Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (10 page)

“
Thanks, Mary Kate. It’s been good to talk this out. I feel better.”

She flushed with pleasure, dropping her eyes, and I realized how important such a small thing as a compliment could be to her.

“
Hey, how’s the big party coming along?” I asked.

“
Oh!” She sat up straight, excited again. “It’s this Friday after work. It’s so great! Everyone’s coming.” She must have seen the brief look of consternation flitter across my face. “You can come, can’t you? You have to!”

I hated missing yet another AA meeting, but I could probably meet up with Robert at the restaurant later. Besides, I knew how important this was to Mary Kate.

“
I’ll be there,” I said. I even kept the sigh out of my voice. “Wherever ‘there’ is. Where are we meeting up?”

“
Didn’t I tell you? Sherm’s.”

“
Sherm’s
? The bowling alley?”

“
Yeah, on Columbia. It’ll be great. Everyone loves bowling … right?”

Warring emotion flickered across her face like an old-time movie reel: happy confidence in the allure of renting used shoes and heaving a weighted ball down a slick pathway at a bunch of skinny pins, exhilaration at being in charge of the festivities, and deep down—surfacing in the dilation of her pupils and the slight quivering of her lip—fear that she’d screwed up, that people would laugh, that she’d been a fool.

“
Hell, yes, everyone loves bowling!” I couldn’t have been more enthusiastic if I’d had pom-poms and a butt-skimming miniskirt. “How are you getting him there?”

“
I need your help with that. With all this stuff going on with you, I figured we could use it to our advantage. How about if your car ‘broke down?’” Her fingers and eyebrows waggled imaginary quote marks. “You could tell Marshall you need a ride and then ask him in.”

“
To bowl a couple of frames?” With a straight face yet.

“
For a beer, whatever. Do you think it would work?”

I thought about the subtle glances and smiles passing between Marshall and me in recent days. My mouth went dry. Took a sip of watered-down Diet Coke.

“
I think so.”

Needless to say, I didn’t mention to my women’s group later that night that I was taking my boss out for a beer. Why borrow trouble? Besides, Stacie had brought in a new girl, Trinnie. Even though she’d had a First Step meeting at the club, we decided to do another. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and told the story of my slide into misery.

“
My last drunk was on November 17. Hard to believe that was only a few months ago. There was a conference in Madison that a few of us from work went to. It was like a college road trip, and we stayed over at the conference hotel for the weekend. It was nice, you know? We didn’t have to worry about driving because there was a bar in the hotel and several within walking distance.

“
I’d always been careful the few times I went out with co-workers. Mostly, I just avoided drinking around them altogether. I’d leave early and let them think I was going home, when really I was heading across town to drink with my buddies. I kept those two worlds separate.”

Several women nodded in understanding.

“
I started the night out thinking I’d just have a few drinks,” I continued. “But that didn’t go quite as planned. Don’t know why I thought it would. I have no idea how much I drank, but you know the saying: One is too many and a hundred not enough?” Soft laughter around the group was answer enough.

“
Anyway, I ended up blacking out. Not for the first time, either. I have no idea what I said or did. Somehow, I made it back to the hotel room I was sharing with the other two girls, but they ended up sleeping somewhere else because I puked all over myself and the bathroom floor. Then I passed out in one of the beds, still covered in my own vomit.

“
I was so hung-over the next day that I had to leave the seminar three times to throw up. Nobody spoke to me on the way home. Which was okay because it gave me time to really think. To see myself through their eyes.

“
It scared me. I have a family history of alcoholism, but that’s not why I drank that night. My dad wasn’t in that hotel bar that night. Neither were my sister or my aunts and uncles. It was just me. Just me and the booze.

“
So I went to an AA meeting the next night. I was lucky; I knew where to go for help. And the thing is, all the things I drank over—loneliness, trying to fit in, trying to fill the empty place inside—I’m finding all those things taken care of in sobriety.

