Portia’s life, always topsy-turvy, got another rare chance to right itself for a little while. The main force did not come from within, but from without. Phoebe did not steal back her car, as Portia would have expected. She graciously accepted rides from churchgoers and stripper friends alike – an ambitious and strange mix of sinners and saints. These would be the same saviors Phoebe would soon call upon to prop herself up in her darkest days.
While Phoebe dealt with her own issues, Portia dealt with her newest cause: Darren. She sat next to Darren as he drove to yet another N.A. meeting.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Portia nodded.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Everything, I guess.”
“Like?”
“I just can’t believe how crazy my sister is sometimes. Maybe she should come to an N.A. meeting.”
“Maybe she should.”
Darren pulled into the church lot and parked next to a small cluster of cars. They went to the meeting without another word, but Portia’s mind was still buzzing. Portia and Darren found their seats as Maya, the meeting moderator, greeted the class and started the introductions. .
“Good evening, how is everyone doing tonight?”
The mass response was cool and casual. Portia listened as people re-introduced themselves and divulged their latest triumphs and defeats. When it was Portia’s turn, she was happy to put in her two cents, too.
“My name is Portia. I’m Daren’s sponsor. I’m doing okay, I guess, but my sister is an addict and I think she should come in.”
“That’s great. You could sponsor her, too.”
“I don’t think she’d come in on her own. Could we stage an intervention?”
“Well Portia, we don’t work like that. We believe that addicts have to want to come in before treatment begins working.”
“Drug addicts don’t just volunteer to come in,” said Portia.
The weight of silence consumed the room as soon as Portia finished speaking. Portia glanced around the room as everyone stared at her. She suddenly realized every person in that room was an addict, there by their own choice. She eased back into her chair and averted her eyes toward the floor.
“You’re dead wrong,” interrupted Maya, “Every single day is a commitment for a drug addict. Some days, I feel great, but other days I get up and I feel absolutely awful. The first thing I think about is knocking down a bottle of Crown Royal – just like the ‘good old days.’”
As Maya framed her thought with air quotations, it sent a chill down Portia’s spine. She thought of Phoebe’s troubles. She thought of Darren’s good old days, too.
Portia remained silent as the rest of the group confided their good old days to each other. Some, like Maya, spoke about them in such a way that it almost romanticized them. Most, however, talked about the worst times – begging from strangers, co-workers, friends, and loved ones. They also spoke of loved ones lost to car wrecks and overdoses. The two hour meeting flew by as each story shed new light on addiction.
Portia’s thoughts reeled again as she rode home with Darren.
“What ‘cha thinking?” asked Darren.
“Everything again.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll all solve itself eventually.”
“I can’t just let it go.”
“You have to let it go. Phoebe’s problems are Phoebe’s problems. Don’t you have enough problems of your own?”
“Yeah, but she’s still my sister.”
“Then let it go.”
“How did you decide to change things?”
“You, your brother, and the baby did that for me. How could I remain out of control when there were other people to think about?”
“I can’t imagine Phoebe making that kind of sacrifice.”
“She will,” said Darren, “Or she won’t. Either way, it’s got to be her choice.”
The next day, Portia drove Phoebe’s car to school and stopped by the admission’s office to see Wendy.
“You got plans for lunch?”
“I was going to get something from the vending machine.”
“Ugh. Anything’s better than vending machine food. Let’s go to the sub shop or something. I’ll even pay.”
“It’s a deal.”
Wendy clocked out and they went across campus to the sub shop, ordered two Italian subs, and sat down. Portia shared her thoughts with Wendy, hoping for a sympathetic ear.
“I think Darren’s right.”
“But you’ve heard the horror stories about Phoebe.”
“I agree with you. She’s a train wreck, but it’s her life. Maybe you need something else to occupy your time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.”
“I’ve already got a full plate.”
“I just started on my own house a few months ago and I need more volunteers to help finish.”
“I don’t know how to build anything.”
“I couldn’t swing a hammer when I started, but now I’m pounding nails with the best of them.”
“Alright, just let me know when.”
“Sure thing. You can check it online, too.”
“I always forget to ask them to hold the banana peppers,” said Wendy.
“Give them to me. I love banana peppers.”
