by Mel Gough
“Did you have anything else to go on? Description of the driver, partial number plate, anything?”
“Nope.”
Jason sounded smug, and Ben had to take a deep breath to keep his voice level. “Did he maybe behave in a suspicious manner?”
“Maybe,” Jason agreed as he got up. In Jason-speak that meant: Just didn’t like the look of the dude.
Jason sometimes got like this; he was all guts and instinct and reaction. That had its uses in policing, too, and Ben usually made excuses for his friend’s hot-headedness, because it mostly came from the right place in his heart. But somehow, this time he couldn’t. Maybe it had happened one time too many. Or maybe, because this time Jason’s ire had focused on a completely innocent party, he’d simply rubbed Ben the wrong way.
As he followed Jason out of the room, Ben hissed, “Since this was your party, brother, you can write it up for the captain as well, alright?” This would annoy Jason more than anything. He hated writing reports.
Without another word, Ben strode past the other man and out into the parking lot. He needed a moment to calm down or else he might well punch his partner and best friend in the face before the day was done.
“YA GET THAT shit sorted out in town yesterday, at that whatsamajingy office?”
Donnie drops down on the couch next to Floyd and shakes his head. “Refused.”
“Assholes,” Floyd says idly, fishing a beer from a cooler by his feet and cracking it open one-handed. The TV is on some stupid-ass early-afternoon game show, and it looks like Floyd’s already been at it for a while. Donnie counts six empty crushed beer cans on the floor and the coffee table. He wants to tell his brother to quit it or at least tidy up after himself, but he knows it’s useless.
“Where were ya this mornin’, anyway?” Floyd asks, his attention wavering between the TV and Donnie. He coughs wetly into his hand and wipes the palm on his grimy undershirt. “Thought ya were just getting gas, but ya never came back. So I had to hitch a ride back to that wanker Philip’s house, to pick up the money. Ya were supposed to drive me since that fuckin’ piece o’ shit bike’s still broken.”
Donnie hesitates. If he lies now, Floyd will know and force it out of him regardless. And if he gets up to at least put some distance between him and the storm he knows is coming, Floyd will think him a sissy again, and tell him so, too, for days to come. Donnie had hoped his brother would be too plastered to even miss him. He’d forgotten all about Floyd wanting to be chauffeured around town. Too much is happening this week, and he feels so tired.
He braces himself and takes a deep breath. “Cops gave me grief.”
The hard slap against the side of his head comes as expected. “Ya li’l shit,” Floyd snarls. “Ya know better’n that, or ya should, anyway…”
Donnie tunes out Floyd’s diatribe, stealing away inside his head like he’s done so many times before. He’s real good at not hearing the angry words, has been ever since way back when their pa used to holler himself into a rage. He closes his eyes, closes himself away, into that corner of his mind where it’s always peaceful, and where a new memory now lives, of that kind cop with the gentle, sad eyes.
Chapter Two
“IT’S OVER, BEN. I’m done, I want a divorce. Until then, you are sleeping in the guest room.” Slamming down her hands on the kitchen countertop, Helen glared at Ben, her anger searing him like fire. Laura was at baseball practice, so at least they weren’t fighting in front of their kid.
They had been shouting at each other for half an hour. When Ben came home from work, Helen was waiting for him in the hallway. One look at her face told him that a fight was imminent. The issue was negligible—some alleged mix-up with one of Laura’s school appointments—and Ben was prepared to just let her vent for a bit and not answer back, even though he knew he was in the right.
Helen wouldn’t let it go, however. Ben went into the living room once he thought she had gotten out most of her anger. But she pursued him, still berating him for his alleged mistake. He sat down on the sofa, trying his best to tune her out. So she accused him of always ignoring her, and no wonder their marriage had failed.
That stirred the first tendrils of fear in Ben, and unfortunately, the fear made him finally yell back, “Have you ever asked yourself why I’m ignoring you?” he shouted, his heart beating fast.
