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  Jacobs sets a small tray on the desk. "Might need to pull your chair up."

  Half-and-half, an almost full sugar dispenser, a spoon. Mark tips the dispenser up and lets the sparkling crystals flow. He drinks. Strong. Hot. Jacobs tilts back in his chair, folds his hands across his chest. No hurry. One thing for sure about this guy: he knows how to get off to a good start. "So," Jacobs says. "Here you are."

  "Here I am."

  "I haven't looked over your records yet or conferred with your previous counselor. All I know is that you aren't a first-time client, that you're also seeing Dr. Taylor at Mental Health, that you're here on a voluntary basis, not a mandate from the court. If you signed the releases and plan to meet with me regularly, then I'll read through your file, talk to the previous professionals you've worked with."

  "All right," Mark says.

  "Probably these sessions will be more helpful if you start by saying what's on your mind. Then we can take it from there. Make it a long or a short session this first time."

  All the places that sweat, are beginning to. He adds a little more sugar, checks to see if Jacobs notes that. His mind: Does he want to go live or play the usual reruns? He takes the coffee down as fast as he can without burning his throat. The sweet heat hits his empty belly.

  "I'm waiting for my disability money to get deposited so I can go buy a pack of cigarettes. I'm wanting to get high. I'm wanting to be saved." He pushes back in the chair, presses his shirt against the padding to stanch the flow.

  Again the quiet smile, a little lean his way. "You want to get yourself more coffee."

  Moderate tremor on the pour. He fills it to the exact right level so it won't slosh, so he can put in the cream. He settles back into the chair, manages the whole routine without knocking anything over. "I'm thirty days clean."

  Jacobs rests his arms on the desk.

  "Detox in Camden. Two weeks in psychiatric rehab at New Vistas. And a couple of days at Lazarus House, a therapeutic community downstate."

  "A couple of days?" Jacobs knows how to put the queries out there, how not to wake the beast.

  "Too confrontational. Stress." The cup's steady. No longer the pulsing in his ears. "I started having symptoms. Not a safe place to lose it."

  "What kind of symptoms?"

  "Seeing things. Hearing things. Racing thoughts. Insomnia. Stomach pains. It was heavy duty." He flares the corners of the checklist. "A lot of number fours."

  "How are you doing right now?"

  "I'm calming down."

  "How about medication?"

  "Zyprexa and Neurontin. None at Lazarus. I'm all set to pick up a new scrip at MH right after I leave here."

  "How long since you left Lazarus?"

  "Three days."

  Jacobs's head dips, a surprised wag of approval, then he fades back a bit, but his eyes still gleam. "What level of treatment are you thinking about at this point?"

  As little as I can get away with. Jacobs once again tilts back his chair, turns so he's not head on. Mark cups his sweating hands around his knees. "The level of treatment … No more therapeutic communities. I don't think even a halfway. I don't feel like I'm steady enough to be full-time 'out there.' I've done the straitjacket, Thorazine lockdown at Langston Psych and the main thing I learned is I don't wish to do it again."

  "Do you have any plan shaping up?"

  "I've got a sponsor: twenty years recovery and up for calling me on most of my bullshit. He's pressing me to do the ninety in ninety. My mom's my rep-payee and she's willing to let me live at home temporarily as long as I don't use."

  "Anything else?"

  "Maybe even line up an AA housemate, with my mom living at her boyfriend's most of the week. Cut down on a lot of the control stuff. Good place for me to work on my music. Give me a chance to take care of old business: the dentist. Get a suspension on my license lifted."

  "How about your drug connections?"

  "Yeah, no question it's risky business, but it feels like it's all I'm up for."

  "Is counseling here at the clinic part of the plan?"

  Mark laughs. "Part of my sponsor's plan, my mom's plan. I'm not sure it's totally signed on as part of my plan yet. Probably I'm still trying to wiggle out wherever I can. But yeah, I got the voice in my head telling me coming here is part of what I need to do."

  Again Jacobs smiles. "Tower giving you any other advice?"

  "Yeah, I'd like to be randomly drug-tested."

  "What's that about?" Jacobs says.

  "Maybe more of my 'making like I mean it,' but also think it might put a little fear into my impulsive tendencies. It might."

