AHMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Courtney plagiarized eight times,” Brian said helpfully.

  Courtney smiled—a quick, secretive smile. “I got caught eight times. So the dean said he wouldn't let me back unless I went to rehab. Or Daddy could've given the college another building, I guess. But rehab's cheaper."

  "Not much cheaper,” Brian said. “They really fleece you at this place."

  "Unstated antecedent,” Martha said, and went back to stitching.

  Courtney had gotten started now, and she wasn't stopping. “I don't see why my parents won't just let me drop out. I mean, college is so stupid. You've gotta spend hours writing all these dumb essays. My parents just want me to go so I can get the right kind of job for a few years and then marry the right kind of man and go to the right kind of parties. But I don't want that. I mean, ever since I was a kid, my mother's been dragging me to garden shows, and horse shows, and charity luncheons, and it's all so boring. I don't wanna waste my whole life doing that stuff."

  "What do you want to do, Courtney?” I asked.

  She sat forward eagerly. “I wanna be a personal assistant. I wanna go to Hollywood or New York, meet somebody famous, and, like, assist her. I could help her shop for shoes and purses, and drive her home from parties when she gets drunk, and bail her out, and stuff. I'd be perfect for that. I mean, I'm really pretty and really smart, and I've got great taste and a great personality. I don't see what else anyone could want."

  "What is an interesting vocabulary?” Felix asked. He mumbled it; I don't think Courtney heard.

  "Well, lotsa luck, kid,” Brian said. “Your parents won't give you one penny for a harebrained scheme like that. And you don't have money of your own, right?"

  "I will,” Courtney said, “as soon as I turn twenty-five and come into my trust. But that's so old—who'd want a personal assistant who's practically middle-aged? And who'd care if an assistant can write a dumb essay?"

  The teacher in me couldn't let that go unchallenged. “College can be valuable in ways you haven't considered,” I said. “Even if you don't think the skills and knowledge you're acquiring are relevant to your career choice, you're encountering ideas that can deepen your understanding of the world. And if you do your work honestly and independently, you'll develop work habits and discipline that can help you succeed in any field you enter."

  She looked at me sourly. “Work habits and discipline. Oh, wow. Now you've got me excited."

  Brian looked ready to hurl back an insult, but the door opened, and Fred walked in, accompanied by a tall, fit, thirtyish man with a mass of curly blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a half-shy, half-flirtatious grin. I think we all gasped at once.

  "Hello, everybody,” Fred said. “This is Roland. He arrived today, and he's joining your group. I have to get going, so Leah can handle the introductions."

  I stumbled through them. Fred should have warned me, I thought. Both of my daughters have crushes on Roland. He'd first won fame as a stand-up comedian, a favorite on late-night talk shows. My daughters fell in love with him when he landed a role on a situation comedy, playing the easygoing coach of a hapless girls’ soccer team. And now he was set to star in his first movie, a romantic comedy pairing him with one of the most famous young actresses in Hollywood.

  But during the last few years, most of his publicity had come from his off-screen antics—rowdy behavior at restaurants, shouting matches with directors, a reputation for missing rehearsals, bounced checks, disputes with the IRS, arrests for reckless driving. I wondered which of those offenses had brought him here.

  "It's great to meet all of you,” he said when I'd finished the introductions. He grinned—an amazing grin, one that seemed to prove, all by itself, that he was smart, funny, friendly, thoroughly nice. “I'd like to say I'm glad to be here, but I bet you wouldn't believe me."

  It wasn't funny, but we all laughed. Even Martha looked starry-eyed. “Why are you here, Mr.—but no.” She remembered the first-names-only rule just in time. “Why are you here, Roland?"

  He smiled at her, and her jaw went slack. How many years had it been since any man had smiled at Martha that way? “Little matter of a disagreement with a judge, Martha,” he said. “I'd been doing maybe seventy—who knew it was a school zone?—and this fat, greasy cop wouldn't listen to reason. Then the court date slipped my mind. I've got lots of appointments—it's hard to keep track of them all."

  "It must be difficult to remember everything,” Courtney said eagerly, “when you have such a busy schedule."