It was a petty and stupid thing to say and totally out of character for him. Months of anger and frustration had finally broken free. Even as the words came out of his mouth, Ben was horrified. It was the excuse Helen needed. She shouted louder and louder, and he jumped up from the sofa and shouted back at her, no longer in control of his temper.
Finally, Helen fled into the kitchen, and as Ben followed, she delivered the death blow to their marriage.
A few months ago, this would have been the point at which Ben would cave. He would have pleaded with her, begging her to give them one last chance. But there really was just nothing left anymore. So when she looked at him expectantly, curious to see what he would do next, he merely nodded. All the fight had suddenly drained from him. Everything was so pointless.
“If you feel that way, Helen, then okay.” Ben turned and left the house.
There was no question about where he was headed once he got into the car, but he was on I-85 before he let his destination solidify in his conscious mind. He would go into downtown Atlanta, where he could be sure that nobody would recognize him, and he would get drunk.
When had it all gone wrong? Ben had racked his brain after every fight over the last few months, but he couldn’t pinpoint the moment, that one defining instant, when he’d known that Helen no longer loved him.
It must have been gradual. Feelings had shifted stealthily, perspectives realigned so slowly that only once he’d stopped what he was doing and looked up had it become apparent that things no longer were as they used to be. That the two of them weren’t where he’d thought at all, and that they weren’t even facing the same future.
For many years, Ben had been incredibly busy, working away at his dream of a career, and their shared hopes and dreams had taken a back seat more often than not. But for a while now, at first almost imperceptibly, he had been slowing down. His career with Corinth PD had been one glorious long arc of success, culminating in becoming the youngest sergeant in over thirty years. The last man to make that rank at the same age had, in fact, been Ben’s own father. Only when he’d gotten this far had Ben seen it at last: The department was a dead end for him. After making sergeant, there was nowhere else to go.
Ben had missed plenty of Laura’s school recitals, many of Helen and his anniversaries, their daughter’s childhood illnesses, and much more. For a long time, he’d assumed that Helen was okay with it all, that she was happy in her role too, and proud of him. She had her part-time library work, her volunteering at Laura’s junior high, and the prestige that came with being married to the most promising young police officer in the district. Ben had missed the signs of her unhappiness.
There was no danger of that any longer. Helen was making it very clear what she was thinking, and Ben finally had time to listen. For fifteen years, since he’d come back to Corinth after college and the academy, Ben had worked nonstop climbing that greasy pole. Extra weekend shifts, overtime, courses in forensics and psychological profiling—he’d signed up for all of it, and gladly.
Corinth was a small sleepy town, and while not exactly backwater, the police department held no promise once you hit the very low ceiling. There were only two lieutenants, both born-and-bred local guys who were many years away from retirement. And that meant there was no chance of promotion now for Ben. It bothered him, more than he’d admitted to himself until recently. He knew he was capable of more, much more.
So had it all been for nothing? Had his ambition destroyed his marriage for no good reason? From where Ben was standing right now, it really started to look that way.
As he sped along the empty interstate into the city, which w
as rapidly emptying out for the night, Ben let himself almost believe that what he was doing was only natural under the circumstances. He hadn’t had a drink since Helen was pregnant with Laura almost fourteen years ago. He had never missed drinking, because he vividly remembered what his life was like before he had forced himself to stop.
It had been during his first year in college that Ben had started to seek relief from the everyday slog in the bottle. During high school, he had been the shy, awkward teenager with the good grades, but when he and Jason had enrolled in the Criminal Justice Program at UGA’s Athens campus, Ben had been ready for a change. He wanted to be easygoing and cool like Jason, and for a while, the alcohol had allowed him to live that dream. He’d met Helen at a college party where he’d won her over with his sense of humor, which if not solely dependent on his state of inebriation, then certainly brought to its full potential by the Jell-O shots he’d been consuming all night.
