The Ninth Step (22 page)

Cotton stuck up his thumb, got in the Mercedes, fumbled the key into the ignition.
Stupid.
He was so damned stupid to have kept Nix in the loop. But who else was there? Who else would he call? He’d need a lawyer when it went down, wouldn’t he?

If it went down.

#

“Is he a criminal attorney?” Anita asked when Cotton told her about running into Nix, that he thought Nix would help him.

“No. Civil stuff mostly,” Cotton answered.

“See if he’ll refer you. You need someone who’s experienced in criminal law, who can get you the best deal with the DA.”

“So, it’s not about me telling the truth, it’s about making a deal. Maybe I should call Monty Hall.”

“Funny guy. The system’s not perfect, but it’s all we’ve got.”

He walked outside onto the porch of the Latimer’s made-over garage. “I want to wait until Nikki’s party’s over before I do anything.”

Anita snorted.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but she really wants me to come and I really don’t want to disappoint her.”

“Yeah, I hear you, on top of running her mother down and killing her, missing a birthday party’s a real heartbreaker.”

“Look, what does it hurt waiting to go to jail for a few more days?”

“It’s possible that won’t happen at all. You might get probation instead. Your record’s clean, there’s no juvie stuff and the fact that you’re coming in on your own, that you’re involved in a twelve step program, it’s going to weigh in your favor.”

“Think it’ll weigh in my favor with Wes Latimer?” Cotton sat down on the porch step. “Do you think he’s going to care that I go to twelve step, that I’m voluntarily turning myself in?”

“I don’t know, Cotton. Is there an alternative?”

“I have to tell Livie first. I don’t want her reading about it in the newspaper.”

“After Nikki’s party, once I tell Livie, you keep making these bargains, these arbitrary deadlines--”

“You know what else I keep thinking about, Nita? Who’s gonna take care of my mom if I’m not around? She’ll start drinking again, it’ll end up killing her, then what?”

“Then that’s her choice, Cotton, as hard as it is. I read something once, that you can’t go back for your buddy who’s got his pant leg caught on the fence, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but this isn’t some buddy, it’s my mother. Would you leave your mother jammed up that way? Wouldn’t you go back for her?”

“God, I don’t--”

“It’s like if I do this, turn myself in, I’m not the only one facing heavy consequences. I mean Mom’s got a chance now, she’s sober. We’re doing pretty good. If she keeps on, maybe Scotty’ll come home. Ah, geez--” Cotton stood and went down the steps, turned and came back up them. “I can’t believe I’m talking like this, like it could happen in a million fricking years.”

“You want to believe it; you want to believe you can have a family, a normal family. It’s only human. Everyone wants to believe they have people they belong to, who care about them.”

“I feel like I’m tossing Mom under the bus, Nita. I don’t know how I can walk away from her, just pretend she’ll be all right.”

“Can you walk out on the Latimers?”

Cotton remembered a few weeks ago when he’d thought he could, when he’d planned to do exactly that.

“Can you walk away from Nikki,” Anita asked, “And Livie? You’ll have to walk away from her too. Can you do it? Can you keep your mom off the bottle, never mind yourself, and get Scott home? Fix it for everyone? Maybe you could hold up the sky, too, turn the sun on every morning all while you whistle a few bars of Zipitty-Do-Dah.”

“So, what do you recommend? What’s the right thing?”

“I can’t answer that, Cotton. About all I can say for sure is that all those other people?--the Latimers, Livie, your mom--they aren’t the ones who have to lie down in your skin every night. They aren’t the ones who have to look in the mirror, who have to carry your garbage around.

#

“I cheated on my wife,” Jake L. said. “Too many times to remember. She doesn’t know.”

Cotton had heard Jake talk at past meetings and he could never decide if Jake was a liar. If no one shut him down, the guy would go on and on, seeming to manufacture details as long as he could keep everyone’s attention. It was part of what Cotton hated about the program, the need for  attention, the constant me-me-me. A lot of these people got off on being the victim. He bent forward on his elbows.

Patty C. said if Jake’s wife didn’t know, why go there? “Why open it up?”

“How long’s it been?” Sonny asked.

“Five years,” Jake said, “since my last bender.”

“What’s your marriage like now?” Bayronne wondered.

