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  Beth looks at them all and smiles. It's hard not to hold her cool togetherness against her. She raises the Al-Anon guide sheets encased in protective plastic. "'We welcome you to the St. Ann's Al-Anon Family Group…'" Beth doesn't need the sheets. Del does not want to hear it. Face it: this is the last place she wants to be. Al-Anon meetings, heading again into living with Mark, him up in that dark loft, window covered with a sheet, casting the whole downstairs into shadow. The sucking perk of coffee in the night, the smell of smoke. A rock weighting her chest every time the goddamned phone rings.

  "'We too were frustrated…'"

  I'll say. Maybe she can live with Richard full time. But how can she leave Mark alone? No car. Mark alone at the stone house: that would make her even more anxious. Richard will not be sympathetic. He thinks she's half the problem: classic case of mothers enabling sons. Still—being at Richard's would give her some distance. Get Mark to find a reliable AA roommate. Maybe Charlie. Charlie's got a car. She could drop by a few days a week to oversee things. Pack up just what she can fit in her car. You're starting to get crazy. Yeah, but it's so comforting.

  The woman beside her hands her a book. When the woman sees she hasn't got a clue, she points to the Fourth Step. She's been so busy planning her escape, she's missed the first three. "'Four. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.'"

  Tess gives her a big-eyed stare. Del passes the book on. Del blanks out until she hears Tess's voice, "'Eight. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.'"

  It's the same meeting format Del's used to: the reminder of anonymity; introductions, first names only—Tess says she's Teresa. If only changing what we go by would do the trick. Reports and announcements. Beth puts the plastic sheets down and leans forward. Here it comes: The Topic. Mostly Del wants something that feels irrelevant, either because she's got a good grip on that particular irrational response or because she's got it buried so deep, the topic can't home in. What she wants is a topic that poses no heat-seeking threat. After all, her motivation for being here is skewed: she's Mark's transport to AA.

  Beth offers up her name again. "Hello, Beth," they all say.

  Beth takes a deep breath. "I wondered if the group would be up for talking about anger. All these years in Al-Anon and here I am again gnashing my teeth. Your experience, strength, and hope when it comes to anger. I'd like to hear what you have to say first and then at the end, if I'm still needing to, maybe you'd let me rant, let off enough rage to keep me from smashing something."

  Smashing something. That's a surprise. Del inventories her current level of anger. On a scale of 1 to 5, how pissed is she? Not so much at Mark, but at once again being vulnerable, the possibility of chaos rising up on the periphery. No question she's made some progress. She's gone from "oh, it doesn't bother me" to being able to step out in the yard and scream. B-plus with Richard. C-minus with Mark. Seldom can she risk anger with Mark. His response to her rare bursts is to hurl them back at her with double force.

  "Would someone be willing to go first," Beth says. There's that heavy moment of silence. Del shrinks back a little more.

  Tess raises both of her hands. A "can you believe it" gesture so like Carla's. She looks around at the group, at Del. "I'm Teresa," she says. "Angry, that's me." Tess locks her fingers and hunkers down. "I've been going to meetings in Texas. And I thought I was getting somewhere. A few weeks ago I decided I needed to come home. My mother has serious health issues. Maybe I could give her some support. Like it says, make amends. But right away, I mean within hours, I'm ready to burst into flames again. Everybody screaming, being nuts. This morning I had to pack up my stuff and get the hell out." Tess throws her hands up again. "I should've known. I've been back a few times, and it's always the same. Last year when my father died"—Tess's voice tightens. She shakes her head. "Even at the wake, he's lying there and my brother … my brother's shooting up out in the car."

  Tess looks around the room again. "When you said smashing something … Well, it's good to be here. The thing is when it blows, I say stuff that can never be forgotten. To my mother, my brother. That terrible man she lives with. Not that I care about him. What I'm wanting to do is learn how to get angry right." Tess laughs. "Luckily I can crash for a few days with a friend who's not a drug addict, but what I've got right here"—she puts both of her hands flat on her chest—"is a hot ball of something." She tugs at her hair. "Over and over in my head. Maybe afterward, there might be somebody in the group who'd be available for an occasional phone call. Till I cool down. Thanks."

