The Two-Knock Ghost

by Jeff Lombardo

  “Hello, Robert.”

  “Dad!”

  “How are you firstborn?”

  “I’m great, Dad, but you caught me on my cell phone while I’m drilling into a nasty molar.”

  “I’m sorry, Robert. I’ll call you back tonight.”

  “Dad, don’t hang up,” he said quickly. “I’m yanking your chain, but I will have to drill that molar in about eight minutes. What’s up? I heard from Lena that you and Mom separated a few months ago. Are you back together?”

  “No, son, we’re not yet, but I’m working on it. I called for a couple of reasons. First, how are Emily and the kids?”

  “Emily’s fine, Dad. Perfect, in fact, if that’s humanly possible. Josie’s as cute as a spring daisy and proud to be a kindergartener and I just put braces on Zack’s teeth. He’s a handsome boy, but he looks kind of funny when he flashes that silver smile. He looks like you, Dad. Like a Norman Rockwell kid, freckled and towheaded. What else is going on with you?”

  My throat was tight, and I was nearly perspiring when I formed the first words of my next sentence. I knew that Robert was at work and that time was limited for him right now. I didn’t want to put pressure on him, but I desperately wanted an answer to my most important question.

  “Robert, do you feel that there was any way that I might have hurt you as a child or a young man?”

  “Holy shit, Dad! Where did that come from?”

  “I’m working on personal issues, Robert. There are things I have to figure out and correct before I go home with your mom. I miss her tremendously, and I want to speed up the process of getting back to her.”

  “Dad, you were a great dad. I remember you teaching me how to play baseball, coming to my Little League games, helping me with my multiplication tables, making us all kinds of wonderful breakfasts, taking us on vacations and little road trips to Starved Rock and Springfield, helping me pay for college. You were and still are a great dad. I have no complaints.”

  “Son, could you do me a favor for just a moment and dig deep and tell me if there was anything I ever did that bothered you, maybe threw you off-kilter a little bit.”

  There was what seemed to me like an eternal delay on the other end before Robert spoke again.

  “There was one thing, Dad, a little thing really, when I compare it to the scope of all the good things you did for me.”

  I was so nervous, I wanted to jump in and ask him right away what it was, but I held back and waited for him to formulate his description. Again time, though it was only seconds, passed slowly.

  “I always wondered why you spent so much time in your bedroom in the evenings. Sometimes, when I was a little boy and I’d have done something naughty and you’d scold me, when you’d go into your bedroom I thought you were mad at me. I thought you were avoiding me. But as I got older, nine or ten, I realized that you were merely just taking a ton of work in there and preparing for the next day. You were real good at coming to planned events that I had in the evenings, but it seemed like every night that we were home with no outside activity planned that you would go into your room and stay there until Mom came and got you to come to tuck us in. That’s all there ever was, Dad. You did it my whole life so I got used to it. I wondered about it from time to time and sometimes I wished you would watch TV with us, but you never did, except for Frazier Thomas and Family Classics on Sunday nights. You seemed to like that. But that’s it Dad, really.”

  “I haven’t thought about Family Classics in years,” I said.

  “Hey, Dad, you remember what I said about that molar? It’s ready for me now.”

  “You go work your magic, Robert. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Dad, if I wasn’t so darn busy with work and Emily and the kids, I’d call you more often, but I love you, Dad. I hope you know how much I do. Now are you sure you’re all right?”

  He asked me with kindness and sincerity in his voice.

  “I’m working on it, Robert. I’m thinking that maybe after I get back with your mother, we can have a big family reunion.”

  “Wow! That would be super, Dad. I gotta run. I love you, Dad.”

  “Me to you, Robert.”

  I didn’t want to hear his end click off, so I pushed my phone quickly away from my ear and placed it back in the cradle. It was a bit of a quirky move on my part I thought, but I figured I’d hurt less at our good-bye if I was in control of hanging up.

  I still missed him more after the call than before it, but now at least I knew that I hadn’t hurt him too much. He had a lot of great shared memories and he loved me. I thought it acutely interesting, however, that he brought up my nightlife in my bedroom, something that I had been wondering about lately myself.

  I looked at my watch, figured I had about twenty-five minutes before my next patient. I heard my stomach grumble and suddenly felt hungry. I decided to forego my plan to find a psychologist and cater instead to my hunger. I would look for the psychologist later in the day. I decided to go downstairs and out the front door, turn left, walk a couple of hundred feet and grab a hotdog or a Polish sausage at a nearby hotdog cart. I nearly hated to turn right when I walked out of the building because then I would be heading in the direction of All Children’s Hospital, where Christine worked. She might be there now. I had communicated with her so little lately, that I didn’t even know what her current work schedule was. It seemed odd to me that if I was walking along Central Avenue, as I often did at lunchtime, I felt much closer to All Children’s and Christine than I did when I was driving in my car. Walking only a mile or so from All Children’s hurt more. I missed Christine more when I was on foot. I felt the pain of our separation more. I felt the futility of my life without her, more. I liked to stretch my legs at lunch, to look at the cute little shop windows, sometimes go in and browse or buy, have a quick lunch at a trendy restaurant. But I didn’t like the emotions that walking West out of the Bank of America Building did to me.

