Recovery (13 page)
Authors: John Berryman
In the Snack Room an hour agoâwe were aloneâJeree suddenly opened her mouth and said, âI'm scared.' Rush of love and pity. For almost two weeks now we have been sitting there hours a day and I'm not sure she has said one word since the first morning (been in treatment before). Later: she's
always
shy, scaredâbut her psychiatrist helped her yesterday morning. If only she'd talk in Group; worked on her; you've got to come out.
always
shy, scaredâbut her psychiatrist helped her yesterday morning. If only she'd talk in Group; worked on her; you've got to come out.
Hank Poore tells me (the Theologian of the Slip) that after nine years is it sobriety he
still
feels now and then that he can handle it. I have written Step One in the front of my 24-Hour Book and include it now in the 5 to 20 min. meditation every morning before washingâ
still
feels now and then that he can handle it. I have written Step One in the front of my 24-Hour Book and include it now in the 5 to 20 min. meditation every morning before washingâ
Scrotal fire.
Â
Â
New to me?: âthe Jewish conception speedily became unique. No other nation of antiquity ever came to the point of regarding itself as chosen not for its own advantage but
for service.'
A bearing attraction.
for service.'
A bearing attraction.
Also find: âMan may be the crown of creation, but he is totally a creature. God, not he, made him, his faculties, the world. What is more, he serves the good, if at all, in no more than in infinitesimal degree, and then with many an interval of truancy and unfaithfulness.' Reassuring after
my talk Wednesday (with Dr G and Fr Krueger) about policing my phantasies. I find I get nowhere again and again, almost give up trying. But doesn't
Christ
expect more? I'm nervous sometimes with a faith that never mentions Him or the saints (though the Psalmist uses the word). On the other hand, the over-all sense here of the importance of the Person seems beyond Xtianity really. âNo special privileges' however, and I like that.
my talk Wednesday (with Dr G and Fr Krueger) about policing my phantasies. I find I get nowhere again and again, almost give up trying. But doesn't
Christ
expect more? I'm nervous sometimes with a faith that never mentions Him or the saints (though the Psalmist uses the word). On the other hand, the over-all sense here of the importance of the Person seems beyond Xtianity really. âNo special privileges' however, and I like that.
Â
Â
David eh? Heavenly older sister he'll have. (Peculiar to see Rachel an
older
anyâI'll have to give in and abjure âBaby.') Always longed for one myself, or, no, younger. Developed themâN, Br, So, M (sooner or later drinking made passes at them. Not invariably. Often enough to be reconciled to not having had one, God help her and me). Young Origen was wise. Odd that just at this point. I wonder when. Is heredity a factor? Victimology a real field, with only a German or so and a Canadian doing anything to advance it so far.
older
anyâI'll have to give in and abjure âBaby.') Always longed for one myself, or, no, younger. Developed themâN, Br, So, M (sooner or later drinking made passes at them. Not invariably. Often enough to be reconciled to not having had one, God help her and me). Young Origen was wise. Odd that just at this point. I wonder when. Is heredity a factor? Victimology a real field, with only a German or so and a Canadian doing anything to advance it so far.
I'm not sticking to business. Find out from Dr G how much
delay
is plausible in traumatic response of this sort (
if
he ever heard of a case like this, and is it likely?). Two summers, the brilliant year. Snapshot of me on the sidewalk in white ducks and a blue jacket, arms full of trophies, Graduation day, my plump-spinster English teacher arm around my shoulder, admiring young brother grinning up at me sideways. A menace to him even then. Love. Then all to hell four years.
delay
is plausible in traumatic response of this sort (
if
he ever heard of a case like this, and is it likely?). Two summers, the brilliant year. Snapshot of me on the sidewalk in white ducks and a blue jacket, arms full of trophies, Graduation day, my plump-spinster English teacher arm around my shoulder, admiring young brother grinning up at me sideways. A menace to him even then. Love. Then all to hell four years.
Stick to business!
