The Alcoholic's Daughter

by David Sherman

  “That’s not true, I let you …”

  “You let me … That’s the problem. You think it’s up to you to give me permission. It’s the same in the house. You allotted me closet space, told me where to put my clothes, gave me a few shelves in the bathroom, told me where to store my coats. You control it all, even where I hang my pictures, my paintings, whatever. It seems I control nothing and I’m feeling angry and I think that’s why. I have no say in anything anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. I’ll be more careful.”

  “Thank you.” He got up and pressed her head to his belly and she put his arms around him and he loved her again, love renewed.

  For a day or two. He was reading again in the middle of the night, the birds yet to wake, the sun, still far in the east, Fritz asleep beside him. He had googled abusive behaviour. Evan still believed knowledge was power.

  An exaggerated emphasis on control is part of a cluster of behaviours that can be labelled as compulsive generally characterized by perfectionism, orderliness, workaholic tendencies, an inability to make commitments or to trust others and a fear of having their flaws exposed. These people are riddled with anxiety, fear, insecurity, and anger.

  To keep this anxiety from overwhelming them, they try to control the people or things around them. They have a hard time with negotiation and compromise and they can’t stand imperfection. Bottom Line: In the process of being controlling, their actions say: “You’re incompetent” and “I can’t trust you.” (This is why you hate them).

  Ah hate, that word had surfaced during a few arguments. Workaholic tendencies? Absolutely. Stress, yes, it was a constant. Criticism? Another constant. Annie could have given a seminar as long as the humidifier wasn’t on.

  The noise of a humidifier in winter drove her nuts but she had to have the sound of the fan in summer. Evan was too dense to figure out the difference. The humidifier gurgled, the fan whirred and clicked, somehow more of a pacifier for the constant ringing in her ears.

  “It’s amazing,” he’d say from time to time. “It’s been two … three … four … five years and I love you more than ever.”

  “Me, too,” she’d say. “I’m always going to love you.” These were times when the wounds had healed, the scar tissue had formed or they donned blinders. But increasingly, when they exchanged daily, “I love yous,” he would be thinking: Sometimes love isn’t enough. The realization cut deep. But didn’t Franklin say he was an inspiration? He was going to hang in to the bitter end. But then the real craziness began.

  Evan stood at the podium at the centre of the courtroom. His shyster lawyer was at a table with other lawyers, sorting files that corresponded to the rows of bored, detached, anxious, perplexed men and women behind him, waiting for their few seconds in the judicial spotlight. The prosecutors were all women in their 30s in black pant suits, the lawyers were all men in their 50s in good black suits and ties and white shirts. Some in judicial robes looking like, well, over-the-hill choirboys. The phalanx of accused behind him dressed in Walmart best, most of the guys in oversized running shoes, most of them younger than him, all waiting for the powers arrayed before them to decide their fates. In front of him were clerks and bailiffs and guards and police with good-sized handguns on their belts.

  This was definitely Annie’s greatest psychodrama, he said to himself, and smiled.

  “Do you find this amusing?” the judge was staring at him, full of scorn, the state in all its fury and implied power. Actually, Evan almost admitted he found it all pretty whack. “If you find this amusing perhaps your attorney can take you outside and explain how serious the charges are.”

  “Oh no, your honour,” Evan said, face straight. “I realize the enormity of the charges against me and I can assure your honour that I take this with the utmost seriousness.”

  “Is your client ready to plead?” the judge asked Evan’s shyster, who so far had demanded $4,000 and had done nothing but show up and tell Evan not to worry. Repeatedly.

  “I plead not guilty, your honour,” Evan said. His bail conditions were read to him by the prosecutor. He was not allowed within 200 metres of his home or his office.

  “My hairdresser is next door,” Evan said. “What do I do for a haircut?”

  The prosecutor smiled, the judge slammed his gavel.

  “I won’t warn you again,” he told Evan. Evan was free for now, free from the weight of the state that Annie had enlisted to ensure control for as long as she could. It was a coup de grace.

  Friends offered money, housing, support, validation. Annie had taken control of everything, a control freak’s wet dream. She had the house, everything he owned, the business, the files, his office. True to form, discussions with his lawyer and a mediator she found — they were not allowed to contact each other — were a waste of time. She would turn over no files, no paperwork, no possessions. She had taken control of his entire life. The fact that half the business and half the house were his mattered not a whit. She was punishing him.

  “She’s a vindictive bitch,” said the therapist.

  He was allowed with a police escort to take a suitcase and Fritz the cat as Annie watched from between two cops is case he tried to strangle her. He was sure she was enjoying this. He was facing felony assault charges. He had a criminal lawyer, a family lawyer, not a cent and no place to live.

  A friend loaned him his condo while he wintered in Turkey. Fritz was not happy but there was little he could do. Evan had nothing of what he needed, was suffering a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome.

  In his last attempt at communications he told Annie he needed his office supplies and printer.

  “No, you don’t,” she said.

