by Karen Tucker
He didn’t say anything for another minute, maybe longer, though he did slow down to a reasonable limit. The only sound was the wipers sloshing back and forth. At last he glanced at Luce. Said he was sorry. “I’d never want to hurt you in a million years. Thing is, I think I’m starting to feel all the old cravings. It’s scary, to be honest.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Luce said. “But just hang tight and this will all be over in two weeks. Right, Irene?”
I hesitated, weighing my options. I needed to get this next part right. “Two weeks, absolutely. And if you need to step away until then, we understand. You can’t go risking your clean time.”
“Wait, what?” Luce looked at me. “Step away? You’re kidding.”
“I mean, whatever’s best for Wilky of course.” I leaned forward. “What does your sponsor say about the cravings? Or have you told him.”
Wilky glanced at me in the rearview. I don’t know why, but he always trusted me. “He’d probably say something like Meeting makers make it. Stick with the winners. That I might have another high left, but not another recovery. You know, the usual.”
Luce stared at him, breathing from her mouth, the way she did when she was upset about something. You could hear her lungs squeaking from all the stress. “Okay, fine. Maybe a break’s not the worst idea ever. But just until d-day.”
When Wilky said he was also concerned about being a 13th stepper, Luce let out a choked little cry. Even we knew the famous rule against dating newcomers to the program. I leaned back and tried to keep my face from jumping around in triumph. Soon it would be just me and Luce again. The way it should be.
“So you’re saying it’s over,” she said. “Like over-over?”
A pause so long we could have driven our whole lives through it.
“It’s either that or start using again,” Wilky said.
Years later I still think of that afternoon, the three of us heading home in the rain, sunk in our own private worries. In the front seat, Luce leaned against the window, weeping into the sleeve of her hoodie. Outside a blur of trees rushed by in a dizzying excitement until I wished I’d stolen the old woman’s Antivert when I’d had the chance. Meanwhile Wilky turned on the radio, some of the easy-listening junk he was into. “Rainy Days and Mondays,” I think was playing, poor Karen Carpenter, or maybe it was “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
The next week, Wilky would tell his primary doc at Bragg’s medical center that he’d re-hurt his knee on a practice jump and he needed a new prescription. The doctor-shopping antics would kick in soon after, the whole pain-clinic racket, and before long even that would balloon into something else altogether, something much bigger and far more terrible than we could have ever imagined.
Well I guess you already know about that.
Was there a turnoff we missed, a fateful guidepost? How did we not see where we were going? Even back in those earliest days the warning signs kept popping out all over—and yet it was like they had nothing to do with us or where we were headed. You believe what you want to believe. I guess it was just another hustle, is what I’m saying, except this particular hustle was one we pulled on ourselves.
That afternoon, as we drove up the mountain out of that sad rainy valley, the fog burned away around us and the sky opened back up with all of its bright, dazzling promise. We were invincible once again.
THERE’S A CERTAIN PARKING LOT AT THE EDGE OF Anklewood, right before the town peters out into nothing, where Luce and I used to go when the mood struck us. Wedged behind a seedy neighborhood bar, it didn’t look like anything special. Its primary draw was a busted green couch that customers sometimes lounged in during smoke breaks and a couple of folding chairs tucked beneath a low metal awning. A Folgers coffee can full of sand, butts, ashes. An industrial work lamp you could plug in or not.
Because the bar never opened before seven at night, and even later in summer, we’d often head there during daylight hours. Plop ourselves on that shabby green sofa or maybe sprawl out on the old Holly Hobbie blanket Luce kept in the trunk of her Impala. For hours the two of us would gaze out at that empty parking lot. Also the field that lay beyond it, which was overgrown with pokeweed and thistles, and the woods that sat even farther out, waiting, waiting. This was back when we were still using, of course.