Studying these Steps in Chapter Five
appals
me. I can only find one entry to hope: âResentment is the “number one” offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else. From it stem all forms of spiritual disease, for we
have been not only mentally and physically ill, we have been spiritually sick. When the spiritual malady is overcome, we straighten out mentally and physically.' Surely these are the most reassuring sentences I have ever come on,
if
they are right. Now I seem to feel
no resentments
at present, I got rid of all that at Howarden in the 4th Step and last Spring again. Shuddered this summer coming on Scott Fitzgerald's âWhen drunk, I make them pay and pay and pay and pay.' That was me. Not just now; hate nobody. Wide experience of alcoholics, and
recovering
alcoholics, behind those four sentences. Hardly likely wrong. Hang onto this. (No merit, by the way, in my freedom from resentment: product solely of all-excluding
gratitude.
I don't deserve the help I've had even so far. Ugly fact radiant, sometimes almost insupportable, that
I
should have a chance.)
appals
me. I can only find one entry to hope: âResentment is the “number one” offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else. From it stem all forms of spiritual disease, for we
have been not only mentally and physically ill, we have been spiritually sick. When the spiritual malady is overcome, we straighten out mentally and physically.' Surely these are the most reassuring sentences I have ever come on,
if
they are right. Now I seem to feel
no resentments
at present, I got rid of all that at Howarden in the 4th Step and last Spring again. Shuddered this summer coming on Scott Fitzgerald's âWhen drunk, I make them pay and pay and pay and pay.' That was me. Not just now; hate nobody. Wide experience of alcoholics, and
recovering
alcoholics, behind those four sentences. Hardly likely wrong. Hang onto this. (No merit, by the way, in my freedom from resentment: product solely of all-excluding
gratitude.
I don't deserve the help I've had even so far. Ugly fact radiant, sometimes almost insupportable, that
I
should have a chance.)
Â
Â
Better and better with Ruth. Another long talk about her pupils. She's less afraid of them, and the two little brutes (one broke a girl's arm in class last month, the other hoisted an atlas and slammed it down on the cranium of the little girl in the desk ahead of himâtalk about the Generation Gapâin twelve years of mostly public school in the Southwest, Florida, New York, nothing remotely similar happened in any classroom I was in or heard of) have been, one removed, other's parents brought to bear. She too thinks I'm getting on.
Rachel excited, great eyes glowing in her less round,
adorable
face: âDaddy, do you realize that it's only
nineteen days
till Hallowe'en!' I still hurt from when she suddenly didn't want me to take her out for tricks-or-treats two years ago.
adorable
face: âDaddy, do you realize that it's only
nineteen days
till Hallowe'en!' I still hurt from when she suddenly didn't want me to take her out for tricks-or-treats two years ago.
Charley dropped me in my tracks this afternoon: âYour face is more
serene
the last day or two.' I admit I feel
pretty good, though I have no reason to (unless about the resentment-bit).
serene
the last day or two.' I admit I feel
pretty good, though I have no reason to (unless about the resentment-bit).
Â
Â
Later.
Terrible excitation, hair-trigger
. Omaha stockbroker: âDidn't Kafka kill himself?' âWell, wasn't he insane?' (talked with Ritaâhe came back and apologized).
Terrible excitation, hair-trigger
. Omaha stockbroker: âDidn't Kafka kill himself?' âWell, wasn't he insane?' (talked with Ritaâhe came back and apologized).
Roberta Br, the most elegant pretty woman in Ohio, rushed into the Snack Room and embraced me in my chair. âI'm a hostile bitch.' She was too; she must be recovering with her marvellous husband. Staggered.
The little hippie Dan: âWas Washington a revolutionist?' âWas X the son of God?' âWho am I/ I'm one of the Revolution!' I said, âThere's a revolution is there. Where? Who are its leaders?' Long long pauseââAbbie Hoff man.' âWho?' I laughed at him.