  He rewarded her with a smile. Probably, celebrities don't mind when someone echoes what they say; probably, they're used to it. “Damn straight,” he said. “But the judge started spouting all this garbage about contempt. So my attorney and my shrink and some other folks got involved, and the judge agreed to suspend the sentence if I went into rehab. Not some fancy celebrity rehab center, she said—a real rehab center, far away from Hollywood. So my agent checked into it and came up with this place.” He looked around the room and shrugged. “Not too bad."

  "The judge must've figured you have an addiction, right?” Brian said. “To what?"

  Roland sighed; his shoulders slumped; his grin drooped. “I'm addicted to failure, Brian. I have a crippling fear of success. Every time my career seems ready to take off—like with the movie I'm doing—I get scared, and I screw up somehow, just to derail things. I can't stand the thought of being too rich and famous, I guess; my shrink says deep down, I'm terrified that it'd turn me into a phony. But I have to get a handle on this fear; I'm determined to do it; with your help, I can do it."

  He smiled again—a brave, humble smile, aimed at all of us. For someone with a crippling fear of success, I thought, he's done pretty well—a popular comedian, a television star. But I'm no psychiatrist; if that's the official diagnosis, fine. “We're delighted to have you join us, Roland,” I said. “Do you have questions about the center—about its philosophy, for example, or its rules?"

  He shrugged again. “Fred gave me a brochure. I think I pretty much got everything down.” He looked around the room again. “What's with the thermoses?"

  "They're one of the homey touches here,” Brian said, sounding honored by the privilege of informing a celebrity. “See, the kitchen staff fills the thermoses by nine in the morning and puts them in the refrigerator, so we'll have something to drink during therapy sessions and free periods. You can have just about whatever you want—just tell the staff. Me, I always have mineral water."

  "Sounds tasty,” Roland said. “What's in your thermos, Martha?"

  "Sweet tea,” she said, blushing—with pleasure, I thought. “When I was a little girl, we'd visit my aunt in Georgia every summer, and she'd make sweet tea and serve it to us on the front porch. It's a precious memory, because—"

  "Yeah, and I bet your aunt's dead now,” Brian cut in, perhaps upset because Martha had drawn Roland's attention away from him. “All that sugar! Before you know it, you're obese, you're diabetic, you're dead. I used to have a sweet tooth—I admit it. No more. I quit cold turkey six months ago and haven't had a grain of sugar since. I don't even want it any more."

  "Well, I always ask for diet soda in my thermos,” Courtney said, with an arch look at Roland. “No calories."

  "Loaded with artificial sweeteners, though,” Brian pointed out. “Worst possible thing for you. They throw your whole metabolism off, make you digest food less efficiently. You'll be fat before you're thirty, Courtney."

  "I can't imagine that.” Roland gazed at Courtney with a frank appreciation that made her look ready to swoon. He turned around in his chair. “What about you, Felix? What're you drinking?"

  I'd almost forgotten Felix was in the room—he's so quiet that he melds into the furniture. Now, he looked deeply flustered, clearly wanting to respond but not able to manage it. At the risk of feeding his addiction, I decided to help. “The beverage in Felix's thermos,” I said.

  He sighed with relief. “What is skim milk?” he asked.

  Brian
guffawed. “Milk. That figures. You gotta make allowances for Felix, Roland—nice enough guy, solid businessman, but sorta odd. And sorta secretive. It took me a long time to get him to admit he's never had a real date with a girl."

  "You, by contrast, immediately announced you've been divorced three times,” Martha said, stitching viciously. “I suppose that makes you feel superior to Felix."

  "Hey, at least I've been married—more than you can say, Martha. And at least I know how to talk to women.” Brian's eyes twinkled mischievously. “Felix does have one woman in his life, though. Let's see—how should I phrase this?” He thought for a moment, then turned to face Felix. “The category is Millionaires Who Have Never Had Houses or Apartments of Their Own. And the answer is Felix."

  Felix hung his head. “Who still lives with Mother?” he said, his voice barely audible.

