“They gave me a book. The big book by Bill W. and I was determined, so I read it, read it all in one weekend with a jug of bourbon.” A low rumble of laughter. “Showed up at the Monday night meeting and Don said, ‘Frank, you drunk right now? ’Cause you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.’ I said yeah. So he gave me a cup of coffee and sat me in the back. After the meeting was over, he said, ‘You got to break some habits.’ So he said he’d take me to ninety meetings in ninety days and that’s what we did.
“I got sober and got a new wife. Chose right this time.” He grabs onto Barb’s thick fingers. “And now we come up here and I ain’t got a need to drink. Turns out, I like fishing. I like the cool water and the way the wind sounds when it picks up a gust in the trees. That’s called serenity, I guess. I made my peace with it. I look around this fire and I know these faces: Joe and Les, this new guy Paul and his woman, Gerry. Gerry, we gonna have to get you a little less coffee, I think.” Everyone laughs. Mom blushes, beaming. “But I’m glad I’m here with you and not somewhere drinkin’. I ain’t got a mistress no more, but I got a God, a higher power, and he’s in control now and it’s better that way ’cause he knows what he’s doing better ’n I do. I’m not saying everything is perfect. We all know we got our struggles.” Heads nod, a low murmur of agreement. “But I got this woman, got Frank junior here, got a bucket a fish I caught and we fried some up to eat, got these trees, this fire, all of you, and I didn’t drink today. That’s all.” He goes silent and we listen to the crack of the fire. Sparks fly up and disappear into the night sky.
“Thanks, Frank,” Les says.
“Thanks, Frank,” comes a chorus of quiet voices.
I feel warm there in the circle because everyone is happy to be together and sitting here is better than sitting at home eating rabbit for dinner. Everyone is so glad to be sober and it seems to me that alcohol must be the worst thing in the world since there are so many stories about it. All the kids left to freeze, all the women crying in the dark. There’s a strange magic to the word since it’s said constantly as the root of all evil as in “Well, in those days, we were drinking, so we didn’t give a shit.” People say, “It’s good you guys are here so you can learn not to ever drink,” as if we’re getting a flu shot. And I wonder why everyone needs to drink so bad in the first place.
I think about the kids in all the stories, sitting alone in a truck shivering while their dads drink in a bar, left alone after school, on birthdays, Christmas, children hiding bottles from their parents, doctor’s appointments missed, and I wonder if we are those children. Tony and me.
Everyone is so certain it’s a “family disease” and we all have it whether we want to admit it or not. And so far I was born in Synanon and sent to the School because my dad did drugs and now we go to AA because my stepdad drinks. Grandma can hardly get out of bed without her Dutch so I can’t help but wonder: Am I next? Which will I grow up to be? Because it seems like my choices are limited to being the one who leaves to use drugs or the one who stays home and cries about it. And that’s no choice at all.
At the end of the meeting we all stand up in a circle and recite,
Our father who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On Earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day, our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil
For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.
Keep comin’ back, it works!
There’s a short silence and I’m proud of myself because I memorized the words to the Lord’s Prayer from a pamphlet in the backseat on the drive up to the mountains. It was comforting to think about heaven and bread, to pretend we were one of those families who went to church on Sundays instead of three people who’d escaped from a C-U-L-T or a commune that went bad like old milk who met up with a drunk who raises rabbits. I didn’t know what the words meant except I knew alcohol was the temptation because everyone knew that. And I wished I had more daily bread because we were usually out of bread.
I like the power of knowing the words themselves, as if knowing the prayer is a kind of shield that protects me. If I only know the words, that means I know God and I know how to bring him to life in his judgment and forgiveness, his kingdom which is bigger than everything. This God is more vivid than the vague and mysterious “higher power” I am always hearing about in meetings, the silent blue sky that goes on forever. And even though I didn’t know him very well, I knew God was on my side because otherwise what was the point?
After the meeting Mom asks me if I liked listening to the stories and if I understood now that alcoholism is a family disease that affects everyone and I say I liked Frank’s story the best because he’s funny and talks like a mountain. Tony says, can we roast marshmallows now?
Everyone hugs each other, just walks around the fire finding a new person to squeeze. I get a hug from Paul first and a few of the other women. Les McCarthy walks up to me and says, “I guess they’re letting you stay up tonight!” He picks me up and squeezes my chest hard. “It’s good you’re here with your mom.” He puts me down and he tells Paul they’re going to have a poker game later. “Nickel ante, sound good? We just play for fun.” Paul says he doesn’t know poker very well but he’ll come. Tony is already in the car getting the marshmallows that we were told we could roast on the fire after the meeting.
Mom lets me stay up with the men for the poker game. I sit next to Paul at a table with Frank and Les and a few others. Frank smokes his short Lucky Strikes with no filters and says, “Let’s play draw this time. One-eyed jacks and suicide kings wild.” Or, “This one’s Omaha, like Hold ’Em but with more chances to screw it up.” I memorize the phrases knowing the kids on Breys Avenue will be impressed. Paul shows me his cards and makes bets with the small plastic chips in front of him. I study the men. They seem like buffalo to me. Proud and quiet, hairy and enormous. There’s no small talk. When Mom has Diane over, they gab and gab and sometimes they’ll play gin rummy but the game isn’t as important as the talking, the sharing of feelings and thoughts and secret stories. The men burp and eat chips. They smoke and scratch chins. They say, “I got the aces this time, gentlemen,” in a low rumble that sounds like a bowling ball rolling down a sidewalk. “Aw shit, I missed my straight.” Cards are slammed down onto the table. “Who’s got the old lady? I know one of you two chumps is holding trips.” They don’t mind explaining the game to me. Paul even lets me ante when Frank says, “Ante up, Seven-Stud Black Mariah with deuces wild.”
The words are part of it. The way they’re spat. There’s power in them, like the Lord’s Prayer. And like the prayer, they bring something to life. I think about those suicide kings. Why did they kill themselves? Who took over the kingdom after they died? What happened to their queens? What about their sons, those one-eyed jacks? How did they lose their eyes? Did it have something to do with their dads who committed suicide? Did they drink too much? Is that the point of the game? It’s all so quick and violent, the phrases spat without effort. “I got the flush to the ace, so unless you’re holding a boat, you better ship ’em,” and “Sheeit, I think you’re bluffing, but I ain’t got the hand to call you down, pardner.”