“Do you?” Colleen stuck out her chin and pursed her lips.
“Let me be, as Ms. Minot says, direct. Colleen, do you have a drinking problem?”
Oh, Christ. “What are you talking about?” As though Moore hadn’t been tight as a violin string at the last start-of-the-semester party.
“We believe you do.” He held his hand up to stop her from speaking. “You’re not really hiding it as well as you think you are.”
If ever there was a moment to bristle, this was it. “I find your tone pretty insulting.”
Moore sighed and replaced his glasses on his nose. “I am not here to judge you, Colleen, but the situation must be dealt with. We can’t go on like this.”
“It sounds very much like judgment to me. I resent this, David, I really do.” It was important to sound confident and insulted. It was important to give the impression of shock. “You’re making it sound as though I’m some sort of lush or something, and I don’t know who’s put these ideas into your head, although I suppose I can guess.”
“There’s no need to get excited, Colleen,” said Pat Minot. “We’d like to help you.”
“I don’t need any help. I need to get back to my desk and do my work.”
“Must we do this?” David looked at her as though he were a disappointed father.
Colleen realized it would be unwise, at this point, to say fuck you, but she reserved it for later. “David, come on. This is ridiculous; you’re questioning my integrity here, and I don’t like it one bit.”
He sighed. “Fine. We’ll do it this way, then, although I’m surprised we have to, since this is the third time we’ve had this sort of discussion about your performance—”
“You’ve never said anything about an alcohol problem!”
“Perhaps not, specifically, the drinking, but certainly your performance.”
Colleen said nothing. What could she say?
“Right, then.” He began to count off her failings on his fingers. “You are late virtually every day, and when you do arrive, you’re hungover and you smell of liquor. You do very little work until late morning, and then off you go to lunch, which is usually two hours, and sometimes, like last Friday, considerably longer, and when you come back, it’s clear you’ve been drinking. You are often inappropriate with co-workers as well as students, you lose things, forget to do what’s asked of you, and, often as not, what you do has to be done over. It used to be that your work only suffered Mondays and perhaps Fridays, and we all knew about it and let it pass because, believe it or not, we really do care about you, Colleen. However, over the past six months or so, things have gone from bad to much worse. I’ve spoken to you about your performance on several occasions, and I’ve given you written warning—haven’t I done that?”
“Well, yes, but given what I’ve been going through …” Her mind raced like a demented greyhound. “I didn’t think it was serious enough to warrant all this and I don’t know what you mean by inappropriate. What does that mean?”
“Did you, or did you not … how do I put this delicately? … fondle Max Sinclair on Friday?”
“I did no such thing!” And she thought: if I had he would have liked it.
“You did, I’m afraid. I saw it myself. You grabbed Dr. Sinclair’s buttocks and made a remark about coconuts—a song, in fact.”
Pat Minot coughed into her hand. “Excuse me,” she said.
I’ve got a luverly bunch of coconuts, sung in a Cockney accent. Colleen squirmed. She might have done that. It was possible there had been some teasing, but Max was young and handsome and funny as hell in that fabulous British way.
“I was joking. He didn’t mind.”
“I’m afraid he did, Colleen, especially since there were students present at the time, students who were also less than impressed.” Moore cleared his throat. “And this isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened, now is it? Do we have to go over what happened at the start-of-term party?”
AIN’T NOBODY WORRIED
The main dining room in the Faculty Club was a cool sea of Wedgwood blue and white. Fairy lights hung in the potted weeping fig trees. The gold chandeliers gleamed. Faculty and grad students mingled and chatted over hors d’oeuvres—shrimp wrapped in bacon, little egg rolls, mini-quiches, smoked salmon. The bar was fully stocked and a DJ played jazz standards near a small dance floor.
Colleen had a Manhattan, and then another. They were delicious. She’d had a couple of glasses of wine at home, and was just starting to feel that happy cloud of confidence and goodwill toward men, and women too, for that matter. She wore a slinky black dress with a high collar and long sleeves. It hugged her curves. She might have put on just a pound or two since her skinny-malinks days, but that didn’t mean she’d lost her sense of style. She hadn’t lost her allure, that lovely word. Allure … it rolled around the tongue like a pearl.
