Study in Perfect (12 page)

But the cat had stolen the scene with his spit-takes, shaving-cream cakes, and over-the-top pranks. I was knocked aside, stiff and irrelevant. This is the lesson for Sally and her brother: no fish rules forever and a fish can look like a fool strung up on a kite string pulled through the house by Thing One and Thing Two. My sputtering speech, command, or inflexible view made no impression whatsoever.

When an alcoholic takes a drink, the alcohol affects his brain as a depressant, decreasing the activity of the nervous system. In order to keep the brain functioning normally, the brain attempts to chemically counteract and disrupt alcohol's action.
In simple terms, it ramps things up. Over time, more drinking is necessary to produce that confident, soothing effect.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. When the alcoholic abruptly stops drinking, his nervous system suffers from uncontrolled synapse firing. Symptoms include anxiety, seizures, hallucinations, the “shakes,” and even heart failure. The otherwise healthy individual has a significant risk of dying from withdrawal, if not properly managed. Hospitals and treatment centers use various pharmaceutical medications including barbiturates, clonidine, and vitamins like folic acid and thiamine to get the drunk through this early stage, which lasts roughly a few days. Then they work on his emotional, social, and spiritual recovery.

The staff at Hazelden knew he was a professor. So the first night they handed him a big stack of recovery books and asked him to prepare for a meeting the next day. Twelve, thirteen different titles, none of them difficult. He read the first one all the way through, took notes. The second, third, fourth. After that he skimmed: same message, well written or not. He had substantial recall. Even doped up with Librium, he was ready to quote, criticize the simplistic sentence structure, extol the points he agreed with. He could pass the test, no sweat. Next morning, seating himself in the counselor's office, he crossed his legs and leaned back, confident.

“Oh, we don't want a report. We thought we'd just get that out of the way. Now you can go on in there and join the group.”

What followed was a militaristic routine endured because it helped get him through the day. The bed tight-sheeted, early breakfast in the stainless-steel cafeteria, AA meetings, steps, slogans, the psychologist half his age forcing a role-play opposite another drunk on his knees making amends. An arrogant PhD, his closest peer in the group (he thought), stormed off,
“I've got this, thanks, I'm good.” No one tried to stop him. Though my husband chose this facility because it was close to the beach, the beach was not on the agenda. For a month he couldn't phone his wife, kids, even his father, who had been sober two years. Everything timed, scheduled, ten minutes for a shower, fifteen for dessert in the spotlight of the mess hall. Dessert! If he couldn't have a drink, he could still have his sugar straight like a cloud on the tongue. Oh, angel-food cake with cream-cheese frosting! Oh, chocolate meringue pie!

Chastened, the cat returns in his cat-driven, cat-manufactured, quickerpickerupper jalopy. It's a Rube Goldberg contraption with cockeyed springs and telescoping arms, none of them entirely solid or securely attached. But they do the job
Voom!
with a flourish and a pat. Even the hat is a little perkier on the cat's head as he maneuvers the controls and picks up the cake, rake, gown, milk, strings, books, dish, fan, cup, ship, and of course the fish, who sails into his fishbowl with a springy tail flip. Look at the children's faces! For once they are smiling, brows high, eyes bright. On his way out, the cat salutes and the fish relaxes just as Mother places the toe of a neat high-heeled shoe on the doormat. She looks composed too, the gentle drape of her coat, the S-curve of her calf, her slender hand lifted, “Hello.”

There are diseases that die with a flourish and a
fffttt
. The course of medication is complete, the offending organ surgically removed—the story's over. Chronic disease, from the
Greek
khronikos
, “of time,” is a never-ending tale no one wants to hear about. Arthritis, diabetes, high blood pressure.

In the case of alcoholism, the end is “recovery,” but more accurately, it's “disease control.” The alcoholic must live in real time, stick to the program, keep up his meetings, slogans, steps, and
not drink
. Ever. Various studies show that anywhere from 54 to 90 percent of alcoholics are likely to experience at least one relapse, and two-thirds of these are within the first ninety days.

