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  Rozmer scared? People's mouths are moving, but he doesn't really hear what they're saying. No time to be asking Rozmer if he can offer him shelter until he gets it together. Then what? Hitch to the city? Tonight, probably he can stay at Rozmer's. Or Charlie's. But tomorrow, tomorrow, he's got to head out for somewhere else. Not treatment. Not his mother's.

  The man beside him moves his hand to indicate he's next. People's faces turn his way. "I'm Mark and I'm an addict. Good to be here," the voice says, "but I'm going to pass and just listen. Thanks." Soon after, the standing up, making a ring around the tables. He joins the circle. "'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…'"

  Take-out Chinese is what Gabe opts for. Have to get going on The Empire Strikes Back before it's too late, he tells them. Right now his shaved head is bent over a book full of drum pictures and masks.

  He can help Rozmer move tomorrow. Some amends. Except for the few last things necessary, everything in the house is packed. Boxes stacked halfway to the ceiling in most of the rooms. No question, Rozmer's got a lot of shit and he's taking it all with him.

  Mark dumps the rice in a bowl, the only one not packed apparently. No plastic wrap, so he spreads a paper towel over it and sets the bowl in the middle of the glass tray. He divides the chicken and broccoli up into three coffee cups and arranges these around the rice so they can revolve without banging into the sides. Rozmer will want Gabe to help. "Okay, buddy, how 'bout setting the table." Gabe is gone in the book. He gives Gabe's neck a little wake-up squeeze, his perfect reed of a neck with two elfin ears sticking out. "Earth to Gabe," he says. Gabe looks up and smiles. "How about setting the table?"

  Gabe finds a scrap of paper to mark his place and sets the book up on an empty shelf. "Well, we don't need knives," Gabe says. "We don't need spoons." He gets up and starts looking through open boxes. "Dun-ta-dun-ta: forks," he says, and dances three forks over a dozen boxes ready to leap onto the table. "Right or left?" Again his open eyes, all light and good cheer. Gabe's not afraid. "Left or right?" he says again.

  "You know what, Gabe, I actually don't know." He closes his eyes and tries to see a table. When he looks, he sees Gabe's got his eyes closed too. "What do you think?" he says.

  "You go first," Gabe tells him, holding the forks up above the table, ready to helicopter down on the correct pad.

  "All right, in unison, ready, one, two, three…" And together they both shout, "Left." Laughing, laughing loud. Rozmer steps into the kitchen with the phone at his ear, gives them a just-checking look. Mark closes the microwave door and presses the Start button.

  For a second Gabe rotates his head and whirs like he's in synch with the broccoli. Then he steps up a little closer and gives him a long, serious look. "Mark." His blue eyes home right in. "Mark, now that you're big, what are you going to be?"

  15 : Remainder

  BETTY DAWES straddles a chair, her ample back to them, her large feet rooted to the platform. The flesh of her buttocks pools over the edges. Lynne and Leddy and Marna are already deep into the first life-drawing session. Not to disturb them, Del settles on a stool just inside the door. She wedges the large roll, the study she wants to show them, between her knees, rests her back against the wall. Mark's tucked away at Lazarus for twelve to fourteen months: life is good.

  A big board tilted on her lap, Lynne is focusing on the model's turned head, the grizzle of hair. Faces are Lynne's interest. Leddy works at an easel, Betty's form abstracted in washes of brown, black ink edging the shifts in the planes.

  Marna wiggles a few of her fingers in greeting, but continues work on a long piece of butcher paper she's taped to the wall—Betty's volume swelling from top to bottom in bold charcoal loops. For years Marna tacked up her canvases in squat apartment living rooms, with Jason ramming his wagon back and forth, or she duct-taped them to the damp cinderblocks of dark garages. What Marna's after has always been wall-size.

  What's Del after? Memory: how to go from the day it happened to years later—graphic to lost in the haze. She's been playing around with flaked-mirror reflections, how to make objects surface and recede, how to fade into what remains. With Mark finally gone, she's been tracing the cigarette burns etched along every edge in the loft. Negative strips: the background dark, the burns bled of all color. Evidence. Hieroglyphics.