âYou're
a murdererâNational Guard at Kent State, A-bomb and H-bomb, killing Nazis etc.' âYes,' I said, âlook at my hands. That's all blood.' No idea that a revolutionary is
learned
(as well as deluded)âMirabeau, Christophe, Blanqui, Che, Hoâespecially the Argentine doctor sans merci, who rejected Cuba's Soviet benefactors on the grounds of revolutionary ethicsânamely, they were
rude.
Sweet pathetic exasperating kids, with nothing to put in play but a (temporaryâand they don't know that) life-style-in-opposition plus omnipotent
ignorance.
Their chances against the Pentagon-FBI-Ford-Boeing-the unions and the rest of the Establishment tyranny?
âYou're
a murdererâNational Guard at Kent State, A-bomb and H-bomb, killing Nazis etc.' âYes,' I said, âlook at my hands. That's all blood.' No idea that a revolutionary is
learned
(as well as deluded)âMirabeau, Christophe, Blanqui, Che, Hoâespecially the Argentine doctor sans merci, who rejected Cuba's Soviet benefactors on the grounds of revolutionary ethicsânamely, they were
rude.
Sweet pathetic exasperating kids, with nothing to put in play but a (temporaryâand they don't know that) life-style-in-opposition plus omnipotent
ignorance.
Their chances against the Pentagon-FBI-Ford-Boeing-the unions and the rest of the Establishment tyranny?
Â
Â
I did not get either
support or control
from the AA group (they should have thrown me out after the third slip, âGo and drink yourself to death, Alan. If you want to come
back dry three months, fine, welcome.' Maybe this Chapter of Mike's.
support or control
from the AA group (they should have thrown me out after the third slip, âGo and drink yourself to death, Alan. If you want to come
back dry three months, fine, welcome.' Maybe this Chapter of Mike's.
I seem to need CONTROL in order not to drink, and a control I
fear.
Ruth kept me safe to, in, and from Mexico. Dr Rome, spectre and fact, kept me sober (or
dry
say) two months; I drank on Tuesday because I was leaving for upstate New York and would not have to face him the next night; I felt free. Imagine! feeling free. Christ.
fear.
Ruth kept me safe to, in, and from Mexico. Dr Rome, spectre and fact, kept me sober (or
dry
say) two months; I drank on Tuesday because I was leaving for upstate New York and would not have to face him the next night; I felt free. Imagine! feeling free. Christ.
But where was the resentment? Ah,
ah
â
of him.
Those men are right right right.
That's
what I've got to lie in wait against. Or rather: come out in the open with. But if I don't feel any?
ah
â
of him.
Those men are right right right.
That's
what I've got to lie in wait against. Or rather: come out in the open with. But if I don't feel any?
I feelâgood butâperplexed.
Â
Â
TUESDAY MORNING was dull grey out, remote, improbable. Severance, shocked to his root by Jeree's First Step, was working madly on his own, but for some reason, for a change, he listened to Tracy Croy's talk about feelings and defences Monday evening. âJeree's terrible Step One (desperateâsuicideâone attempt already),' he had written in his Journal,
âbrave
and
humbling to me:
ALL-OUT but
no
hope. Gus made one attempt “Do you want to live?” no reply “You
do
want to live.”
âbrave
and
humbling to me:
ALL-OUT but
no
hope. Gus made one attempt “Do you want to live?” no reply “You
do
want to live.”
âBanish
all pride, any
sense of achievement from mine. Separate the history into I) alcohol 2) unmanageability of
life.
End with
work
on Steps II and III, and XII. The First Step without the Second Step is death, right away or
around the corner. There is not one anti-proton of ongoing, esperance, in Step One. What will happen to her? Everybody crushed, except Gus, and Wilbur wasn't listening.'
all pride, any
sense of achievement from mine. Separate the history into I) alcohol 2) unmanageability of
life.
End with
work
on Steps II and III, and XII. The First Step without the Second Step is death, right away or
around the corner. There is not one anti-proton of ongoing, esperance, in Step One. What will happen to her? Everybody crushed, except Gus, and Wilbur wasn't listening.'
