The Ninth Step (3 page)

By most anyone’s definition of the word, Dr. Helen Patrice was an alcoholic, and had been since she took her first drink at the age of twelve. Helen was very much aware that she was what was commonly referred to as a functional alcoholic. She believed that she labored under no illusions on that particular score. She was an intelligent, well-educated woman. She knew who she was. For her, the crucial division of that term, that label, was not that she was an alcoholic. No, the critical aspect was that she was functional. She was doing just fine.

The drinking during the day was new—well, newish, anyway. It wasn’t something she wanted to do. She didn’t
desire
the drink. It was, in actuality, medicine.

Over the last year, the nature of her hangovers had changed. Despite ever-escalating quantities of booze, she’d never even had a rough morning after until she was in her twenties. Her memory of herself as a college student was that of a young woman who could drink all she liked without ever having to pay
a physical price for it. But the alcohol abuse had started catching up with her around age twenty-five. Hangovers. Every day. But they were manageable. Something to be overcome each morning. A small obstacle. A fog to be burned off. A discomfort that could be remedied with plenty of fluids and healthy foods.

And remedy them she did. In fact, each day’s recovery was celebrated with another night of drinking to the point of passing out, so that the next day, when the morning light came streaming in, she could, in the prophetic words of Jackson Browne, get up and do it again. Amen.

Say it again. Amen.

But now, at age thirty-five, she found that her hangovers bordered on a brand of mental illness. Whereas before she could easily sleep well past noon if given the chance, she now woke most mornings well before her alarm clock went off. There was no gradual, groggy ascent into wakefulness, but a startling crack of consciousness that overtook her each morning. Her mind raced with anxious thoughts of past wrongs, of dreaded diseases, of house fires waiting to erupt from faulty wiring. She saw herself as a badly scarred burn victim, a chemo-wracked cancer patient, a radiation-poisoned victim of a terrorist’s dirty bomb. She imagined a brown recluse spider scurrying up her leg, picking the best place to bite her—practically feeling the agonizing burn of the venom going in, followed by the necrotic sear of rotting flesh. Everything bad. Everything bad that could happen or did happen. She saw it. All of it accompanied by a heart-racing sense of dread that felt borderline psychotic. And as hyper-driven as her mind was, her body was deathly sick, devoid
of energy and seemingly unable to move. A soul-draining lethargy.

To her, all of this was like having schizophrenia and mononucleosis at the same time. It was schizonucleosis. That was what her hangovers had become. Schizonucleotic nightmares.

So, yes, the drinking was perhaps impeding her life more than it had in the past, but she was still managing. She was still functional. She had found a cure for schizonucleosis. It was as simple as taking another drink. Not drinking to get drunk, not even to catch a buzz—the real drinking was still reserved for her evenings. No, the daytime nips were just maintenance. An alleviation of her symptoms. When she omitted the maintenance drinks from her day, she was prone to tremors that made her job impossible. There were visual disturbances as well. Disturbances that bordered on the hallucinatory. So she drank herself better. Yes, it was bothersome, self-stigmatizing even, but, by God, she was
functional
.

If any other aspect of who she was bothered Helen on a conscious level, it was that she had in essence married the bottle. There were flings and brief romances, and, let’s admit it, ugly little parking lot quickies that she didn’t always entirely remember; but Helen Patrice was spoken for. She had her animals and her Absolut. And she had the cure. Life was good.

Kelly, a thick-bodied young woman who wore her makeup too heavy and who served as both the records clerk and receptionist, poked her head into Helen’s office.

“Busy?”

“No, what’s up?”

Kelly entered the office, trailing a dog on a leash behind her. “Elmore found this one wandering around the parking lot.”

Helen sighed, not too terribly surprised to see Mitzi, the Great Dane. The dog was the size of a small pony. “Figures. Find her a spot in the kennel.”

“Can’t. Full.”

“Then call the shelter.”

“Did. Full.”

Helen closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Humane Society?”

When Helen opened her eyes again, Kelly silently mouthed the word
full
.

“Well,” Helen said, “I’m not taking Marmaduke home.”

“Well, neither am I.”