  Of the four of them, Marna is the only one with a real away-from-home space. She still walks around this studio with her arms raised in praise of such vast stretches of emptiness. But the size of Del's studio has never been why she doesn't stay with the work. Unlike her, no matter what's going on with Jason, Marna paints. Still, now that the phone has stopped ringing, she stays in the drawing for hours. No thoughts beyond how to make the amber hue of the kerosene light.

  The timer dings. Betty waves and drops her robe over her head, a muumuu, imprinted with the black-and-white faces of Holsteins, globe-eyed and submissive, one of her daughters made for her several decades ago in what used to be called Home Ec. Lynne gets to Del first. She's once again surprised by Lynne's speed, the lightness of her bones. If each of us is allied with an animal spirit, then Lynne is a sparrow and Leddy, a Siamese, all stretch and lanky leap. Lynne takes her hand. "We missed you," she says.

  "Yeah." Leddy laughs and gives her a hug. "I thought of you often down there on the Gulf. Especially when I was out raking snow off the roof."

  Marna calls from across the room, "Del, we figure this long break, we'll have tea and then take a look at the piece you're working on."

  "Betty's going to sit for us for the next three sessions," Lynne tells Del.

  At the moment Betty is leaning into the brick wall, stretching her leg muscles. "I wish I could sit for the next three weeks. Not get up in between. I am that tired of birthing calves." The Daweses own one of the last dairy farms in the area. Betty is the group's favorite model, all that glorious flesh, though she told them when she started to sit, Don't tell the Baptist Women's Society.

  Del stands her drawing against the white cork wall they always use for critiquing. She locates enough pushpins to anchor the large sheet of paper, so she'll be ready. The other women go about the ritual of setting up for the break: the kettle on, the herb teas out, the napkins and spoons. They've been drawing together for many years. Each takes her usual chair at the big round table. All but Betty, who reclines on the couch.

  "Del, you look like the cat who got the last of the cream," Betty says.

  Del laughs and stirs in a huge dollop of honey.

  "It's true," Leddy says, putting a hand on Del's shoulder. "If that's what a month on the Gulf will do…"

  "I've got a feeling it's more than that," Lynne says. "You're alone and you've been drawing."

  Marna looks at Del. "I haven't told them anything."

  The tea is hot and sweet. "That's it. Richard's in Vegas. But the big thing is Mark has gone for long-term treatment. A therapeutic community near New Paltz. It may be just what he needs."

  "Just what you need, too," Betty says. Betty includes Marna in her look. Marna's son is currently in jail for drug-related shoplifting. They've all granted her first place on the Most Tested Mothers list.

  Marna raises her cup. "May the calm continue."

  Del scoops out the honey that didn't dissolve and then leans across the table to take them all in. "Here's how I know I'm more okay. My mother put together two big collages of childhood pictures, one for Mark, one for Aaron. You know the kind of stuff I'm talking about: child caught by the camera being so 'who he is.' Well, for years I've had to keep these in the back of my closet, turned to the wall. But yesterday I put them up, side by side in my studio. There they are when I go in, when I go out."

  Before Lynne's hand reaches her, Del rises. "Thing is I don't want us to go all weepy, weeping's fine, but right now I want to get your reaction to what I'm trying to do with these drawings."

  "Got you," Leddy says.

  They put things away. Line up their chairs the right distance from the cork wal
l.

  Del lifts the rolled-up drawing, begins to peel away the plastic wrap. "I don't quite know where I'm going with this, but I'm thinking of a series of memory images, each piece having its own medium, size, and all focusing or fading in on only one section of the whole. The tricky thing is you know me, so hard to judge how it would hit a stranger."

  Del unties the string, but doesn't loosen the roll yet. "How close, how far back you are. Okay, enough putting this off." She unrolls the twenty-by-thirty-inch sheet of heavy brown industrial paper and tacks it tight with the pins. For a moment her body hides much of the image. Then she goes and sits with the viewers.

  Only the lower left section of a Morris chair: the support for the wooden armrest, a corner of the black-and-brown cushion, the leg with its clawed foot. Darkness, except for this wedge of chair, lit in an amber glow. Suspended in the air, a rifle, blurred by the motion of falling, the barrel pointing up.

