By Janet Clark
Chapter One
Alison carefully balanced the last of the paintings against the west wall, then stepped back to survey her work. Nice spacing-the art was neither crammed so closely together that people wouldn't be able to appreciate the individual pieces, nor so far apart that the gallery looked under stocked. This was the first time Trish had asked her to set up the displays, so she wanted to get it right. And she had. Alison had to admit it looked good. She carried the boxes into the storage room in the back, then picked up her denim purse, flicked off the lights, and locked the gallery doors. She breathed in deep the sweet spring air, catching a whiff from the lilac bushes that grew next to the building, then walked briskly down the street toward her apartment.
If Trish were there, she would have insisted on giving Alison a ride home or made her call a cab. She didn't think it was safe to walk in the evening, and it was already past nine-thirty, but Alison never felt threatened or in danger, and she was used to walking. It felt kind of good to have somebody worry about her, though. She felt lucky. Trish was not only an ideal boss, she was also her friend, and Lord knew that she needed friends right now.
In ten minutes Alison was in front of her apartment building. Before she went inside, she walked around the building to sneak a peek at her car, another bonus from Trish. She'd sold it to Alison for an incredibly low price, saying that she wanted to buy a minivan so she'd have more room to haul the merchandise. Alison had jumped at the offer, although she didn't dare drive it until the price of insurance went down next month. June first marked the seventh anniversary of her arrest for DUI.
Driving under the influence. It still made her wince, saying the words to herself, let alone to somebody else. Whenever she thought about it, she tried to remind herself how much worse it could have been, if Brian had been in the car and they'd been smoking weed, if, God forbid, she'd had an accident and hurt somebody, if Sammy had been with her... Sammy! The only good thing, the only good thing about losing custody of her baby girl had been the fact that her daughter had few memories of Alison from that time period. And it was important to look for the positive aspect of every situation, Trish continually reminded her.
As she walked upstairs, Alison resolved to focus on the good things in her life: her job, her new car, her upcoming visit with Sammy on Saturday. Tonight she would bake a batch of chocolate-chip cookies for her. Still, a sense of emptiness enveloped her as she entered her apartment. Dropping her keys on the table, Alison flicked on the lights, walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a diet Coke. She came back into the living room, sat on her faded brocade couch, pulled the tab off her soda and took a drink.
"Is that going to be your supper, Alison?" she could hear Trish saying sarcastically. With a sigh, she pushed herself back up and returned to the kitchen to make a sandwich. What with unloading the shipment of paintings and rugs, cleaning the gallery, and setting up the display, she had somehow forgotten to eat.
Tsk, tsk, Alison mentally scolded herself. She was breaking one of the cardinal rules of recovery: never let yourself get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. HALT was the acronym, one of the catchy little bumper sticker phrases that stood between an addict and a slip back into the bad place, the place Alison had left behind almost three years ago. No, the DUI hadn't been enough of a wake-up call for little Alison. She'd had to lose her license, her employment, and the last vestiges of her self-respect before she finally woke up. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. Hitting bottom. Waves of self-loathing began pounding at the tenuous shore of self-esteem Alison had established. She knew she needed to start pounding back or succumb to total erosion.
She took her peanut butter and jelly sandwich into the living room and turned on the television. Plaintive blues melodies blasted her from the public television channel, so she switched stations. Baseball, a woman-in-distress movie, 1001 ways to use your leftover wallpaper, some very angry men yelling at each other about the decision of some judge on a state supreme court. Finally, she settled on a repeat of one of her favorite comedies that usually made her chuckle. It didn't disappoint, and Alison finished her meal and went into the kitchen to bake cookies feeling in much better spirits.
The next morning Alison woke up to the sun streaming through her double-paned windows. She looked at the clock and then shot up, her heart racing.
"Damn it!" she shouted. Eight-thirty. She was sure she'd set the alarm for seven. Sammy would be here at nine and Alison had wanted to have time to shower and wash her hair and dry it and put on make-up. Now she'd barely have time to wash and dress. "Dumbass!" she said aloud as she hurled herself out of bed and hurried into the bathroom.