“
So I hope you find it, too, whatever you’re looking for. It’s there for you if you just take it one day at a time.”

The group’s focus turned to Rhonda as she began the account of her decision to come to AA. Not big on taking accountability for her own actions, she droned on about drinking because of the rotten men in her life. I’d heard it before so I tuned out and thought about that last night of drinking. Thankfully, both of the women I’d attended the conference with had moved on: one returned to college and the other on maternity leave with no desire to return. It was nice not having to face them every day. The rest of my co-workers, not having been there, had laughed and teased me for a while and then forgotten about it as new items of gossip turned up. But I hadn’t forgotten.

The humiliation burned deep, but that could be a good thing. It powered my resolve. What stood out for me tonight was the part about keeping my worlds separate. I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but I’d
always
been careful about keeping parts of my life categorized and boxed up. Learned that from my mama’s knee, you might say.

Friends from school stayed at school because if they came to my home, they’d find Daddy drunk or Mama crazy. College years were spent achieving during the day and partying at night; I told myself that’s what college kids did, purposely ignoring those who didn’t. Even now, the most defining aspect of my personality—alcoholism—was concealed from the people I spent the most time and energy on, my clients and colleagues. Even from Marshall.

What was I thinking?
Especially Marshall.

Friday morning I stopped off at Al’s and sought advice on how to disable my own car. He showed me which doo-dad to unscrew and which hose to jiggle loose. That afternoon after work, I had Mary Kate walk me out to my car, where I followed Al’s directions. Soon after, Mary Kate, Lisa and Carol—all giggling and shrieking like demented geese—piled into Carol’s Suburban and pulled away. Not so very subtle.

Forty-five minutes later, when Marshall strolled out of the clinic carrying his jacket slung over his shoulder, looking end-of-a-long-week corporate-cute, I had the hood up and my head stuck under it, poking around. As he approached, I realized he had a cameo-shot of my butt, so I scooted behind the steering wheel and cranked the key to add credible sound effects to the scene. The motor made a lovely ratchety, grinding sound, then stopped.

Marshall came up and stood with an arm propped on the open car door. Raising help-me eyebrows to him, I heaved a theatrical sigh.

“
Why are you out here alone?” he asked.

“
Technically, I’m not alone,” I pointed out. “You’re here.”

His lips twitched into a smile before he mastered them, turning his expression into a head-shaking scowl. Stepping back, he held the door open and spread his free arm in an “after you” gesture.

I locked up and jumped into the Saab. Sinking into the buttery smooth seats, I momentarily closed my eyes, inhaling the pungent mixture of spicy aftershave and leather. Very manly.

When I opened my eyes, I found him smiling at my obvious pleasure. I sat up straight, folding my hands good-girl fashion in my lap.

“
Where are we going, Letty?” he asked softly.

Good question. And he used “we” again.

Trying not to stutter, I gave the address of the bowling alley, without naming it. Even Marshall might have heard of Sherm’s, although he seemed more of a hiker-type to me. Despite all the elaborate planning, I hadn’t gone beyond getting him to the bowling alley.
In
was another matter.

When we arrived, he parked in front of the building, leaning forward to peer quizzically at the dancing bowling pin billboard over the entrance. He looked back at me. Here’s where I needed to come up with a clever ploy to lure him, all unsuspecting, into Mary Kate’s clutches. Unfortunately, I was too conscious of sitting alone with him, too aware of his bemused flirtatious smile to develop a coherent plan.

I reached over and confiscated the car keys.

“
I need you to follow me, no questions asked, and act surprised when we get inside.”

He stared blankly for a moment, then his forehead crinkled.

“
Is this going to be painful?” he asked.

“
Probably.”

“
Is Mary Kate involved?”

“
Absolutely.”

He sighed and got out of the car.

