Without hesitating, he dialed Cal. “I fucked up,” Billy cried, when his sponsor answered.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten miles out of town?” He’d stared out the window, searching for a landmark, but all he saw were more farm fields.
“Did you take a drink?”
“Yeah. I’m such a fuckup.”
“It’s called a relapse, man. It happens,” Cal said calmly. “What triggered it?”
“I don’t know. Scott’s not here. I’m bored, I’m lonely. I saw limes at the store, and all I could think about was how good a drink would taste. I’ll tell you what else. I’m fucking tired of being sober. It’s too damn hard.”
“Yeah, man. It is hard. That’s the point. You been livin’ on that pink cloud. You got complacent, let down your guard.”
“If Scott finds out, he’ll leave me,” Billy sobbed.
“This ain’t about Scott loving you. It’s about you loving you, Billy. I think we need to meet, bro.”
“Can’t we just talk like this?”
“I don’t think so. Is it safe for you to drive?”
“Yeah. I haven’t had all that much. Just a couple of stiff ones.”
“That’s a lot,” Cal said sharply. “You need to get out from behind the wheel before you do something bad.”
“I’ve already done something bad,” Billy said. “Anyway, I’m way out in bumfuck Egypt.”
“Come over to my place,” Cal repeated. “I’ll make you some coffee and get you sobered up.”
* * *
Billy sat in his car in the alley behind the Mexican restaurant, with the car’s engine running, staring up at the single light burning in the second-floor window. He sighed and poured vodka up to the rim of his plastic cup. Most of the ice cubes had melted, and the tonic water was gone. He took a sip, sucked on the lime slice, and tried to gather the courage to get out of the car and face the music.
Five minutes later his cell phone rang.
“I see you sitting down there in your car,” Cal said. “Come on up. The coffee’s on.”
“Forget it. This is a waste of time.” Billy started the car.
“No!” Cal yelled. “Don’t go. I’m coming down.”
A minute later his sponsor scrambled down the steel staircase, with Heidi following on his heels. Cal was barefoot, dressed in raggedy jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt. He reached in the open window and made a grab for the keys.
Billy batted his hand away. “I’m gone, man.” He threw the car into Reverse and started to back out.
“The hell you are.” Cal ran around and yanked the passenger’s-side door open, sliding into the seat. The dog barked and dove onto his lap.
“Get out,” Billy said plaintively. “I can’t do this. Just get out, okay?” He was slowly backing the car out.
“I’m staying right where I’m at,” Cal said stubbornly. “You can do it. You’ve got almost a year sober. You know how many guys quit before they do that? A lot. Most don’t make it as far as you have.”
The dog scrambled into the backseat with one sharp bark.
“And this is where I quit,” Billy said, lifting the cup to his lips.
Cal snatched the cup from his hand, spilling vodka and ice cubes all over himself and the floorboards.
“Jesus! Look what you did.”
“Good riddance,” Cal said, tossing the cup out the window. “You don’t need that shit anymore, Billy.”
“That’s what you think.” Billy put the car in Drive and looked over at his sponsor. “Get out, Cal. I mean it.”
“I’m not leaving this car,” Cal said.
“Suit yourself.” Billy floored the accelerator and the car blasted out of the alley and onto Main Street. A few minutes later he was back on the county road, doing seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped through the open windows and the fields and farmhouses became a blur.
“Slow the fuck down,” Cal commanded.
Billy sped up to eighty.
Cal crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think you’re doing, brother?”
“I’m out of tonic water. And ice,” Billy replied. “I will drink straight vodka, if I have to, but everything’s nice with ice, don’t you think?”
Cal didn’t take the bait. “You say you’re afraid Scott will leave you if he finds out you’re drinking again. Is that what you want?”
“I’m not talking about this,” Billy said. “And leave Scott out of it.”
“Okay, I’ll do the talking. You fucked up, yeah. But you don’t have to keep drinking. You can save your sobriety. Save yourself,” Cal said urgently.
“Maybe I don’t want to be saved,” Billy said. “I suck at sobriety. But I am great at being a drunk. It’s the one thing I’m good at. Like playing the piano. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve been a practicing drunk my whole life.” He shoved the CD back in the player and turned the volume as high as it would go, drowning out Cal’s reasoning and his sanity.
Cal reached into the cup holder and grabbed Billy’s cell phone. He scrolled through the numbers, nodded, and held the phone up for Billy to see.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m calling Scott. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.” Cal’s finger was poised on the screen.
“No!” Billy grabbed for the phone, but Cal jerked sideways. The next thing Billy knew, the Olds veered off the road and onto the shoulder. A massive oak tree loomed in his headlights. He slammed on the brakes. Too late.
* * *
The first thing he heard when he regained consciousness was a soft whimpering. With effort, he looked over to check on his passenger. But Cal was gone. Billy’s view was obscured by what looked like a tree limb, and what he could see of the seat was covered with bark and leaves and bits of sparkly glass pebbles. He felt a warm liquid trickle down his cheek, reached up to touch it and stared at the blood covering his fingertip. His head felt as though it had been pummeled with a sledgehammer. He passed out again.
He had no idea whether minutes or hours passed before he came to again, but he was cold, his head throbbed, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He moved slightly and cried out in pain. He gritted his teeth, and with supreme effort managed to wrench open the heavy car door. He pulled himself out of the vehicle and propped himself up on the open door.
Moonlight spilled onto the crumpled hood of the Olds. Now he heard the whimpering again. He staggered toward the source of the sound. Heidi, the German shepherd, was crouched down on the grass, her muzzle pressed close to the motionless head of her master.
Billy stood for a moment, rooted to the spot. “Cal!” he cried, rushing to his friend’s side. He knelt down in the heat-seared grass and, with a trembling hand, gingerly touched Cal’s neck, feeling for a pulse. The dog whined, a high-pitched keening sound that chilled Billy’s soul. She nudged repeatedly at Cal’s shoulder with her snout.
Billy stroked her fur, and she turned her head slightly, looked up at him with deep, liquid eyes, hesitated, and then licked his hand. “He’s gone, girl,” Billy said softly. “He’s gone.”