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I went to the reception desk and checked Sabrina’s calendar, where she made all her notations. She hadn’t made one for John today. I went down the hall to see if she had left him any phone messages.
I turned on the light and went into my brother’s office. The opposite wall had a window and shelves that held two TV monitors wedged between casebooks and business journals. There was a brown leather couch, its seat cushions occupied with neat stacks of papers, and a Thomas Moser cherrywood desk, on which were more stacks, a Mac desktop, and a Phillies mug. John was a sports fanatic, forever taking clients to games. At least a sports addiction was tax-deductible.
John practiced business law, and my father had transitioned his clients to him as retirement neared. My mother sent him clients, too, since many were self-employed. There were more family businesses than most people realized, and plenty of us born into a job description, like me.
I crossed to the desk and looked around for phone messages, but there were none. I was about to leave, but my gaze fell on a baseball in a plastic cube with a plaque that readconnor’s first game ball.
I picked it up on impulse, and it jarred loose a memory. My brother and I grew up playing baseball, my father coached, and Devlin & Devlin sponsored the team, predictably named the Devils. I was a better player than my brother, but I never got a game ball.
Dad, I deserve it, I have the best batting average on the team.
I’m the coach. I have to avoid the appearance of impropriety.
The what?
I can’t look like I’m playing favorites.Your shirt says Devlin & Devlin. That’s my business.
But it’s my team.
No, it’smyteam, and you’re not getting a game ball.
I set down the ball with a sudden ache. Everyone says women have biological clocks, but I was starting to feel like I had one, too. I wanted kids, Ilovedkids. I’d set myself behind in my life, a fact that I was realizing in recovery. I didn’t want to be an old-man father, but I was aging into the category.
I shook it off, left the office, and turned out the light.
•••
I’d done all the investigating I could for one night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about John and Lemaire. My heart eased as I drove up to the Episcopalian church with its fieldstone façade, arched windows, and graceful white spire that soared into the night sky. The church hosted twelve AA meetings a week, with names like Good Talk & Bad Coffee, Sobriety & Serenity, and ODAAT, for One Day at a Time. Tonight’s meeting was Hang In There, which was my home group. I pulled into the lot and parked with the other cars.
I crossed to the back door and descended stone stairs to the basement. Fluorescent lighting illuminated a hallway of painted white cinder block with a gray tile floor. I passed meeting rooms and bulletin boards with construction-paper letters that readkids can be peacemakersand a hand-painted mural,you are fearfully and wonderfully made, psalm 139:14. I didn’t feel that way, but that’s what the meeting was for.
The hall ended in propped-open doors, and I went inside to a small room with a cheerful flowery rug that cozied up a cheap gray carpet. Against the wall was a polished wooden pew next to an old upright piano with a book of sheet music on its stand. Multicolored lights wound around a pillar, and next to it, a red-and-green sign that readjoy.
“Hey, everybody.” I grabbed a folding chair while everyone said their hellos, getting cups of lukewarm coffee and flimsy plates of store-brand sugar cookies.
“Hi, TJ.” Jake looked up from his seat, his legs crossed. He chaired this meeting and was also my sponsor, and I loved the guy. He was fiftysomething with salt-and-pepper hair and grayish eyes matching his grayish beard. Designer glasses perched on his thin nose, and a half smile was etched into his lined face. He always dressed classy for our cargo-pants crowd, tonight in a navy-blue V-neck sweater, khakis, and loafers.
I sat down, taking in the familiar faces. I used to try to suss out everyone’s occupations, but in time I realized none of that mattered here. It was Facebook-inspo obvious but I had to experience it a few times to get it through my head. That’s why I’m a smart dumb person.
It was an open meeting, and the usual talkers were Cheryl, a middle-aged white woman in a Cavalier King Charles spaniel T-shirt, Melissa, a young Asian woman whose sense of humor I adored, and Phyllis, a Black woman who loved purple, down to her painted fingernails. Antonio was a construction worker who reeked of cigar smoke, Samuel, a poetry fan who regaled us with old-timey snippets, and Brian, a big Iraq vet who brought new members like Chris, the small, wiry man next to him in a camo T-shirt and jeans.
We were about to start when Greg entered the room, anoctogenarian who used a cane because of a bad hip. He’d been sober for forty-two years, but he came to meetings off and on, proof that lifetime sobriety was possible. He went to his chair, which Samuel opened for him.
Jake crossed his legs. “Hello, folks. I’m Jake and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict.”
“Hi, Jake,” we all said in unison.
“Let’s start with the Serenity Prayer, shall we? ‘God grant me the serenity to…’ ” he began, and everybody recited together, then we read the AA Preamble and the Promises. When we were finished, Jake looked around the circle. “Cheryl, glad to see you healthy again.”
“Thanks.” Cheryl grinned. “No more scooter. My knee’s better. Yay!”
“Good.” Jake smiled back. “Tonight, let’s talk about compassion, not only for others but for yourself. All of us who struggle with the disease of addiction and alcoholism know that we were selfish when we were drinking and using drugs. I’ve shared my own experiences, and it’s cringeworthy to look back and realize that was me. One way to come to terms with our past is to live in the present. Another way is to view our past through a more compassionate lens. Who would like to get us started? Anyone have an experience they’d like to share?”
Melissa raised her hand. “My name is Melissa and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Melissa,” I said, with everyone else.
“It’s hard to see it that way because I’m so sick of this pattern I have, like I keep sabotaging myself over and over and I don’t know how to stop it. I’m sober a year next week and I’m not picking up, but I’m still sabotaging.”