Cigarette smoke, the explosive clatter of pins falling, and more than a dozen people screaming “Happy Birthday!” greeted us as we entered. It looked like Mary Kate had been able to coerce everyone—part-timers, interns, and all—to show up. She’d even managed to pry Bob, the office curmudgeon, and Regina, a PhD in attitude, out of the office. How she got them into the bowling alley was scary to contemplate. Mary Kate had unknown powers.

She’d gone full out on the decorations. Balloons, streamers, and a banner blazoned with
Hoppy Birthday
and dancing green frogs in pastel party hats stretched across the back wall.

With dismay, I noted a side table piled high with gaily wrapped presents. We’d all agreed that presents were unnecessary, but judging by the size of the stack, I was the only one who’d bypassed the opportunity to kiss butt. Well, crap.

Giddy with joy, Mary Kate bounced up, flinging her arms around me. As cute as Marshall was, she was probably too shy to approach him so I ended up with the birthday bear hug. Marshall, for his part, did a very credible job of acting surprised.

“
Whose idea was this anyway?” he finally asked.

Next to me, Mary Kate fairly vibrated with delight as all hands pointed out the guilty party.

“
I should have guessed,” he said, walking over and tossing his arm around her shoulder. “Who’s going to buy me a beer?”

Big stampede up to the bar to get the boss a beer.
Big.
I snagged a seat and immediately regretted it, since it landed me next to Regina, sitting like the debutante she formerly was, and across from boring Bob.

I’d tried to like Regina since, in addition to a full client roster, she volunteered several hours a week at a local domestic abuse center. Very commendable. Problem was, she insisted that we pronounce her name like the female body part, which both grossed me out and made me want to giggle. I was forced to avoid her name altogether. At the clinic, Regina was our resident expert on Attention Deficit Disorder in children. Unfortunately (for us, not the children) she didn’t like kids and refused to work with them, instead concentrating on what she called “feminist psychology.” Mainly she worked with divorcees, disgruntled housewives and wild-eyed women prone once a month to homicidal rages—a group with legitimate needs, but one that kept Regina perpetually angry, eternally hostile.

Despite his theoretical maleness, she’d established an uneasy alliance with Bob when Marshall was hired on. Bob, nearing retirement, was tired of dealing with needy people and called it a “bonus hour” when clients blew off their appointments. He played a lot of Solitaire on the computer and alternated between bitching about his bleak future of staying home with the missus—I couldn’t imagine she was thrilled about the prospect either—and complaining about Marshall, whom he resented in an apathetic kind of way. Bob hadn’t bothered to apply for the position when it was posted, didn’t want the headaches that went with it, but he enjoyed complaining about the changes that accompanied the new administration. He constantly referred to Marshall as “that young guy,” while patting down the thinning strands of his own deserting hair.

So far I’d managed to maintain a decent working relationship with each of them by the combined tactics of distant cordiality and active avoidance. When forced to interact, I smiled pleasantly and listened a lot. Come to think of it, I should have charged for therapy.

It would have been awkward to leap up as soon as I’d recognized my error in sitting next to the pair, so I resigned myself to the situation. For the first five minutes, I fretted over what we could possibly talk about. I needn’t have worried. They both ignored me, but not in the hostile way that they reserved for many of my co-workers. I was free to people-watch.

With the notable exception of Regina and her merry band of Bob, it looked like folks were trying to have a good time in that stilted, beginning-of-the-party, don’t-know-the-rules-for-this kind of way. The laughter was a little bit too loud, the tone a little too forced as people groped for conversational topics that didn’t revolve around work so they could prove A.) they really
were
interested in each other as people and not just co-workers and B.) they really
did
know how to relax. Knowing how to relax is important to us mental health types; it demonstrates good coping skills. No one wanted to admit that we occasionally burrowed under a quilt and wished the world would go away. Or that we might drink ourselves into oblivion as a way of numbing our pain.

However, when Marshall popped on a garish pair of blue and red rental shoes, cuffed up his shirt sleeves, and started rolling strikes, the ice officially shattered. Yet another colleague with undiscovered talents.
I wonder what other… ?