  Twenty-five years after Lee's mother found Lee in the pole barn that August morning, she said to Del, It was not so terrible as you might think. Only one small wound.

  16 : Night Journey 2

  MARK TAKES HIS PHONE card from his wallet, along with the three-by-five his mother had laminated for him: hotline numbers, people to call in the night. Hoping he won't call her. Well, got to call her now: Guess what, Mom. But the mom-call is less likely to cause meltdown if he presents her with some positive scenario. He shuts his eyes and twirls his finger down. It lands on the number for the Chemical Dependency Clinic. Present his mother with the comfort of appointment dates and times. Possible residential treatment on the horizon. Ask her if she wants to give him a ride to an AA meeting.

  He dials CDC. A familiar voice answers. "This is Mark Merrick. Could you get me in to see Joy as soon as possible?…Right … Yes … No, the therapeutic community didn't work out … I have a pencil … Tomorrow? That soon?…No, that's good. April 2nd, nine A.M. Thanks." Going to have to fill out the fucking forms again. Tomorrow. Can still always cancel and go Greyhound. The Mental Health number is busy. So's Social Security. Try Motor V later. Got to do it. No putting it off any longer. He dials the number. His fingers leave wet prints on the phone. Maybe he'll get the machine. Let his machine message get hit by the first volts.

  "Hello." His mother's voice so not knowing what's coming.

  "Mom, it's me."

  ***

  Raining harder now. Darkness always better for confessions. His mom hunched over the wheel, watching for deer, tensed to deflect anything too close to the bone. Give her just enough to understand why leaving Lazarus House was absolutely necessary. And remember to ask how she's doing, remember not to suck up every fucking bit of oxygen on himself.

  "Is it the St. Ann's meeting? You think we can make that by eight o'clock?" Her anxiety's right up there. Another night journey.

  "Plenty of time. It's only seven thirty. Can't be more than four or five miles from here. You going to the Al-Anon meeting? An Al-Anon meeting you used to go to a lot. You and Marna, right? Okay if I smoke?" He rolls the window down. Last cigarette. Saving it up for the telling of the tale, feeling his way toward a plan she'll go for, turn over his money tomorrow. "What happened was, I started seeing things that were not there. Dad in the barn. Hearing voices. Aaron. The boot-camp stress of Lazarus House was making me sick. It was definitely not the kind of world to go psychotic in. End up in the rubber room."

  "What about your meds?"

  "No meds. No one thinking about any meds. The whole setup based on 'going to break you open, then put you back together.' Thing is I had no confidence, no trust they knew what the fuck they were up to. You know, all the king's horses, all the king's men…"

  "But what are you going to do instead?"

  There it is. "Like I said, I've got the appointment at CDC tomorrow. See what Joy can help me put together. Then to Mental Health to pick up an emergency prescription to tide me over until I can see Dr. Taylor next week."

  "And you're going to stay with Rozmer until you figure out what you're going to do?"

  Not the part of the story he wants to turn to next. "Better take the shortcut, a right at the light, go around the lake, come in on the other side of town."

  She signals, turns. "Rozmer's going to be able to help you out?"

  "Staying with Rozmer isn't an option right now. He's got too much going on with his family coming back. Main thing is not to get high, putting myself in the best situation not to get high. Right?" She doesn't answer. She turns the wipers down a notch. "I'm having trouble sleeping. What I need is some place low stress long enough for me to get my strength back. Go to meetings every day." Of course she knows if she comes in any closer, he's going to grab hold. "Maybe get some dental work done. See what's up with my suspended license. Rozmer says all I've got to do is go to court, pay the fine, that it won't be much."

  That's it: every possible come-on he can think of.

  She ups the wipers again, slows down. A steep drop through the trees to the lake. No guardrails here. She's gripping the wheel so hard, leaning in so close: magic carpet to another dimension. "What about Charlie? Couldn't you stay with him for a while?"

  "Charlie's living in a Catholic Charity room. Can't even have a guest without permission."

  They're almost to the turnoff for the church. She sits back a little. Best not to ask for anything out and out. "You have to direct me. I've never come this way," she says.

