Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I can see it now: the police arrive, push the door open, guns raised. They throw me to the ground, read me my rights, and next thing I know, I’m sitting in a jail cell with a guy named Big Boy who considers violent sex with inmates a wonderful pastime.

  I jet up the stairs. Please, Jesus, no alarm. Please, God, don’t let an alarm go off. Once upstairs, I notice all the doors are shut except one. I walk to the open door. “Meranda. I’m here to mow!” I enter the bedroom. Meranda is lying on the bed, reeking, hair messy, eyes closed, vomit on her chin, her neck, and her sheets, a bottle of whiskey on her nightstand. She must have purchased more. I dash to the bedside, grab her shoulder and shake. “Wake up!” I consider calling 9-1-1.

  Her eyes flutter open. She gasps, vomit spilling from her mouth. “Get it away, dammit! Get it away!”

  I pull my hand away. She gags, leans to the side of the bed opposite me, and throws up on the wooden floor. “Just take it away. Take this away!” She hits the nightstand; it tips onto the floor, and I hear a smash. I pray it’s the whiskey bottle. I race to the other side of the bed and confirm that it was the bottle.

  Meranda moans. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it. Basket!” She points to the attached bathroom. “Get the basket! I couldn’t help—” She vomits again.

  I zip to the bathroom, find a wastebasket next to the toilet (it’s empty!), and hurry back to her. I hold the basket to her face as she hurls.

  Ten minutes later, she’s done heaving. “Sleep. I just need sleep,” she says. I take the basket away and set it on the floor. She lies back and closes her eyes. “Sleep. Give me sleep.”

  A minute later, she’s snoring. I go into the bathroom, find a towel, scoop it up, and run water over it. While she sleeps, I wipe her face and neck clean of the vomit. Then I pull the sheets off her and throw them at the foot of her bed, away from the pile of puke. She is curled in the fetal position, clothed in a white nightgown. I don’t see any discharge on the gown. Apparently, it’s one of those self-cleaning articles of clothing.

  Five minutes later, I’m downstairs searching for disinfectant and a sponge to use for cleaning her floor upstairs. I guess my janitorial skills can come in handy. I look underneath the kitchen sink and find what I need. Twenty minutes later, the wooden floor of her bedroom is sanitized, the glass from the bottle picked up, and I’m carrying around her sheets (which are balled tightly to make sure no vomit leaks out), hunting for a washer and dryer downstairs. I find a door. It’s a closet. I find another door, open it. Steps lead downward. I flip a light switch on the wall, carefully descend into the basement, and find the washer and dryer. . . .

  I check on Meranda periodically to make sure she’s still breathing, to make sure she doesn’t throw up while sleeping, and that she doesn’t choke on her own vomit and die. As 11:30 rolls around, I figure she’s safe, merely sleeping off the drunkenness. I do the dishes, search for a vacuum, find one and use it on the first floor. It won’t wake her. She’s in a deep sleep. I search for Endust, find a can, use it and a towel to wipe away the dust. I’m officially Alice. I feel bad I haven’t mowed Meranda’s lawn yet. I go outside and begin my hunt for the mower. I check the garage (which, to my surprise, is unlocked), and find it there next to a tower of boxes. I roll it outside, to the front lawn.

  After two hours of mowing in sweltering heat, forfeiting lunch, I put the mower back in the garage and eventually wind up in Meranda’s bedroom. I step to her bed. A floorboard creaks.

  She opens her eyes. “Good kid, Jimmy,” she mumbles, then her lids close again.

  I have to get home, eat, and go to work. I look at her one last time. She appears to be sleeping soundly. “Sleep tight, Meranda.”

  I go downstairs with an idea. I seek out a pad of paper, find a pad of Post-its on a stand beneath the wall telephone. I write her a note:

  Meranda,

  I mowed the lawn for you. I hope you like it. Don’t worry about the money. Free of charge. You can do me a favor, though. The next time you feel the urge to drink, call me. Night or day. Doesn’t matter. Call me and I’ll be here. By the way, your sheets are clean in the washer. I didn’t get around to drying them. Sorry.