  Clearly, it was time to take control of the session. I asked the guests to get out their Recovery Journals and share their reflections, and that took up the rest of our time. Brian accused Courtney of copying ideas from his journal—her reflections did sound remarkably similar to his—but that was the only moment of tension. I sent the guests on their way and hurried to the office to read files for my afternoon groups.

  After half an hour, feeling uneasy about the conflicts that surfaced during the morning session, I decided to check on the group members, who had a free period now. Passing through the courtyard, I spotted Brian and Roland locked in conversation; Brian was talking about the profits one of his companies had garnered during the last quarter, probably trying to persuade Roland to invest. Unfortunately, Brian was punctuating his sales talk with push-ups, and I had to tell him to stop—he's not allowed vigorous exercise while he's in rehab.

  I found Courtney and Felix in the Caterpillar Room. Courtney was reading a well-worn copy of a Sue Grafton novel, probably borrowed from the room's small library; Felix was trying to look interested in the paint-by-numbers landscape he was completing. Poor man—he's not permitted to read in rehab, for fear he'll add to his store of trivia. I asked about Martha, and Courtney said she'd decided to take a nap before lunch. Well, all that seemed normal enough.

  And now I really should have something to eat myself. I've used up most of my lunch hour taking these notes, and I need some nourishment to give me strength to face my afternoon groups.

  * * * *

  "So I never got a chance to take notes about my other two groups,” Leah said. She rinsed the last plate and handed it to Sam. “I didn't get another free minute all day."

  "Too bad.” Sam dried the plate and placed it in the cupboard. “How did your afternoon groups go? Any problems?"

  "Not really. Some people in the Verbal Addictions group were hard to take. I didn't mind the rapper so much, and the rhymer was sweet. But the punster and the insult addict! I enjoyed the Compulsive Hobbyists group, though. I learned a lot about coin collecting. And did you know there are hundreds of Civil War reenactments every year, in over thirty states? Did you know there are American Civil War reenactments in Italy and Australia?"

  "I'll store the information away carefully,” Sam said, “in case I ever go on Jeopardy! This Felix sounds like a pretty sad guy."

  "I don't think he is, actually.” Leah plunged the skillet into the suds and started scrubbing. “I think in his own weird little world, in his own weird little way, he's happy. His mother pressured him to go into rehab—she loves him dearly, she says, but she's worried about what will happen when she passes away. She's got a point. So, how did the meeting with the Hartwells go?"

  "Brilliant,” Sam said. “Genius. I did some Internet research and found out ‘Hartwell’ means ‘well of the stags.’ So I did a sketch of a well with big bucks standing on either side, just lousy with antlers—it's a bird bath and a family crest. Both Mr. and Mrs. loved it. They signed a check big enough to cover our mortgage payments for two months. So if you don't want to go back to this center tomorrow—"

  "Of course I do.” She stopped washing dishes and turned to look at him. “I made a commitment to Fred, to the people in my groups. Why wouldn't I want to go back?"

  "I guess I'm the one who doesn't want you to go back,” Sam admitted. “I still worry about your being around all those addicts. Did you listen to the noon news today? It turns out that gambling addict has been embezzling for years but hiding it so cleverly that no one caught on to it before. The police followed a trail that seemed to lead to Atlantic City, but it turned into nothing—who knows where that embezzler's holing up? And that small-time drug dealer shot execution-style, Arnold Belmont—did you know he was just nineteen? An informant told the police his suppliers killed him for stealing two hundred thousand dollars—but they didn't find the money. As for the person who wounded two people in a drunken rage, the police have no leads. I don't like it, Leah. All this crazy, violent stuff going on, and it feels like you're in the middle of it."

  "I'm in the middle of silly squabbles between plagiarists and proofreaders. There's absolutely no connection between that and those scary stories in the news. Well, that's the last of the dishes. Go finish your design. I'll play homework police."

  She quizzed Rachel on her multiplication tables, then turned to Sarah. “How are you doing on that history essay?” she asked.

  "It's done,” Sarah said. “Math's done, too. So all I have left is religious school. I still don't get it, Mom. Why is Mrs. Goldberg making us do this every night?"