Portia filled her sub with a double helping of banana peppers and took a huge bite. Just like extra peppers on her General Tso’s or jalapenos sprinkled on top of her movie popcorn, Portia was always ready to prove her pepper love. And as Portia added more to her plate, Phoebe was trying to figure out ways to remove her surpluses.
“Reverend Paulson, I need to ask a big favor.”
“Sure, Phoebe, what can I do for you?”
“I’m only able to work with the choir three days a week instead of five.”
“Have you spoken with Miss Krieger? She’s the Music Pastor.”
“You’re the Lead Pastor. I thought I’d speak with you.”
“It’s her decision to make. Our last Assistant worked five days a week.”
“The pay is so low. I also need Saturday evenings free so I can work a second job.”
“Phoebe, I don’t think that’s really an option. You…”
“I know, but this one little adjustment and I could really devote all my extra time to the church.”
“I’m sorry, Phoebe, I can’t…”
“Okay, Mr. Paulson.”
Phoebe did not spit out a snappy reply, although she wanted to. She just got up and left. It wasn’t Reverend Paulson’s choice to make anyway. At the next choir practice, Phoebe spoke with Miss Krieger.
“Nancy, I need part-time work so I can work a second job.”
“This isn’t really a part-time position.”
“I know, but I can’t afford the low pay.”
“Phoebe, this job offers good pay and good health benefits.”
“My last job paid twice as much.”
“I understand, but you just started and we can’t change your pay, either. I’m really sorry.”
“I guess I’ll see what I can do to make it work,” said Phoebe.
Phoebe’s point of view, however, was far from the point of view from the Pastors. She collected more crumpled dollars off the dance floor in one Saturday night than she ever would in an entire week of work at the church. Even the pancake batter job, with its poor tips netted her more money.
Instead, she turned to the Youth Pastor for advice. He was much closer to her age, after all.
“Greg, I have a question to ask you.”
“If it’s about the hours or the pay, I’m with Reverend Paulson.”
“You guys don’t keep any secrets, do you?”
“It’s church business.”
“Church business?” scoffed Phoebe, “I thought churches were there to help the people.”
“Yes, but it still takes money.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“For the buildings and the hymnals and the electricity and…”
“I get it. How much do you make?”
“Phoebe…”
“Well?”
“It’s none of your business. I make enough to pay my rent and have a comfortable life. What more do you need?”
“More than just the basics. Just like everyone else, I want to have nice things.”
“Not everyone thinks like that.”
“I bet most people do.”
Greg gave Phoebe the once-over. She wore diamond earrings a diamond tennis bracelet, and a thick gold necklace. Her dress looked like a designer top, too. She did not spare much expense.
“The church takes care of me and I know they take care of you, too. The pay is good, the job is low stress, and you may not be able to buy creature comforts, but you have an abundance of spiritual comforts. You should start by writing those things into your ledger before you count your first penny.”
Phoebe sighed. She was unable to get through to Greg as well as the others. They were all alike. Phoebe decided to pay a visit to Tracie at the Executive Club.
She strutted into the Executive Club. It was just like old times – a cave of earthly delights. Girls were dressed in Lycra and lame. The glitter ball dangling above the deejay’s head threw tiny white squares of light across all four mirrored walls. Multi-colored incandescent stage bulbs, like Satan’s own Christmas lights, lit the velvety black room in their own unique glow.
Girls instantly approached Phoebe as she entered the door. Most turned their heads to see what new stranger opened the door. Others, realizing it was an old familiar face, rushed to see “Porsche”.
“Hey, baby,” greeted a few, “how’s life on the outside?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Just okay? We’ve always got space in our line-up.”
Phoebe nodded as she approached Tracie at the bar.
“A born again in the strip club?” exclaimed Tracie, “What would the neighbors say?”
“I don’t care. That job sucks.”
“That bad? You’ve only been there a week or so.”
“I’m not making any money.”
“I told you.”
Two of Phoebe’s closest stripper friends, Violet and Devin, joined her at the bar. Tracie plopped a row of tumbler glasses on the bar and poured Kahlua, Bailey’s, and Stoli into a shaker. With a couple of shakes and a pour, four shots were ready.
“This round’s on me. The rest are up to you to get.”
“Bottoms up!” said Portia.
They clinked glasses and pounded them down. With a whoop and a belch, Phoebe ordered another. A group of businessmen gathered around. One sat on each side of Phoebe and offered to get the next round.