On occasion I’d retrieve the pack of cards I kept stashed in the couch cushions and we’d play war or rummy. Other times we’d just chill, maybe mess around on our phones. Later on, when Wilky joined us, he’d bring his guitar and we’d sing all the old songs from childhood. At some point Luce would get up and start dancing and next thing you knew we were spinning around light-headed with pleasure until she had to sit down on her blanket and let her breathing get back to normal. I miss those days.
The bar’s owner, a stringy older woman with sun damage from when she ran a tanning salon back in the nineties, didn’t mind us hanging out on her property. Despite her never having had children, you could tell a powerful streak of the maternal chugged through her bloodstream. I think she felt protective of us. Better to use in a familiar place than off in some remote, sketchy location. She’d known most of us since we were babies, had watched us grow up, attended our church picnics, applauded us at games and recitals. I’ll never forget seeing her eyes well up at my high school graduation. Or how when my dad died my senior year she brought a giant pan of shepherd’s pie to the house.
Later on, after Wilky got Big-Chicken-Dinnered from the army and moved out to Anklewood, it was she who gave him a job cleaning the bar every morning. Made him eat when he wasn’t eating, talked him down when his parents cut him off without warning, promoted him to bouncer when he got his six-month tag. And while she treated all three of us with a kindness that was getting harder and harder to come by, it was clear she reserved a tender spot for Wilky. The phantom son who had at last materialized. I guess it almost makes sense that of all the shady nooks where everything could have blown up in our faces, it was there Wilky met his end that final evening, slumped in his car, ODd.
When I woke up the day after his memorial and saw Luce had vanished, that lonely scrap of land was the first place I thought of. I threw on my new leather jacket, got in the cheese-mobile, and drove up the mountain in the pale chill of morning. At least I’d had enough sense to hide the car keys from Luce. Up to Broad Street, past the Anklewood Mill and its unhappy reminders, past the restaurant where Luce and I waited tables. A handful of folks in line for the Anklewood Wellness Clinic. A slew of boarded-up buildings with FOR RENT signs. In front of the AME Zion church a man in a cheerful blue tracksuit unloaded Bibles from the rear of his hatchback. As I approached MJ’s Auto Repair a car alarm went off in a frantic series of honks. Moments later a boy who didn’t look any older than twelve or thirteen hurdled the shop’s chain-link fence and sprinted in front of me, his arms pumping in panic. I had to brake hard not to hit him, which made a nasty burnt smell pour out of the heater, and though I leaned on the horn, the kid kept going and soon I couldn’t see him any longer. A few seconds later the alarm fell still.
I pulled up in front of Wilky’s bar and cut the engine. Ordinarily I would have parked in the lot out back, but if Luce was there I didn’t want to startle her into running. As quietly as I could I made my way down the footpath that ran alongside the building. Pain bulleted into my knee. Already I could picture Luce asleep on that green couch, lungs wheezing in the chill of the morning—and for one ugly moment I saw myself too. Squatting down beside her, going through her coat pockets to check for leftovers, sniffing whatever I found before she woke up and caught me. As fast as I could I pushed that thought back into the murky recesses it had crawled out of.
I rounded the corner to the parking lot to see a bulky object lying next to the dumpster. A bag of trash too heavy to toss in the bin was the first thing I thought of, but within moments the bag came into focus. Luce. I sprinted over as best I could, rolled her onto her back, and knuckled her sternum, a trick I’d learned from watching Wilky re
vive a woman I’d found passed out in a Hardee’s bathroom a couple months earlier.
“Dude, what the shit?” Luce pushed me off her.
I stared at her. “I didn’t think you were breathing!”
“That fucking hurt,” she said, rubbing her chest. With effort, she sat up and filled her lungs with a dramatic whooshing. “See? Couldn’t be better.”
From the way the words lolled out of her mouth like jelly, I knew she’d sniffed another bag or more.
As calmly as I could, I sat down beside her and informed her that people who were sleeping outside in winter could definitely be doing better. “And why are you next to the dumpster?”