Cotton shifted his glance. This was another thing he hated; this nosy prying. What damn business was it of theirs what Jake’s marriage was like now?

But Jake wasn’t insulted. He said they had a great relationship. Kathy tells everyone she has her boyfriend back. She means after eight years living with a mean-ass drunk, I’m back to being the nice guy she fell in love with.”

“That’s sweet,” Patty said.

Diane T. wondered if Jake had kids.

“Two,” he said. “Boy and a girl. They’re teenagers now,” he added.

“Well,” Diane squirmed a little in her chair, “I’m real new; this is my first sober month in two years, so maybe this is stupid, but shouldn’t you consider how telling your wife about your affairs would affect your children?”

She looked around the table. “I guess I’m wondering because I have sort of the same problem. About a year ago I stole a lot of cash from my kid’s grandmother. I’m afraid if I make amends now and tell her how sorry I am, my daughter’ll find out and I’ll lose the ground I’ve gained with her since I finally sobered up, not to mention if she tells her dad--we’re divorced--he could make a thing out of it, drag me back into court and fight me some more about custody.”

Patty reached over and patted Diane’s arm.  

“Maybe you and Jake could find other ways to make amends.” This remark came from a woman Cotton didn’t recognize.

Sonny said anyone looking to make amends had to really have a think about what they were after, what they really wanted. “When some folks say they want to make amends, what they really mean is they want to be forgiven. It’s not the same.”

“Yeah,” Frank W. said. “If it’s going to break Jake’s wife’s heart all over again, why go there? She’s happy. Who’s it going to help if she knows now, after all this time? I say leave it alone. I think I feel the same about your situation too, Diane.”

“Me, too,” Patty agreed. “Find another route.”

Sonny made a joke. “If it’s confession and forgiveness you’re after, there’s a Catholic church down the street.”

Jake laughed. Everybody did.

What if you killed somebody? Cotton wondered. Would the answer be the same? Could he just go to a priest and confess?

#

His mother was sitting on the back steps when he got home. Waiting for him, Cotton thought. He recognized her even though it was dark. He knew her shape, her profile, and both were clearly identified in the light from a full moon. And it was stupid, but to see her there, to imagine that she had come outside to wait for him, pleased him. He gave her a little wave and said, “Hi,” as he approached her. But she didn’t respond, didn’t acknowledge in any way that she’d heard him. She was looking toward the back fence, looking so hard that Cotton looked too, hair rising on the back of his neck. “Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

He touched the cap of her shoulder. “Mom?”

She turned her head then, tipping her chin up, and that’s when he saw the blood dried under her nose, smeared across her chin, the splotches of it on her shirt, and his heart wallowed. He sat beside her and took her hand and the smell hit him in the base of his skull, the metallic odor of blood was mixed with vomit and the sick, sweet familiar stench of gin.

Cotton’s head dropped. “Mom, goddamnit,” he whispered.

“Scotty?” Her voice floated all light and flirty.

“No! Scotty’s not here and he’s not coming here, because he doesn’t give a damn about you, okay?” Cotton stood up, went into the yard, ranting. “Where did you get it?” he demanded. “Max? Did Max bring you the gin?”

Delia didn’t answer.

Something unnatural in the silence made him turn. She was slumped now, against the porch rails and that quickly, he was yanked out of his rage. He went to her, digging in his pocket for his cell phone, flipping it open, sitting beside her again. He pulled her against him, to support her.

She touched his knee. “Don’t,” she whispered.

He looked at her.

“No doctors, not again. Please. Cotton.” She worked his name out of her mouth. He could see what it cost her, but she recognized him. At least in that moment, he was certain that she did.

The call went through; Cotton gave the 911 operator the information and he set the phone down, but he kept his arm around his mother. Her head slid from his upper arm to just below his shoulder. He felt something warm soaking his shirt in front and he looked down to see a great gout of blood spew from her mouth.

“Oh God. Hang on, Ma, geezus god, hang on.” He looked out over the darkened yard, the scrappy, dust bowl of a yard where he and Scott, as children, had tumbled like monkeys, as teenagers had wrestled like hogs. “Hang on,” he begged. “Please, please don’t do this.”

But he felt her slipping in spite of his pleas, felt her leaving even as the EMT’s got her strapped on the gurney. He could see the reality mirrored in their expressions.

