Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

He had to admit alcoholism was democratic, encompassing every age, race, social status, and financial standing. So far he hadn’t run into anyone he knew, but he was braced for the possibility. After his release from the hospital, he’d gone down to the police station with his attorney and surrendered himself to the authorities. The booking process had been matter-of-fact, for which he’d been inordinately grateful. He’d been more than cooperative, thinking to demonstrate that he was a cut above most of those who passed through their hands. It was a mark of how low he’d sunk that he deemed their opinions relevant. Later, at his arraignment, he’d pleaded not guilty and now he was waiting for a court date. When the cops caught up with him after the accident, he’d been forced to surrender his driver’s license, so he’d had to hire a car and driver to ferry him around town.

Betty Sherrard, the bank vice president and portfolio manager, had offered a solution to the transportation problem. Her son, Brent, was living at home until school started in the fall. He was twenty and worked part-time stocking shelves at Von’s supermarket. He needed the extra money and he was able to tailor his hours to accommodate Walker ’s needs. Walker paid him fifteen dollars an hour, plus mileage on his mother’s spare car, a 1986 Toyota. It was all a pain in the ass, but he had no choice.

The woman standing up in front was speaking about the trajectory of her drinking woes, a spiral as relentless as a toilet being flushed, according to her report: First, the family intervention, which had shocked her into good behavior. She’d been one year sober and then her mother died and she’d begun to drink again the day of the funeral. Three months later, she swore off alcohol again, but there were countless falls from grace, each one more degrading than the one before. Her husband divorced her. She lost custody of her kids. She was a mean drunk and her friends had taken to avoiding her. One morning she woke up in her car, which was parked at a shopping mall a hundred miles from home. She had no idea how she’d gotten there. Her purse had been stolen and she’d had to hike to the nearest service station, where she bummed enough money to call and beg her ex-sister-in-law to pick her up. Waiting, she’d finally accepted the fact she couldn’t do it on her own. Now she was fifty-one days clean and sober, which netted her a big round of applause.

Walker thought his circumstances were tame by comparison. True, Carolyn had forced him to leave the house, but he was confident she’d relent. He still saw his kids every chance he got and he still had a job, for god’s sake. He’d messed up badly, but his problems didn’t hold a patch on some he’d heard here. This was a bump in the road, a wake-up call. He’d stumbled off course and now he’d righted himself. All these stories about people losing everything and living on the streets? He sympathized, but his situation was entirely different. One guy had made it clean and sober for five years, two months, and five days. The best Walker could offer up was seven days, not even worth one hand clapping. He’d have felt like a fool if he’d stood up and shared that. Belatedly, he flashed on the fact that while he’d been busy patting himself on the back, he’d forgotten about the girl he’d killed.

Sitting there, he could feel his demons stir. It wasn’t that he wanted a drink as such. It was the option to drink that he found hard to renounce. At some point in the future-five years or ten, he was unclear on the time frame-he wanted to believe he could enjoy a cocktail or a glass of wine. How many special occasions would come and go with him sipping soda water or a Diet Coke, detached and disengaged? Not drinking for the remainder of his life was too extreme a penalty. Surely, he’d regain the privilege once he learned to moderate his intake.

Carolyn would have told him he was kidding himself, but it wasn’t true. He was grappling with his so-called drinking problem and he was doing his best. How much more did she expect? He wanted a drink. He admitted it, especially now with this other business coming to the fore. The subject was like a cracked tooth he kept feeling with his tongue to see if the fissure had progressed.

He checked his watch. Half an hour yet. All he could think about was how burdened he was. Over the years guilt had chafed at him, and now his only relief occurred during that magic moment when a drink went down and the warmth spread through his chest, untying the knots, loosening the noose around his neck. He was losing his capacity to tolerate the weight of anxiety that dogged him from day to day. How would he grow old with such a canker in his soul?

An eternity later, the meeting ended and the room emptied with a clatter of chairs being folded and stacked against the wall. He felt a touch on his arm that made him jump.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

He turned. Avis Jent stood close by, in a spiky blaze of dark red hair, the scent of whiskey pouring off her skin. Shit, he thought, had she come to the meeting drunk? His right arm was still in a sling so he didn’t make a move to shake hands.

Her eyes widened at the sight of his face. “Oh, I love that blend of purple and yellow. The black eyes make you look like a raccoon. You got yourself banged up good.”

“I take it you heard about the accident.”

“Me and everyone else. The whole of Horton Ravine is abuzz.”

“Thanks. I’m feeling so much better for having talked to you.” Walker hadn’t seen Avis since their chance encounter on Via Juliana, that nightmare of patrol cars, police personnel, and rumors of a dead child. He hadn’t read a word in the paper about the incident, unless an article had appeared while he was in St. Terry’s and out of commission.

Avis wasn’t looking good. He’d once thought her attractive, but the fluorescent lighting didn’t do her any favors. In her current state of inebriation, her eyes were out of focus and her loose-limbed swaying was such that he had to put a hand out to steady her.

She said, “Whoa.”

“I hope you didn’t drive over here in this condition.”

“I came by cab. My license was permanently yanked. What a drag,” she said. “And you?”

“I have a kid who squires me around town.”

“Lucky you. How many meetings? Is this your first?”

“Third.”

She smiled. “Clever move. Paying lip service so you’ll look good when your case goes to trial. I’ve done the same thing myself.”

Her tone was bantering but smug, and it annoyed the shit out of him. “How’s Carolyn holding up?” she asked, eyes wide with sympathy.

“Great. She’s been very supportive, a real brick.”

Avis made a face. “Well, that surprises me. I don’t think of her as understanding. She let you stay at the house?”

“Not at the moment. I’m at the Pelican in Montebello, two blocks from the bank, which simplifies life to some extent. I still see the kids.”

She looked around the room, which was empty except for the two of them. “I don’t suppose you could give me a ride home. I’m low on cash and the taxi over cost me twenty bucks. We could have a quick drink.”

“Jesus, Avis. Would you give it a rest?”

She laughed. “It was a joke.”

“Not a funny one.”

“Oh, lighten up. This isn’t the end of the world.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Nice seeing you. Have a good life.”

“Good-bye to you, too. Change your mind, you know where I am. Second house on the right as you turn on Alita Lane.”

He moved past her, crossing to the exit, aware that she followed him with her gaze as he stepped out of the room. Four middle-aged men were standing on the patio, smoking, oversized coffee cups in hand. This was the life that awaited him, endless cups of coffee and a cloud of cigarette smoke. Avis, still plastered, represented the other end of the spectrum, which was no more attractive than the one in front of him. How had he ended up in this hell on earth?