“There’s just no way in hell. She’ll eat my cats.”

Helen gently closed the hatchback on her tomato-red Honda Insight. Through the glass, Mitzi looked at her with eyes by Margaret Keane. The dog looked like a whale in a fishbowl.

Kelly and Elmore crossed the parking lot on the way to their cars. Kelly said, “We’re going to Mulligan’s tonight. Few drinks. Few dances. Interested?”

“No, not me. I’ve got Mitzi to contend with.”

Elmore said, “Your problem is that you don’t have a single redeeming vice.”

Helen motioned to Mitzi. “That’s my vice.”

Elmore said, “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?” Then he broke into dance and song, his large body moving with surprising grace.

Elmore twirled away, singing the old song, and Helen remembered that she needed to stop by the store on her way home and pick up a pack of cigarettes.

Mantissa Cove was a good place to live.

On the way home, Edgar drove along the scenic highway that sketched the coastline. When he was anxious, the ocean always calmed him. And when he felt good, the ocean enhanced that feeling. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he felt there was something precise about the ocean.

On up the coast, sprawling onto the beach like an odd growth, was Pirate Land, a Coney Island–type amusement park. The roller coasters rose and fell in a way that reminded Edgar of curve graphs. It was closed, waiting for summer, and looked forlorn without people.

Past Pirate Land was a massive Greyhound bus terminal. It was the New England hub, and there was a sprawling parking
lot that held several hundred buses that had been sent here for maintenance, repairs, or to die. To Edgar, it was a sad place.

After the Greyhound terminal, Edgar turned onto Cove Boulevard, the main artery that led directly to Mantissa Cove’s business district. From the business district, the boulevard quickly gave way to strip malls, fast food, and suburban sprawl. All of this in turn gave way to the older, more established neighborhoods on the outskirts of the town. The houses here enjoyed expansive yards that afforded lots of privacy. Banks of trees and long rows of overgrown hedges were abundant. This was where Edgar lived.

He and Judy had installed an inground swimming pool in their large backyard three years ago. They had enjoyed it a great deal in the beginning, but now it was just another burden, a chore to maintain, an impulse buy on which they were still making payments and would be for years to come. Edgar had wanted the rectangle but gave in to Judy, who wanted the classic kidney shape. Kidney, Edgar still felt compelled to point out, was not a shape—it was an organ.

As soon as he was through the front door, Edgar started loosening his tie. None of the other male teachers wore ties, and while Edgar was only a few years past forty, he believed a teacher should wear a tie every day. Even on Fridays.

As he did most days, Edgar crossed the living room and stood in front of the glass-enclosed display case positioned at the far wall. The case held his collection of puzzle boxes—
mostly vintage Japanese personal secret boxes. Gazing at them imparted a touch of the elation he’d felt upon obtaining and solving each one. Edgar looked at them as he finished removing his tie. He was not even aware of this daily ritual. He was not consciously aware that the few seconds he spent standing there drained away much of the day’s tension.

He had been collecting them since he was a boy. They ranged from objects of antiquity to sleek modern pieces. His favorites were the Japanese puzzle boxes. Edgar’s grandfather had brought one of the trick boxes back from World War II. It was a cheap thing, about half the size of a brick. A touristy trinket decorated with an image of a Japanese boat languishing on a lake with Mount Fuji in the background. The painted decoration was crackled and chipped, and one of the slats was missing from one end. His grandfather had given it to Edgar’s father, and Edgar’s father had in turn given it to him when Edgar was about twelve. Which sounded more entrenched with meaning than it really was. Nonetheless, Edgar had loved the box. Seemingly a solid block of wood, it was actually a trick box that took six separate moves to open. Putting pressure on just the right part of the box caused a concealed slat to slide. If all the slats were moved in the exact right combination, a hidden compartment would be revealed.

Edgar loved the tactile sensation of them. He loved exerting pressure over the seemingly solid surface only to discover a panel that moved forward. Which led to the discovery of another piece that slid precisely to the side. The next one would need to be moved down. And so on until the puzzle was solved
and the secret compartment revealed. His grandfather’s box had a hidden compartment as well as a secret drawer that held a 1945 Mercury dime.

