by Hannah Paige
Rick clenched his hand around the beer so hard his knuckles turned stark white against the brown glass. He leaned down and braced his free hand on a knee, looking hard at the boy.
“Let’s get one thing straight, kid. Grace does not have questions. She doesn’t. I don’t know how you found out about her or how you even found me. I don’t know what you really want or why you’re doing this to me, but you need to leave me alone and you need to leave Grace out of this. This game, or whatever it is you think that you’re doing here, it’s not funny and it’s plain old not right.”
“Why not?” the boy’s expression was airy, almost pleased with Rick’s building anger.
“What? Why isn’t it funny? Or why shouldn’t you be doing this?” Rick demanded.
“Why doesn’t Grace have questions?”
Rick’s blood boiled at the complete stranger asking pointless questions about his daughter, “Because Grace is dead. She has been for the past ten years. That day that everyone likes to talk about, that’s in history books now, she died on that day. Flight United 93, the plane that never made it to California. She was on the plane and it crashed and now she’s dead. She’s gone, kid, has been for a long time.”
The boy—Rick couldn’t remember his name—breathed a sigh of relief and a charmed smile spread over his face, “That’s a start, Mr. Griffin, that’s a start.”
Chapter Three
Grace had learned to read from a young age. Rick remembered when she was little and he was stationed elsewhere, he would get letters from her, telling him about all of the books that she was planning to read. She read Matilda, and Moby Dick shot to the top of her reading list, simply because she was curious about the line ‘call me Ishmael’ that concluded the children’s book. Rick remembered the letter she sent the day she’d received her first library card. She’d written him about going home with a pile of books ‘as tall as I am’. The nanny had offered to help carry them home for Grace, but she’d insisted on carrying the tower herself.
The public library was two blocks from Rick’s neighborhood. It was somewhere between the housing developments and the downtown area. Its cobblestone steps were still the same—uneven and bumpy—and the chipping green and white slats on the outside of the building had been defended for years by town patrons who wouldn’t let ‘some out-of-town hokies’ destroy their town’s original library. The building needed remodeling desperately, but somehow the recurring argument that surrounded tearing the historical landmark down added to its charm.
The front door squeaked as Rick entered and the curtains sighed as an afternoon breeze whisked through the window screens. The librarian was currently over in the children’s area, her legs crossed, while she read to a group of nursery-schoolers.
Rick took his time, lingering by the front desk and looking at the posted flyers. One advertised weekend cooking classes at the community center and Rick felt a memory jolt in his chest. He cleared his throat, mucking out the emotion that accompanied remembering his daughter.
We should join one of these! Then we could be the kind of people that make ratatouille just because it’s a Thursday. Grace had said one day, tearing the flyer off the board and showing Rick. He’d just laughed at the time, shrugged it off. Now he wished he’d at least learned a couple recipes.
There was another flyer for tutoring, a couple of business cards pinned on the sides of the bulletin board, and a bright yellow and white piece of paper that was hanging sideways, its tack coming out of the corkboard.
Keep it Simple! AA meeting held Tuesday nights at 7 p.m. in the conference room. No sign-ups required! No fees!
Rick’s hand fluttered against his pant leg; it itched to move, to do the right thing.
To reach for a beer.
Grace deserved better.
Rick’s heart pounded in his chest and he couldn’t help but acknowledge that it felt good, the sensation of fresh blood being sent out to his appendages, the heat building in his chest. It was something, it was a start.
Before he could change his mind, he tore the flyer off the board and brought it to the reference desk, where a slightly younger librarian was working that day.
“Is this still going on? Are they holding this tonight?” Rick blurted out at the poor woman. He was practically panting at the desk.
She leaned back in her chair slightly, “Yes, sir. The meeting is held every Tuesday at seven. It will be just down that hall, in the conference room.”
That was it, a simple answer. There should be no getting out of it, now. Rick nodded at the woman, “Right. Thank you, I just wanted…I wanted to make sure.”
For the past ten years, time had warped. It had bent and wriggled, it had stretched on through bad days and shrunk up through the really bad days, and the minutes, hours, and days melted into each other. Because of this particular side effect of grief, Rick had gotten rid of most of the clocks in his house. He didn’t want to know what time it was, and he hadn’t cared until that Tuesday night.
Rick stayed close to the library, swung by the bar, and grabbed some dinner while he was there, even though he wasn’t too hungry. At six in the evening, people expected to see others eating, not just drinking. So, Rick ordered some hot wings and a burger to go with his whiskey.
At 6:50, he walked from the bar to the library. It probably should have struck him as slightly ironic, going straight from drinking whiskey to a meeting where the goal was to discuss ways to avoid paying a visit to Mr. Beam and good ole’ Johnnie Walker. Rick would still have the scent fresh on his lips. But the irony may as well have been just another soap spot on a shot glass. His mind faced straight ahead, blocking out everything that wasn’t square in front of him.
The rest of the library was dark, the only dim lighting spilling from the back conference room where Rick heard the scuffling of chairs being moved around. He filled his lungs with the stale library air and stepped into the lit room.