Tracy, an active amusing self-critical but lounging man in a cardigan with a half-grown beard, used a blackboard, listing down the lefthand side various feelings and across on the right, in no particular order, the defences adopted by the alcoholized personality against not only their expression but their realization by the patient himself.
| âmad | minimizing |
| sad | denial |
| bad | silence |
| glad | projection (reading into the other person the feelings you deny in yourself) |
| hurt | |
| scared | |
| resetful | |
| ashamed, guilty | attacking |
| embarrassed | explaining |
| inadequate or confused | humour (ugh) |
| rejected | chat |
| accepting (whith whatever pain) | intellectualizing (ugh) |
| agreeing, complying (playing Group, smug, often hostile shifting' | |
| warm, cold | |
| shifting' |
Sick feelings, he said as lightly as if he were discussing a âdessert,' produce sick thinking (delusion, masking true feelings) and then sick behaviour (drinking).' The condition aimed at in treatment, over the two-year period, is âmental sobriety' or âcomfortable sobriety' (= not want a drink). Just being dry was just being in hell. He knew a man who had been dry for eleven years on just the First Step and
fear,
and he was the most ill-tempered and tyrannical son
of a bitch in the community, corroded by self-pity, frustration, resentment, and vanity.
âstay real,'
he told them suddenly, and, âLet go. The more I admit I'm scared, etc., the less I have to
act
on it,' and, âOnce you're real, you don't
have
to be consistent. For instance, stuff like this: I am kind and loving, therefore I
cannot
be angry. Wow. How do you like thatâwhich every one of us, every day in treatment,
does.
Alcoholics are rigid, childish, intolerant, programmatic. They
have
to live furtive lives. Your only chance is to come out in the open. Also phony lives, and they don't know it, once the disease has really taken over the thinking; so they've got to level. You level with what? Your phoniness. It doesn't take anybody in. Certain basic delusions are probably common to all alcoholics, but even those can be spotted by a patient in a different stage of recoveryânot to speak of your Counsellors. You've got to help each other, and you
can,
though all of you are crippled. Say somebody in the Group is controlling anger (why is he, by the way? because he's afraid of
exploding
and killing somebody), it's perfectly obvious to the rest. They confront him with it. He denies it, with the utmost sincerity, they give him data, he pulls out and deploys his favourite defences, they are pointed out to him, and in the end, beaten, if he is lucky he admits it and not only admits it, he
accepts
it:
he's mad.
Fine. I would be too. Everybody relaxes, and his long long process of recovery is under way.' O where the final rout is Victory, thought Severance illuminated.
fear,
and he was the most ill-tempered and tyrannical son
of a bitch in the community, corroded by self-pity, frustration, resentment, and vanity.
âstay real,'
he told them suddenly, and, âLet go. The more I admit I'm scared, etc., the less I have to
act
on it,' and, âOnce you're real, you don't
have
to be consistent. For instance, stuff like this: I am kind and loving, therefore I
cannot
be angry. Wow. How do you like thatâwhich every one of us, every day in treatment,
does.
Alcoholics are rigid, childish, intolerant, programmatic. They
have
to live furtive lives. Your only chance is to come out in the open. Also phony lives, and they don't know it, once the disease has really taken over the thinking; so they've got to level. You level with what? Your phoniness. It doesn't take anybody in. Certain basic delusions are probably common to all alcoholics, but even those can be spotted by a patient in a different stage of recoveryânot to speak of your Counsellors. You've got to help each other, and you
can,
though all of you are crippled. Say somebody in the Group is controlling anger (why is he, by the way? because he's afraid of
exploding
and killing somebody), it's perfectly obvious to the rest. They confront him with it. He denies it, with the utmost sincerity, they give him data, he pulls out and deploys his favourite defences, they are pointed out to him, and in the end, beaten, if he is lucky he admits it and not only admits it, he
accepts
it:
he's mad.
Fine. I would be too. Everybody relaxes, and his long long process of recovery is under way.' O where the final rout is Victory, thought Severance illuminated.
At the beginning of Mini-group he asked Linc if he could propose a second Contract and heard the long man's fancy-booted, casual âSure. What is it?'