  I decided to get two hotdogs with ketchup and spicy mustard and an Orange Crush. I got the simple meal, everything in a small brown bag, and turned to walk North up Beach Drive to find a bench, eat and relax while gazing at the water. I was feeling pretty good emotionally. I believed I had given Mary Bauer some comfort in our session. I had talked pleasantly with my son. Later today I would find a psychologist I hoped would provide some comfort for me, and tonight I would attend my first AA meeting as an admitted alcoholic. I would pour my heart out with the truth, the way I was finally beginning to see it. I would spill my guts in public for the first time no matter how challenging that may be. I would begin turning the corner and heading back to my darling Christine instead of allowing my denials to take me further from her. No wonder I felt kind of good. I had a right to feel kind of good.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE AFTERNOON SPED by. I dealt with my patients with the deep attention that they deserved, but I was continually distracted by the two other activities I promised myself I would do today—find a psychologist and attend my first AA meeting.

  As soon as my last patient left my office, I got up from behind my desk and went into the waiting room to say good night to Amanda.

  “How does my day look tomorrow?” I began.

  “Light,” she answered.

  “Only three clients.”

  “What time is the first one?”

  “Eleven o’clock,” she said.

  “What does tonight look like for you and John?” I asked.

  “Just a quiet night at home with the kids. Dinner, homework, watch some TV, relax—nothing special.”

  “Why don’t you take an extra hour and a half for yourself and come in at 9:30 or so. The answering service can handle our calls for ninety extra minutes one day.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I’ve been wanting to do some business inside the Banking Center for a few days. That extra time will be perfect for me.”
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  “Have a good night, Amanda. I’ll see you when I get in.”

  “You too, Dr. McKenzie.”

  I was already thinking about sleeping in a bit tomorrow morning, anticipating an emotional night, hanging out after the AA meeting, making some new friends and getting to bed much later than I normally did. I figured there would be nothing wrong with showing up here at 10:00 or 10:30.

  As soon as I said good night to Amanda, I returned to my office, closed the door, sat back down at my desk, and pulled a local phone book from a drawer. In the next few minutes I would choose a psychologist. Even though I was thinking that this decision would be a pretty big one, I didn’t have any problem at all using the phone book. Throughout the years I had used the phone book to call all kinds of businesses—doctors, restaurants, car repair places, seamstresses, florists. If I didn’t get along with my psychologist, I could just switch to another one. I’d switched doctors, never gone back to bad restaurants or overcharging car repair shops. After all, I just wanted to bounce some ideas off whomever I chose about my devil dreams and the Two-Knock Ghost. I wasn’t going there to expect the guy to save my immortal soul, I, more than anything, wanted a sounding board. Lastly, I concluded that the AA meetings would help me deal with that. I wasn’t thinking at all about asking the psychologist to help me in that area.

  I started at the beginning—Angelo Alvarez, Anthony Artez, Michael Ather, Connie Augmon, Daniel Awtry, Robert Ayers. Then there it was, Antonio Banderas, the name of the movie star. I chuckled rather hard and immediately wondered what it would be like to be “psyched” by the action star. Secondly, and almost immediately, I wondered what this guy looked like. My eye kept scanning down the list, now not paying as much attention as I had on the first seven names, and for the next two minutes, as my eyes scanned the list of psychologists, my mind kept wondering what Antonio Banderas looked like and whether he was a good psychologist. I chuckled again and thought, why not? This might be interesting and maybe even a little fun. At least when I told the guy why I chose him. Then I chuckled again when I wondered how many women had picked him because of his name, and whether they had been pleased or disappointed with his looks when they met him.

  Serious business or not, this was the guy I was going with. I would throw my emotional sticks out of the can into his office and pick them up one by one, with his help. I made a plan to call him tomorrow morning from my condo before I went into work. I felt better still. I was getting things accomplished.

  I wrote Antonio’s name, address and phone number on a piece of notebook paper and placed it in my briefcase where I could find it easily. I looked at my watch, not quite 5:30. Plenty of time to drive the eighteen or so miles to the AA meeting, get a bite to eat, and still make it to the beginning of the meeting by 7:30.

  I laughed at myself repeatedly as I drove north toward a restaurant and my new AA site, wondering about Antonio Banderas, what he looked like, and what kind of person he was.

  I decided to keep it simple and make a pit stop at McDonald’s on Missouri. I ordered a filet of fish, a strawberry shake, a cup of water, and a large order of fries. As I sat in the restaurant, dipping my first fries into ketchup, I felt my first twinge of nervousness at what I was about to do in an hour or so. I had never bared my soul before to anyone, not even Christine. Tonight I would lay myself bare to a room full of people, mostly strangers. I might have one ally there if Toby showed up tonight. But then I thought that I might be more embarrassed to reveal my inner most feelings before him than a hundred or more strangers.