“Just like old times,” laughed Violet.
Phoebe nodded. Within minutes, the drinks were flowing freely. Within an hour, Phoebe was drunk, but still in her groove. By the night’s end, She was barely coherent.
“Let me take you home,” offered Violet.
“Tracie’s got me.”
Tracie shook her head as she tugged her ear. It was their secret signal for ‘I’ve got a hook-up’.
“I’m alright. One of these fine gents can take me home.”
“No, you’re not,” interrupted Violet.
“Come on, honey, Porsche and I were doing just fine without your help.”
“She’s not a pay-per-view girlfriend,” said Violet as she carried Phoebe to the door.
“Who said anything about paying?”
“Just go.”
Violet’s fingernails flicked off the front of the man’s business suit as she pushed him away. Violet and one of the bouncers carried Phoebe to the car and poured her into the passenger seat. Violet secured Phoebe into place with the seat belt and drove away. Phoebe grumbled as Violet veered around a corner.
“Stop the car!” demanded Phoebe. Before Violet could do anything, Phoebe puked across the door and floor.
“God damn it!”
Violet swerved to the side of the road and took a look at the mess. She used an old drink cup to scoop out what she could. and left the rest for later. Violet rolled down the windows before she started off again, letting the car air out. Chilly February breezes whipped through the car as Violet took Phoebe home.
“Brrr. It’s freezing.”
“Yes, it is.”
Violet pulled in front of Phoebe’s childhood house. It was a place Violet had known since both Phoebe and her were children. She hauled Phoebe to the door and knocked. Portia answered the door.
“Just like the good old days,” said Portia.
“I suppose,” said Violet as she handed Phoebe off to Portia. They dragged her inside and dumped her on the couch.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Portia fetched an armload of towels and a bucket. She placed them beside the couch and tucked Phoebe under a blanket. She watched old reruns on the television until the sun rose and Mr. Gatteau came downstairs.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s drunk.”
Mr. Gatteau nodded affirmatively. He guided Portia towards the basement stairs. He fetched the morning paper, fixed himself a bowl of cereal and sat at the kitchen table until Phoebe finally stirred to life.
“How are you feeling?” asked Mr. Gatteau.
“Awful.”
“You shouldn’t have gone out drinking.”
“Oh, daddy, I don’t need a lecture. You sound like Portia.”
“Maybe Portia’s right. I thought you just turned the page on all this stupid behavior.”
“You drink, too.”
“But I don’t get drunk. I have one or two beers a day and that’s it. I don’t have the problems you have.”
It was a simple, if not completely accurate, rationale. Mr. Gatteau did not get drunk. He didn’t abstain, either. He functioned normally with the mild buzz of beer to help him through the day. On days when he felt down, he might drink more, but he never got drunk. His rationale was of no help at all.
Mrs. Gatteau’s advice would have been even worse. She did not function at all, whether she had drink in hand or not. As soon as she got out of bed, she fixed herself a mixed drink and pushed Phoebe to the end of the couch so she could sit and watch television. When Portia finally awakened, they continued on the same well-worn conversational path, whether Phoebe wanted to hear it or not.
“Are you alright?”
Phoebe nodded.
“That’s good. I was talking to Darren and…”
“I don’t want to hear this any more.”
“You’ve got a problem.”
“Hush up, Portia,” said mother.
“But she…”
“You got to quit butting into other people’s business.”
“She needs to admit it so she can fix her problems.”
Mr. Gatteau gave Portia a good hard stare-down. Portia bowed her head just like she did at the N.A. meeting. She got up and fixed herself a bowl of Cream of Wheat and retreated downstairs, where Darren and little Alex slept.
“Darren?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I bother you for a moment?”
Darren nodded.
“I’m really worried about Phoebe.”
“How man times do I have to tell you it’s her problem?”
“You’re right,” said Portia with a sigh.
After she finished her breakfast, Portia curled up next to Darren and held him tightly. It was one of the rare moments when both of them had an entire day to spend together. They used their time to just be together – like any other ordinary person’s lazy Sunday morning, curled in the comfort of cool cotton quilting. Like all good things, it would come to an end as soon as Alex let out a cry. She returned to bed and sat next to Darren as she held her baby. Maybe her plate was full enough after all.
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