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"Ready to give it another shot. Rehab. Halfway. And like I said on the phone, preferably on another planet."

  "They've got a bed for you at Onango Valley in Tremont—small unit, only ten people—and if all goes well, they think a halfway up near Buffalo. Dual-diagnosis house." Hep, hep coming up. Slogging to the Twelve-Step shuffle. "You've got a ride? Your stuff with you?"

  Tess so glad to see him go she actually did his laundry, packed him up a little bag. "Getaway car idling at the curb as we speak."

  "Have you got your meds? Hospital wants you only to bring your vials with the prescriptions on them."

  "No meds. No meds again ever."

  "Why's that?"

  "Land of the Living Dead. Plus have you been reading lately what the long-range side effects are?"

  "What about the manic episodes, the psychosis?"

  He makes himself meet Jacobs's eyes straight on. "Going to have to ride that train if it comes, try to make it through the tunnel."

  Jacobs leans toward him, places his open hands in the space between them. "You think not taking the medication is a wise decision?"

  "How I'm going to do it."

  Jacobs lets that sit there. "The rehab unit says you're going to have to do some detox. They'll check your urine first thing."

  "Whatever. But it's been weeks. Since … what month do we find ourselves in?"

  "October 29th, 2002."

  "Since early October. My abstinence—not on the basis of turning over a new leaf. No money. Nothing left to sell. Plus my main supplier OD'ed. Dead on arrival."

  "So—did that give you pause?"

  Pause? Smithy's death from a heroin overdose certainly gave him pause, ultimate end of the line. "I've been too sick, too out of cigarettes, too oh, poor me, for any long-term pausing." Beyond this: rehab, halfway, better than a refrigerator box under a bridge. Not going to mention that his disability money is in limbo, that there's an eviction situation looming, that he and his mother are incommunicado. Possible she's even sent Jacobs a carefully revised epistle: how for the good of them both, she's dropping out of the drama.

  "What's up with your NA sponsor in all this?"

  "He leaves messages I don't return. He knocks; I don't answer."

  "And Twelve Step? How are you feeling about that?"

  "My story? Double pass."

  "Well, that's why I think this new rehab may be a good thing for you. Onango Valley uses a nontraditional approach to treatment. In other words it doesn't use Twelve Step."

  "Place allow cigarette breaks?" Not that he's got any cigarettes.

  "Yes," Jacobs says. Jacobs lifts a yellow paperback and a few loose sheets from his desk drawer. He pushes them across the divide.

  the small book: A Revolutionary Alternative for Overcoming

  Alcohol and Drug Dependence

  Jacobs relaxes back in his chair, his "up to you" position. "Onango Valley uses Rational-Emotive Behavioral Therapy. REBT. I thought you might want to look it over while you're on your own in detox. See what you think."

  He does not even glance at any of the words on the sheets. Instead he folds the papers and places them, with the book, in his jacket pocket. "Well," he says.

  "You know how to get there?"

  "Get there?"

  Jacobs smiles. "Where the hospital is." He nods. "I'll tell them you're on your way."

  Jacobs rises. He does too. He places the mug over by the coffeemaker. His hands have calmed down. When he turns back, Ben Jacobs is writing something on a note card. "My cell phone," he says. "For the tunnel or just to give me a report on the snow in Buffalo."

  He sees Tess's truck below in the parking lot, but she can't see him. He pulls his hood back onto his head, tugs on the edges. Then he uses the corner of the yellow book to sift through the second layer of butts in the bucket by the door. Sand has already been picked over by some other lost soul. He dusts off the one healthy remain. Filter doesn't look too nasty. He lights up and leans against the rail, watches Luke's brown nose sniffing from one window, Queenie's pug face out the other. There's a white flash of something through the windshield. He takes a few steps down and leans over the rail. Carla's in the front seat, her leg cast across Tess's lap. She must have just picked her mother up at the hospital. Tess up half the night taking her mother to Emergency to get her leg set after her fall down the stairs. Must be Carla blasted her way to a quick discharge even though Tess hoped they'd hold her for a day or two so she wouldn't have to deal with both of them at once. Going to be a long crowded ride to Tremont.