  "Keep coming back," everyone says. And they all beam her their goodwill. But she definitely will not be offering up her phone number.

  Tess—so much younger than Mark and Aaron that she was never part of their scene. She can't help but like Tess. Tess—who the school kept calling ADHD because she wouldn't sit quietly and do the ditto sheets, when surely it was that Tess already knew she had to keep up her guard. Had to get the hell out of there. Bright and talented right from the go.

  The woman on Tess's left goes next. A woman with a wonderful face. One look and you feel sure she's years past the "he said this, then I said that" phase. The topic of anger gets handed around, the stick in the relay. They've all been angry. They all struggle with trying to find appropriate ways to get it out. They all know they've got to count to ten or one hundred. The main theme is that slowly they've come to see that what these people in their lives do—that it isn't personal. They're learning to get out of the way. That their best defense is to make sure they're finding time to do what makes them happy. And of course in some cases you just have to pack up and go. No cross talk in meetings. No one gives advice. That's the rule. Who can know what someone else is able to do next? It's a long road. Keep coming back.

  Finally it comes to Del and she does pass, says that it's been good to listen. And it has been. Maybe she'll need to come to these rooms again. If chaos threatens, if it all starts going around in her head again.

  Beth extends her hand. "Thanks. I'm feeling no need to vent. Isn't it amazing that just being here and listening, knowing there are people who understand, hearing how you're dealing with it, helps. I don't mean, Oh, now it's all over, but whatever it was that was squeezing my heart has opened its fist."

  Beth reads the closing: "'…Talk to each other, reason things out with someone else, but let there be no gossip or criticism of one another. Instead, let the understanding, love and peace of the program grow in you one day at a time.'"

  Del lets it wash over her. She catches Tess's eye; Tess shrugs and smiles. She remembers the first meeting she ever went to, a meeting where the topic was humor and she couldn't stop crying long enough even to say her name.

  "Will all who care to, join me in a closing prayer."

  Like the rest of the women Del folds her chair and carries it over to lean it against the wall. Noise in the hall. The AA meeting is out. Always the AA laughter. She sees that the woman with the wonderful face is giving Tess her phone number. Tess is crying; the woman has put an arm around her shoulder. Good. She turns and goes out. Find Mark and make a run for it. She threads her way through the smokers talking in groups along the sidewalk, oblivious of the rain. No sign of Mark. She looks toward her car, but can't see whether he's in there or not.

  Next problem: if Mark goes back to Danford with her, how's he going to get to the Chemical Dependency Clinic, the pharmacy tomorrow? No license, and even if he had one, she wouldn't want to loan him her car. She turns the key in the lock and slides in. She's got a clear view of the doors. Where's Mark? Normally he'd be the first one out to smoke. Why didn't she think to tell him to try to line up a ride for tomorrow, that she's staying at Richard's tonight and going with him early for a consultation at Walter Reed: the slow rise of his PSA count when it should be zero. She is not going to change that plan, but it's critical that Mark see Joy tomorrow. Already you're donning the cape: only you can save him.

  The doo
r opens and Tess emerges. She's laughing. Right behind her—Mark. They come down the steps. Mark lights up. He looks toward the car. Del switches on the lights to let him know she's there. Mark raises his index finger: one minute. He and Tess in conference. Tess takes something from her pocket. She writes on it, hands it to Mark. Then she waves toward the car, turns and disappears into the dark.

  Mark taps on the glass. She's forgotten to unlock his side. "Hey," he says, and gets in. He rolls the window down, blows his smoke out. He laughs. "Tess Morletti, at your Al-Anon meeting. Not exactly what you had in mind."

  "Right," she says, and pulls away from the curb.