âMy feelings about my father. I used to blame him for ruining my life; but now I'm not so sure, just lately.'
âHow did he ruin your life?'
âBy killing himself when I was twelve.'
âBut you're not sure.'
âExactly.'
âIf you're not sure, why do you want a Contract?' Line sounded bored.
âTo find out, for God's sake.'
âContracts are not research projects. They do not deal with the past. They deal with the Present, the real and unreal Present. If you're not sure you have no problem.'
Severance went into double consciousness. Through his mind sprang one of his favorite Zen stories (A Brahmin approaches the Buddha, bearing a gift in each hand. âDrop it!' commands Siddhartha, and he drops the gift from the right hand. Goes nearer. âDrop it!' and the lefthand gift falls to the ground. Nearer still: âDrop it!'âand the Brahmin understands) and
the
Boddhidharma story (the Master arrives in China to introduce Zen, the Emperor builds him a monastery but in some way irritates him, so Boddhidharma encapsulates himself in the monastery with true Zen perversity and refuses to see anyone. Six years pass, before a Confucian sage comes who is really serious, sits at the gate in vain, and finally cuts off his right arm and sends it in by the monk who is portering. Boddhidharma, very reluctantly, agrees to talk with him for one minute. He is admitted. âWhat's the matter?' said Boddhidharma crossly. âMaster, I am in pain. Tell me how I can become happy.' âWhere are you in pain? Can you tell me
where
you are in pain?' The Confucian thinks and thinks, at last he confesses: âNo.' âYou are happy') while his voice said, lifted a little, âBut it's killing me. I'm spending most of my time at it, it's interfering with my treatment.'
the
Boddhidharma story (the Master arrives in China to introduce Zen, the Emperor builds him a monastery but in some way irritates him, so Boddhidharma encapsulates himself in the monastery with true Zen perversity and refuses to see anyone. Six years pass, before a Confucian sage comes who is really serious, sits at the gate in vain, and finally cuts off his right arm and sends it in by the monk who is portering. Boddhidharma, very reluctantly, agrees to talk with him for one minute. He is admitted. âWhat's the matter?' said Boddhidharma crossly. âMaster, I am in pain. Tell me how I can become happy.' âWhere are you in pain? Can you tell me
where
you are in pain?' The Confucian thinks and thinks, at last he confesses: âNo.' âYou are happy') while his voice said, lifted a little, âBut it's killing me. I'm spending most of my time at it, it's interfering with my treatment.'
âThis was forty years ago,' said Linc. âRight?'
âYes. More.'
âOkay. Why does it bother you?'
âI've got to know the truth. I've got to know why I was a completely uncharacteristic person for the four years after that.'
âI don't see why.'
Severance controlled himself. âLook. Contracts are about feelings, aren't they? Well, my
present feelings
are hopelessly mixed. I don't know whether he was to blame or not.'
present feelings
are hopelessly mixed. I don't know whether he was to blame or not.'
âFor what?'
âMy wasted years.'
âEverybody wastes years. Nobody is characteristic. But if you want to make a Contract about it, okay. Mildred, have you been thinking about your Contract?'
Mildred, a sweet-faced tidy simple woman of fifty in pink slacks whom it was difficult to imagine sitting in her kitchen stoned, slopping a fresh one out of the lowering vodka bottle, had, and pretty soon she was conversing with the mother she hadn't seen since her parents moved to the Coast ten years before.
Then Letty defended for one hour and ten minutes her attempts to manage her unhappily married daughter's wretched life, disarming even Keg with her wide, caring eyes. Only Harley mocked her; and nothing happened. Wilbur would not agree to go, on discharge, to a State hospital. Finally Keg stood up, with an impatient flip of his right hand, and went over to the board. He drew a long horizontal line, slashed a line cutting its center and marked off five divisions on either side. Above the left end he wrote raggedly, âplaying it safe,' above the right, âtaking risks.' Standing back, he looked harshly around the Group.