  Sincerely,

  Jimmy

  555-6789

  I stick the note on the phone, second-guess that idea. How often does she receive and make phone calls? She may never spot the note if I leave it here. I think of the most conspicuous place in the house to leave the note. The couch comes to mind. I can see her sitting there often. I stick the note on the brochure’s cover.

  I pray: God, please be with Meranda Erickson. Amen.

  * * *

  Wednesday. I don’t hear from Meranda. My mind goes mad. I wonder if I should have called 9-1-1. At home, I come across a newspaper, open to the obituaries, holding my breath. Her picture, her name, neither is listed. If she died, would they post the article that quickly anyway? I don’t know how it works. I wonder if she got my note, if she has had the desire to drink, if she’s simply too prideful to call and ask for help. I wonder if she’s read the brochure, if she’s read it and read it and read it. Did she find solace in the brochure, or anger and fear? All three? Did she tear it up, toss it in the garbage?

  I wonder.

  * * *

  Thursday.

  Still haven’t heard from Meranda. Is she drowning in her sorrows? Too drunk to pick up the phone? At work, I carry my cell phone in my pocket, just in case. I told her to call me day or night. I need to be ready to follow though with my offer. Jimmy of Team Sobriety—ready to pounce.

  * * *

  Before work on Friday at, say, eleven, my cell rings. I flip it open, expect to hear Meranda’s voice, but a person introduces herself as Sasha, and she wants to know if I have time to complete a brief survey. I tell Sasha I don’t have time. I tell her to take me off her list, and that I don’t ever want to hear from her or her company again. Then I say “thank you” really politely.

  At 4:30, I gather the garbage from the classrooms, wonder if Meranda even saw the brochure I left behind, and think the gesture may have been too strong. I may have pushed her away, like someone pointing out a sin: “Hey, you have a drinking problem, Meranda, and you need help. Repent, you evildoer!” Why couldn’t I have waited for an opportune time to give her that brochure? Why couldn’t I have held off until the brochure could be presented to her in person? I hope she didn’t find the included note offensive.

  My cell rings from my front pocket. I drop the garbage bag, pull the cell from my pocket, open it, press it against my ear. “Hello?” I hear static.

  “Jimmy . . .” More static.

  “Meranda, is that you?”

  “Jimmy . . .” My name is faint, choppy.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I need you.” Meranda’s voice comes through clearly.

  “I’ll be there,” I say. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. I’ll be there. Do you hear me?”

  I close the phone, throw it in my pocket, walk briskly out of the classroom, up the hallway, to Randy’s cleaning area, and past the room he is vacuuming. I hear him say, “Useless kids. Slobs,” as I turn a corner. I shake my head at his anger, think: What are you doing to get outta here, Randy? You hate cleaning here. You hate the kids. Do something about it . . . I scurry along the hallway, past the principal’s office, the secretary’s office, picking up speed. All the students and teachers are gone for the night. I get to Dad’s cleaning area, the end opposite from my cleaning zone. I hear Dad’s vacuum, follow the sound to the classroom he is vacuuming. I stand in the classroom’s doorway. Dad’s back is to me, his right hand pushing and pulling the vacuum over the brown carpet, in between desks. I step into the room, flip the light switch off and on. He whirls to the door, to me, powers off the vacuum, and holds it upright by his side.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I need to leave.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Meranda needs me.”

>   “Who’s Meranda?”

  I shake my head at him. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Am I supposed to?”

  I nod. “She’s the writer I told you about. The lady I met at the Luncheon.”

  “Oh, yeah. Meranda Stetson, right?”

  “Erickson.”

  “Close enough.” His grip tightens around the vacuum handle. “And why does she need you?” He doesn’t let me respond. “I need you here.”

