Recovery (18 page)
Authors: John Berryman
Â
Â
THEN, after several days of increasingly reconstituted hope and better spirits and listening closely to lectures, in the front seats, next to Stack, a cataclysm occurred in Group. Jeree began talking. The soft, plump, still, amber-haired
young woman was talking to Harley in the far corner of the room. Her voice was too low for Severance to hear what she was saying, but presently he saw her huddle up and burst into tears! He felt heavy tension and concern around him. âWhat is it?' He leaned over to Hutch. âShe had an abortion eight years ago.' My god, he yearned toward her. Even her sobbing was scarcely audible. But when she began speaking again, her voice was stronger. She had talked about nothing else, she said, twice weekly to a psychiatrist for two and a half years. It was why she and her husband couldn't have children. She had finally told him and, a heavy powerful man, coming home every night drunk himself, he beat her every night, calling her âwhore' and âdrunken slob' and hurling her across their kitchen. Hatred against the brute mounted around the room. Jeree felt none.
young woman was talking to Harley in the far corner of the room. Her voice was too low for Severance to hear what she was saying, but presently he saw her huddle up and burst into tears! He felt heavy tension and concern around him. âWhat is it?' He leaned over to Hutch. âShe had an abortion eight years ago.' My god, he yearned toward her. Even her sobbing was scarcely audible. But when she began speaking again, her voice was stronger. She had talked about nothing else, she said, twice weekly to a psychiatrist for two and a half years. It was why she and her husband couldn't have children. She had finally told him and, a heavy powerful man, coming home every night drunk himself, he beat her every night, calling her âwhore' and âdrunken slob' and hurling her across their kitchen. Hatred against the brute mounted around the room. Jeree felt none.
âYou don't hate him,' Harley said.
âOh no. I love him.'
Then it transpired that he was divorcing her, didn't give her even cigarette-money on the Ward, refused to come and see her, and had told her when she called him yesterday, âI can't wait to be rid of you so I can have a ball every night.'
Severance ground his teeth. Luriel said, âChrist.'
Keg got up and placed an empty chair in front of Jeree facing her and stood over it.
âYour husband is sitting here on the chair. What do you want to do to him?'
âI want to beg him to take me back.'
âSo he can beat you up again.'
Silence. She stared at the chair.
âGo ahead, beg him.'
âI want him to forgive me.'
âAnd he will.'
âOh no he won't.'
âMaybe he will.'
âNo no he never has. I used to get on my knees.'
âAnd you love him?'
Her face worked. âI don't know if I do or not.'
âSure you do. You want him to take you back and beat you up again every night for the rest of your drinking life.'
âNo!' she cried suddenly. âI
hate
him!'
hate
him!'
A thrill ran through the Group.
âHere he sits.' Keg pushed the chair close towards her knees. âHe called you a whore. Would you like to do something to him?'
âI'd like to hit him!'
âHit the chair. He's the chair.'
She hesitated, glaring, crouched forward.
âGo ahead, hit it.'
Trembling, the girl lifted her right arm and patted her palm down on the chair seat.
âHarder.'
Pat.
âHarder! Hit him!'
Pat pat.
Keg sprang around to stand beside her, seized her forearm, and brought her palm down sharply down on the seat. Again.
The girl went wild. Snatching her arm away from Keg's hands, she slammed it down and slapped the chair until Severance's palm tingled. Then she rushed forward and grabbed it up, screaming, âYou lousy bastard! You drunken bum yourself! You bully! You beast!' and hurling it to the floor again and again, finally standing with clenched fists and contorted face over it, swelling with triumph, amid clapping and cheers. Luriel embraced her, Harley grasped her hand, Severance was beside himself with pride and love.
Jeree dated her beginning of recovery from this outbreak, and a year later in AA one Wednesday night Alan had a full view of the quality of her sobriety: one of her
two alcoholic brothers had gone through treatment and rung her up drunk two days after his dischargeââHe just accepted everything,' she told them, âhe never surrendered,' and, âHe did it for his wife. Anyway, now he knows where it is, if he ever wants to do it for himself.' For a selfish disease, only selfish initial treatment.
two alcoholic brothers had gone through treatment and rung her up drunk two days after his dischargeââHe just accepted everything,' she told them, âhe never surrendered,' and, âHe did it for his wife. Anyway, now he knows where it is, if he ever wants to do it for himself.' For a selfish disease, only selfish initial treatment.