  He grinds out the butt and drops it, along with a handful of sandy stubs, into the folds of the papers Jacobs gave him. Going to be rolling his own from these leavings before long even if he can scrounge a pack or two from Carla. Maybe Tess will lift her smoking ban. Sympathy for her mother's accident, her mother's forlorn state since Smithy's death. Tess's relief at finally having Smithy, and now him, gone. He heads for the truck, the possibility that Carla may lay some Camels on him. He hasn't seen Carla since the night he banged on her back door and came away with nothing. One thing about Smithy's death, which soon followed, chaos so extreme up on the hill, his drug debt seems to have disappeared from the ledger.

  He steps over the Burger King bag in the gutter, resists the urge to check it out in hope of a few fries. His stomach is so empty, it feels like it's caved in on his spine. Been so long since he's had anything but frozen hotdogs, he's actually looking forward to rehab cuisine. And going to be singing a new song. What was it Jacobs called it? Rational something. The Rational Rehab Rag.

  As soon as Tess sees him, she starts the truck. He knocks on the glass where Carla's gray head is pressed. "Carla," he calls, "I'm going to open your door for a second."

  Tess takes hold of her mother's hand and pulls her forward enough so Carla doesn't fall backwards. He releases the catch on the back door and squeezes himself and his bag onto the seat between the two dogs, and then leans over the front and Carla, neither of them smelling their best, and wrestles the door shut. "Clowns in a phone booth," he says.

  "Clowns," Tess says. "You've got that right." But she isn't laughing. Tess not at her best either. They all look like candidates for a meth lab lineup.

  "I've got a bed at Onango Valley in Tremont. Maybe an hour's drive. Sounds like it's better than that place in Utica." He catches Tess's eye in the rearview. "I owe you big time."

  "My pleasure," she tells the mirror.

  Carla has not spoken. Her head is back against the window, her eyes closed. She's the color of someone laid out on the embalming table, her hands across her chest, both wrists wrapped in her Velcro braces. Her cast goes halfway up her thigh. Her toes jutting out in front of the steering wheel look swollen and a little blue, but flawlessly painted a subtle shade of red.

  "God," she moans and shifts a little.

  "Pain?" he says.

  "Pain."

  "Are they giving you anything?"

  "Tylenol."

  "Extra Strength?"

  He and Carla laugh. "I'm off everything," Carla says. "Everything. On my own."

  He hopes she doesn't mean nicotine too. He checks to see if the ashtray is a little pulled out. Not looking good. "How long do you have to be in the cast?"

  Tess flashes him a rearview. Her BS meter always running as well. Knows his small talk has a motive.

  Carla opens her eyes and looks at him for the first time. "Six weeks," she says. "Lucky it wasn't my right leg. No way you could have jammed me in then."

  Tess pats her mother's cast. "There, there," she says.

  They are all quiet now, just the breathing of the dogs. The world racing by is gray, the air full of winter coming on. Queenie collapses against his shoulder, his legs numb from the weight of Luke asleep across his lap. Trying to write a letter under these all-of-the-above conditions may force him to blow his human-decency cover. No way he can do it on the top of Luke's head. And it has got to be done in a letter, not on the phone. He knows what he wants to say, the words scr
awling his mind for days. Simple and brief. He strokes Luke's ears. Nothing silkier than Lab ears. He pulls on his collar to rouse him. Luke turns and gives him the total treatment, the full plead of his liquid brown eyes. "Sorry, buddy, but you've got to get up." Luke rises, manages to turn his hundred-plus pounds, and applies his nose to the few inches of open window. Queenie accommodates him and gathers air on the other side.

  He breaks the spine on the yellow paperback to form a flat surface. Turns the bright blue title upside down so it doesn't stare up at him from his lap. He pulls out the papers Jacobs gave him, careful not to dump the butts when he peels away the bottom sheet, then smoothes the page out, with the blank side up. Good that the back says "Onango Valley Hospital—Rational-Emotive Behavioral Therapy" on the top, a kind of certification that he is where he says he is, proof that he's stepping into the rehab river what must be at least his fifth time. That, in itself, will offer some assurance. "Either of you have a pen or a pencil? Actually a pencil would be better."

  "In the glove compartment," Tess says.

