Death Will Help You Leave Him by Elizabeth Zelvin Page A

I walked in. The pews all faced front, so my chance to see if I could spot Frankie’s rehab buddies wouldn’t come till the break. I sat down near the back. I felt uncomfortable, but no more than at my usual meetings. My eye fell on Tradition Three on the right-hand scroll: “The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking.” Gay meeting or not, I had a right to be here.
    The speaker didn’t look or sound particularly gay, if you think all gay guys flop their wrists and call each other Mary. His heavy drinking started when he came out to his family and they threw him out. He had a partner named Herb. Otherwise, it was the same old story. Partied hard, fucked things up, hit bottom, came to AA kicking and screaming, gradually began to like it, slowly got his act together. Wouldn’t trade a single day. Grateful. It all came down to that. Grateful and humble. Those words still made me squirm. But in some corner of my cynical heart I aspired to them myself.
    As the speaker wound up and they started passing the basket, I craned my neck, trying to spot the rehab guys. That bald head, shiny as honey and about the same color, might be Mars. When he stood up, I saw the tattoos. And when the fellow next to Mars turned his head to talk to him, I saw it was Kevin. They squeezed out of their pew and joined the flow toward the coffee, cookies, and donuts in the back. I didn’t want to be too obvious. So I got my caffeine fix before I positioned myself so our hands would meet over the Krispy Kremes. Mars and I both went for the last one in the box. Perfect timing. We checked, fingertips hovering above the box, and made eye contact.
    “Go ahead,” I said.
    At the same time, he said, “No problem.”
    Our hands dodged a bit, like two people trying to pass each other on a narrow street. I let him get the donut.
    “They didn’t tell me sobriety would turn me into Miss Manners,” I remarked.
    “Sure do need that sugar we used to drink without even noticin’,” Mars said. “Just got outa rehab, and seems like I can’t get enough a that sweet stuff. Bruce, right? Saw you out in Brooklyn the other day.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I had been watching Kevin pile cookies on a napkin. At Mars’s words, he looked around.
    “Jimmy’s friend,” he said.
    “And you’re poor Frankie’s friends from rehab,” I said, as if I hadn’t been stalking them. “Sad thing, huh? If he felt half as bad as I did coming off the booze, it’s a shame he bought it after all the trouble and before he got to enjoy any of the benefits.”
    “How long are you clean?” Kevin spoke thickly around a mouthful of donut.
    “Almost ten months.”
    “That’s fantastic,” Kevin said with evident sincerity. “I’ve never gone that long. What’s it like?” I didn’t want to talk about me. But the admiration felt good. I hadn’t had anything you could possibly call an achievement in a long time.
    “Some days aren’t bad. But I’m still dealing with the wreckage of my past,” I admitted. An AA phrase. “I guess Frankie never had a chance to put things right.”
    Kevin nodded.
    “Yeah, that’s the part that’s always sent me back out. I can’t deal with it— too messy. So first it’s a six-pack, then a few shots in the bar— well, more than a few— and before I know it I’m on a dark street corner again looking to score.”
    “Gotta do something different this time, man,” Mars advised.
    “I know.” Kevin shook his head. “It doesn’t help that half the fellows in the bar
are
the wreckage of my past.”
    “People, places, and things.” I hoped I didn’t sound pompous. “I wonder what Frankie would have done if he had lived. They say no relationships the first year. But he already had the girlfriend uptown and the wife in Brooklyn. That situation alone probably made him drink and drug. And the dealing— sometimes they won’t let you get away from the places and things, and they’ve got some ugly ways of