Social adjustment is a key factor in relapse prevention. Alcohol dependence froze this drinker's emotional and social skills at the age it began, around twenty-eight. Now he faced ordinary unpleasant experiences like colds, car accidents, kids who refused to do their homework, claustrophobic plane travel, a pissed-off wife, all without a buffer. I was recovering too, trying to extricate myself from, as the cliché goes, a
family
disease. This meant giving up control over a multitude of things (especially the alcoholic), disappearing on Tuesday and Thursday evenings for my own meetings with their focus on detachment and healing, phrases like “I'm sorry you feel that way” and “Let it begin with me.” Both AA and Al-Anon have been called “selfish” programs, implying not the pejorative—self-centeredness to the detriment of others—but the idea that recovery must come first or we are of no value to anyone, even ourselves.

He was not a happy camper. Consider the cat without his hat, sack of tricks, Thing One and Thing Two, all his partners in crime. He did not bound through the door, feeling great, up-ending this and that with his bedraggled, swishy tail. His temper was short. He sat in his chair like a stone, afraid to move. And the girls steered clear. Even our Friday steak dinner at Jack
Fry's was dangerous because less than a month ago, it was preceded by a Seagram's and followed by a Courvoisier. Perrier on ice just didn't DO. Cranberry juice mixed with soda and lemon was NOT a perfect substitute.

It was more than a year before his nerves healed and he began to feel human again. A new wave of students joined the ranks of his admirers and the ones who had noticed his drinking moved on and never looked back. Another year at least till his humor returned and he was easier with all of us. The games continued, within reason. I noticed how deftly they were tailored to the girls' advancing ages, colored with a streak of sadness. “Listen to your mom,” he said more than once. “Let's talk it over with Mom.” But the dreams: a river floating hundreds of beer bottles, a bartender with his hand stretched out, “Double Aspen with a twist?” They kept on.

Open the sequel.

Page one shows a big room with sloping pink walls and a wide red floor. Happy home, everything neat. In the corner is a single white-curtained window, the glass lightly streaked. Peace and qui—… but wait, could it be? Outside, surrounded by sky, is the
cat
, peering in. Oh, say it's not so. Oh, stay away at least for today. His hat tilted like a road-construction barrel. His bowtie at attention. He twiddles his thumbs with a self-satisfied grin. He doesn't care what you're planning for lunch, or this promise or that. He's high as a kite, that cat. Raring to go and ready for FUN.

Highly suitable for someone
or something; exactly right.

Last night was a good time. Now stumble to the kitchen. Fish the spotted mug from the dishwasher, the one from Italy, favored for its height, white crackle glaze, and slender lip. Its footprint is small, mouth wide. No need to pinch the handle or fling out a naughty pinky; all four fingers fit.

Honey squeezed from the bear before milk, water, even tea. Then two inches of milk, usually skim, though whole milk is hardly a crime on Sunday. Cold water up to the rim and a scuffle for the right tea in a drawer with too many herbal numbers. Twinings Irish Breakfast. In Ireland, “tea” simply, enjoyed throughout the day and evening.

The microwave is fine. Two minutes forty-five seconds on high and the perfect mottled scrim rises to the top, the bag floating in a paisley of light milk-chocolate brown. No puffing, gasping cappuccino din. No inch-high foam all empty promise and mustache making. This cup is for immediate, wholesome,
essential tea drinking. The buzz begins within four or five sips. Lucky day! I've got the
New York Times
and the font's not so tiny after all. I'm up for more than Arts and Leisure. A story on deep-space imaging, the cacao's genetic map, or why we're smashing protons together in the Large Hadron Collider….

Monday morning: two bags.

Sentimental à la Carte

 

 

Today's Specials:               
Matzo brei fried in schmaltz
Wonton soup                     
Bea's Ho-made cherry pie  
Kentucky bison filet           
Steak tartare                      

Before their dough could rise, exiled Israelites fled Egypt, and thus we have matzo, poor man's bread, a reminder to be humble and not to forget what life was like in servitude. Eating it provokes a bitter sweetness. Chewing (with thought and dignity) offers both a lesson in humility and an appreciation of one's sense of freedom.