I stopped by the house on my way to the Wolf’s Lair. To see Kelly. Get the report on Melissa.
Steiglitz had seen her that morning. The prognosis was poor.
There was nothing new about that. Every relapse after the first one made the ultimate chance of recovery worse. It had long been approaching zero.
They were sending Melissa home. There was no point in her staying at the clinic. They needed the bed for more promising cases. Steiglitz had repeated to Kelly the advice we’d heard before. She’s got to hit bottom. She touches another drink, throw her out on the street.
I knew I wasn’t going to do that. No matter what. I just didn’t have it in me.
I didn’t want to be there when she got back. But I hated to leave Kelly alone in the house. I talked her into calling up Peter, asking him over. Usually she didn’t take much convincing, but on this night she seemed determined to wallow in it. Fear. Disappointment. It took me half an hour and a threat to call Peter myself, but she finally gave in.
I decided to wait til he got there. To make sure.
He barged loudly into the house without knocking, as usual. He’d dyed his hair in purple and gold streaks. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I’m like a superhero, but without powers or motivation.’
I’m writing a book, he announced. It’s called ‘Quentin Tarantino Is God.’ It’s all about how Quentin Tarantino is God.
I laughed.
Kelly laughed.
I loved the sound of it.
I knew I’d done the right thing.
They decided to watch episodes of Family Guy on DVD. More laughter. Maximally therapeutic. I was even tempted to stay. Watch Family Guy with them. Kelly loved it when I did that. I always laughed so hard. It was infectious. It made everything seem even funnier.
But I just couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with Melissa. Yes, it was heinous, I agreed with myself. To leave it to a child. But really, Kelly was more an adult than this old man. She reminded me of that, from time to time. When she caught me smoking. When I yelled at Melissa. Lost my temper.
I needed my Wolf’s Lair too. I needed a Scotch, real bad.
That clinched it.
I bade Kelly and Peter good evening. I added the usual useless imprecations about bedtime, and not eating in the basement.
I wanted everything to seem normal.
The Wolf’s Lair didn’t feel normal, though. Not its usual inviting self. I looked around. The bar was still mahogany. The rail was still brass. Thom was still smiling and warm. The regulars were scattered about in their usual poses. But it didn’t feel right. The stool felt hard, uncomfortable. The Scotch tasted watery. My stomach hurt.
It felt like I wasn’t in control of anything anymore.
I knew the ‘anymore’ part was illusory. I’d never been in control of anything. Certainly not Melissa. Or her Monster. Especially her Monster. Though I may have fooled myself otherwise, once. For a short time. Maybe.
My professional life had always been, would always be, in the hands of others. Even if I quit, or got quit by Warwick, I still wouldn’t be in control. Even if I opened my own shop. I’d always be at the mercy of the market. Of clients.
On top of that chilling realization, I knew that Kelly was getting to the age where, no matter how much she loved her dad – and I had no doubts on that score – she was becoming her own, independent person. I couldn’t really tell her what to do anymore. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t right. I could no longer think of her as an extension of myself. A thing I’d probably done to a fault, in the past. Contributed to her reclusive tendencies.
Damn, it was hard being a parent.
Hal was at his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, he said.
Hey.
Did you ever get a chance to play in Jake’s game?
I did. Twice, actually.
How was it?
It was all right. Interesting bunch of characters.
How’d you do?
The first time, I was down all night. Won the big hand at the end. Got back in the black. Next time, I was ahead all night.
Good.
Yes. I like it better that way.
Hal laughed.
I went back to my Scotch.
Hey, said Hal.
Hey.
Did you check out that thing I told you?
What thing?
The thing with his eyes.
I looked at him, raised my eyebrows.
How he looks at you like you’re not there.
No. I didn’t notice that.
Hal went back to his beer.
Hal, I said.
Rick.
You’re deeply weird.
I am?
Yes, Hal. You are.
Well, I guess I am.
Two Scotches and the Times crossword puzzle later, Jake came in, brushing snow off his shoulders. He was wearing a plastic raincoat. I hoped it had a lining.