She talked with Max Sinclair. He was so charming, even with those acne scars. They made his face interesting. She suspected he was gay, since he never had a woman with him and surely a man that handsome would have oodles of women. Besides he dressed so well. And he was funny. He gossiped about the other professors, especially Ron Porter, who he said had a tendency to dress in his wife’s clothing. “Such a shame,” he remarked, “since the poor old thing dresses like a vicar’s mother.” He told her how Mike Banville and Porter loathed each other. Mike was the sort of corduroy-and-khaki geographer most at home punting up the Orinoco. Ron was an urban planner with a model train set in his basement.
Colleen plucked the cherry out of her drink and sucked its potent juices. The liquor gave her such a lovely floating feeling. She arched her back. She imagined she was a ballet dancer.
“Did you know,” said Max, “when Mike visited Alcatraz a few years back he sent Ron a postcard saying, ‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’ You have to love a man like that.”
The second Manhattan pirouetted through her veins. She couldn’t believe that glass, too, was nearly empty. She looked around at the groups of chatting academics, bottles of beer or glasses of white wine spritzers in their hands.
She drained her glass. “God, this party needs some spicing up, don’t you think?”
“Well, it certainly calls for another drink,” said Max. “Do you want one?”
“Absolutely. Go on.” She winked at him.
He went to get the drinks and it occurred to her that what the party needed was some dancing. To hell with all this jazz stuff; the DJ must have something with a little R & B to it. She’d get them going.
The DJ smiled as she approached. He was too old to be a really hip DJ. He had to be at least forty-five, but then again, she wasn’t exactly a twenty-year-old, was she. Still, she knew her music.
“Want to hear something?” he asked.
“Got any Motown, any Stax Records? Something with some life?”
“Stax, huh? You like that Southern soul?”
“The Staple Singers maybe?”
He grinned. “I might have a little Mavis here. Might have a little Albert King.”
“Some Otis? Al Green?”
“I’d rather not get fired though, you know.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” Colleen said.
“You’re on, Mama.”
When the song that was playing finished, on came Mavis Staples’ big voice, her deep, chesty uh of delight. She asked for the listener’s help, so she could take them there … A couple of people looked around, but it was a brilliant choice, just jazzy enough to seem like part of the program. Colleen grinned and swayed to the beat. Yes indeed. People watched her. She didn’t mind. She looked good, didn’t she, in this slinky black dress, her hips swaying, a bit of belly-dancing roll here and there. She glanced around, looking for Max. He’d dance with her, get this thing off the ground.
She spotted him off by the bar but he didn’t meet her eye. He was talking to the Dean. She kept dancing. Then the song stopped, too soon.
“Do
n’t stop!” she called to the DJ.
He threw his hands up and shrugged.
“One more.” She folded her hands as if in prayer.
The DJ glanced around a little nervously and then put on “The Best of My Love,” by The Emotions. Perfect. That was it, a party song. A fun song. She motioned with her hands for some of the grad students to join her. A trio stood nearby. One was a bearded boy wearing a grey pullover. He tapped his foot in time to the song. She danced over and tried to pull him onto the floor. His friends laughed and he did, too, for a minute. And then he looked embarrassed.
“Thanks, but no. No thanks.”
He tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip. “Come on, don’t be a party pooper!”
“No, really! No thanks.” He jerked away from her and walked away, past his laughing friends, leaving her standing there.
“Party pooper!” she called after him.
She finished out the song, although she had lost the limber, loose feeling of a few minutes before. She felt awkward and suddenly aware of disapproving eyes. She needed that drink Max had promised her. When the DJ played “Body and Soul,” she glared at him, but threw in the towel and went off to get another Manhattan.
“Make it a good one,” she told the bartender.
Half an hour later, she cornered David Moore behind a potted palm near the men’s room and spent quite a bit of time telling him what was wrong with his department, zeroing in on the lack of women in influential positions.