Â
Â
MINIâGROUP was on Fran, whom Alan knew only as a tall handsome ramrod of a girl, late twenties, on pills as well as booze, who was being divorcedââNo feelings about it,' she had replied to him in lunch-line one day, âI couldn't care less about him.' She had a shock of brown hair, energetic regular features, prominent eyes. It was her dying alcoholic father she had feelings about: hatred, grief, fear, They drank together in the family kitchen when she visited home. Croniesââ
You
know I haven't got long, Fran,
you
understand.' She understood that she was being torn to pieces.
You
know I haven't got long, Fran,
you
understand.' She understood that she was being torn to pieces.
âHe is really drinking himself to death?' Linc asked lazily, his long fine-booted legs crossed, turning the tape-recorder on. âThere's no doubt about it?'
âI guess not. He puts away two fifths a day, sometimes more. Our doctor gave him a year, this summer.'
âWhat are you doing about it?'
âI can't do anything about it. I just get drunk too, and shout at him, and then we both cry.' Her voice was savage.
âYou don't see him very often. Do you telephone?'
âThree or four times a week.'
âWhat happens on the telephone?'
âI beg him. It's almost as bad as being there.'
Line ruminated. âHow would you like to have a talk with him face to face but with both of you stone sober?'
âI can't imagine it.'
âBut you must be sober at the beginning, each time.'
âNo,' she sounded shamed, âI have a few before I go, and he's always loaded.'
âWell, you're dry right now. Suppose we put him in the chair here'âhe swung an empty chair around to face the girlââat, it's nine-oh-seven a.m., and he's still sober.'
âNo,' she said bitterly, âhe's not even up yet. He's still passed out.'
âNot this morning. Or some time in the past when he
was
sober. You've seen him sober a thousand times, haven't you?'
was
sober. You've seen him sober a thousand times, haven't you?'
âThat's true,' reluctantly.
âWell, here he is, sober as you are. What would you like to say to him?'
âThere isn't one thing on earth I would like to say to him.'
âLook at him, and think. Nothing whatever?'
Linc's lowered, other-worldly voice had its usual effect. The girl looked at her father. Her face softened. â“Why are you doing it, Daddy?” '
âAnd he says?'
â“Can't help it, Fran!” '
âHis voice sounds cheerful?'
âYes. He's grinning at me.'
âAnd you say?'
âWhat can I say?'
âWhat
do
you say?'
do
you say?'
Her voice tumbled out: â“Daddy, you remember one morning you took me canoeing up at the lake? It was a blustery day, sun coming and going, but we stayed out
hours and you told me about your first wife. I felt so grown-up. Do you remember how close we were?” '
hours and you told me about your first wife. I felt so grown-up. Do you remember how close we were?” '
âAnd he says?'
Silence. Her mouth opened, closed.
âAnd he says?'
âHe doesn't say anything.'
âAll right,' Linc's voice brightened, âhe's gone and you're back here with us. Right? Tell us something about your childhood relation with him.' He drew her slowly through a dizzy, sorry tale of savage rejections and unpredictable intimacies alternating in a general cold desert of indifference, and then made her talk to her father again, with the same result, silence from him answering or not answering a plea of hers. Linc shifted to the motherââShe's given up too. She's just waiting'âand then seated the frightful old man in the empty chair again.
âNow. You know he's not going to answer you, right? so you can say anything to him that comes into your head, without any fear of its effect on him. What would you really like to say?'
âJust tell him I'm sorry, and say goodbye.'
âGo ahead.'
âI don't think I can.' Her voice broke on the last word.
âYou can.'
She sat up, back into her customary stiff, almost back-leaning uprightness, and stared at the air above the chair facing her. â“I'm sorry for everything,” ' she said suddenly, â“I'm
sorry!
” '
sorry!
” '
After a pause, Linc prompted her: âAnd?'
â“Goodbye, Daddy,” ' came softly out, then strongly, â“Goodbye.” '
âHey, who's goodbying?'
âI am.'
