I said, "My name is Matt and I'm an alcoholic, and my hangovers used to be bad, too. I figured I was done with them in sobriety, so I felt a little resentful when I woke up with one this morning. It didn't seem fair, and I started off the day with a pretty good resentment. Then I reminded myself that I used to feel that way every morning of my life, and that I took it for granted, I didn't even object to it very strongly.
My God, a normal person who woke up feeling like that would have gone to a hospital, and I would just pull up my socks and go work."
A few other people spoke, and then it was the turn of a woman named Carole. "I never woke up with a hangover since I've been sober,"
she said, "but I identify with what Matt said in another sense. Because I like to believe that everything works out for us once we stop drinking, that bad things don't happen to us anymore. And that's not true. The miracle of sobriety isn't that our lives get better, but that we stay sober even when they get bad. But it still tears me up when bad things happen.
When Cody got AIDS I couldn't believe how unfair it was. Sober people aren't supposed to get AIDS! But the thing is they do, and when they do they die, just like everybody else. And sober people don't commit suicide. My God, all the times I tried to kill myself when I was drinking, and I don't do that anymore, and I thought nobody did, not sober. And then today I learned how Toni committed suicide, and I thought, that's not supposed
to happen. But anything can happen, and I still can't pick up a drink."
I went up to Carole on the break and asked if Toni had been a member of our group. "Came here all the time," she said. "Sober three years. Toni Cleary."
"I can't place him."
"Her. I'm sure you knew her, Matt. Tall, dark hair, around my age.
Worked in the garment center, I forget doing what but she used to talk about how she was having an affair with her boss. I'm positive you knew her."
"My God," I said.
"She never struck me as suicidal. But I guess you never know, do you?"
"We went out and spoke together in Queens less than a week ago,"
I said. "The two of us and Richie Gelman, we went all the way out to Richmond Hill together." I scanned the room looking for Richie, as if he could help confirm what I was saying. I didn't see him. "She seemed in great shape," I said. "She sounded fine."
"I saw her Friday night and she seemed fine then. I don't remember what she said but she didn't seem depressed or anything."
"We had a bite afterward. She seemed solid and content, happy with her life. What was it, pills?"
She shook her head. "She went out a window. It was in the paper and there was something on the six o'clock news tonight. It was freaky, because she landed on some kid fresh out of church services and he was killed, too. Crazy, isn't it?"
Call your cousin, the message read.
This time I didn't have to go through the answering machine. She picked up on the first ring. "He called,"
she said.
"And?"
"He said, 'Elaine, I know you're there. Pick up the telephone and turn off your machine.' And I did."
"Why?"
"I don't know why. He told me to do it and I did it. He said he had a message for you."
"What was the message?"
"Matt, why did I turn off the machine? He told me to do it and I did it. What if he tells me to unlock the door and let him in? Am I going to do it?"
"No, you're not."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that would be unsafe and you'd know not to do it. It didn't put you in any danger to turn off the machine. There's a difference."
"I wonder."
So did I, but I would keep my doubts to myself. I said, "What was the message?"
"Oh right. It didn't make any sense, at least I don't think it did. To me. I wrote it down right after he hung up so I wouldn't forget it. Where did I put it?"
I suppose I knew what it was. I must have.
"Here it is," she said. " 'Tell him I'm going to take all his women away. Tell him yesterday was number two. No extra charge for the kid on the street. He was a dividend.' Does any of that make any sense to you?"
"No," I said. "But I know what it means."
I called Anita. She had remarried, and it was her husband who answered the phone. I apologized for calling so late and asked to speak to Mrs. Carmichael. It felt strange calling her that, but the whole call felt strange.
I told her I was probably bothering her for nothing, but that there was a situation she ought to know about. I went through it quickly, explaining that a man I'd put away years ago was carrying on a psychopathic vendetta, trying to get back at me by killing all my women.
"Except I don't have any," I said, "so he's been forced to interpret the phrase loosely. He killed one woman who was a witness against him twelve years ago, and he killed another who was the most casual acquaintance of mine you could imagine. I didn't even know her last name."
"But he killed her. Why don't the police arrest him?"
"I'm hoping they will. But in the meantime—"
"You think I'm in danger?"
"I honestly don't know. He may not know you exist, and if he does there's no reason to assume he'd know your married name or your new address. But the guy's resourceful."
"What about the boys?"
One was in the service, the other in college on the other side of the country. "They don't have anything to worry about," I said. "It's women he's really interested in."
"In killing, you mean. God. What do you think I should do?''
I made some suggestions. That she think about taking a vacation, if it was convenient. Failing that, that she notify the local police and see what protection they could provide. She and her husband might even want to think about hiring private security guards. And they should certainly pay attention and see if they were being followed or watched, and should avoid opening doors to strangers, and—
"God damn it," she said. "We're divorced. I'm married to somebody else. Doesn't that make a difference?"
"I don't know," I said. "He may be like the Catholic church. He may not recognize divorce."
We talked some more, and then I had her put her husband on the line and went through the whole thing with him. He seemed sensible and decisive and I hung up feeling that he'd think it through and do something positive. I only wished I could say the same for myself.
I went over to the window and looked out at the city. When I moved in you could see the World Trade Center towers from my window, but since then various builders have come along, eating up different portions of the sky. I still have a fairly decent view, but it's not what it used to be.
It was raining again. I wondered if he was out there. Maybe he'd get wet, maybe he'd catch his death.
I picked up the phone and called Jan.
She is a sculptor, with a loft south of Canal on Lispenard Street. I had met her back when we were both drinking, and we did some good drinking at her place, she and I. Then she got sober and we stopped seeing each other, and then I got sober and we began again. And then it stopped working, and then it ended, and neither of us ever quite understood why.
When she answered I said, "Jan, it's Matt. I'm sorry to be calling so late."
"It is late," she said. "Is something the matter?"
"Definitely," I said. "I'm not sure whether or not it affects you. My fear is that it might."
"I don't understand."
I went through it in a little more detail than I had with Anita. Jan had seen the TV coverage of Toni's death, but of course she hadn't suspected that it was anything other than the suicide it appeared to be.
Nor had she known that Toni was in the program.
"I wonder if I ever met her."
"You could have. You came to St. Paul's a few times. And she got around some, spoke at other meetings."