An older woman, probably in her late sixties by Rick’s judgment, was dragging bright blue plastic chairs into a circle formation in the center of the room. A table with a plastic tablecloth was set up near the door with pitchers of lemonade and water and a thermos of decaf coffee. A plate of surprisingly appetizing cookies and brownies was in the middle of the table.
“Hi, are you here for the meeting?” the woman brushed her hands off on her pants as she approached Rick with a welcoming, pearly white smile.
It took a second for Rick to comprehend what she was asking. She wanted to know if he was an alcoholic, if he needed help. Check and check, Rick thought, as he forced himself to nod and outstretch his hand, “Yes, I’m—I guess I’m here for the meeting.” His voice was unsure and it felt like it was crumbling out of his mouth.
The woman smiled and shook his hand. Hers felt soft and pillow-like as she cushioned her fingers around Rick’s, “I’m Lena. You’re early.”
Rick nodded, “I’m Rick. I tend to do that.”
He glanced around the room, but felt the woman’s—Lena, he had to remind himself—warm brown eyes glued on him, “There’s going to be other people here, right? I’m not going to be the only one?”
Her smiled remained, “Of course. More will be coming any minute; you won’t be alone, Rick.”
Rick’s chest tightened at the touchy-feely words that escaped Lena’s mouth. He needed to get out of here. He didn’t want to hear about other people’s pain when he was still drowning in his own. Well, that and whiskey. He needed a—
“Wendy, hi! Good to see you! And Mary, Bill, Rob, thank you all for coming back. Yes, yes, it’s an open meeting, come on in. Everyone’s welcome,” Lena left Rick standing by the chairs to go to the conference room’s entrance and greet people as they came in.
Some had a similar deer-in-the-headlights look that Rick felt was plastered on his own face. Some of the attendees even looked worse off than he felt, which was only slightly reassuring and slightly deterring. If they were what sober looked like, did he—
“If ev
eryone will just take a seat, we can go ahead and get started,” Lena called with her clear, glass voice.
Everyone moved as two units, separating automatically based on their behaviors, their level of sobriety, and their desperation. Some of them seemed to know exactly what they were doing as they took seats and smiled to those that sat next to them. Others exchanged glances like a rehearsed series of actions before all sitting at once. Rick lingered outside the ring of chairs for a minute before taking one of the seats next to a young woman hunched over and scratching at her oversized-sweatshirt sleeves.
Lena looked around at the circle, making eye contact with those that dared to keep their eyes up. She seemed to zero in on Rick, but maybe he was just feeling the pressure of being here. She rose from her seat and smoothed out her jean jacket.
“Hello, everyone, my name is Lena, and I am an alcoholic.”
Rick couldn’t believe that people said that at these things, but everyone else in the circle didn’t seem affected by the words and looked up at Lena to say in unison, “Hi, Lena.”
“I would like to thank you all for coming. Those of you that have been attending prior to today, welcome back. I would also like to thank our newcomer for joining us here today, would you like to introduce yourself?”
Rick looked up from his hands and realized that Lena was staring at him, along with most of the circle members. His first instinct was to shake his head and politely decline; he didn’t necessarily need to impress any of the people here, that wasn’t why he was here in the first place. But Rick always tried to do the right thing, tried to make people around him happy, whether he succeeded or not.
He splayed his sweaty palms beside his legs on the chair and pressed himself up, leaving moist imprints on the plastic.
“Hi, my name’s Rick,” he waved at the rest of the crowd. They continued to look at him, waiting for more. His mind scrambled for something to say, “I used to be in the army, but I’m not anymore. I live down the road.”
They were still waiting.
“I’m divorced, have been for about thirteen years. My ex-wife lives in California.” Rick stopped, looking down at his hands shaking in front of him, “I haven’t thought about her in a long time, haven’t talked to her in longer. Ever since—” He cleared his throat, feeling the heat of the room grip him by the arms, “I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to say here. I’ve only ever seen this kind of stuff on TV or in movies.”
“You can say whatever you like, Rick. We’re here to listen, to let you get whatever you need off your chest,” Lena encouraged, giving him a matronly smile.
Rick nodded, pushing himself forward, “Okay, well, that’s all I have, really.” He started to sit down, then remembered why he was here with all of these people; he remembered the one factor that they all shared, sitting in a circle in these plastic chairs. “Oh. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Rick,” the group repeated, and a second later Lena responded in a velvety voice, “Hi, Rick, it’s nice to meet you. I would like to take this time to read the preamble, since we have a new guest with us today, kind of go over why we’re all here. Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. What is said in this group, today, will remain here. We will not gossip about one another and we will not spread what we hear from others who are fighting alongside us. I want everyone to remember that we are not here to judge or to council. We are here to listen to what is going on in each other’s lives, here and now. The floor is open to anyone who would like to share their feelings about their experiences, their strength, or their hope.”
Rick wasn’t sure he caught everything that went on for the next two hours. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to walk out feeling like a new man or if it was normal to feel like he’d been crammed in a closet for two hours, his lungs clambering for enough oxygen.