“Universities are run by patriarchs,” she said. “There’s a lack of intuitive balance.”
The smile on his face was brittle. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I don’t think you want to have this conversation.”
He was right, she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop herself; the words tumbled out of their own accord. She knew she was making perfect sense, if only he’d see. Eventually he simply walked away.
She felt close to tears, in part because of her frustration. He wouldn’t listen, but then, too, as often happened when she’d had a little bit too much, a part of her mind stepped off to the left and watched the rest of her—watched and laughed. Practically brayed. She was not in control and knew herself not to be in control. She was at that point in the evening when she saw quite clearly things were happening that she did not want to happen. She was blurting out every little thing, and no one was more interested than she to hear what they might be. She feared she was making a fool of herself, but the train was hurtling down the track, the brakes completely blown. She tasted the whisky and orange of her drink. How many was this? Fuck it. Damn the torpedoes. She drained it.
That was a mistake. Within moments her stomach rebelled. There was no way she would make it all the way through the crowd to the ladies’ room. No, it was the men’s room or the potted palm. She lurched to the men’s room, praying no one was inside. Vacant, thank the gods. Burst into a stall. Kicked the door shut behind her. Retched and heaved. Up it came. Not so bad. Some smeared mascara, and a need for mouthwash, but she would live. She might even get out of the men’s room with nothing more than a giggle. Sorry, wrong door! She stepped out of the stall, only slightly stained, and who should be entering but the Dean of Arts and Science, Dr. John J. Stachell, a man with the face of an irritated rooster, a man with no sense of humour or compassion. He took one look at her and turned tail.
She became teary then, and the rest of the night was clouded in Manhattan mists. Someone, possibly Gloria from the Dean’s Office, put her in a taxi.
THE CENTRE OF IT ALL
Even if Colleen didn’t remember precisely what happened that evening, she didn’t see the necessity of going over it all again now. But David Moore persisted.
“I’m afraid we found the bottle of vodka in your desk. Or should I say bottles,” David continued.
There was a fifth of vodka in her bottom drawer, as well as a variety of small “nips,” most of them empty. She’d been meaning to get rid of them, but lately someone always seemed to be hovering about. Colleen opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All her clever words dried up and her throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with gas-soaked rags.
“That is quite against university policy,” said Pat Minot. “I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“Yes, of course, they were just things I meant to take home. I don’t drink on the job.”
“But you do, Colleen,” said Moore, leaning forward, his elbows on his spotless blotter. “I’ve seen you myself, grabbing a little sip or two in the kitchen when you think no one’s looking. You go into the bathroom and come out stinking. You think no one can smell it, but of course we can. You’re reeking of it now.”
She felt like crying, and she mustn’t. She just had to get out of this office. If she could just have a few minutes to herself. She swallowed and took a breath. “I haven’t had anything to drink today. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.”
“Colleen.” Minot inched her chair closer. “Even I can smell it, dear, which means, if you haven’t had anything to drink today, and I believe you on that front, I do, that you were drinking heavily last night and it’s coming out of your pores. It’s your body’s way of trying to cleanse itself.” She tried to take one of her hands, but Colleen pulled away. “All right. All right. But this is a crucial moment for you, Colleen, and you have to make a decision. You are at a crossroads.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Colleen sniffed and her eyes stung. Her head was pounding.
Pat Minot reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic package of tissues. She handed it to Colleen, who took it but did not pull one out; she wouldn’t give them that.
“You have been issued warnings, both verbal and written, and yet your performance continues to deteriorate. We believe you are an alcoholic and we want you to get help with your problem. Indeed, the university is willing to assist you. Our benefits will provide for time at a treatment centre and you can use the little sick leave you have left, as well as long-term leave, for the thirty days you’ll be away.”
Alcoholic. Away. Treatment centre. Colleen began to shake in earnest, the tremors starting in her thighs and moving into her belly and arms. She clenched her muscles, trying to control them, but that only made it worse. She shifted in her seat, rocking a little in an attempt to disguise the shudders.