She gave me a look like this was one of the stupider questions I’d asked her.
“Wilky,” I said in a rush of understanding. This was where he’d been parked the night he ODd. “I’m sorry. I get it,” I said.
I asked her to please come home, saying that I’d make us a big breakfast once we got there. Eggs and home fries and buttermilk pancakes. A pot of superstrong coffee. “Cheese-mobile’s across the street, ready and waiting.”
“Nope,” she said. “Not tricking me into one of your meetings.”
“What do you mean my meetings?”
She didn’t answer, just lay back down, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.
A full minute passed.
At last I couldn’t take it any longer and I got out my phone to text Greenie. All I had to do was tell her what was going on and she’d be at the bar in minutes. If anyone could help Luce right now, she could. I was typing out my message, trying to strike the right balance of concern and alarm, when out of nowhere Luce’s leg flew up and karate-kicked my phone out of my fingers. It sailed into the air and slammed into the side of the dumpster before hitting the ground with a clatter. Luce broke into one of the fits of laughter she used to get back when we were both using: a low whooping sound that started out in her belly before rising up into a convulsive squawk. I’d almost forgotten about that laugh—it felt like it belonged to a whole other lifetime—and hearing it again set off a hot spike of longing.
We went back and forth for several impossible minutes, arguing about Greenie and meetings and the whole entire program. Even though I knew it was pointless, I couldn’t help reminding her of all the good stuff that had happened since we got clean. Jobs. Health. Our money situation. “Like when was the last time we had to steal food out of the walk-in?” I said. That sent Luce into a whole new round of junky laughter. I told myself I’d just have to ride it out.
I stayed quiet, drawing loops in the grime with my finger. Experience had taught me that Luce would cool off sooner than later and sure enough it wasn’t long before she settled down and closed her eyes, lungs whirring gently. Soon I’d be able to lead her back to the car without any trouble, and though you’d think that would have eased my mind, it only made me more unhappy. I’d never noticed before, probably since I’d always been loaded right alongside her, but when Luce was nodding she was a bit less Luce-like somehow. And yet as I watched her sink back into that numb bliss we used to spend all our time chasing, another pang for the old days went flaring through me. So what if I was clean, if I was also lonely and frightened? Luce looked so peaceful lying there in the dirt.
We headed home. Looking back, we probably should have returned the cheese-mobile on the way and gotten a ride back to our place. For the past couple hours Lonny had been texting me over and over. I NEED IT FOR WORK! said his last message. But I was too busy dealing with Luce. Though she’d leveled off some and was sitting in the passenger seat all buckled up and acting agreeable, one wrong move could send her spinning. I’d just gotten her to promise she’d go to a meeting first thing in the morning.
“On one condition.”
“Okay.” I glanced over.
Turned out she wanted to stop at Quik Chek and get some ice for my knee. “You make the worst face every time you hit the gas pedal. I can’t take it.”
I told her we’d be back at our place in a few minutes and we had ice in the freezer.
“You used it all last night, remember? Trays are still in the sink where you left them.” She paused. “Or don’t you trust me.”
“Stop,” I said. “I trust you completely. But you know what they say. All this time the disease has been doing push-ups.”
Now it was Luce who made a face. “Will you give it a rest with that twelve-step shit? Can’t you let your best friend take care of you a little?”
I admit the idea was hard to resist.
We went to Quik Chek. No doubt she’d start bellowing about trust again if I went in with her, so I parked in front of the big plate-glass window. She said she’d be back in two seconds and slid out of the car. A guy in one of those aviator hats with the fake-fur lining was lounging by the newspaper stand and as soon as he caught sight of Luce, he jogged over and held the door open. She disappeared into a wash of fluorescent lights. If he’d followed her inside, you better believe I would have gone in right after, but instead he strolled back to his spot, checked his phone, and scanned the horizon, which made me feel a bit better. Anyone could tell he was waiting for his own connect to roll up.