Out at the street, before she was boosted into the ambulance, she caught his hand and the firmness of her grip surprised him, encouraged him. She said his name again, “Cotton?” and he went loose with relief.

He bent toward her.

“You talk to that man, Latimer, you tell him what you told me. Do you hear me? It’ll be all right then, if you tell him the truth.”

“Don’t talk, Ma.”

“No, Cotton, listen. Promise me you’ll do as I say.” Her gaze locked with his. “Promise me,” she insisted.

“Yeah, all right. I will.” He didn’t move; he couldn’t. Her eyes wouldn’t let him go. A pair of headlights swept by, slowing briefly for a moment, illuminating her features, the whiteness of her brow drawn down in pain, the glittered slits of her eyes. The cords of her neck were rigid with the effort of breath, speech. Cotton blinked, swallowed.

Her grasp tightened, tugged at him. She wasn’t finished with him. He bent lower.

“I should have . . . I wish . . . .” Her mouth closed, opened, clapped shut again. She wanted to say more. Her eyes were crowded with it. He’d seen the same look in Joan Latimer’s eyes. The same panic. There was other stuff: Regret, he’d think later. Futility, he’d guess. Apology? Was his mother sorry?

Finally?

He’d never know.

He backed away. The ambulance doors closed.

“Goddamnit, Ma.”

#

He intended to call Scott from the ER waiting area, the same one where he’d sat with Livie, but then he didn’t. He paced in front of the row of molded plastic chairs. He tried Anita, left her a voice mail. Then Sonny. No answer on his cell phone either. Cotton got coffee from the machine. It burnt his tongue and he started to get pissed. He could feel the heat knotted in his shoulders, behind his eyes. He wanted a drink. But no. He set the coffee down. He could be angry later. Get pissed as hell at the waste later. But not now.

“Cotton?”

His back was to her, but he recognized Penny Hoffman’s voice and he turned, saying, “I’m glad it’s you,” feeling the lift of a smile, a burgeoning relief, that faded when he registered the look on Dr. Hoffman’s face.

Her eyes were loaded with compassion. “We did everything we could.”

Cotton stared at the doctor feeling his skin cool, his knees soften. A sound bolted through his teeth, a kind of grunt. He clenched his jaw.

“Sit down,” Dr. Hoffman said, taking his elbow.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

“We already talked about that. It was her decision to drink again. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew the consequences.”

“You think she did it on purpose?”

“Who can say? I guess addiction of any kind is a sort of death wish.”

“Can I see her?”

“If you want to, of course.”

Cotton looked at the floor.
Did he?
He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I don’t,” he said.

“That’s fine, too. It’s not required. There’s some paperwork,” Dr. Hoffman said. Her name was announced over the PA. She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, standing. “I’ve got an ER full. Chrissy, at the nurse’s station, can help you.”

Cotton stood too; they shook hands. He thanked her.

She told him he could call if he had questions later.

He nodded, thinking: None you can answer.

#

Before he left the hospital, he tried Scott and when his voice mail picked up, Cotton bit down on an urge to say: Hey, asshole, your mother’s dead. Instead he said Scott should return the call as soon as he could. “Doesn’t matter how late.”

Cotton left the same message for Sonny and after a moment’s hesitation, he dialed the Latimer’s number and closed his eyes when Wes offered condolences.

“I guess I won’t make it up there tomorrow,” Cotton said, “but I’ll be there on Thursday for sure unless--”

“God, Cotton, how many times do I have to tell you, never mind about the work, man.”

“I know, but Nikki’s party’s on Saturday and there’s still some stuff to do, touch up painting. Those window things--”

“The Roman shades. I can hang those. Look, what’s left is cosmetic stuff. Nikki and I can handle it.”

Don’t worry about us. Take care of yourself. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you. . . .

Geezus. Cotton got into the Mercedes, keyed the ignition. Why couldn’t Latimer be an asshole like Scott?

#

He was in downtown Houston, driving aimlessly beneath a sagging roof of neon-washed clouds. Occasionally, heat lightning flashed off the corner of a high rise, or he caught its reflection in a wall of windows. He didn’t know why he’d come here from the hospital. What was he looking for? Company? Booze and a hooker?