âAll of you ought to know by now what the goals of in-patient treatment are, the criteria for Discharge, what we look for.' Severance sat up straight, very much surprised, realizing that he for one didn't. Two months altogether he'd been here: why didn't they
tell
you? He had sat in fifty discussions of this all-consuming topic without ever hearing a clue. He did know, better than most of his friends on the Ward seemed to, that Discharge was hardly one damned thing: then the trouble began. He felt none of the anxiety to be released that he had in the Spring or last
Fall at Howarden, none, he was prepared to celebrate Labor Day in W if they wanted him to. Still, he was interested all right. He even half-guessed what was coming, prepared by the transformationsâsome sudden, most gradual, and fifty percent alas not enduringâobserved in others and even in himself as recovery at any rate
began.
âYou come in all clammed up, defences in depth, alibi-systems long established, delusions full-blown. In order to have a chance of staying sober, or rather of staying dry and
becoming
sober, you've got to change. Nobody likes to change. What you really want, when you come into hospital, even for the second or third or ninth time, is to stay just who you are
and
not drink. That's not possible, of course. Jack-Who-Drinks has got to alter into Jack-Who-Does-
Not
-Drink-
And
-Likes-It. The alcoholic is conservative. He hates where he is, certainly, but he can't even imagine being anywhere else. He doesn't
want
to be anywhere else. His chemical is home. That's where he's safe, with a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack or pills. The idea of Elsewhere fills him with panic. How many of you have waited, shaking, for the bars or liquor stores to open?' He looked around. âEverybody?' Eager or pained nods. 4003 times, Alan estimated. âBut you know they
will
open. Right? What about the morning when you know they
won't
open, for you? For everybody else, but not for you. Freezes your blood, right? It's exactly there that you've got to become comfortable. How can it be done?âfor those of you, that is, for whom it can be done. You've got to take risks. You can't stay where you are; if you do, you'll drink. We don't expect miracles here. What we hope for is
enough
openness to establish a continuing chance in out-patient treatment over the two years. One estimate is fifteen percent open. Almost every patient improves
some,
over the self-imposed solitary-confinement he came in. The question is how much, and that's what the whole staff has to determine in each case, and often we're
wrong. But we can't keep you here forever. Right now there are seven alcoholics, some drinking, waiting for your beds. Now one of the judges of your progressâthis will surprise some of youâis you. You are all deluded, but some of you have begun to recover, and know it, and have begun to feel real fear, and have begun to recover even from that. You think you have come far enough to have a chance. If anybody thinks he has it made, there's no hope for him. But
some
progress, towards self-confidence. You see this scale. I want you to rate yourself on it, Wilbur, and then we'll go around the Group, saying where we see you. Take your time, and be absolutely honest. Don't put yourself down, but try not to con yourself either. How open have you been in Group, on the Ward, with your doctor, with your parents on the screwy telephone. Give yourself a mark.'
tell
you? He had sat in fifty discussions of this all-consuming topic without ever hearing a clue. He did know, better than most of his friends on the Ward seemed to, that Discharge was hardly one damned thing: then the trouble began. He felt none of the anxiety to be released that he had in the Spring or last
Fall at Howarden, none, he was prepared to celebrate Labor Day in W if they wanted him to. Still, he was interested all right. He even half-guessed what was coming, prepared by the transformationsâsome sudden, most gradual, and fifty percent alas not enduringâobserved in others and even in himself as recovery at any rate
began.