The angle of the window didn’t let me see inside the store the way I wanted, but to my relief Luce kept her word about being fast with her purchase. Even so, from the merry little tune she hummed as she plopped down beside me and heaved the sack of ice into the back seat, it was clear she’d scored something for later. Sometimes you just need to look at your gear to get that first rush of pleasure. I’ve seen more than one person drool at the sight of a loaded rig.
“Crushed was on sale so I got you that. Also, ta-da!” She held up a pack of gummy sours.
Of course.
I thanked her for the ice and the candy, trying my best not to sound suspicious. If she didn’t know I was onto her, it would be easier to steal whatever she’d copped and flush it.
“Oh and I swiped you some of this menthol ointment.” She pulled a box out of her coat and tossed it into my lap. “My grandma used to rub it on her joints. Said it worked wonders.”
So now she was back to shoplifting. There went step 8.
By the newspaper stand, a high-school-age girl with a short feathery haircut approached aviator-hat guy. They did the handoff, parted ways in seconds. It’s amazing how fast these things go down. I glanced at Luce. “I was thinking. How about I hit up Greenie and see if she’ll swing by our place for a few minutes?”
All the energy bouncing around on her side of the car went flat. “Dude, why are you all up on me? I already said I’m going back tomorrow.” Her hand drifted to her right pants pocket, confirming her goodies were still where she’d stashed them. A subconscious move we both made in stressful situations.
It told me all I needed.
“You win,” I said.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, the sky had lost all its color and the air had an odd musty smell, sort of like wet newspapers. I checked my phone out of habit. Three more messages from Lonny. I started to respond, asking if I brought his car over now could he give me a ride back to my place.
“You better not be texting any twelve-step people,” Luce said, craning over my shoulder.
“I’m not.” I showed her my phone to prove it.
When she saw Lonny’s string of messages, she shook her head in disgust. “Dude wants his car so bad, he can come over and get it. He’s lucky I don’t pop a couple BBs in him too. All the stuff we used to give him when he was hurting, he owes us a lot more than a couple days with this piece-of-shit beater.” A moment passed and she met my eyes. “Listen, I’m sorry I was an ass before. You’re trying to look out for me. I get it.”
Despite everything, a warm liquid feeling filled up my insides. “It’s all good,” I said.
We went in our house and though it was coming up on noon, I made pancakes, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes with lots of salt and butter. I still felt pretty sick a
bout the whole parking lot incident—never mind whatever she’d copped at Quik Chek—but I kept telling myself not to worry. Luce was Luce was Luce. She was the strongest person I’d ever met and if anyone could move past this little setback, she could, no question. Besides, you could hardly blame her. What with everything that had happened, you’d have to be some kind of monster not to slip.
After breakfast I suggested we leave the dishes for later, maybe watch a little TV and put our feet up and try not to think about anything for half a second. I still planned to steal her dope as soon as possible and since Luce often dozed off during crime dramas, I figured it wouldn’t be long before opportunity came calling. Already her eyes had that thick muddy look they got during the tail end of a binge. It’s nothing I’m proud of, but back when we were using I’d gotten pretty good at picking her pockets. At least this time it wouldn’t be for my own selfish reasons.
While Luce emptied the bag of gummy sours into a bowl for us to snack on, I scooped ice into a baggie and began rewrapping my knee. The clock on the microwave said almost one thirty, which of course made me think of our meeting. Then it hit me that I was supposed to be at work by four. No way could I wait tables in my condition and I sure wasn’t leaving Luce unsupervised. Even though I’d called out sick the past two nights, I told myself I could probably get away with missing one more shift.
Because our manager liked Luce more than me (according to my monthly evals I wasn’t a good team player) I asked if she’d go get my phone out of my leather jacket and call him. Hers was still hidden away in my closet and after this latest stunt, I wouldn’t be giving it back in the near future. “Tell him you think my cold’s turned into strep and you’re making me stay home even though I don’t want to.”