“But here’s the bottom line, Colleen. You will agree to go home today, right now, since we don’t feel you’re in fit condition to work, and go into treatment tomorrow—I have arranged a bed for you at the Jane Ward Centre—or else we will be forced to terminate your employment, effective immediately. If you choose the first option, your job will be waiting for you upon successful completion of the thirty-day program, provided there are no further such incidents. You will also be tested for drug use, randomly, and for so long as we deem necessary.” Minot held her hand up, seeing Colleen was about to protest. “Let me finish, Colleen. If, however, you choose the second option—the termination—you will receive the severance and vacation pay owing to you, but that is all. The decision is entirely yours, Colleen, but Dr. Moore and I hope you will take the help we’re offering you. If you get, and stay, sober you can have a wonderful, healthy and productive life, Colleen, of that I have no doubt, but if you continue in this manner, your future is very dim indeed.”
Colleen wondered what gave this woman, whom she had never met before today, the right to tell her what her future would be like. If Colleen had Minot’s life, maybe she wouldn’t drink either. But she had her life, a fucking mess of a beat-down existence and who the hell wouldn’t have a drink? The idea of living without a drink at the end of each soul-numbing day to soften the wretched loneliness of it all was impossible to imagine. The truth was, she was dying for a drink right now.
She rubbed her temples, willing the jackhammers over her eyes to quit it. “I’ve worked at the university for years.”
“We are aware of that,” the woman said, “but i
t doesn’t change anything.”
Colleen looked from Moore to Minot, back and forth, and everything became still. It was interesting: the direr the situation, the calmer Colleen typically became. She knew this about herself. She was one of those people who seemed made for crisis. Doubtless this skill was the better part of the legacy of growing up in a house with a madwoman.
It occurred to her that everything happening now might just be a trick of the light, some hallucination into which she’d fallen, like Alice down the rabbit hole. She might still be safe in her bed, dreaming a foul, cruel-hearted dream. She blinked, and then held her hands up to her eyes, pressing until black-and-white geometric patterns appeared on the inside of her lids. Take it back, God, she prayed, please take all of this morning back and I promise I’ll be better. She’d promised she wasn’t going to drink today and, so far, she hadn’t. This was some perverse joke of the universe, of some malevolent God focused entirely on her. Pound, pound, pound went the blood in the vessels across her forehead.
With any luck, she was having a stroke.
“We need your answer now, I’m afraid,” said Moore.
Colleen opened her eyes and was disappointed but not surprised to find everything just as it had been. Was she never to get a break? Never to have a chance? The faces of her accusers were stern, implacable and just a little hungry. Oh, yes, how everyone loved to stick the knife in, to wiggle it. They were untouchable on their moral high-ground, where the air was so very fucking rarified and a thick shiny gate, made of money and privilege, and the kind of education Colleen deserved but didn’t get, protected them from having anyone do to them what they were doing to her.
“Do you,” she said. “You need an answer this very minute?”
They nodded, like bobble-heads.
She knew what the right answer was. She understood she should take their help in her trembling, grateful palms; she should break down in girlish tears and thank them for their concern and consideration and tell them how long she’d been drinking against her own will (which might be true but was none of their fucking business) and she understood this was probably the moment when her life could be saved. She looked down at her hands, clutching the cheap package of tissues. There was a stain of some sort on the hem of her turtleneck. She hadn’t noticed it when she dressed this morning. It was something yellowish and crusty. Colleen imagined Moore and Minot—their names sounded like some snotty law firm—congratulating themselves as the taxi took her off to a rehab centre. She imagined Moore talking to his skinny, buck-toothed wife over a wine-and-candlelight dinner about poor Colleen Kerrigan and what an awful mess she was. She imagined the narrow cot in the shared rehab room, the linoleum floor, the shoddy dresser, the communal showers, and group therapy with droopy losers whining about finding a higher power and turning their lives over to God and heaven help her she’d slit her wrists with a fork.
The Empty Room Page 5