Hey, Rick, he said.
Hey, Jake, I replied, looking at his eyes for signs of vacancy.
They looked pretty normal.
He sat down beside me.
You’ve got a head start on me, he said.
I guess I do, I agreed.
Give me a double, he said to Thom. Got to catch up with Rick here.
Thom laughed, poured him a double. We talked a little poker talk.
The World Series of Poker had been on TV. We talked about our favorite players. There was a whole culture of hold’em. Books, magazines, Internet chat rooms, websites. I recognized some names. The old guard. Amarillo Slim. Everyone’s heard of him. TJ Cloutier, former football player. Tough, solid, fearsome. I knew Ken Smith. He’d been a strong chess player, too. Smith had died a couple of years ago. Now there was a bunch of guys I’d never heard of. Phil Hellmuth. Arrogant, petulant, brilliant with a big stack of chips. Phil Ivey, young, imperturbable. You never knew what he had. And all the rest. Johnny Chan, Men Nguyen (say ‘Wynn’). A multicultural panoply of fearless card mavens.
About four double Scotches in, Jake asked how Melissa was.
I paused. I remembered the ache in my gut. The poker talk had taken my mind off my problems. I wasn’t too pleased to have Jake break the spell.
It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know.
She’s fine, I said.
There must have been something insincere about how I said it. Jake gave me a quizzical look.
Let’s go smoke a joint, he said.
A joint? I laughed. I don’t know. Last time it weirded me out. I’m very sensitive to it, for some reason.
C’mon. Take a chance.
Jesus. I don’t know.
Come on. Just a toke or two.
All right. If you insist.
I’d never been very good at resisting peer pressure.
We went out back. We smoked a joint. My mind started looping in circles. Everything I said repeated itself in my head. I was a walking echo machine.
I needed a few more Scotches. To calm it down.
I started babbling. Baring my soul to my buddy Jake. At the point when you start throwing your arms indiscriminately around the shoulders of people you barely know. Sharing your darkest secrets. The alarm system shut down.
I told Jake what had happened with Melissa. How depressed I was. How much I loved my daughter, and worried about her.
Maybe it was the novelty of the guy thing. Whatever.
She’s in treatment? he asked.
Kelly? No.
No. Melissa.
In a manner of speaking.
I told him about Steiglitz. His pessimistic prognosis.
At least you have your work, he said to the back of the bar.
Hah, I said. Not a consolation.
I told him about Warwick. Probation. Stress. Anxiety. Fear of failure. Loathing of my colleagues. Most of them, anyway. I didn’t mention Dorita. Some things were sacred.
I knew I was out of control. Drunk. Stoned. But whatever. It felt good to share it with someone. He seemed to be listening, if only with one ear.
You seem preoccupied, I said.
He turned to me. His eyes were vague. He was looking through me. I glanced at Hal, down the bar. He was writing something on a napkin.
I’ve had my issues too, Jake said.
Haven’t we all, I said. Listen, I don’t mean to bore you with all this stuff. We all have problems. I shouldn’t complain. My daughter’s wonderful. I’m a successful lawyer. Don’t listen to my whining. I’ve got all my arms and legs. Hell, I’m not even missing a digit. The world is full of people worse off than me.
No, no, he said. I didn’t mean it that way.
I suddenly saw how sad a person he was. I felt a wash of sympathy. He was my buddy. My soulmate. We understood each other.
I guess that’s why I became an actor, he said.
Right, I said, pretending to know what he meant.
So I could live in an imaginary world, he amplified. The real world was so fucked up. Is so fucked up.
You said it.
My father was a creep.
I didn’t say anything. He was gearing up to tell the whole story.
We all need a confessor.
His father was a drunk, he told me. A mean drunk. He beat Jake’s mother. He broke Jake’s leg when Jake was eight. Kicked him. Because Jake had skipped school. Jake’s sister was older. Didn’t want anything to do with the family. Jake thought he knew why. His father had abused her. Snuck into her room late at night. Unspeakable things.
Dark, said Jake, it’s all darkness.
There were tears in his eyes.