Through his teen years, Edgar sought out more such boxes at flea markets and garage sales. As an adult, Edgar had added to the collection and branched out to more modern puzzle boxes as well. He had a solid black cube. A silver orb etched with hieroglyphics—crafted by a magician and touted to be the most difficult puzzle ever created. But mostly, it was the traditional Japanese ones that he craved. With the advent of the Internet, he’d learned that these boxes were still being made, and that the craftsmen who made them were regarded as artists and held places of honor in Japanese society. Edgar owned one that required seventy-eight moves. With eBay, his harmless hobby had blossomed into a bit of an obsession, but a mostly manageable one.

“I hope you’re taking that off because you want to put on a better-looking one.” Edgar looked at his wife. Judy Woolrich was a tiny thing, and Edgar found the sight of her pleasing even after fifteen years of marriage. She was dressed in a brown skirt and a white silk blouse. The smell of freshly applied perfume stung Edgar’s nostrils. It was Joy, purchased in Paris on their tenth wedding anniversary and generally reserved for special occasions.

“Not tonight. I’m tired. Aren’t you tired?”

“I most certainly am not tired. And you promised.”

“I know, but there’s an auction ending tonight and I want to bid on it.”

“You’re kidding, right? Another auction?”

“This one is special.”

“They’re all special.”

“True, but this one, look, just look.”

Edgar pulled up a browser page on the desktop computer at his little home office desk. The desk was just a small thing set up in a cubby in the living room. A place to pay the bills.

“Just look.”

In most regards, it was the typical war-era export with Mount Fuji, a lake, and a boat. The sides were a checkerboard marquetry inlay. Quite interestingly, the interior held five separate removable boxes. But what made this truly different, what made it
exceptional
, was that each interior box held an array of tiny treasures, charms, and toys. A tiny dog, a tiny book, a tiny pair of scissors. A complete fifty-two-card deck of miniature playing cards. A Japanese lantern form carved of bone (the lid of which unscrewed to reveal a hidden compartment!). A carved bone geisha figure (that likewise had a hidden compartment that held a miniature pair of bone dice). All handmade. And more. Just so much more. Teakettles, pocketknives. A compass. None of them larger than a pencil eraser. Edgar could hardly believe someone would be willing to sell it.

“There is no way I can let this one slide by.”

“So go ahead and bid on it.”

“Unh-uh. No way. You know my method.”

“Christ, Edgar. What about the iPhone I got you for your birthday? Can’t you browse the web on it?”

“True. But I have to keep my eye on the time.” Edgar preferred to place his bids in the last few seconds of an auction. He felt that placing an early bid drew attention to a listing and lessened his chances of getting a good deal. “I could do it on the phone browser, but the satellite connection might have a lag. I’d rather do it from home.”

“Surely you can adjust for the nanosecond of delay.” Judy approached her husband and reknotted his tie for him. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She grabbed hold of the tie, pulled him down to her, and whispered in his ear.

Edgar’s eyes got big, and he said, “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not if you’re married.”

Her eyes bright and alert, Helen stared at the bartender, Chuck, who was pointedly ignoring her.

Outside, the green neon sign that read
Smitty’s
ticked and burped into life as the last of the daylight drained from the sky.

Smitty’s was on Helen’s regular rotation. She made it a rule never to patronize any given bar more than once a month, lest she be identified as a regular, or, God forbid, a barfly. She had been avoiding Smitty’s for a while now, but she had spotted people she knew in the last three places she had tried.

Helen drummed her fingers on the bar top, cleared her throat, even waved at the man, but it was obvious she was being frozen out.

She thought about Mitzi at home. Since she didn’t know if
the dog was a furniture chewer, or how she would be with the cats, Helen had put her in the garage, where it would be dry and warm, with plenty of food and water and a blanket to sleep on. But, really, she should probably have stayed home and helped with the adjustment. The dog was probably scared and nervous. Helen decided that she should just do her drinking at home tonight. She would rather be with her animals. She opened her purse and retrieved her car keys. When she looked up from her purse, the bartender was standing in front of her, staring. She forgot about the animals.