  "It's part of counting the omer. Remember? It's a way of marking the forty-nine days between Passover and Shavuot, between the exodus from Egypt and the giving of the Torah at Sinai. And during those days, it's traditional to study PirkeiAvot. Mrs. Goldberg just wants you to take a few minutes each night to think about one saying from Pirkei Avot. I think it's a wonderful assignment."

  "That's because you don't have to do it,” Sarah said, pouting.

  "Watch your tone, please,” Leah said, not too gently. “That's no way to speak to your mother."

  "I know. Sorry. Okay, then. Pirkei Avot—I keep forgetting what that even means."

  "There are several ways of translating it,” Leah said. “My favorite is ‘Ethics of the Sages.’ It's a book of moral teachings that some great rabbis of the past have handed down to us. What saying did Mrs. Goldberg choose for tonight?"

  Sighing, Sarah opened her notebook. “It's a saying of Rabbi Ben Azzai: ‘Be as quick in carrying out a minor mitzvah as in carrying out a major one, and flee wrongdoing; for one mitzvah leads to another mitzvah, and one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing; for the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah, and the reward for a wrongdoing is another wrongdoing.’ I don't get it."

  "I bet you will,” Leah said, “if you just think about it. You know what a mitzvah is, don't you?"

  "Yeah, sure,” Sarah said. “It's a Commandment."

  Rachel twisted around in her chair. “No, it isn't. It's a good deed."

  "You're both right,” Leah said, “because the Commandments teach us to do good deeds. And when we do good deeds, we're honoring the Commandments."

  "But this saying doesn't make sense,” Sarah said. “We should be as quick about doing minor mitzvoth as about doing major ones? So clearing the table is as important as, like, saving someone's life?"

  "Ben Azzai doesn't say they're equally important,” Leah said. “I think his point is that doing minor mitzvoth helps us develop the habit of doing the right thing. Then, when an opportunity to do a major mitzvah comes along, we'll be ready. See? ‘One mitzvahleads to another mitzvah.' And ‘the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah.'"

  Sarah scrunched up her nose. “So the reward for clearing the table is that I get to clear the table again?"

  "In a way,” Leah said, smiling. “Every time you clear the table, you take a step toward becoming a helpful person who will be ready to help in lots of ways, both big and small. Ben Azzai also says the opposite is true—'one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing.’ If you get into the habit of doing t
hings that are wrong, even just a little bit wrong, you're more likely to become someone who does lots of wrong things, including things that are very wrong. Does that make sense?"

  "I guess.” Sarah picked up her pen. “I guess I can write a paragraph about that. You think it's okay to use clearing the table as an example?"

  "I think it's fine,” Leah said, and kissed her on the forehead, and went downstairs.

  * * * *

  Wednesday, April 27, 2:47 p.m.

  I don't know if I'll be able to take notes or not. I have plenty of time—afternoon groups have been canceled, and we're all sitting around, waiting for news. But I feel so numb that it's hard to hold onto my pencil. Still, I feel I should try to write things down. Somehow, I feel that's important.

  From the moment I got to the Caterpillar Room, I should have sensed that something was wrong. When I arrived five minutes early, Brian was already there, looking flushed, doing crunches.

  "Oh, Brian,” I said, “you know you're not supposed to do that sort of exercise. You should conserve your calories. Why don't you get your thermos and take a seat?"

  "Maybe that's a good idea.” He walked slowly to the couch. “I don't feel so great."

  He'd forgotten his thermos. I opened the refrigerator door, spotted the purple thermos labeled “Brian,” and set it on the end table next to him. “Maybe you worked out too hard and got dehydrated. Have some water."

  "In a minute.” He sat hunched forward, pressing one of the three bright red throw pillows against his stomach. “I'm not thirsty right now."

  Felix scurried in next, managed a slight, silent smile, got his thermos, and sat in the same chair he'd chosen yesterday. A minute later, Martha arrived, found her thermos and a chair, and immediately took out her sampler. I walked over to admire it.

  "'Fools hate reproof,'” I said, reading the cross-stitched words, “'but the wise love correction'—that's from Proverbs, isn't it? The translation I know is slightly different."

  "I edited it,” she said, adding several quick, hard stitches to the eagle's tail feathers. She took a sip from her thermos, frowned, and set the thermos down.