  He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Alcohol was a shortterm balm. He had panic attacks, his heart would pound. Fritz did not have his front stoop from which to watch the world go by, to enjoy the admiration of passersby and needed to cleave to him as an infant might, except he suddenly had no patience for the cat. Fritz complained often and would stare at him from his perch on an armchair or from the floor, waiting for something to change. His coat was matted, his great white bib unattended. His grooming tools, brushes and combs, had been left behind with everything else. The big blonde cat was not happy, but why should he be different?

  “I have my own cross to bear and your 18 pounds of fur will have to carry some of the weight,” he told him one night. But he still came out to listen when he played guitar and sang, though music was tough going. There were five shows lined up and the thought of performing panicked him. But it saved him in more ways than one.

  They were sitting in Stan’s living room, staring at the fire. The sofas were soft and plush and deep. Outside, winter — in all its northern fury, white and cold and windy — howled. The pine trees were coated in thick white scarves, their branches leaning and heavy. Inside, life was a dream. Evan was spending some time here in a room in a basement, some time in a room at Franklin’s in the city. He was living out of garbage bags and suitcases, his clothes balled and knotted by Annie at high tide. Evan wasn’t focusing too well. Conversations were hard to follow. He couldn’t concentrate, wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was stewing in his pain.

  “You know Evan, you don’t think so and you might not want to hear it, but in a year or two or three, whatever, you’ll take a deep breath and it will be over, she’ll be gone, you’ll be free and life will be good. You’ll see. It’s like when you have a flu. One day you wake up and suddenly you feel normal. You’re back.”

  “Drinking water and taking Tylenol doesn’t seem to do much with this strain of flu,” Evan said.

  “No, now only booze does it.” Except it didn’t.

  The doomsday clock was getting closer to midnight, he knew it and if she didn’t, she was lying to herself. He was desperately trying to turn back the hands.

  “You’re my number one priority,” she said. “You’re the most important thing in my life.”

 
“Annie, I don’t have to be the most important thing in your life,” he said. “So don’t bullshit me.”

  A few weeks before the roof collapsed on their house of cards he began to take stock of what kind of life they really had. He had suggested they save coins in a jar for a cherished trip to Italy, maybe it would take two or three years, but they could do it. She said she owed $20,000 in taxes and couldn’t go anywhere.

  He asked her how she saw her life in a few years. What she saw for the future for her, for them. They were drinking white wine in front of the fire. A curry was simmering. Did she see herself raising chickens, writing more books, teaching, retiring somewhere warm? He was trying to get a fix on how she wanted to age, maybe get her mind off the obsessive worry of how they were to deal with the house she finally realized they had to sell. He had paid cash for the renovations but she had taken a second mortgage and could not pay it. She became intimidated, irritated.

  “The only thing I can think about right now is selling the house,” she said. “I can’t see anything beyond that.” In her latest all-consuming obsession, he was going to screw her somehow — intrinsic in her belief system was that men took financial advantage of women — because legally he owned half the house. She had sold it to him to secure a better mortgage rate. She didn’t earn enough to carry the mortgage herself. To add to money worries and work worries was the “he’s going to screw me on the house” worry.

  “We have to get through this,” she said over and over again.

  Evan was worried about getting to Spain and writing the book. Annie was preoccupied with finding a way to wrest the house from him. She knew their relationship was on the ropes and protecting the house was more important than protecting the relationship.

  He didn’t see a problem. They sell the house, sit down, do the numbers and come up with a reasonable division of the profits. He was naïve. The more she ratcheted up the obsession over the house and what percentage, if any, he owned of it, the farther away he drifted.

  “Why did I think it’s my role to save her, to indulge her?” he asked his friend Robert. Robert was in Ottawa and Evan was enjoying the solitude of his empty mansion in the hills outside Morin Heights. He could see the steam rising from the hot tub on the deck and figured he would immerse himself when they were through, watch the stars, try and shut his mind down. He was away from her but couldn’t get away from her. They were talking on Face Time, Evan wondering why he always looked like hell on the little iPhone, as if he was staring at a fun house mirror. “I don’t think she’s ever going to change, so why do I bother?”

  “You know why?” Robert said. “‘Cause you’re a fucking idiot. You and her make a good pair, you’re both fucking crazy.”

  “Thanks, Bob, makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “You’ve been bitching about her for too fucking long, man. No one knows why you stay with her. She’s certifiable. Everyone knows that but you.”

  Evan was finding the phone’s reflection of his face even more distorted than usual.

  “You know what you got to do,” Robert said. “I don’t want to listen to this anymore.”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Where would you suggest I live and on what? It’s easy to say ‘leave.’ Leave to where? And live on what? Newspaper business is in the toilet, music business is in the toilet, book publishing is in the toilet. Everything I have done all my life is in shambles. I write stories and make less than I did 25 years ago. If I’m lucky I make $200 for a fucking show. The grants for the books we do barely cover expenses. And I leave her …”

  “Well, see?” Robert said. “You get away from her you don’t have to worry about the lousy Canada Council grants.”

  “Bob, you’re not fucking helping. Every cent I have is in that house and, if I tell her I’m leaving, she’ll go fucking crazy again.”