Relax, Alison, Sammy's eight years old, she really doesn't care if your hair is perfect and your makeup is on just so, Alison reminded herself. She quickly showered, dried off and pulled her curly brown hair back into a ponytail. Then she put on a worn pair of jeans, the blue shirt that Sammy liked, and her sneakers. The plan was, Alison's mother Karen, who had custody of Sammy, would come upstairs with Sammy and visit for a while, and then Alison and Sammy would take a picnic lunch to the park. Alison would make supper for her daughter, and then her mother would come back for the little girl. Lately Alison had been getting Sammy for the entire weekend, which she cherished, but tonight Karen was taking her back to Milan because on Sunday morning Sammy would make her first communion.
Alison shoved the last bite of toast into her mouth and washed it down with grapefruit juice. She was putting the cookies on a plate when she heard a rap at the door. She hurried to open it and found her mother standing in the hallway alone.
"Mom, what's up?" Alison asked, her heart sinking into her shoes.
"Oh, Sammy couldn't make it today. She came down with a cold," her mother said in an exaggeratedly sad tone. At the same time, she was raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly down the hall towards the window, where a suspicious, Sammy-sized bulge had appeared behind the gold drapes.
Relief flooded Alison's heart, but she still squeezed back a few tears as she played along with the prank.
"Oh, no! I was really looking forward to seeing her! And you know what? I baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies last night," Alison said. "I guess you and I are going to have to eat them all up ourselves, Mom."
Giggles erupted from behind the curtain, which by now was moving mysteriously.
"Why, that...that sounds like Sammy," Alison whispered dramatically as she approached the curtain. "It IS Sammy!" she shouted, pulling back the curtain and hugging her daughter.
"I tricked you, Mommy!" Sammy laughed triumphantly
"You sure did, you little monkey!" Alison said. "Now how about we go inside and have some of those cookies."
Sammy plopped onto the window seat and looked down at the shiny red car in the parking lot.
"When can we go for a ride in your new car, Mommy?
"Next month. Just three weeks, really, when I can get my insurance," Alison said, handing her daughter a glass of milk to go with the cookies. She and her mother settled down on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee. "Then I can come and get you on the weekends. Maybe sometimes during the week, too."
"Can't you come to my first Communion tomorrow, Mommy? I want you to be there," Sammy implored.
Geez, why did the kid have to be so damn irresistible, Alison thought. I hate to disappoint her, but going to church...those glares, the whispering, 'the look'...
"You know that your mom has to go to her meeting Sunday morning, Sammy. We talked about this on the way over," Karen said, her voice gentle but firm. Alison shot her a look of gratitude.
"Every Sunday?" Sammy said, sticking her lower lip out.
"Every Sunday, pumpkin moonshine," Alison said. The nickname came from the title of one of Sammy's favorite books. "But I didn't forget about it." She rose and went into the bedroom, then came back and shyly handed her daughter a box wrapped with white tissue paper and blue ribbons.
Sammy, a smile playing with the corners of her lips, slowly teased off the ribbon and gently removed the paper. She carefully shook the box before removing the lid. Where did that kid get her patience? Alison wondered, being more the sort to rip a gift open at maximum speed. Alison watched with delight as the smile spread wide over her daughter's face.
"Mommy, it's so pretty! Thank you," Sammy said, admiring the small golden cross hanging from a delicate chain.
"Tomorrow, you put that on, and remember I'll be thinking about you," Alison said.
"I'll take a picture and we'll bring it next time," Karen promised. "And now, I'd suppose I'll get going so you girls can head for the park." Just as Karen walked out the door, the phone rang.
"Hello," Allison said.
"Alison, you're not going to believe what I heard," said a low, throaty voice. "Doug was struck down by a hit-and-run driver last night. He's in the hospital."
"Oh, no, Trish, how bad is he hurt?" Alison asked.
"Too soon to tell. They brought him in about ten o'clock and he's been unconscious since he got there," Trish said. "I got a call from Vi Underberg this morning. Woke me up from a sound sleep, I might add, though that's all right. Doug is a jerk, but he was my jerk for twelve years." Coming from Trish, that sounded downright sentimental.
"Wow, do they know what happened?" Alison asked.
"Not really. Probably some kids out joyriding, not paying attention to what they were doing," Trish said. "The police are looking into it, but so far nobody knows anything."
"So, are you doing okay?"
"Me? I'm fine. Doug's just a part of my history, honey. I'll probably go out and see him later. He doesn't really have any family around here, although I'm sure his latest flings will be fighting each other to attend to the great man's needs," Trish laughed sardonically. "Hey, I know you've got your little girl today, so I won't keep you. Give her a kiss for me."