  My next decision was to make sure I got to the meeting by 7:10, 7:15 at the latest. I would find a good seat, put my head down, not look at who was coming in, and contemplate how I would tell my story. The twinges of nervousness transformed into a family of butterflies fluttering haphazardly in my stomach. My meal tasted wonderful in my mouth, but that was not enough to offset the distress I was experiencing in my belly.

  I arrived at the Serenity Club at 7:07. There were at least a dozen cars ahead of mine, but the lot east of the building was more than half empty so I parked there and walked into the building at exactly 7:10. I said hello to a few people who were sitting on the steps outside and a couple more who were milling about in the lobby. I smiled at them perfunctorily and headed for a comfortable seat. My head was up for the initial hellos, the smiles and the chair finding, but as soon as I was situated, I put my head down and started thinking. I found myself within moments trying to calm my suddenly restive soul. But I kept my head down even through the filling of the auditorium. I kept my head down and listened. Every footstep, each movement of chair over floor, multiple conversations with myriad words flying about the room was intensified. The magnified sounds were distracting me as were the people who were seating themselves all around me. I remained with my head down. Someone who didn’t know me might see my position and think that I was depressed. I wasn’t depressed in this moment. I was scared like a little kid scared. I felt like a third grader in a new school and in a moment I would have to introduce myself and tell some of my story to the class.

  The moderator quieted the din in the room as he welcomed the people who were attending. He especially welcomed the newcomers and anyone who was feeling in crisis stating unequivocally that they had come to the right place.

  Within two minutes after the moderator had begun with, “Hello, everyone. I’m Sam and I’m an alcoholic and your moderator for the evening,” the first alcoholic began sharing his story. My head remained down as I listened, paying careful attention to how he did it. I remember thinking that the way he shared his story was nothing grand. It was merely a simple telling of his personal current woes and his struggles with staying sober. Whatever he said, it seemed genuine and from the heart.

  By the time the first alcoholic was finished, I was not even remotely ready to speak. It took over an hour and four more alcoholics to speak before I had the courage to share my rather tame story in comparison to the first five people I had listened to tonight. My head had been down the entire time the previous speakers had shared their tales. Now, I was ready and felt comfortably prepared. This time, when the moderator asked if there was anyone else who wanted to speak, I raised my head and said, “I do.”

  I looked at no other face in the room but the moderator. “My name is Turf and I’m an alcoholic.” The words came hard and I shocked myself by the last split-second decision to use the name Turf. Even Christine had not called me Turf for the last few years. It was as if Turf had died those years ago without fanfare, without a mention. But here I was, a paunchy middle-aged psychologist and I had just unexpectedly resurrected my long lost, beloved alter ego before the most important speech of my life.

  In the few seconds which seemed like hours, before I spoke again, I felt all of my preparations fly to an unknown and inaccessible realm. Fear gripped me during the two or three deep breaths I took before my next words. I could not help but contemplate in that brief moment why I would do such a thing when I didn’t even feel like Turf anymore. But even as I was pondering what I would say next, I was surprised when over a hundred people said, “Hi, Turf,” almost in unison. I had just enough time in the next breath or two to plan my next strategy as I nodded my head once to acknowledge the gregarious welcome. I would tell my story starting with the present and going back to the beginning. It wouldn’t be difficult. I wasn’t delivering the Gettysburg Address. It was simply my story, I knew it well, just tell it.

  “I haven’t had a drink in two days and I want one badly now. This is the first time in over twenty years that I have gone two days without a drink. I’m living on my own right now because my wonderful wife of over thirty years asked me to leave our home and our marriage until I got my act together. I left out of respect for her, not because I believed I was an alcoholic. I actually thought I was a great husband and father. Then, a couple of nights ago, I took some work from my office into the R Bar in Treasure Island and in the n
ext couple of hours had three or four rum and Cokes. On my way home I almost hit a female bicyclist in Madeira Beach. It wasn’t my fault. She darted from a real dark spot on the opposite side of the street to get in the North bound lane so she could turn right at 140th. Why she chose that instant to make that move I’ll never know, but she did. When my car almost hit her, she panicked and jumped off the bike. I sprang out of the car and ran over to see if she was okay. She said she was and even apologized that she almost caused an accident. As soon as she rode off, I felt real fear when I asked myself the question: What would have happened if I had hit her and a policeman had been called to the scene? Or what if a policeman had just happened to be cruising Gulf Boulevard and saw that I narrowly missed her? He would have stopped for sure to see if the girl was okay, primarily, and to check on me secondarily. The cop would have come close to me and smelled alcohol on my breath. He would have given me a sobriety test, maybe a breathalyzer. I don’t know if I would have passed those tests, but if I hadn’t, my whole life could have changed that night for the worse. I could have been arrested, taken to jail, been forced to go to PCAS for alcohol evaluation, lost my driver’s license, got a DUI, my professional life would have been placed in jeopardy, my wallet would be severely pinched, and on and on. I realized that night how lucky I was that none of those things had actually happened to me. But sadly, I realized I was an alcoholic. I had become the kind of person I despised the most. I’ll tell you why.