Needle Too (15 page)

About a week after Amy left, Andrea was hired as a waitress at the Fort Myers restaurant I was working in and I immediately felt a strange attraction to her, though I’m not exactly sure why. And while I suppose she wasn’t
technically
a nymphomaniac, she had a staggering sexual appetite. Andrea lived across the river in Cape Coral but was originally from Boston—which wasn’t at all unusual as the west coast of Florida was home to an inordinately large number of transplants from Massachusetts. Being from New York this eventually became problematic because most Bostonians were so beaten down by 80-years of baseball failure and harassment
they seemed to have conditioned themselves to automatically take the defensive by taking the
offensiv
e—especially if they heard even the slightest hint of a New York accent. And to me, of course—a
Boston
accent sounds like bad breath smells.

“The Yankees suck…we’re gonna wipe the floor with you tonight!” I’d occasionally hear at my regular watering hole in that THICK accent, though I’d usually try to cover my ears to avoid the offensive odor of stupidity.

“I don’t even like the fucking Yankees,” was my standard response to Boston transplants along with the rest of the west coast of Florida which—unlike those on the eastern side of the state—generally seemed to take exception to all things New York.

“And in October we’re taking the fucking Series!” said a delusional Red Sox fan who was also apparently suffering from some sort of identity crisis.

“Now listen to me you pathetic, pointless, piss hole of a twat—
YOU’RE
not gonna do a FUCKING THING!! Regardless of what happens in a stupid baseball game,
YOUR
miserable and meaningless life will go on as scheduled and only get worse with the passing of time—
got it you fucking dipshit???
Now whaddaya wanna eat for dinner tonight, sweetie?”

Andrea had two little boys from two different relationships and terrible grammar but she wasn’t stupid by any means, and though she wasn’t pretty in any obvious way she totally turned me on
and
she smoked a lot of pot. But prospects for a real relationship with Andrea were dim because I was in no condition to be in one and besides, although I had no idea where I wanted to settle down it certainly wasn’t Florida. Of course, I also knew it couldn’t be New York or I’d be doomed and I suppose on some level that awareness was the beginning of some sort of recovery—if you want to call it that. But at the same time I felt smothered and stymied by sobriety and boredom and a complete lack of ambition or better yet—
inspiration
. Life had become bland, one-dimensional and empty even though I was smoking about a quarter of an ounce of weed each month to fill the void. Then on April 8
^th
Amy called.

“I’m eight weeks pregnant,” was all she said as I learned I was going to be a parent.

Obviously, I was totally unprepared for fatherhood and over the last eight years had effectively demonstrated the fact that I couldn’t even take care of
myself
. Besides, what in the world did
I
know about being a
father
? Of course, I’m sure my own father loved me and was proud of me but practically speaking, I didn’t know how a decent father was supposed to behave as Daddy had clocked-out when I was barely five. Hell, I didn’t even know how a decent
mother
was supposed to behave and
she
tortured me well into adolescence. I suppose, at least in this particular sense, I might as well have been an orphan. But then again, a creative and thoughtful orphan with a truly unmediated view of parenthood might be better equipped to fill in the gaps, because my gaps were filled with horror stories. In fact, I can honestly say that during my childhood I can only recall one, extremely brief, but marginally meaningful moment when I think I felt something like parental love, or at least something close to parental concern.

When I was around 10 years-old, I stumbled upon an egg that had fallen out of a tree and onto one of the sidewalks surrounding Cryder House. The egg was bluish in hue, and amidst the wreckage of a broken shell there was a baby bird that was blue as well, and with its big baby-bird eyes shut ever so tightly it appeared to be pristinely asleep and unaware of its own misfortune. Of course, the baby bird
wasn’t
sleeping.