When the meeting was over Lena still had the same smile across her face that spread enough warmth in the room to make Rick feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he was an unhappy man. He was—well, now that he thought about it, that was exactly the problem. He was an unhappy man. And Lena had clearly made it to the other side of the averse/agreeable scale. Half of him wanted to know her secret and the other half of him, probably the half that wanted a drink right about now, if he was honest with himself, just wanted to see her join him down here at rock bottom. Maybe they could share drinks at a gravesite, give each other tips on seeming less pathetic when it came to socializing with the public at large.
He stepped carefully around the library’s night janitor that had started vacuuming the carpet, and out into the night. Rick could breathe again outside in the quiet night air that chilled him. He welcomed the shivers that ran through his ribs and watched his own exhales of warm air puff out into the darkness.
“Good for you, Mr. Griffin.”
Rick stopped himself, mid-exhale, and turned around to see the pale, blonde boy—William, that was his name—perched on one of the columns at the bottom of the library steps. “William, what are you—” he stopped himself from asking the question; he had asked it so many times he may as well accept the fact that he wasn’t going to get a different answer, “Isn’t it a little late for you to be out? Past your bedtime and all, I’ll bet your mom is worried about you.”
William chuckled, as if the idea of a mother worrying over a nine-year-old boy, such as himself, struck him as absurd, “She’s not worried about me, Mr. Griffin. She knows I’m alright. As long as I’m home in an hour or so, she’s content to let me wander for a bit, especially on a night like this.”
Rick glanced around. It was a cold May night. The wind was picking up, biting at the cheeks of those that remained outside at this hour. As the other folks inside the meeting filed out of the library and into their cars, Rick could see the giant gasps of exhaust leaving the tailpipes.
“I wouldn’t say it’s one of New Jersey’s finest spring nights,” Rick added and looked back at William, who was staring straight at him.
“I’m not talking about the temperature, Mr. Griffin. I’m talking about you. You took quite a few strides today.”
Rick raised his eyebrows, “Oh did I?”
William nodded earnestly, “Certainly. Take a look at what you’ve accomplished, all in a matter of about fourteen hours. Two steps in one day, Grace is proud of you. But then again, she always knew you had a lot of potential.” He smiled at the empty column opposite him.
Rick shifted from foot to foot, unsure of how bad he would look if he left the crazy kid alone on the steps of the library at this time of night. Luckily, Lena came out of the library doors before he had time to decide.
“Goodnight, Rick. Thanks for coming, I hope to see you here next week. Tuesday, same time, same place. Have a nice night,” she said, passing by him. She looked to her right, at William, who greeted her with a soft smile and a knowing twinkle in his iridescent eyes.
“It makes you uncomfortable when I talk about Grace, doesn’t it, Mr. Griffin?” William asked him once Lena had passed them both and started up her car.
Rick dragged out his exhale, trying to think of the best—kindest—way to answer the question. But the boy didn’t make him squirm with uncertainty for too long before taking the conversation in an entirely different direction, “Do you like ice cream, Mr. Griffin?”
The childish question caught him off-guard for a second, “What?”
William hopped off the column, planting his stark-white Converse on the sidewalk, “My mom just bought some chocolate chip ice cream and it’s at home, sitting in the freezer, waiting to be eaten up. Do you want to join me for some? My mom says it’s bad luck to eat ice cream by yourself.”
Rick’s initial instinct was of course to say no. There was clearly something wrong with this kid. But the longer he thought about it, he rea
lized that he wasn’t all right in the head either. And Cheers wasn’t on this late at night.
He nodded, “Sure, I could go for some ice cream.”
William beamed at him, “Oh good! I was hoping you would say that. I promise I won’t even mention Grace, we can talk about something else, if you like. My house is just around the corner.”
It was a small, tin-roofed home that sat behind an Italian restaurant. Rick could still smell the garlic bread when William closed the front door behind them.
“Mom, I’m home! Rick came too! We’re in the kitchen,” he called through the house and a female voice responded, “Hi, William. Don’t stay up too late!”
The front kitchen light was on and Rick could faintly hear the sound of music coming from a room on the other side of the house. He couldn’t make out the lyrics, but the harmony of the instruments carried gently to his ears.
William climbed onto the canary-colored kitchen counter to reach two glasses and set them soundlessly down on the table after filling them with water from the tap. He rocked back on his heels to open the freezer and removed a tub of ice cream. He eased open the drawer beside the old, white fridge with its silver lever handles, and pulled out two spoons, then planted all three items on the kitchen table.
“You can have a seat, Mr. Griffin.”
Rick pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, noticed how it slid across the hardwood floor without a scuff or a groan, and sat down. William took the seat next to him and slid the carton of chocolate chip ice cream in between them. He handed a spoon to Rick and waited patiently for him to take the first scoop.
Rick shrugged, “What the hell,” and took a bite of ice cream. The icy dessert chilled the insides of his cheeks and he felt a blast of cold when he swallowed it too soon. Out of practice. He shook his head, “Wow, that tastes good. I haven’t had ice cream since—” since Grace had tried to make her own—also a task resulting from watching too much Food Network.