  Carla reaches in, locates a pencil, and passes it back. A pencil with a sharp point and an eraser. But he cannot write this letter without the accompanying support of a cigarette. "I want to write a letter for you to give to my mom, but I need a nicotine jolt to crash the barrier." Tess's rearview eyes say he's registered a ten on the con. Tess looks at her mother.

  "Fine by me," Carla says and pulls out a pack of Juicy Fruit from her pocket.

  "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em," Tess tells him.

  When he doesn't immediately light up, Carla pushes a stick of gum over the seat. "No thanks," he says.

  "Gave up the cigarettes too," Carla announces, "but with Juicy Fruit at the ready, I don't miss it at all." She bursts into her old Carla laugh.

  "Would you be willing to close your window for a minute while I roll a few of my own?" Tess hesitates for a second, then obliges without comment. He reaches over and puts up Luke and Queenie's windows to all but a life-saving crack. He retrieves the folded paper and begins to rip apart the butts, pushing each spill of tobacco into a little mound. Carla and Tess covertly eye his operation. He scoops up the bits of trash and gives these to the wind out the crack in Luke's window, then sets the second piece of paper on his bag in case he wants to make a kind of envelope. Next he retrieves a small leather Bible from his other pocket; the gold leaf of its edges gives off a flash.

  Carla's eyes widen. "Mark?" she says.

  He's sure he's got Tess's attention. He could say, Now for my first miracle, but better to proceed as though this is business as usual. He opens to Revelation, a section he's already used, and folds one of the tissue-thin pages back tight against the center binding, creases it with his fingernail, then oh so carefully tears it away straight down the fold. He repeats the process until there are four perfect sheets. He folds these sheets in half, runs his nail over the crease, and again tears along that edge. Then he places the Bible back in his pocket, ready when needed: a dandy source of papers or … irrational therapy.

  For his benefit, Tess has slowed down to forty. He sprinkles the right amount of tobacco down the center of all those warnings, rolls a cigarette and dampens the edge with a flick of his tongue, pinches off the few shreds. Whole phrases run up the sides of the cylinder: turned to see the voice that spoke to me; His eyes were like a flame of fire; the time is near. Maybe this dude John is off his meds. He rolls three more cigarettes and wraps them in the remaining Bible pages, places the small packet solidly in one corner of his sweatshirt pocket. Get him through a few hours of the first day of his life. Again. He cranks the dogs' windows open enough for them to get their noses out. And just as Tess does the same, a rush of air sails the sheet sitting on his bag into the front to rest on Carla's chest.

  Her eyes open. "Airmail," she says.

  "A little bedside reading from the clinic. Tells about the rehab program at Onango Valley."

  "Okay if I check it out?" she says. She pulls her reading glasses from her bag. "You never know."

  "Be my guest." He places the point of his pencil on the paper and, without too much jiggle, writes 10/29/02—more reassurance; then he lights up. The final words of I have the keys of Death and of Hades flare up, turn to ash. He takes the smoke down and down.

  WELCOME TO TREMONT

  He reads the letter over. Half a page. Everything he's able to say now. He signs his name. No love. She won't be up for that yet after his accusations on the phone. Then he goes back and adds Your son right before his signature.

  Blue hospital signs. Tess takes the turn wide and a little too fast. The dogs lean into him. Only have to keep whistling a happy tune for a few more blocks, get through the bon voyage. The goodbye to Luke.

  Carla scooches herself up. "Listen to this," she says.

  "Maybe not, Mamo." Tess shoots him an appraising look. Last few seconds before good riddance and she doesn't want anything to jeopardize the departure.

  "Hit me," he says.

  "'One. You are responsible for your own emotions and actions.'"

  He reaches down, pulls his bag free and places it on his lap.

  "'Two. Your harmful emotions and dysfunctional behaviors are the product of your irrational thinking.'"

  Tess makes a left at the next sign. He sees the hospital, small, red brick, looking down over the town.

  "'Three. You can learn more realistic views and, with practice, make them part of you.'"

  He'll go inside and then, when the truck makes the turn, he'll step back out and have a last smoke.

  "'Four.' Now listen, this is the last one. 'You'll experience a deeper acceptance of yourself and greater satisfactions in life by developing a reality-based perspective.'" Carla passes the sheet back.