When he left college with just about satisfactory grades and enrolled at the police academy in Atlanta, Ben was what Helen insisted was a functioning alcoholic. Ben hadn’t felt like he was functioning at all. He merely existed day to day. He hid his problems well, and Helen, for reasons of her own, aided and abetted his deceit. They had rarely talked about the drinking as a problem.
But when the baby was on the way and he started his job at Corinth PD, Ben wanted things to change. He knew he’d mess up his new responsibilities otherwise. He wanted his family to be whole. He wanted to support Helen, not be carried by her patience and compassion. He wanted to be a good father. He wanted a career, not just a desk job with the police department.
So he had pulled himself together and gotten the help he needed. He’d left behind the booze and won a new life in the bargain.
Now that life was over. He and Helen were done. So why not turn to what was known to make him forget, maybe even make him happy for a while?
Ben stopped at the first bar he came across in downtown Atlanta, a sleek-looking affair with gleaming mirrors all around the room. He’d never noticed it before; it probably hadn’t been around back when he’d come into town regularly to drink, first with friends, then more and more often on his own. Already the last fourteen years of his life seemed like a dream. A strange feeling began to creep up on Ben, but then he realized he knew this sensation well. His mind was oddly blank. All he cared about was the next drink.
Alcohol. Like bookends to a life.
It was a Tuesday, and the bar stayed half-empty most of the night. Ben kept his back to the room and didn’t engage in conversation. He didn’t even drink to his limit, which he could still gauge with surprising ease. He ordered whiskey straight, drank slowly, steadily, until the misery in his heart softened and leaked away without hurting.
He had loved Helen once. He still remembered what that had been like, but just as he didn’t know when her love for him had stopped, he couldn’t pinpoint the moment when his own affection had faded away to nothing. Ben had a feeling that Helen had never found him very interesting once he stopped drinking. The prestige that came with his stellar reputation had been a consolation for a while, but clearly, it hadn’t been enough. He was sad about his marriage ending, but through the buffer of alcohol, his feelings no longer seemed like his own. What did love even feel like, really? He couldn’t remember, and right now, it hardly mattered.
Ben stayed until last call. When he had drained his final glass, he rose from the barstool, moving slowly and deliberately, hiding just how drunk he was with the skill of the veteran alcoholic. But the bartender wasn’t fooled.
“Your car keys, sir,” he said, and held out his hand.
Ben fixed the man with what he hoped was his most level stare. “I walked,” he lied smoothly. “Just moved into the neighborhood.”
The bartender didn’t look convinced, but what could he do, shake Ben down? Eventually he shrugged and turned away. Ben left the bar.
He had no intention of driving home, or anywhere else. This next bit, too, was depressingly familiar. He might be a drunk who happily destroyed his own life, but he was also Sergeant Ben Griers, Corinth PD’s most conscientious officer, who would never put anyone else’s life in danger.
Ben walked to his car, unlocked the doors, crawled into the back seat, and passed out.
Chapter Three
BEN WOKE WITH a hangover about as bad as expected. Daylight was flooding the car, stabbing into his brain through closed eyelids. He groaned, wishing sincerely to be dead.
He would’ve happily turned over and gone back to sleep for a few more hours, but his body had other ideas. As the various systems came reluctantly back online, Ben got more and more accurate feedback on his overall condition, and it was not encouraging. His head hurt something fierce, his legs were cramped from lying curled up in the confined space of his Toyota’s back seat, and his mouth tasted of carpet.
But the main fight was going on in his stomach. No longer used to the eroding effects of alcohol, his insides started cramping and rumbling as soon as Ben’s head reconnected with his body. Together with the brightness of this beautiful Indian summer’s morning, queasiness quickly turned to nausea. Cursing himself, the glaring light, and the universe in general, Ben scrambled to sitting and just about got the curbside door open before the contents of his stomach made it all the way up his esophagus. He retched painfully, supporting himself on the car door with one hand, at once amazed and revolted at how awful this part of the hangover experience really was. Clearly, he had suppressed a lot of the unpleasantness that had ruled his life all these years ago.