  “I’ll come back after and finish. Promise.”

  He groans at the inconvenience. “All right. This one time. You better come back, though. I don’t wanna be stuck with your work.”

  “I won’t stick you with any work, Dad.”

  I’m about to say “see you later” when he starts the vacuum and turns his back to me. He goes over the carpet with quick, short strokes, his body tense.

  Go, James. Go. He said you could. I leave the classroom, sprinting down the hallway like a superhero about to shed his civilian clothing.

  Meranda needs me.

  * * *

  I knock on Meranda’s door. She doesn’t show her face. Is this a repeat episode? I bang on the door. Zero response. I throw the door open, hurry through, shut the door. I sprint up the staircase, straight to her room, expecting the worst—her inert body sprawled on the bed, whiskey bottles scattered on the floor, her mouth hanging open. I peek inside the room, give it a quick scan. The bed is made. There are no visible bottles of whiskey or bottles of any type lying on the floor or sitting on her nightstand. She isn’t here. “Where are you?” I yell. Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .

  I run out of the room, down the stairs. I look in the kitchen, don’t spot her there, check the living room, and see her sitting on the couch stiffly, wearing her nightgown, eyes vacant, blank-faced. She’s holding a pocket-sized photograph on her lap. Four transparent bottles of whiskey sit on the table in front of the couch. They are full, the caps screwed on. Also on the table is the brochure fanned open. The one placed by Jimmy the AA delegate. The Post-it note I left is stuck to the glass top coffee table. I sit on the cushion to her left. She flinches but doesn’t say anything. I sneak a peek at the photograph. The man in the photo is wearing a Navy uniform, smiling, with a docked ship as the backdrop.

  We sit in silence for about five minutes. Then flatly, without turning her attention to me, she says, “It would’ve been our thirtieth anniversary today . . .”

  Suddenly, I understand. “Is that Eddy?” I point to the photograph.

  She looks down at the picture, expressionless. “You know, it’s kinda funny. Not funny ha-hah, but funny as in ironic.” She shakes her head. “He survives a war but not New York.” She releases a laugh. “What kind of a sick joke is that, huh?”

  I watch her toss the photo on the cushion to her right.

  “But who even cares?” Meranda asks, finally looking at me. “My friends didn’t.” Anger flashes across her face. “They told me I should get over it and move on with my life. Six months after his death and they thought I should move on . . . You know what I said to them?”

  I shake my head.

  “I said burn in hell. You don’t know what it’s like. You haven’t walked in my shoes. And do you know what they did?”

  I wag my head.

  “They left. Just like that. Gone.”

  “They stopped being your friend?” I’m appalled.

  “They stopped calling,” she says. “They stopped visiting. They stopped writing. They stopped caring.” She crosses her arms. “Betsey died last year. Bertha, the year before. I figure I’m next.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “You don’t understand, Jimmy. I need a drink so much.”

  “What good would that do?”

  She looks away, toward the picture window. “I wouldn’t have to feel. I don’t want to feel it.”

  “Drinking isn’t helping you. You know that. It’s controlling you. I know you can be stronger than that.”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know, Jimmy.”

  “You drink, and so what? It’s just a Band-Aid. You get smashed tonight, the feelings will still be there tomorrow.”

  She nods at the brochure. “I’ve been doing some reading.” She slowly turns to me.

  “And?”

  “Every page I read, I’m full of rage, Jimmy.” Her voice grows angry. “It was never supposed to be this way.” She picks up the brochure and examines it. “At first I was peeved that you would give this to me. AA is for the diseased, I thought, and certainly I’m not diseased. I’m Meranda Erickson . . . But then this thing,” turning a page, “started to make sense and that’s when I realized—I’m an alcoholic.” She starts to cry. “I don’t know if I can do this, Jimmy. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

  “What do you want? To be held captive by whiskey the rest of your life or to be free?”

  “I want to be free.”

