitress. "And a large orange juice. Oh, and coffee, black."
"Sounds good," Dean said, nodding. "Ditto for me: fries, butter, juice and coffee. My coffee with cream, though."
The waitress left and then Sharon couldn't hide behind her menu anymore. She looked around, searching for some distraction. "Oh, did you see the photos on the walls? All the old fire department crews. Years of them. Cool, huh?"
Dean glanced around. "Yeah. Cool."
They sat, silent and awkward. Seconds ticked by, dragging.
"You know," Dean said. "My father was an alcoholic."
Sharon looked up from her placemat which she had been pretending to examine. "He was?"
"Yeah, bad. Worse than Alan. Dad couldn't even get to the car. Would pass out on the front lawn. Neighbors would be walking their dogs by him in the mornings. That was before my mother kicked him out, right out on to the street. She had no patience, not a drop of sympathy. She wouldn't even let me see him after that. I had to sneak out, pretend to go see a friend, if I wanted to see him. I was visiting an alley, but it was still seeing my dad."
"You know, when he was sober he was the coolest guy you ever met. Funny, smart, wise. And kind. And generous. To everyone. I remember once, when he was living in this little cardboard house he'd made from a refrigerator box, he gave me five dollars because I was talking about some thing I was saving for, a skateboard. He'd just gotten it, somebody handed it to him on the street that day, and he handed it right over to me. He said, 'Go get it. Have some fun. It's all over too soon.' He didn't even have any of his precious whiskey, no food, not even a change of clothes, and he insisted on me taking that five dollar bill, wouldn't let me give it back."
"That's so sad. I'm sorry. Did he get better?"
"No, died a year after mom kicked him out. Froze to death one night, sitting on a sidewalk, alone. Well, not really. He had his best friend, J.D., with him. His best friend and his worst enemy."
"That's terrible," Sharon said, choking a little on a lump that rose in her throat.
"No. What was terrible is that nobody would help him. And he needed it, the help. My mother is a strong smart woman and I love her, but she's cold. Too quick to judge. She could have at least tried to get him treatment. And the rest of the family, everyone we knew, no one helped him. When he was doing well, back when his drinking wasn't as bad, they were happy to come to his parties and eat his food and drink his booze, happy to take loans from him and ask him for favors. But when things turned around, where did they go? You're not like that. You were there tonight, down in the ditch with him."
Sharon shrugged. "But of course I was. He's my friend."
"That's the difference. You're a friend. A real one. Not some fair weather one," Dean said, nodding at the waitress when she dropped off their coffee and juice. "I admire that."
"I don't know," Sharon said. "I should have seen things earlier. Should have known better. He said he'd stopped. Just one drink before dinner. I believed him."
"I'm sure he believed it himself. They all tell themselves lies, so he'd tell you the same thing. Dad was always full of optimism on New Year's Eve. He was going to quit that year. And the same thing the next year. And then the next. He even said he was quitting when my mom kicked him out. She wouldn't listen."
"Maybe she was tired of hearing it. It had to be hard for her."
"Yeah, but she could have been kind about it. And kind to us kids, let us see him. Not talk about him like he was scum, like the the years he supported us didn't mean anything. I guess I never forgave her for that. You're kind. I didn't know that. At first I thought you were one of those super-together people I always admire. Like my mom, very organized and neat and precise, but an ice queen underneath. Still, I was a sucker, I couldn't help it. You were too cute. Then you told me to get lost that night when I saw you downtown and I figured I was probably better off. Who needs ice queens anyway? How wrong I was," Dean said, smiling a little and looking at her.
Sharon blushed and looked down at her coffee. "Maybe you were right. Maybe I am an ice queen."
"Nope. I don't think so."
"How do you know?"
"Okay. Let me ask you a question. Are you going to bail Alan out?"
"Of course!" Sharon said, looking up with surprise. Alan didn't belong in jail for any longer than necessary, she couldn't stand the idea of it, and, besides, he wouldn't be allowed to get behind the wheel anytime soon; his license was suspended for well over five months. Even when he could drive again, he'd have an IID locking up his car's ignition unless he was sober for another year after that.
"And you're going to make sure he goes to rehab, aren't you?"
"I'm going to try. He's got to want the help to take it."
"Just what I thought. Oooo here comes the grease! Yes!" Dean said, rubbing his hands together.
Sharon smiled at his boyish enthusiasm and watched him dig into the enormous mound of eggs and meat and potatoes set in front of him. A real meat and potatoes man, the kind who would appreciate her simple home cooking. A kind man, one who could see all sides of an issue and who cared about doing the right thing. A strong man, someone who stayed up all night in a police station beside her, not running at the first sign of trouble, someone who could support her as much as she supported him. The real thing.
Chardonnay
"No, let me carry that," Lucie said when Erin started to pull out the large heavy container filled with bouillabaisse from the refrigerator. The kettle was too heavy and the lid not completely trustworthy, taped shut with masking tape, which felt as effective as a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. The last thing she needed was for Erin to stumble, especially when Bianca had made such a big deal about loving bouillabaisse and wanting it for the first course tonight. Lucie had also made a small batch of onion soup for Kate's husband who was allergic to shellfish and who, according to Kate, adored cheese, which would be thickly melted over a large crouton on top of his special soup.
Erin looked up, her face moist from their many trips to and from Lucie's rental van. "Oh, I can do it?"
"The lid is pretty iffy. Let me. Here why don't you carry the duck?"
"Okay. This is going to be so great!" Erin said again. Lucie smiled at her stepsister, grateful for both her help and her new positive attitude. Erin had many weak spots, but lately enthusiasm was not one of them. Ever since Lucie's fall, Erin had proven herself to be a worthy partner, one who threw herself into her work and got things done. Now, not only had they stemmed Molly's bitter tide of malicious gossip, they had started building clientele again thanks largely to Erin, who over the last two weeks had brought in four new clients. But it hadn't happened without Lucie's simmering frustration coming to a full boil.