  "My gift to you," he says and begins to lift his body for the jump. Geronimo.

  "Humm," Carla says, and tucks the paper in her pocket. "I'm taking all the help I can get." Tess pulls up to the Emergency entrance. "Want me to hobble out on my crutches and pretend I'm your mother? Build immediate sympathy for your plight."

  "I need to make this quick," he says. "Hit the ground running. But, good for you, Carla, looks like you're getting there and I'm wishing you well."

  "Thanks. You too," she says.

  He hands Tess the letter. "Can you give this to my mother?"

  Tess takes it and tucks it under the truck visor. "I haven't talked to her all month, but she's supposed to be back tomorrow."

  Hit the ground running. "Likely I'm going to go to a halfway up near Buffalo in a few weeks. They'll become my payee and then I'll send you some of what I owe you."

  "Good. Here." She hands him a carton of cigarettes from under her seat.

  He laughs, feels his mouth beaming. "How I appreciate this," he says.

  "Yep." Tess takes Carla's hand and pulls her forward. He leans over and opens Carla's door.

  "You have to stay, Luke." He hauls himself out and turns, holds Luke against him for a minute. "I'll be back to get you, buddy." He closes the doors and sets off at a run up the walk. He knows Luke is watching him get smaller, smaller, small. Watching him disappear.

  Part IV

  FEBRUARY

  10/29/02

  I don't think anyone will understand what happened that night in Aaron's cabin, but I do know this: I left him there even though he begged me to stay. It's taken me this long to accept that and begin to forgive myself. I can't do it alone. There's a lot more to Aaron's story than you'll ever know. Unless you get to know me, you'll die without ever knowing your children.

  Once I prove I can stay clean, I'm asking you to at least give me a section of the land to build on. I am no longer interested in going out into the world. My brother and my father completely let me down. All I can say now is Fuck 'em. This thing can be turned around and I know how to do it. I'll be back. You're going to have to take a risk.

  Your son MARK

  30 : Gulf

  RICHARD LEANS AGAINST the condo railing, swats at
a no-see-um. She feels the heaviness descending. Though he almost never opens the topic for discussion, he's been weighing his treatment options for months. She readies herself: "bringing it up" is about to happen.

  "The thing is," he says, "it's a total crapshoot."

  She reaches over and cups her hand around his warm calf. Waits for him to go on, to finally make the decision, here in the strange dark of the Gulf of Mexico, twelve hundred miles from their more familiar territory, the daily routines they've chiseled out over the years. Gotten the friction down to occasional. Especially these last four months with no rescue calls from Mark. No calls at all.

  Richard shifts his leg, turns a little her way. "Those doctors at Hillside don't know any more than I do what's the best alternative." She traces the bony ridges of his knee. Waits for him to go on.

  Night on the water. She listens to the swash of the tide, the soft slap of it against the flood wall below the condo deck. Takes in the gusts of briny sea air. Far across the water, the red and green beacons blink in the channel almost in line with the closest island. And off to the left, twenty miles away, the white glow of two towers, the nuclear plant at Dawson River. People in Crystal Key sometimes speculate on how long fallout from an accident would take to reach here.

  Richard walks to the end of the deck. Not even his shirt is visible now. There's only his voice. "Every alternative couched in disclaimers: 'sometimes,' 'may,' 'research studies are in progress,' some doctors recommend this, some recommend the other. Or combining all of the therapies. Therapies." Nothing new here. Almost the exact same words she's heard before. Only now accompanied by the sound of his hand slapping against his skin. "'In the end,' they actually say that, 'in the end the decision will lie with the patient.' All bullshit."

  "And you didn't have any more confidence in what they recommended at Walter Reed?"

  "Fucking bugs," he says, and goes back inside.

  Movement wakes her. Richard's arms and legs in mid-flail. She reaches across and takes hold of his hand, squeezes: you will choose; you are going to be okay. He will soon choose, but the okay part is full of disclaimers as well. To avoid being caught by a left in the night, she once again curls as far away as possible without herself dropping over. There's the roar of wind, the smack of palms brushing the walls, the whole condo gives a little: built not to resist. Below, the heavy metal table scrapes inch by inch across the deck, backs up against the rail. A flash of lightning and minutes later, thunder. A big storm's coming.