âYes. You're the boss. You've decided to live your own life, not his death. This is your place, you're in treatment
here, not him. Would you like to point your finger at him and tell him to go?'
here, not him. Would you like to point your finger at him and tell him to go?'
Silence, immobility, stare. Linc kept at her. At last Fran lifted a thin arm, sweater bunched above her elbow, and pointed a long forefinger. â“Go, Daddy.” '
âDoes he hear you?'
âYes, he did. He's gone.'
âHow did he look when he heard you?'
âHe had ⦠a little devilish smile â¦'
âWhat do you make of that?'
âMaybe ⦠to con me back in again,' she said doubtfully.
âExactly. Are you going back in again?'
âNo!'
âGood. Now I want you to put
yourself
in the chair, your old self, and tell her goodbye. Can you do that?'
yourself
in the chair, your old self, and tell her goodbye. Can you do that?'
âIt seems I can do anything,' she said without humour. âAll right. I'm there.'
âNo.
She's
there.'
She's
there.'
âYes.'
âTell her goodbye.'
She looked fixedly and resentfully at the spectre, and said firmly: â“Goodbye, Fran.” '
âIs she gone?'
âShe just disappeared. I can't see her.'
âBut she'll always be
with
you, too. Only not in control any more, unless you let her back. She's more dangerous to you than your father is. Was.' Linc re-crossed his long legs as always before exposition.
with
you, too. Only not in control any more, unless you let her back. She's more dangerous to you than your father is. Was.' Linc re-crossed his long legs as always before exposition.
Alan had been mysteriously moved by the final scene. He felt that there must be something in it for him, if he could find out what. But
he
was not threatened by a dying father. Farewells with fathers affected him anyway. It was one of his crosses that he had not been able to say goodbye to Daddy. One of his most acute memories was of his son's baby face contorted through the back car-window as his
mother drove the boy away from the mental hospital where Severance had been confined for two weeks, on the visit when she told him she was divorcing him and wanted him to move his stuff out as soon as he was discharged. A stunning afternoon. He had ground-privileges by then, and had walked out to the curving driveway to see them off, feeling at the end of the possible. David, two, had been all right when he kissed him through the open side-window, but then his little face had broken up, waving through the glass. Severance heard nothing but the car accelerating.
he
was not threatened by a dying father. Farewells with fathers affected him anyway. It was one of his crosses that he had not been able to say goodbye to Daddy. One of his most acute memories was of his son's baby face contorted through the back car-window as his
mother drove the boy away from the mental hospital where Severance had been confined for two weeks, on the visit when she told him she was divorcing him and wanted him to move his stuff out as soon as he was discharged. A stunning afternoon. He had ground-privileges by then, and had walked out to the curving driveway to see them off, feeling at the end of the possible. David, two, had been all right when he kissed him through the open side-window, but then his little face had broken up, waving through the glass. Severance heard nothing but the car accelerating.
Linc was talking about the Victim (âI feel worthless') getting strokes from Rescuers (wife, doctor, Fran) and then defying them. âWhen he dies, he achieves final victoryâequals “
I am worthy
” your sacrinceâ“Sorry I had to make you all uncomfortable, butâ” '
I am worthy
” your sacrinceâ“Sorry I had to make you all uncomfortable, butâ” '
Severance could see an insane game, played for keeps, but where in his case were the Victim and the Rescuer? Daddy in hell (if there was Hell), himself fighting for life not death. He walked away gloomy and baffled from Fran's lonely triumph.
SELF-CONFRONTED
B
ECOME A METHODICAL MAN, seeking non-chemical salvation, Severance had taken to reading with all his strength a Psalm or two every morning along with the 24-Hour Book and his modern Jewish studies later in the day. He had once familiarized himself with Gunkel's revolutionary typology, but paid no attention to it or pre-Exilic or post-Exilic now; he was listening for the word of God and the inspired cries of genuine sufferers. He marked âO that my ways were directed to keep thy statutes!' But a little they were, at last. Wishing no credit for it, he had confronted Hutch, kept Luriel in treatment, worked almost a month daily on Jeree to speak out in Group, and she had. He marked, âI will keep thy statutes: O forsake me not utterly.'