That spring and summer there seemed to be a lot of those baby birds, and each time the helpless little victim seemed fully formed and just a day or two from being a happy,
healthy
, baby bird. That destiny, of course, was sadly snatched away from them and each time I stumbled upon one of those unhatched hatchlings I was
terribly moved by it. It seemed SO unfair to spend so much time in that damn egg just to suddenly hit the ground and never even see it coming. Come to think of it, maybe it was better
not
to see it coming. But regardless, for it all to end before it ever began was something that brought me to tears.

I left the sadness lying there on the Cryder House sidewalk but it stayed with me for
years
, and during the late spring and early summer months I’d often find myself scanning the ground for broken eggs in the park or on my way to the bus stop without even realizing it. For a while it became almost obsessive, and though I could never quite muster the courage to bury the babies like I
should have
, I think I felt I had to at least…
acknowledge
them. Perhaps, if I
did
bury them I would’ve achieved some sort of closure, but instead I’d occasionally relive those sad discoveries in nightmares and it was after one of these that I remember awakening to my mother rubbing my back and telling me everything was okay.

Without a doubt, this is the only truly tender moment I can recall spending with Mrs. Goodman.

But even though my parenting skills were perhaps compromised by my dysfunctional childhood, I still knew a few things. First of all, while Amy was still just barely pregnant, I knew Savannah was a girl while her mother was convinced she was a boy. Secondly, and more importantly, I
knew
she was mine—
even though Amy and I rarely had sex
. That said, when Amy—who was completely overwhelmed with the notion of motherhood—began to seriously consider putting Savannah up for adoption I simply
had
to put my foot down. After all, I couldn’t live with myself after unleashing a redheaded terror genetically disposed to wreak havoc and misery on everyone around her without at least being there to…
fine-tune the performance
.

After I made it crystal clear that I had every intention of being Savannah’s father, Amy decided she couldn’t live with herself
while knowing where the wreckage was occurring. Consequently, she decided to embrace her own parental responsibilities as well, but from the beginning I knew we could never be a couple because then there’d be
three
miserable people living under the same roof and I was under the impression that Amy agreed because she said she did.

Regardless of what precise shape Savannah’s family would take, money was now a huge factor and with the summer approaching I decided to once again start flapping my gums about seasonal work on Long Island. Before I knew it Andrea made a few calls, secured jobs and housing for us at the Montauk Yacht Club and on May 19
^th
we delivered her kids to their respective fathers—before heading north in an old Ford Taurus that wasn’t as grand as the one Matt sold to Perry for 300 bucks.

Over the last year or so I’d spoken sparingly to my mother, and not too long before departing for Long Island she called to ask that Andrea and I visit her in Connecticut before continuing on to Montauk. Of course, it was suspicious enough for my mother to go out of her way to invite
me
—let alone my nymphomaniac girlfriend and mother of two from two former relationships—to spend some time with her at her apartment, but I deliberately banished any potentially disruptive thoughts because for the first time in a while I was focused and heroin-free. Savannah’s impending arrival awakened a sense of infinite accountability within me and though I didn’t admit it aloud or in any other way, I knew this was one responsibility I couldn’t shirk or mute the enormity of with drugs. It was no longer only about me or my ego as my blank check for self-centeredness had been cashed long ago. And I was excited about it.

After 23 hours of driving we made it to Glenbrook Road on the afternoon of May 20
^th
. We were greeted by my mother at the door and then, exhausted from the ride, almost immediately passed-out on her living room couches until dinnertime, at which point she decided to whip-up an old family favorite and order a pizza. Then,
after a couple of beers she asked Andrea to excuse the two of us for a moment before she led me into my sister’s bedroom.