  “So how is that different than what you’re living with now? You’ve always made a living, you always will. You need a place to stay, come live here. You got lots of places to stay. You keep thinking you can fix her or she’ll change, Crazies don’t change, they only get crazier. She’s not doing anything to get better. And you know what? You’re making her crazier, it’s like enabling a drug addict. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Annie, you’re a fucking lunatic, here, take another swing at me, feel better? Or would you rather just make me crazy drip by drip, like Chinese water torture?’”

  “I’m sick of leaving, of starting over, of giving up, of …”

  “You’re afraid of being alone,” Robert said. “So you’re letting her slice and dice you, trying to be noble in the process. Sacrificing yourself for her. For what? Give up, you’re not going to save her. You got to save yourself. It’s great to be a romantic when you’re writing songs, not when she’s kicking you in the head. She’s turned you into a fucking masochist. Go pack your fucking bags and then call me.” The line went dead.

  He sat in the hot tub, staring at the spray of stars over his head, thinking of the bottle of scotch waiting inside.

  “And if I didn’t let her blame her parents for the rest of her life, why should I allow myself that luxury?” he asked the Little Dipper hanging over his head. “Maybe I don’t. I like life, I like myself. I do. Better not let Annie hear that. I battle vice and addiction and lust along with the squash ball and the weight room and the water in the lake and the barbecue and the computer and the guitar. I fret over what I write and how I sing and what performance will come next. I sometimes tear at my cuticles and sometimes over-indulge my affection for Mr. Grant. She hit me and kicked me and I never hit her back and never threatened to. I know who I am.”

  But no one was listening, not even him.

  He ran into Mickey Roberts in his favourite café. As always they chatted. After all, it had been, what? More than 30 years at least he’d been watching him play. But, in fact, they knew each other not at all. They talked about gigs.

  “I heard your CD, Janet has a copy,” Mickey said. “Some good songs. Did you just wake up one morning and decide I’ll be John Prine today?”

  People had been continually comparing him to John Prine, though he was embarrassed to admit he had never listened to Prine. People compared him to a lot of people, some he knew, some he didn’t. He figured it was a good thing.

  “Just an unfortunate alignment of the moon and stars,” Evan said. “It’s been weird.”

  “Songs are good. Janet says she listens to it over and over. That’s where they say the work is. Write your own stuff, you’re way ahead.”

  Evan thought about it for a minute then popped the question.

  “I got a gig at the Petit Campus next month, opening for some guy I never heard of. He’s got a band. I could do it myself but I’d like to try it with a band. There’s not a lot of money but …”

  “Money? What’s that? Musicians live on air and the groove. It’s the 21st century, we don’t need money.”

  “It’s one 45-minute set. Maybe ten songs. You interested?”

  “Well, you know we got three criteria we use to decide if we’ll do a gig. If we get two out of three, we’re in. The music, the people and the money. You got two out of three so I can speak to Jimmy and John, see if they’re free. As far as I know we got nothing next month. Send me the date and MP3s of the songs … we’ll try and do it. You got a place to rehearse?”

  Evan was suddenly tongue tied. He was going to play with Mickey Roberts and the band. Nah. “Uhm, yeah, I guess. My house.”

  “Okay, man, send me the shit and we’ll set up something.”

  “You sure?”

  “If I don’t get hit by a truck, I can swing it. Here’s my e-mail.”

  He scribbled something on a napkin, left Evan at the table in a daze. Nothing made sense anymore. What the fuck was he doing playing with Mickey Roberts? And how the hell would Annie deal with an invasion of a band? There would be hell to pay. She’d have to deal with it. He was drawing a line in the carpet. Fuck her.

  “She’s a whole new woman,” he
told the therapist. “Barely recognize her.”

  He had sat down with Annie before Barcelona and told her he wasn’t going. He had been to Spain a couple of times to research the book and he knew what to expect. If he said let’s walk, she’s insist they take a cab; if he wanted a cab, she’d insist they walk. There was no thought too small, no idea too big that didn’t require contradiction and argument. The farther from the comfort and safety of her desk and computer screen they roamed, the more control she needed. Being away terrified her and control of everything became the only coping device. That, and of course cheap Spanish wine.

  “I have no more patience for the inevitable shit,” he told her. “I’m staying home.”

  “What do you mean?” She was stunned, frightened. “You have to come. It’s our book.”

  “That’s the problem, it’s our book but you make sure it’s not. I’ve been here before. Once we get there, you’ll freak out, you’ll be abusive, you’ll contradict everything I say, you’ll throw tantrums, you’ll interrupt me when I talk and will refuse to do anything I suggest. I’m staying home.”

  “I want you to co-write it, I want you there,” she said. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

  “And I don’t want to be your punching bag.”

  The therapist suggested they work out a behaviour agreement, rules of engagement designed to ensure civility. It was common sense to Evan, basically treat each other with respect. When that stopped, work stopped. Differences had to be negotiated. There was to be no abuse.

  Evan put the list on the table.

  “I’ll go to Spain if you agree to follow this list, a kind of rules of decorum,” he said, as Annie scanned it. “And we get a spare room in whatever apartment we rent so I have a place to escape to when you go nuts.”