ECOME A METHODICAL MAN, seeking non-chemical salvation, Severance had taken to reading with all his strength a Psalm or two every morning along with the 24-Hour Book and his modern Jewish studies later in the day. He had once familiarized himself with Gunkel's revolutionary typology, but paid no attention to it or pre-Exilic or post-Exilic now; he was listening for the word of God and the inspired cries of genuine sufferers. He marked âO that my ways were directed to keep thy statutes!' But a little they were, at last. Wishing no credit for it, he had confronted Hutch, kept Luriel in treatment, worked almost a month daily on Jeree to speak out in Group, and she had. He marked, âI will keep thy statutes: O forsake me not utterly.'
He found himself back in what he thought of as his pre-Casey or post-Casey days, full of trust. He read as if the whole truth might lie open before him in the next verse. Casey was a legendary teacher at the College in Alan's time, in the Thirties: a tall, spare man, remote, most of a large white handkerchief dangling out of his breast-pocket, who not only paid no attention to the students who jammed his lectures but was said never to have looked directly even at his assistants. His course appeared in the bulletin
as Sociology 3-4, Severance recalled, but was widely known as Caseyology. The readings were conventional âVaihinger's
Philosophy of As lf,
Lippmann's
Public Opinion,
Wittgenstein's
Tractatus
âand the examination was based on them. He never referred to them in lecture, or to any intellectual source, indeed, except a detective magazine called
The Shadow
and the letters, from correspondents all over the country, of which he kept a selection in his inside coat-pocket. His lectures were devoted, one by one, unpredictably, to problems. The most devastating was on Keats's âOde on a Grecian Urn.' Sparkling aggressively with terms like âcortex' and ânegative feeling-tone' and âreferent,' it climaxed against âfaery lands forlorn,' and its listeners gave their English instructors a hard time for months afterward. He would stalk in, with the bell, at ten o'clock, stare out over the silent assemblage crowding even the windowseats, and announce with an edge in his high voice: âToday, we'll be investigating The League of Nations Problem.' Ah! the students rubbed their hands with glee, leaning forward with destructive joy, in the certainty that by the end of fifty minutes there would
be
no League of Nations Problemâno further enquiry necessary, that is, into why the United States had never joined the League. At a certain high point, after salvos of irony towards both partners of this historic non-cooperation, he reached conclusively inside his jacket and drew out a letter. Ah. âI have here,' he said solemnly, âa letter from a farmer in Wisconsin.' Now this might not be impressive in Ohio, but in upper Manhattan?âgrass-roots! And he read part of the letter aloud, a denunciation of the Prince of Wales for being unable to stay on a horse. âThe worthy farmer,' Casey intoned, âis unaware that the Prince is in fact an excellent horseman, but' and so onââHence we never joined the League of Nations!' with crushing finality. Alan had partaken of the course, he considered later, at exactly the right time, in the first half of his sophomore
year, and recovered by the following summer. The spellbinding amalgam of analytic method and theatrical sampling remained, strongly subordinated, one corner of his approach, and it was useless here, against his addiction, against his Christian doubts, against the mystery of his occluded teens. No sampling there: the question, the genetic question, was how the two towering failures of his life, the negative one and the positive alcoholic one, were connectedâif they wereâand they had got to be. They seemed to hover before him, as he sat musing, smoking, in his hospital chair, like the Platonic essences Professor Edman used to intuit in midair at Wednesday night seminars. High in the air, left, dull and black, formless: the four-year hiatus, while his contemporaries in various countries were thriving their way ahead towards careers. Why had Alan Severance, after joining the League of Nations at eight or nine, resigned at fourteen? Why, for that matter, had he ever rejoined? Above him on the right, nearer and lower, opposite, glowing rich brown, three-quarters full, the globular decanter his mother had given him, crystal, flat-stoppled, shimmering with silky drifting snakes of light, inviting and repellent: the alcoholism that seized him fifteen years later, spawning all his failures since, Father of Lies. He shuddered. In the dark of the left and the bright horror of the right, how had he ever contrived to accomplish
anything,
much less what he undeniably had done? Did it matter? Straining to hold both images, wall-eyed, losing them, he felt as they slid away and the breakfast bell came faintly through his closed door an unaccountable thrust of actual joy that sat him upright. He was going, this time, to make some connexion, or break, break some fantastic connexion, and get out of the whiskey business altogether, clear quite off, empty of urge and fear, his own man again, a decent servant. He could see it, guidance would come, he looked ahead at dry dry dry.