  "Have any interest in making out a contract? A list of guidelines for yourself. Positive behaviors that are likely to help you avoid slipping into patterns that might lead to relapse. For example: go to meetings at least … However many a week you think will be helpful. Be randomly drug-tested."

  A flash of the New Vistas study halls: his assets, his defects. "I'll think about it," Mark says.

  "You ever write lyrics? Keep a notebook?"

  "Sometimes, but usually only when the mania train's picking up speed."

  "Well, think about making that contract list to bring in to look over with me. Even doing some journal entries. Those … just for yourself. You might find it helpful. Even a source for your music." Jacobs reaches in a desk drawer and brings out a sheet, hands it over to Mark. "Some topics that might get you started."

  Mark folds the paper without looking at it and pushes it into his pocket. End of session in sight. Get to the ATM, a meeting, talk to Rozmer, Charlie. Maybe Tess can give him a ride to Danford.

  "See you next week?" Jacobs says.

  "Yeah. I'll make an appointment on my way out. Thanks."

  Jacobs rises. He extends his hand. Warm and dry. "I've found it helpful to turn the volume up on the one track, down on the other. When the tower forecasts unfavorable weather, turbulence likely, I listen."

  Marna's truck muffler backfires on every hill. Everybody in their circle living the low-budget life. Each time it backfires, Luke and Fritz leap up, bark frantically in his ear. Mark tries reaching around to grab hold of Luke, but that just connects him to a hundred pounds of brown frenzy, jamming his arm into his shoulder socket. He resists yanking on the choke collar. By the time they reach Danford, Mark's head is banging. Charlie's not willing to move in. Doesn't fit his careful guidelines and this new idea for a housemate is farfetched. No matter how fast-talking, his mother is never going to go for it. Never. Even if he could wheedle out a provisionary okay from his mother, have to override Rozmer's veto. Shit to pay all around. Warnings of turbulence even with the volume on low. Plus he's about to go back on that land. In that house. All of it haunted.

  They pass the school. Marna pumps the brakes as they go down the final hill. The gravel bank comes into view. Aaron's wrecked cabin just visible through the trees up on the ridge.

  "You sure you don't want to stay at my place tonight? Wait until your mom gets back?"

  Mark unwedges his bass, moves his backpack so his legs are free. "No, I'll be fine. I know where there's a key. Let us off by the mailbox. I want to walk in, give Luke a good run."

  If he can just get in, go up to his room and crash. Burrow into the dark. Pull the plug on the phone. Last thing he needs is a call from Rudy or Carla. Though he trusts Tess, that she's not going to tell anybody he's here. Marna turns down into the gravel bank. Luke yelps to be released. Mark opens the door and before he's half out, Luke leaps over the seat and shoves past him. "Jesus Christ, Luke." He tries for a smile. "Thanks, Marna. I appreciate it."

  "Call me if you need anything. I mean it," she says. He raises his hand to wave. She swings around and onto the road, the truck rumbling all the way up the hill.

  Quiet. Luke, far ahead, looking back from the rise that marks the start of their land. Their road is full of holes, ruts of mud. Winter damage. The kind of work he always told his mother he'd get to, but then never did. If he doe
s end up being able to stay here, maybe he'll do better with all that. Then there it is: the stone house, the grandfather maple, Aaron's cherry tree. The pole barn where they actually lived while they were building the house. Where his father died. Say it: where his father killed himself. Where his father sat down and wrote a note that said, Dear Loved Ones, Forgive me. Then, with Coal, the dog they all loved, beside him, lifted the gun he'd taken from his parents' back room and pulled the trigger.

