Page 64 of Sapphire Spring

“Mason…”

Their foreheads were touching. Naser sounded quietly astonishedby Mason’s display. And maybe his words, too. Maybe he wasn’t used to grown menbreaking down into tears in front of him. As for Mason, he felt more naked nowthen he had during sex.

“I’d take you with me, but it’s a closed meeting and so it’sonly alcoholics and I… Please don’t leave. It would mean the world to me if youstayed.”

Begging. Mason had never begged for anything in his life.

He’d neverhadto. But his life was changing.

“I’ll stay.”

Naser’s whisper sounded rushed and lacking in conviction, aBand-Aid slapped on a cut.

A gentle kiss came next. Mason kissed him back. Hard,forceful. Probably sloppy in the wrong way thanks to his salty tears, and likeeverything else he’d just done, too much.

Then he was headed down the stairs, feeling like a child anda fool. By the time he was backing out of his garage, whatever voices had spentyears convincing him vodka was the solution to his problems had managed toconvince him that Naser was lying and that the house would be empty when hecame back.

The meeting was in a bland, brickMethodist church on a suburban side street. The windows were dark, save for thebright light coming from an open side door. He’d learned to recognize thissignature—a huddle of smokers standing a State of California mandated distancefrom a welcoming rectangle of yellow. It meant twelve-step recovery was beingspoken somewhere within.

Meeting folks had mentioned God and higher powers a bunchduring the past week. Some of it had intrigued him; some of it had rankled.But when he saw Shirley pulling into the church parking lot ahead of him,he thought it was divine providence. She smiled as he approached, then she sawthe expression on his face and hurriedly closed the distance.

It poured out in a frantic rush. The whole time, he soundedlike a little boy trying to make his dad care about a minor playground injury.But Shirley stood close, listening to every word, and only when he was finisheddidhe realize he’d just come out to her too.

“You did the right thing, coming to the meeting,” she said.

“I know, but what if he leaves?”

“Then maybe he comes back later. Or another night.” When shesaw these answers failed to calm him, she gripped his elbow. “Look, Mason, thisthing that you’re feeling right now, this sense that if you like somethingyou’ve got to lock it up and never let it go, that’s alcoholism, sweetie. It twiststhe mind into this kind of binary thinking. All is lost or all is won.Everything’s bliss or it’s hell. It takes control of us through fear and tellsus there’snoin between. But the world’s morecomplicated than our appetites. And right now, since you’re not feeding thebeast inside you, it’s going to try to kick the shit out ofyouso you’ll pour it a drink. Don’t let it. It’s fine to hear the crazy thoughts,but don’tlistento them, sweetie. I want you to think of a name.”

The sudden command at the end startled him. “A name?”

“For the voice in your head. For the one that tells youthere’s no point, that nothing will work out and why try and why leave thehouse, and why don’t I just drink? Some people call it the committee. But Ifind it easier to think of as one person. That way, it’s easier to tell it toshut thefuckup.”

Mason was stumped. They’d gone from swimming in a swamp offeelings to trying to think of nicknames for self-destructive thoughts.

Shirley seemed to tire of the silence after a minute or two.“Mine’s Ms. Cartwright. She was my third-grade teacher. Totalbitch. Her mission in life was to destroy the self-esteem ofanyone under nine. So when Ms. Cartwright comes at me first thing in themorning, telling me I’m too old and fat to try for anything I want, that I waswrong to divorce my abusive, shitbag of an ex-husband just because I’ve neverbeen able to replace him, that I wasted my life on that damn soap opera when Ishould have been trying for an Oscar, I say, ‘Thank you for playing, Ms.Cartwright. But I’m not a little girl anymore and I have things to getaccomplished today. Also, I think the rumor you killed your husband is true,you nasty old witch.’”

Mason laughed and wiped tears away with the back of onehand. “Banjo.”

“Like the instrument?”

“Like our neighbor’s dog when I was little. Mean littledude. Barked all the time. Used to chase me whenever he got loose. And that’s whatthis feels like. Somebody barking at me in my head.”

“Banjo it is then.” Shirley bent forward and pecked him onthe cheek. “Don’t listen to Banjo. He’s just a dog. Dogs are great. But wedon’t take life advice from them. All they do is eat and sniff things. I’ll letthem boss me around when they can engage in witty conversations about goodbooks.”

He laughed, nodding.

Shirley patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a sweet boy,Mason. You’ve spent your whole life trying to cover itup,anduntangling that’s going to be your story. But you are. I need towarn you right here, right now. People like us can turn other people into vodka.They deserve more, and so do we.SoI’m glad you’rehere.”

Had she just accused him of using Naser like a drug? He’dneed some time to process that one. Luckily, he had some. An hour, at least,during which he’d try his best to listen to the speaker and the shares, whilefighting worries that Naser was already headed home.

Fighting Banjo.

She looped one arm through his and walked them toward theside door.

Before he could respond, they’d stepped inside the corridor,where several eager, hungry sober alcoholics moved toward the meeting room’sdoor when they saw the tray of Saran wrapped cookies Mason carried. Apparently,some folks were more than happy to live the life of a dog.

On the way home, Mason resignedhimself to the idea he’d be returning to an empty house. Had already startedscripting the apology texts he’d send Naser, all with the aim of getting him tocome back another day, and to come again in his bed. Or maybe multiple roomsthis time.

---