  "Take the next left." Sweat starting to collect in the usual places. She says nothing, drives. He locates the one healthy butt he's got left. Blows the smoke toward the open window. Rainmist cools his face. She pulls up in front of the church. 7:50. People outside smoking, laughing. Still nothing. Not looking good. Now what the fuck is he going to do? He starts to open the door. Throws out his last card. "Or I could just go on to the city. See what I can line up there."

  "Wait," she says.

  17 : Whom You See Here

  THE STREETLIGHT through the car window deepens the hollows of Mark's face. So like Lee in darkness. "If Joy can't come up with a better plan…" She takes a deep breath: the thing she said she would never do again, and here she is once more. "You can stay at the house for now. Under these conditions …"

  He turns her way. "No drugs," he says.

  "Mark, if you start using … I'll know and that's the day I pay for one night at the Super 8. Drop you at the door."

  "No drugs," he says again.

  People are starting to go in. No one she recognizes. "What about Rudy?" she says.

  "What about him?"

  She takes the keys from the ignition. Zips her coat. "He's out of jail and threatening to burn down our barn. Revenge for some wrong you did him. Rudy, Rudy and Carla. I don't want them on the land. No phone calls."

  "Don't worry. I'm not going to have anything to do with any of them."

  "I couldn't bear it," she says. She opens her door and gets out. She laughs. "I'm certainly primed for Al-Anon sharing."

  They start up the stairs and step into the long hall. No one in sight now. Just the loud laughter of AA booming up the stairwell. He turns to go down.

  "And…," she says. He stops and looks at her straight on, a hard thing for him to do, she knows. "Same money arrangement as before. I stay your rep-payee as long as you're living at the stone house. Three hundred a month to cover your expenses. Plus fifty a month until the drums and computer are paid for."

  "Any way you want to do that," he says, and disappears.

  Del goes into the big room. Usual sign already out on the table: WHOM YOU SEE HERE, WHAT YOU HEAR HERE, LET IT STAY HERE. Several women arranging the chairs in a circle, a few more setting out the literature, the cups and teabags. No familiar faces. She and Marna used to drive all the way to this meeting almost every week, even in winter. It's been a long time since she's been to any meetings. Years. At first a lot of the slogans—Let go. How important is it? Let it begin with me—seemed simplistic. Give me a break, she used to say to herself. But over time th
ese mantras calmed her enough to hear and then trust a self that watched off to the side. A self that calls out: Not your business. Not about you. Tell him to back off. Over time her "he done me wrong" Lee stories changed. Over time in Al-Anon rooms a lot of the fabricated stories got peeled away. She became willing to turn and let her sorrow be seen. Not that she always follows her wiser self's warnings, but at least she almost always hears them. She almost always knows when she's being crazy. Like now: she's gotten pulled back into rescuing Mark. Fears for him, herself. But he is almost one month clean, she has drawn the lines, and there's a chance orderly surroundings may help him make some gains. She picks a chair near the door.

  A tall, thin woman in an expensive beige pantsuit smiles at her, crosses the room. "Welcome," she says. "We're about to get started."

  The women begin to take seats. Almost never any men at Al-Anon meetings. Nobody under forty. Several older like her. Certainly it took her years and years, complete desperation, before she came to this room. The willingness to be pitiful out in the light. Only one young woman, still over picking up pamphlets, a black army jacket like Mark's, bursts of dark hair, someone she's seen someplace before. The young woman sits down, a few seats off to Del's left.

  "Welcome, everyone. My name's Beth," the woman with the elegant manner says. "Let's begin with a moment of silence and the Serenity Prayer."

  Del leans forward and peers down the row through half-closed eyes. No question, absolutely positively for sure, it's Tess, Carla's daughter, Tess. Looking so much like Carla, the young Sophia Loren, that it makes Del's stomach clinch up and stay that way. Tess, no longer safe in Texas. First inclination is to get up, walk out, and wait in the car. She pulls back into her seat, squeezes her eyes shut, as if maybe this way Tess won't know who she is. It's been almost ten years. Then she looks again as Tess opens her eyes and turns. A surprised smile. A small wave. Same wide mouth, same dark eyes: Carla incarnate.