  He moves on toward the house. He sets his stuff by the front door and goes around to the little shed in back. Luke is doing his circles of joy, his soggy stuffed monkey dangling from his mouth. "Left your baby out all winter. Now look at it," he says. He reaches his hand down into the watering can where his mother always keeps the spare key. No key. Fuck. He shakes it. Nothing. He feels along the edges of the boards. He goes around to the side door and runs his fingers along the tops of the windows. Now what is he going to do? He and Luke circle the house. No ladders long enough to get in the loft. All the windows locked. And then he sees it: the dog door into the laundry room. He unfastens the gate to the kennel and flips the heavy rubber cover up: a big square of pink insulation, beyond that the sliding metal panel. He stretches out, his back on the ramp Richard built for Luke when he put in the door. All the while Luke barks and worries at his pants legs. "Shut the fuck up," he tells him, but not too loud, not too mean. He rests his head on the sill and tries to get his fingers under the edge of the cover. It does give an inch, but then it catches on the little release button that's designed to prevent entry. He judges the opening: Could he actually squeeze himself through even if he can jimmy the panel out? He rolls over and presses with both hands, full force. No give. Then he yanks off the ramp and in the mud on his knees lifts up on the door. The release lock breaks. He continues to force the metal cover until it jumps out of the grooves and bangs on the floor inside. Then one shoulder, one arm at a time, births himself until he's all the way through. As soon as he's clear, Luke bursts in as well. "What fun, ehh, Luke?"

  The house is cold, but he's not going to build a fire. He snaps both phone cords from their jacks and goes up the ladder to the loft. Luke cries at the bottom. "Got to crash for a while, buddy." The loft is clean, every surface bare, every trace of him folded and tucked away, except for the dozens of black marks along the edges of the sill, the chest, around his bed: cigarette burns. He fastens one of the blankets across the window, pulls off his boots, his pants, and crawls under the down comforter. Cold. Cold and smelling damply clean. He pulls the covers over his head.

  Clock says 4:06. He closes down the damper on the stove a little. Only a small fire, but warmth sinks into the places that ache. While the shredded potatoes brown, he breaks eight eggs into a metal bowl, dumps in bits of cheddar, scrambles. Just a couple of hours of sleep, but he's had a solid landing. The thing is the plan he's going to propose does have merit: transportation to meetings and clinic appointments, the support and company of someone who doesn't use, the likelihood that old food will get dumped before mold sets in. Certain valid objections are bound to be raised and must be listened to. He eyes the burning cigarette on the edge of the counter. In the cupboard he finds a chipped saucer. Guideline for his contract: (1) Always use an ashtray.

  In fact he needs to start smoking outside only. He squashes the cigarette. One good thing about this last month of institutional living: learning to smoke in the rain without whining. Luke noses the dried food Mark has put in his dish, then backs away. He splits two bagels, butters them, slides them in the toaster oven. He flips the potatoes and pushes them up on the sides of the pan, then pours in the eggs, adds pepper and salt, a dash of garlic, mixes it all together with a fork. The thing about a good omelet is you can't leave it: (2) Stay focused.

  He turns the toaster on, pours a giant glass of cranberry juice, lays out his meds and a One-A-Day, even an Omega-3 Fish Oil. He slides the omelet and potatoes onto his plate and sets one of the bagels beside the whole feast. Just as he raises his fork, Luke comes to lean his chin on his knee. "Probably you're right," he says. "Lest greed overtake me." He lifts Luke's bowl to the table and scrapes onto the kibble what he can bring himself to spare.

  "Ahhh." There's the sound of both of them chewing. They don't stop until every last bit is gone. Mark sops up the final film of yellow. Then he runs hot water into the frying pan, adds a few drops of detergent and sets it in the sink. He lifts a chair and places it out on the stones. Aaron's walk. He lights up: this and the one with coffee when he first wakes are the best cigarettes of the day. Luke stretches out on the grass, his nose resting on his paws.

  Maybe he should sketch out the merit points before he calls. He goes up to the loft and rummages through the trunk: a box of his books, a bag of old cassettes, a folded world map, Aaron's copy of the Bhagavad Gita and what he's looking for—the leather-bound journal Sammi gave him when they were in Austin. Blessedly blank, no seedy fragments scrawled out when he was high. Each page perforated for removal if he changes his mind. Downstairs again, he finds a pencil. A cup of coffee, the portable phone, the ashtray, another chair to set everything on. He arranges it all outside. Should he deliver the core of the proposal first as a machine-message before she and Richard get back tonight or should he wait until she comes down tomorrow? Or only leave enough word to let her know all's well. The thought of her first anxious responses makes him lean toward the easy out of the machine, but if it's presented to her in person, no question he can exert greater pressures of persuasion.