She sat down on the bed and suddenly explained that I had two older brothers and sisters I knew nothing about from another family my father had
prior
to meeting my mother. She also said she was really, really, sorry she hadn’t mentioned it earlier and that if I was interested—which I wasn’t—she would try to arrange a meeting between all six of my father’s children as Mother became uncharacteristically considerate and obliging. And though she never provided an answer to justify her continued silence in the matter, there were a few obvious reasons why she might not have initially been so forthcoming—especially right after my father died when a relationship with his older offspring might’ve provided me with some measure of comfort. Of course, preeminent among them is that she lacked the character to do so as such a public revelation would
also
require her to reveal the fact that she wasn’t my father’s first and only wife, which is something her ego simply wouldn’t permit. And regardless of whether or not she knew about the existence of my secret siblings when she married him—which I doubt she did or I doubt she would’ve—I believe my mother’s vanity, her extraordinarily inflated sense of self and her take-no-prisoners, win-at-all-costs ego would consider any Goodman children born outside
their
marriage to be a constant reminder of her lack of singularity, and perhaps on some level even a threat. She simply wasn’t a big enough person to handle that kind of information, much less do anything healthy or constructive with it even for the sake and well-being of her children. And certainly, the generationally warped sense of family my mother was not only a product of but helped perpetuate, would hardly compel her to extend any meaningful overtures—as if that even needed saying at this point.

So anyway, I suddenly found myself a week away from my 30
^th
birthday and discovering for the first time that I had four older siblings who were now well in to their forties. But here’s where it gets weird: Mrs. Goodman goes on to explain that the
original
Mrs. Goodman was taking legal action and claiming to be the rightful beneficiary of an investment my father made prior to his death, along with the interest or dividends it had continued to generate which, of course, my mother had been using to finance a lavish lifestyle for 25 years. And, she explained, in order for that to continue, as the first born child on this branch of the Philip Goodman Family Tree, she would need
my
signature on a legal document that she suddenly pulled out of nowhere.

Ah yes, it was all becoming quite clear. This whole bit about my long lost siblings was really just subplot, because I’m certain their existence would’ve remained a secret had money not suddenly come into play. Indeed, this little chat wasn’t about family, it was about
finances
. But why in the world would Mother need
my
signature to fend off some sort of legal challenge mounted by my father’s first wife? Was it perhaps because
I
, in fact, was the rightful beneficiary of something unknown to me that Mother had been pilfering for years, and now that I was on the cusp of my 30
^th
birthday it finally needed to be signed or authorized or approved or altered or perhaps even “legally” relinquished in order for business to go on as usual? And what type of document intended to help establish the legal and rightful recipient or heir of
anything
is signed in a dimly lit room without at least a notary or witness being present?

Of course, it all stunk to high heaven and I knew it, but I refused to consider the new data in its entirety or try to connect the dots. Instead, I chose to banish it to the same space I’d always reserved for things I couldn’t deal with, although this thing unlike other things in the past was obscured by only two beers as opposed to two bags and as a result it was much more difficult to ignore. Nonetheless, I’d been heroin-free for eight months ever since last summer’s relapse that wasn’t really a relapse and
had
to look away and not fuel the potential fury and sense of betrayal that was now simmering just below my surface. I couldn’t allow myself to be emotionally overcome and consumed by what was likely my mother’s treachery. Savannah needed me to maintain control of
myself and my impulses and not lose sight of what was truly important by going off the deep end and after my mother like I’d learned to go after people—to verbally vanquish them until there was nothing left and then go back for seconds. It was a weapon of worded-warfare I’d honed since adolescence, and one that my mother actually instilled in me and helped develop but wouldn’t stand a chance against, especially now that she couldn’t neutralize it by physically lashing out. No, I
had
to remain focused. I had to remain in control. I just couldn’t afford to incapacitate myself by expending
that
kind of furious energy, especially while in such a vulnerable state. And though dope wasn’t something that I typically turned to in order to alleviate feelings of anger or anxiety, given my proximity to the goods I knew it wouldn’t be much of a stretch for me to get carried away on a wave of bitter emotion and rationalize a trip to 125
^th
Street. I simply
had
to make a concerted effort to deceive myself and bury the fury for the sake of my own survival and my unborn daughter’s future. So, I signed the paper and looked away from the fact that besides destroying the vast majority of pictures I’d had of my father in the physical world and trying to sully and tarnish any memories I’d had of him since childhood, she was now likely attempting to steal whatever legacy he’d left for me. And I was helping her do it.