âYou come in all clammed up, defences in depth, alibi-systems long established, delusions full-blown. In order to have a chance of staying sober, or rather of staying dry and
becoming
sober, you've got to change. Nobody likes to change. What you really want, when you come into hospital, even for the second or third or ninth time, is to stay just who you are
and
not drink. That's not possible, of course. Jack-Who-Drinks has got to alter into Jack-Who-Does-
Not
-Drink-
And
-Likes-It. The alcoholic is conservative. He hates where he is, certainly, but he can't even imagine being anywhere else. He doesn't
want
to be anywhere else. His chemical is home. That's where he's safe, with a bottle of whiskey or a six-pack or pills. The idea of Elsewhere fills him with panic. How many of you have waited, shaking, for the bars or liquor stores to open?' He looked around. âEverybody?' Eager or pained nods. 4003 times, Alan estimated. âBut you know they
will
open. Right? What about the morning when you know they
won't
open, for you? For everybody else, but not for you. Freezes your blood, right? It's exactly there that you've got to become comfortable. How can it be done?âfor those of you, that is, for whom it can be done. You've got to take risks. You can't stay where you are; if you do, you'll drink. We don't expect miracles here. What we hope for is
enough
openness to establish a continuing chance in out-patient treatment over the two years. One estimate is fifteen percent open. Almost every patient improves
some,
over the self-imposed solitary-confinement he came in. The question is how much, and that's what the whole staff has to determine in each case, and often we're
wrong. But we can't keep you here forever. Right now there are seven alcoholics, some drinking, waiting for your beds. Now one of the judges of your progressâthis will surprise some of youâis you. You are all deluded, but some of you have begun to recover, and know it, and have begun to feel real fear, and have begun to recover even from that. You think you have come far enough to have a chance. If anybody thinks he has it made, there's no hope for him. But
some
progress, towards self-confidence. You see this scale. I want you to rate yourself on it, Wilbur, and then we'll go around the Group, saying where we see you. Take your time, and be absolutely honest. Don't put yourself down, but try not to con yourself either. How open have you been in Group, on the Ward, with your doctor, with your parents on the screwy telephone. Give yourself a mark.'
They all waited. Wilbur's face worked, elongated, lonely.
âSix.'
âOkay.' Keg marked it. âHutch, where do you see Wilbur?'
âTwo,' Hutch said reluctantly.
âMary-Jane?'
Her voice was low: âZero.'
âOkay. Letty?'
The big eyes stared at the board, Wilbur, Keg. âThree.'
âStack.'
âOne, I guess.'
âJeree?'
â ⦠Two.'
âAlan?'
Severance was unhappy. âOne.'
Keg looked at Harley. âOne.'
âLuriel?'
âI don't know,' she spat. âIt's none of my business.'
âYou have no impression of where Wilbur stands.'
âHe's a mean shit, just like the rest of you.'
Christ, thought Severance. Whatever Wilbur was, he was not a mean shit and sister you are even worse than I gave you credit for.
âYou won't rate him?'
ââ'
âOkay. I give him zero.' He marked it, and studied the board. âWilbur, there seems to be a difference of opinion between you and the Group about your progress. Some of us don't believe you've made
any,
and
nobody
believes you've made muchâexcept you. How do you feel about that?'
any,
and
nobody
believes you've made muchâexcept you. How do you feel about that?'
Wilbur stared sullenly up at the marked line, heavy on the left, so empty on the right, except for his grade. âI can't help it about the rest of you. I think I've got the Programme. I've levelled as much as anybody.' His voice was stubborn but whining and his gaze dropped to his knees again.
âBullshit you have,' Harley said with a rare edge on his tone. âYour old man sits in the kitchen all day drinking and sharpening the ax he keeps down there to sink in your skull one day, as he's promised you sixty times. You sit upstairs in your room drinking, trembling with fear. You come in here and you ring him up morning noon and night out of anxiety for his and your mother's health and fight like hell with him on the telephone. And you want to go home. You've got to go and look after them. You think you've “got the Programme.” Get the hell out of here, Wilbur, and drink yourself to death.' Severance had never seen Harley angry before, it was bloodcurdling.
Other books
Legacy of Blood by Michael Ford
The Retreat by Dijorn Moss
The Shot: Traincoach of Death, Book 1 by Leona Bushman
Day of Confession by Allan Folsom
Halloween and Other Seasons by Al, Clark Sarrantonio, Alan M. Clark
She Loves You, She Loves You Not... by Julie Anne Peters
Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 by Angel in Black (v5.0)
Red Ice by Craig Reed Jr
The Night Market by Rawlins, Zachary
The Hummingbird by Kati Hiekkapelto