as Sociology 3-4, Severance recalled, but was widely known as Caseyology. The readings were conventional âVaihinger's
Philosophy of As lf,
Lippmann's
Public Opinion,
Wittgenstein's
Tractatus
âand the examination was based on them. He never referred to them in lecture, or to any intellectual source, indeed, except a detective magazine called
The Shadow
and the letters, from correspondents all over the country, of which he kept a selection in his inside coat-pocket. His lectures were devoted, one by one, unpredictably, to problems. The most devastating was on Keats's âOde on a Grecian Urn.' Sparkling aggressively with terms like âcortex' and ânegative feeling-tone' and âreferent,' it climaxed against âfaery lands forlorn,' and its listeners gave their English instructors a hard time for months afterward. He would stalk in, with the bell, at ten o'clock, stare out over the silent assemblage crowding even the windowseats, and announce with an edge in his high voice: âToday, we'll be investigating The League of Nations Problem.' Ah! the students rubbed their hands with glee, leaning forward with destructive joy, in the certainty that by the end of fifty minutes there would
be
no League of Nations Problemâno further enquiry necessary, that is, into why the United States had never joined the League. At a certain high point, after salvos of irony towards both partners of this historic non-cooperation, he reached conclusively inside his jacket and drew out a letter. Ah. âI have here,' he said solemnly, âa letter from a farmer in Wisconsin.' Now this might not be impressive in Ohio, but in upper Manhattan?âgrass-roots! And he read part of the letter aloud, a denunciation of the Prince of Wales for being unable to stay on a horse. âThe worthy farmer,' Casey intoned, âis unaware that the Prince is in fact an excellent horseman, but' and so onââHence we never joined the League of Nations!' with crushing finality. Alan had partaken of the course, he considered later, at exactly the right time, in the first half of his sophomore
year, and recovered by the following summer. The spellbinding amalgam of analytic method and theatrical sampling remained, strongly subordinated, one corner of his approach, and it was useless here, against his addiction, against his Christian doubts, against the mystery of his occluded teens. No sampling there: the question, the genetic question, was how the two towering failures of his life, the negative one and the positive alcoholic one, were connectedâif they wereâand they had got to be. They seemed to hover before him, as he sat musing, smoking, in his hospital chair, like the Platonic essences Professor Edman used to intuit in midair at Wednesday night seminars. High in the air, left, dull and black, formless: the four-year hiatus, while his contemporaries in various countries were thriving their way ahead towards careers. Why had Alan Severance, after joining the League of Nations at eight or nine, resigned at fourteen? Why, for that matter, had he ever rejoined? Above him on the right, nearer and lower, opposite, glowing rich brown, three-quarters full, the globular decanter his mother had given him, crystal, flat-stoppled, shimmering with silky drifting snakes of light, inviting and repellent: the alcoholism that seized him fifteen years later, spawning all his failures since, Father of Lies. He shuddered. In the dark of the left and the bright horror of the right, how had he ever contrived to accomplish
anything,
much less what he undeniably had done? Did it matter? Straining to hold both images, wall-eyed, losing them, he felt as they slid away and the breakfast bell came faintly through his closed door an unaccountable thrust of actual joy that sat him upright. He was going, this time, to make some connexion, or break, break some fantastic connexion, and get out of the whiskey business altogether, clear quite off, empty of urge and fear, his own man again, a decent servant. He could see it, guidance would come, he looked ahead at dry dry dry.
Other books
Undone, Volume 2 by Callie Harper
Weird and Witty Tales of Mystery by Joseph Lewis French
Victim Six by Gregg Olsen
Softly Calls the Serengeti by Frank Coates
More by Sloan Parker
Cinderfella by Linda Winstead Jones
Dating A Saint by Donna McDonald
Created (Talented Saga) by Davis, Sophie
The Highlander's Harlot (Sword and Thistle Book 1) by Adams, Laurel
Sheer Folly by Carola Dunn