  “Go to a meeting. Just go,” I say. “You won’t even have to say anything there. You could just listen, feel out the situation.”

  “How do you know?” she asks, tears rolling down to her lips.

  I explain my father, his past drinking problem, how AA helped, and how he divulged, on many occasions, the specifics of AA meetings—names excluded, of course. “It helped him and it can help you.”

  She flips a page, points to the third step, which talks about turning your life over to the care of God. “The care of God . . .” she says, face tensing, sobbing. “I don’t trust his care.”

  I put my arm around her, look into her wet eyes. “God didn’t do any of this to you.” I glance at the bottles on the table, then back at her. “Tell me, whose care would you rather be in? God’s or whiskey’s?”

  The strength of her sobbing grows. She doesn’t speak, couldn’t do so if she wanted. The tears consume her. I say, “God didn’t do this to you.” She lets me hold her. I say, “You’re gonna kick the habit. Just hold on.”

  When the crying halts, she wilts in my arms. I rest her on the couch. She’s sleeping. I set the brochure aside, then decide I should move her upstairs. I carefully lift her petite frame, walk to the stairs, balancing her body in my arms, and climb the steps. I get to her room, breathing heavily, lie her on the bed, and drape the sheets over her. I lean in and touch her forehead. She opens her eyes, dried tears on her cheeks.

  “I’ll be here tomorrow morning to check on you,” I say.

  She works to smile. “Maybe I’m already in God’s care, after all,” she says.

  “Oh?” I cock my head.

  “He gave me you,” she says. A second later, her eyes close. She drifts to sleep.

  I stand at the edge of her bed, grinning. “Goodnight, Meranda,” I say, then I go downstairs and collect the whiskey bottles. I slowly pour them down the drain and toss the bottles in the garbage.

  I love to hear the smash.

  * * *

  I arrive back at the school at about 1:15 am. I let myself into the building and punch in the company’s security code. I call Dad at the house and tell him I’m at the school and he doesn’t need to worry—I’ll get the work done. He says, “Good.” I start to explain why I had to go over to Meranda’s house. I want to divulge the happenings there, but he interrupts, tells me he wants to go back to bed.

  He hangs up the phone.

  I finish taking the garbage out of my cleaning area, clean the bathrooms at rapid speed, vacuum and mop the classrooms, sweep, mop, and buff the hallway. My work is complete at six o’clock. I leave the school, drive with windows down, chewing on a piece of gum, listening to blaring music to keep me awake, over and over and over again replaying the conversation I had with Meranda.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I arrive at Meranda’s house after only three hours of sleep. I knock. She comes to the door immediately, lets me in. She asks if I want some coffee.

  I say, “Milk, please,” then: “No Perk Up Café this morning?”


  “I want to stay away from my routine, if you know what I mean,” she says.

  I smile. She brews a pot of coffee. Gets me my milk. I tell her how nice a day it is.

  “It’s gotta be eighty already,” I say. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

  After we’re done drinking our beverages at her kitchen table, I ask if she’d like to go for a walk. She agrees to it and we head outside, hook up with the dirt road. We walk leisurely, trees hanging over us, standing beside us, Jiminy Cricket and his kin chirping from the thickets.

  I stare at her, our feet scuffing the dirt.

  “You were right,” she says softly, “God didn’t do any of this to me.”

  We stop in the middle of the road.

  “I’m gonna go to an AA meeting,” she says. “I’ll sit and listen, feel out the situation, as you said. I need help.” There’s a tremor in her voice. “I’m an alcoholic and I need help.”

  * * *

  Leigh and I order Chinese from her apartment. An Asian man delivers the food, two bags. Leigh starts devouring the meal without a word regarding her weight or what she should or should not eat. We chat over lunch. I explain the breakthrough I had with Meranda. “I don’t want her to die,” I say. “I don’t want her to wind up like Gramps.”

  Leigh sets the fork down, grinning. “I love you.”

  I chuckle. “What was that for?”