  "It was a good meeting," he says. "After those crazy Brother and Sister, we are Family, sessions at Lazarus, I wasn't sure I'd ever want to sit in a circle again." He closes the window, switches on the radio, searches. Loud music yawks by. He turns the radio off. "I'm going to stay at Tess's friend's in Marwick tonight. That way I can get to my CDC appointment at nine, pick up the scrip from Mental Health. Then go to the noon NA meeting at St. Theresa's. Probably Rozmer and Charlie will be there."

  She turns the wipers up and rolls her neck. The usual vertebra has started to burn.

  "Better take I-88," he says. He pulls a paper from his pocket, turns on the overhead light. "486 East Street. Up near the college. Eric. You might even know him. The guy with the dreads who works at the guitar shop." He's thought ahead. Has a positive plan for the day. Be grateful. All right, she is. "Sounds like the usual shit going on at the Morlettis'," he says. "Tess told me she's cut all contact with them. Too crazy." She doesn't respond. They leave the village, just the dark and the rain. "Okay if I smoke?" Mark says. "Guy at the meeting I know let me bum a couple. I'm pretty wound." Again he rolls the window down a little, is careful not to blow the smoke her way.

  "I'm going to Washington tomorrow with Richard. He's seeing a specialist. Probably it's nothing, but he wants a second opinion." That's enough information. Let Mark know she's got other things to deal with.

  "What are you doing with Luke while you're gone?"

  "I left him at Marna's. Richard and I have to leave about four this morning, not get back until really late. You think you can stay with this Eric another night?" Another month? Year?

  "Probably not. Eric's roommate's coming back tomorrow. I can't wait to see Luke." Well, that's one good thing. With Mark at the house, the whole hassle with Luke will be over. Mark opens the glove compartment and holds another sheet in the light. "AA area schedule," he says. Well, no question, he's organizing. Thinking. "There's going to be the problem of getting back and forth. I'm going to need to go to at least one meeting a day. Ninety meetings in ninety days. Rozmer's real clear on that. And I'm working on being up for it." He folds the paper and switches off the light. "Looks like there's the choice of both night and day meetings, mostly in Marwick. Be easier once I pay the motor vehicle fine, get the suspension lifted. That is if you're going to be okay to let me borrow your car." He turns her way. "Of course I understand if you aren't."

  A reliable housemate with a reliable vehicle. Someone who's got a job. Keep Mark company. She'll set up in her little studio room at Richard's. She can lengthen the umbilical, not have to be every day worrying if Mark's going to make his appointments on time, get to a meeting. She's got to have the distance in order to stay detached. "I'm thinking it might be the best thing for me … for you … for Richard, but mostly for me, if I move in with Richard for four or five days a week, not just the weekends like now. I'll feel less anxious. Not to be so sitting in the middle of your life. But I'd only feel okay doing this if you could get a good AA-type roommate. Somebody like Charlie." He doesn't say anything, but he's turned completely her way. He has lowered his hood. "Somebody who doesn't use. Who's got a car and is willing to help you out with some rides when I can't take you. Pay a couple hundred a month. Buy his own groceries. We could turn my studio into a bedroom. You and Charlie could have the upper part of the living room to set up your equipment, the amps, your drums. I'd come down maybe Mondays and Tuesdays."

  Mark laughs. "Well," he says, "that's a full-scale scenario."

  She laughs too. "And oh, so typical. Remember that elaborate transportation schedule I worked out for you to go from the Cam-den hospital to New Vistas. Every frigging phone number, what you should tip the taxi. Down to the minute. Once I get anxious, no heights I can't climb."

  "East Street's coming up." He takes the paper out again and switches on the light.

  "You know what this all depends on," she says.

  "I do."

  She doesn't say any more. She's made the leap. They travel through the silence, only the back and forth of the wipers.

  "Next block," he says. "I can see the neon from the deli. There it is." It's your usual college-area rundown converted house. All the windows draped with bedding. A trash barrel overflowing on the porch. Parts of the banister missing.

  "You want me to turn into the driveway?"

  "No. Park on this side. Just have to get my stuff out of the trunk. I'll run it by Rozmer, Joy. You sure this is something you want to try. You want to move to Richard's?"