  A photo drops from the journal, face down on the walk. His first inclination is to slip it unseen between the back pages, avoid some flash that will knock him out of Proposal Orbit. Instead he flips it over with the end of the pencil: Sammi in a goof on a porn shot—on all fours in a Yoga-cat position, black bra and thong, mascara whiskers. Two bunches of her then-blond hair twisted into pointy ears on top of her head. The spider tattoo on her thigh, the center of the focus. He laughs and lifts it to the fading light. Maybe down the line he'll give Sammi a call, tell her he's doing okay. In his pocket he feels the folded square of paper Jacobs gave him. He opens it. One side is a long list of suggestions for making out a contract: "Take medication as directed." "Sober fun once a day minimum…" He turns the sheet over to the Journal Starters side. There it is: flashing red, the siren-scream on the way to Emergency:

  Choose a person who cares about you and describe how you feel they would respond to your death.

  He lights a cigarette and picks up the phone, dials Richard's. At the tone he says, "Mom, I'm home. Marna gave me a ride with Luke. Had a good session at CDC, got my meds, went to a meeting. Charlie says he needs to live in Marwick to finish his classes, but I think I've found someone who'll be a good housemate." He takes a long drag. Exhales. Lets that sink in. "Person has a job … doesn't use … goes to meetings. We can talk it over when you come down tomorrow." He presses the End button. He smokes and watches the birds dart into the hemlocks, settle for the night.

  Part II

  JULY

  You have reached 456-7631. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911. If this is trouble, please call someone else. You cannot count on me; I am not here for you. The news I have is good: you have a place to live; you have been befriended by someone steady. I'm holding on to that. If this is not you, leave a message. I am standing by the phone, praying, an alarm going off in my chest. If it isn't your voice, I'll answer. Whoever it is, that isn't you, be prepared for the gust of relief when I say Hello.

  —DEL MERRICK, from the back of a

  drawing of a horseshoe crab, June 2002

  19 : Night Riders

  "BETTER TAKE THE Back River Road," Mark says. "Less chance of trouble." Then he braces himself as Tess makes the turn late and wide and going too fast. Luke and Queenie hunker down. One good thing: three months of Tess living at the house, but still no contact from the Morlettis. No more threats from Rudy. Maybe they think Tess went back to Texas, maybe Rudy doesn't even know he's there. M
aybe so much shit going down for them, they're too busy to think at all. Mark wedges the Bugler can between his knees and troughs the cigarette paper to catch most of the tobacco. The bump in front of Hoop Dawes's cow yard lifts them both off their seats—truck shocks long gone—and dumps the cigarette-in-progress onto his pants. The Holsteins bug-eye their flash-by.

  "Moooo. Morning, girls," Tess calls. "I love those cows. They can stand in muck, let it all hang off their big haunch-bones. I'm thinking I'd like to become a vet tech." She swerves to avoid a squirrel. "Maybe go to Marwick Community in the fall. Get a job milking for the rest of the summer. You know, become a cow. Absorb some of their placidity."

  "Stupidity," Mark says. "Shoveling shit. Slow down a little. I'm trying to do brain surgery over here." Tess gives him an indulgent shrug, but she brakes, eases into a steady forty. She's not a smoker and thus is only two steps away from getting on her "killing yourself" soapbox. Plus it stinks. He rolls the cigarette and licks the paper lightly along the edge, pinches off the shreds at the ends. He finds a match and takes the smoke down. Truly nasty this cheap tobacco, but better than nothing. "Keep going slow while I roll a few more."

  "You'll be late for the interview."

  "Please," he says in a not-please voice. He's got to get a grip. Increasing irritability—not a good sign. If Dr. Taylor would give him a scrip for Xanax so he could have it handy, maybe only five a month, for high-stress times like these. But Taylor's not going for it. Looks like the anti-anxieties haven't worked well for you in the past, he said. Problem is they worked too well. Got himself a superduper dependency a few years back. He places the four cigarettes in a Camel box.

  "Look at it this way," Tess says, "yesterday a U.S. two-thousand-pound bomb killed forty members of an Afghani wedding party." Tess often comes up with these little "count your blessings" news clips which he's learned never to acknowledge.