breathing, the little grunts and moans—I would lie awake in the dark listening to them. And then I got used to it—needed it, in fact.
After the divorce, I had many nights in which I would lie awake in the dark listening to the silence, trying to readjust to sleeping alone. I tossed and turned in the huge bed. Susan and I shared a king size, which dwarfed the double bed I did not sleep in now. Every move I made rumbled like a voice in a deep well; my movements were exaggerated and echoed in the absence of someone to absorb them.
At night, too, the demons came. I faced my greatest fears: those of meaninglessness—no hope, no future, no God, no purpose. Self-doubt and accusation rumbled in my head like thunder in a canyon. Also, the desire to drink was overwhelming. Alcohol offered a baptism into its depths that would cause the fears, demons, and, most of all, the loneliness to drown. I wanted to drown beneath the golden ripples of its surface and never come up for air. I didn’t, but I don’t know how I didn’t. This, more than anything else in recent memory, convinced me of the existence of God. Alone, I could not stay clean and sober. And I was completely, utterly alone.
Earlier that night, I had gone to an AA meeting. I drove into the next county to attend it to ensure my anonymity. It helped, but not enough. I returned home and, in the absence of the prospect of sex with anyone other than myself, went jogging. Actually, much of the time I ran. I ran away from the case, the bottle, the loneliness that eventually chased me down and overtook me, no matter how fast or how far I ran. As I did, I thought about Bambi. She wasn’t the answer—I knew that—but it doesn’t mean that she couldn’t be part of the answer. I came home, showered, changed, ate, and watched
It’s A Wonderful Life
on cable—none of which occupied enough time. I then scratched out some notes on a legal pad, which I had recently heard was no longer used by the legal profession. I thought of everything I knew about the case and then wrote it down. It didn’t take long.
After doing all of these things, it was only ten after ten. So I read, prayed, and ironed my clothes for the following day. At midnight, I turned the lights off. That’s when the ugly neon lights inside my head came on. I looked at the clock: it was twenty after twelve. I rolled over and tried to direct my thoughts in a single, more productive direction. The phone rang.
Saved by the bell.
“Hello,” I said, my voice sounding much sleepier than it was, probably because I hadn’t used it for several hours.
“This the chaplain what work at the Potter Prison?” an elderly black woman’s voice asked. I could hear a loud television and a dog barking in the background.
“Yes, ma’am, it is. John Jordan.”
“This is Miss Jenkins. I’m Ike Johnson’s aunt.”
“Yes ma’am. I’m so sorry about Ike.”
“Thank you. We’re planning the funeral and wondered if you would do it.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I just continued to listen to the background noises. I picked out another one. It sounded like wind blowing into the phone, but it was intermittent. She must have had an oscillating fan.
“We not really church peoples,” she continued. “And Ike’s grandma, Miss Winger, said you was the nicest white man she’d ever spoken to.”
I had spoken to Grandma Winger earlier that morning to tell her that her grandson, the one she had raised like a son, had been killed. At the time, I thought he was killed while trying to escape. She refused to believe it. She said that they were coming to visit him this Saturday, and he knew it. According to her, he liked prison and had no desire to leave. He told her that it was the best he had ever lived. I believed that, and it made me mourn even more.
“When are you planning on having the funeral?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Saturday, if you was able to make it.”
I was
After the divorce, I had many nights in which I would lie awake in the dark listening to the silence, trying to readjust to sleeping alone. I tossed and turned in the huge bed. Susan and I shared a king size, which dwarfed the double bed I did not sleep in now. Every move I made rumbled like a voice in a deep well; my movements were exaggerated and echoed in the absence of someone to absorb them.
At night, too, the demons came. I faced my greatest fears: those of meaninglessness—no hope, no future, no God, no purpose. Self-doubt and accusation rumbled in my head like thunder in a canyon. Also, the desire to drink was overwhelming. Alcohol offered a baptism into its depths that would cause the fears, demons, and, most of all, the loneliness to drown. I wanted to drown beneath the golden ripples of its surface and never come up for air. I didn’t, but I don’t know how I didn’t. This, more than anything else in recent memory, convinced me of the existence of God. Alone, I could not stay clean and sober. And I was completely, utterly alone.
Earlier that night, I had gone to an AA meeting. I drove into the next county to attend it to ensure my anonymity. It helped, but not enough. I returned home and, in the absence of the prospect of sex with anyone other than myself, went jogging. Actually, much of the time I ran. I ran away from the case, the bottle, the loneliness that eventually chased me down and overtook me, no matter how fast or how far I ran. As I did, I thought about Bambi. She wasn’t the answer—I knew that—but it doesn’t mean that she couldn’t be part of the answer. I came home, showered, changed, ate, and watched
It’s A Wonderful Life
on cable—none of which occupied enough time. I then scratched out some notes on a legal pad, which I had recently heard was no longer used by the legal profession. I thought of everything I knew about the case and then wrote it down. It didn’t take long.
After doing all of these things, it was only ten after ten. So I read, prayed, and ironed my clothes for the following day. At midnight, I turned the lights off. That’s when the ugly neon lights inside my head came on. I looked at the clock: it was twenty after twelve. I rolled over and tried to direct my thoughts in a single, more productive direction. The phone rang.
Saved by the bell.
“Hello,” I said, my voice sounding much sleepier than it was, probably because I hadn’t used it for several hours.
“This the chaplain what work at the Potter Prison?” an elderly black woman’s voice asked. I could hear a loud television and a dog barking in the background.
“Yes, ma’am, it is. John Jordan.”
“This is Miss Jenkins. I’m Ike Johnson’s aunt.”
“Yes ma’am. I’m so sorry about Ike.”
“Thank you. We’re planning the funeral and wondered if you would do it.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I just continued to listen to the background noises. I picked out another one. It sounded like wind blowing into the phone, but it was intermittent. She must have had an oscillating fan.
“We not really church peoples,” she continued. “And Ike’s grandma, Miss Winger, said you was the nicest white man she’d ever spoken to.”
I had spoken to Grandma Winger earlier that morning to tell her that her grandson, the one she had raised like a son, had been killed. At the time, I thought he was killed while trying to escape. She refused to believe it. She said that they were coming to visit him this Saturday, and he knew it. According to her, he liked prison and had no desire to leave. He told her that it was the best he had ever lived. I believed that, and it made me mourn even more.
“When are you planning on having the funeral?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Saturday, if you was able to make it.”
I was
Similar Books