When he could breathe again, Ben sat up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The light was still blinding, and his head was pounding fiercely. Coffee and Advil were the only answer to the burning question of What next? So Ben climbed awkwardly over the pool of sick and slammed the rear door shut, wincing at the resultant crash. Then he opened the driver’s door and rummaged in the door compartment for the painkillers he knew had to be in there. He located them eventually and closed this door more carefully, then locked the car and straightened up.
According to Ben’s watch, it wasn’t even half past eight. His shift didn’t start until midday, a major reason for even allowing himself the breakdown last night. He felt momentarily depressed about how conscientiously he planned even stupid shit like this.
There was a café on the other side of the street, and Ben made a beeline for it. Upon entering, he snuck into the bathroom at the back first, where he peed, rinsed his mouth, and washed his face. Then he bought a large black coffee from a sleepy barista behind the counter.
Outside in the alleyway next to the café, Ben popped a few Advil and washed them down with sips of coffee. This forced him into inactivity for several minutes, to let his stomach get over the shock of the strong coffee and the pills. Finally, the combination of painkillers and caffeine afforded his head some relief.
Now what, though? As the world slowly started to be recognizable again, Ben’s mind turned to what he had gotten himself into, and the feelings of shame and guilt grew ever stronger.
What had pushed him to this foray into the blackest part of his past? Ben had known for months that Helen and he were done. Why this breakdown now, then? Was he trying to punish himself? Give up on everything he had fought so hard for? Was it not worth having a life, even if Helen wasn’t a part of it any longer? Ben still had his daughter to think about, and his job, even if it no longer promised the career he’d always wanted.
He rubbed his smarting eyes and slowly wandered down the alleyway, away from the traffic noise on the main road.
The piles of garbage and the peeling paint on the doors he passed hardly registered, so steeped was he in his own misery. This filthy part of town suited his mood perfectly, but finally something did manage to penetrate the haze of self-loathing. It was a familiar slogan, on a big faded yellow sign tacked to a broad blue door to his right.
ONE DAY AT A TIME
YOU ARE NOT ALONE
MEETINGS DAILY: 9AM, 12 NOON, 3PM, 6PM, 9PM
The sign above the door read “South Central Atlanta Community Center.” Ben looked at his watch again. It was ten to nine.
He went inside.
A SMILING RECEPTIONIST directed Ben to a room on the second floor. When he entered, half a dozen men and women were already seated on cheap plastic chairs. Another four or five arrived within minutes. Ben sat down near the door. Most of the people seemed to know each other, going around the room and greeting one another in quiet voices.
One man, gray-haired but energetic looking, went to the front and put a sheaf of papers onto a podium bolted to the floor in the center, facing the rows of chairs. He kept looking at the door as if waiting for one more person before opening the meeting. Ben watched him, and when the man gave a wide smile and a nod toward the back of the room, Ben turned around. His heart missed a beat.
Donnie Saunders came walking into the room, carrying two large coffee urns. “Sorry, Arthur,” Saunders said in his low voice that didn’t really carry. He quickly went over to a table at the back, where cups, milk, and sugar were already arranged neatly.
Ben couldn’t take his eyes off the man. What was Saunders doing here? Of all the possible AA meetings in this city, why had Ben walked into this meeting? Should he just leave? But Saunders was bound to see him now, whatever he did.
Before Ben could make up his mind, Saunders turned around and their eyes met.
The surprise in the other’s gaze only lasted a moment. Then Saunders’s expression changed, becoming soft and gentle. Ben couldn’t look away from the unusual indigo eyes that lingered in his. Saunders nodded almost imperceptively and gave Ben a small smile. Ben returned the smile, surprised to feel his panic drain away. Saunders wouldn’t judge him for being here.