  "I want to try. See how it goes."

  "Well, in the light of day … After I talk to Rozmer, I'll see what Charlie says. It would be a great, a great thing for me to be able to set up, record, play every day. Might make all the difference."

  That something might make the difference. "What are you going to do about a place to stay tomorrow night?"

  He opens the door. "I'll work it out. Could you get to a computer around nine tomorrow? Transfer my share of the money from the rep-payee into my ATM? I'm out of cigarettes. I'll need some money to eat."

  The money. Turning the money over to Mark makes her stomach contract. But it is his share. Not her business. "I'll try," she says. "Once Richard gets to the hospital. I'll probably be able to do it then. Two hundred and ninety dollars." Of course she knows to the penny.

  He takes his bass and backpack from the trunk. She rolls down the window and opens her hand for the keys.

  "Thanks," he says. "Thanks a lot. I'll leave a message on Richard's machine. Let you know how it's going."

  "Should I wait? Make sure you get in?"

  "No," he says. "It's all set."

  All set? Or he might just take his money and get high. She watches him cross the street. His black jacket and pants fade into the night. Mark, who used to gather them around for his magic shows, his eyes wide to catch their surprise when he made the quarter disappear. He turns as he goes up the steps and waves. She puts the car in drive and takes the first right. Richard. She'll have to tell Richard the story: another grand scheme. She already knows what he will say.

  18 : Entry

  Symptom Checklist-90-R

  Name Mark Merrick

  Below is a list of problems people sometimes have. Blacken the circle that best describes HOW MUCH THAT PROBLEM HAS DISTRESSED YOU DURING THE PAST 7 DAYS.

  And the prize goes to the person with the highest score: private room with your own peephole and padded interior. His own diagnosis for his current level of extreme distress: (1) no caffeine, (2) no nicotine, (3) inadequate zzzz's due to inadequate length of couch, (4) in addition to all the above, going to have to psych out an alien head because Joy, his usual therapist, has shunted him off to a new counselor—a small man with the demeanor of an old hippie.

  A king-size mistake not to borrow enough for cigarettes and coffee from Tess this morning. Tess—up at dawn to go job hunting. The shame of grubbing under such conditions too great even for him. Must be he is making some progress. April 2: thirty days clean. Feel like shit now, but today he'll get a one-month token at the NA meeting.

  4. Scared for no reason (0) (1) (2) (3) (4)

  For "no reason"? Point is there is a reason: the CIA has just turned on the transmitter controlling your mind and the zap-zap is naturally causing you quite a bit of anxiety.

  Always there is that major decision: How honest does he w
ant to be? Not at all? Moderately? Extremely? Answer: All depends. All depends on whether he's trying to get in or out. And of course, he has to be consistent. Machine's going to eject you as unreliable if you skid out of the trench too often. Right away he spots his particular modus operandi.

  5. Repeated unpleasant thoughts that won't leave your head

  7. Feeling that you are watched or talked about by others

  10. Hearing voices that others do not hear

  19. Seeing things that other people do not see

  In the last seven days? All of them extremely. Now that he's out of the Lazarus cooker, he's cooling down. He skims the remaining questions.

  90. Thoughts of ending your life

  Fill in the (4) on that one and you'll be exchanging your clothes for rear-hanging-out attire.

  Ben Jacobs, the new counselor, appears in the doorway. Flannel shirt fraying. Steel-rims. Got the back-to-the-land lean. "How's it coming?" Jacobs says.

  "Mostly I've been circling the runway."

  Jacobs smiles. He's got a good smile. Quiet. "What's the control tower telling you?"

  Mark touches down on the first (4). "Five more minutes," he says and begins dark-marking his way down the page.

  First thing he sees, smells, is the coffee. Jacobs follows his gaze and rises, sets about pouring him a cup. Mark sits and places the completed checklist face down on the bare desk. No M. MERRICK folder full of incriminating evidence. No note-taking paraphernalia. No family photos. No framed credentials or inspirational sayings on the walls. No clues.