"See you Monday," Alison said, then put down the receiver and looked at Sammy, who'd been listening attentively.
"Who got hurt, Mommy?" she said, a slight furrow between her eyes.
"That was Trish. Her ex-husband Doug got hit by a car and he's in the hospital," Alison said.
"Will he be okay?" Sammy asked worriedly. Losses great and small were immensely troubling to the girl. She'd been known to cry for days over the death of a goldfish, so Alison hastened to reassure her.
"He'd right where he needs to be, Sammy. The doctors will take really good care of him. Hey, he is a doctor, so everybody at the hospital is his friend and they'll take extra-good care of him, I bet," Alison said. "Don't worry," she added, giving her daughter a squeeze. "Let's get stuff ready for our picnic, okay?"
Trish's phone call cast only a small shadow on a blissfully sunny day, spent hiking and exploring the woods, both mother and daughter exclaiming joyfully over the ephemeral spring flowers, the yellow anemones, jack in the pulpits, and sweet-scented prairie phlox. They'd come home from the park exhausted, so they both lay down on Alison's double bed and took a nap. Before Sammy fell asleep, she shared a treasure-trove of stored-up confidences: her second-grade class was going to finish out the year with a substitute teacher, Mr. Meyers, because Mrs. Williams was having twins; Heather Runyon had come in first place in the spelling bee, beating Sammy by just two words; and Sammy suspected that Jared Huske liked her because he'd chased her at recess on Friday.
Alison woke up to Sammy gently patting her face.
"Are you up, Mommy?" she asked.
"Yeah. Are you up, Sammy?"
"Mommy! Of course I am! You're silly!" Sammy said.
"I know it, Mommy's silly. Now let's go make us some supper before Grandma Karen gets here," Alison said, and they padded out to the kitchen where Alison took hamburger, cheese and buns out of the refrigerator. Sammy helped her form the patties, which Alison placed in the broiler. They stood side by side at the sink, carefully scrubbing the meat off their hands.
"Daddy called me Tuesday night," Sammy said. "He was supposed to take me out for pizza, but he called and Grandma was very mad because she said he was slurring his words and she wouldn't let me go."
Damn him! Alison thought. Brian was never going to change-he was still the same old loser he's always been. How the hell did he and I make such a perfect little person as Sammy, she wondered.
"Your grandma is a smart lady. I'm sorry you were disappointed, Sammy, but when Daddy's drinking like that, Grandma won't let him take you because she wants to keep you safe," Alison said.
"I really wanted pizza, so Grandma ordered us one," Sammy said. "With pepperoni."
"Cool."
The smoke detector in the living room began beeping frantically as smoke billowed out from the stove. Alison pulled open the broiler to find the burgers were on fire, flames shooting up from the pan. She grabbed the dishcloth and threw it on top of them, quickly dousing the fire, but her heart was racing. How could I be so stupid? Horrified, she looked at Sammy. Poor kid must be scared to death, her dumbass mother almost sets her on fire.
But Sammy just smiled slyly.
"Looks like I might just get another pizza this week," she said.
Alison stared at her for a second and then burst out laughing.
"Well, kid, you're right, there." Alison turned off the smoke detector and then reached for the phone and dialed Pizza Hut, one of the few numbers she'd actually memorized.
Karen arrived at seven thirty on the dot. One of her mother's most infuriating habits was the fact that she was never late. Never. Regardless of weather, work, interruptions to schedule, the woman was always on time. If Alison didn't love her so much, this character trait would really annoy her, and sometimes it still did.
"So are you ready to go, Sammy?" she said from the doorway. "We need to get you home and cleaned up and off to bed."
"I'm ready, Grandma." Sammy lifted her arms up to Alison, who bent down and scooped her up. "Bye, Mommy. I'll wear the cross tomorrow. It's very pretty."
"Bye, Pumpkin Moonshine," Alison said, giving her a kiss on her cheek, savoring the sweaty, sweet smell of her. "Sammy, could you go in your room for just a minute and look at books so I can talk to Grandma?"
Alison waited until her daughter was out of earshot and then quietly quizzed Karen about Brian's latest debacle. Karen validated Sammy's story: it seemed Brian had gone out drinking after work instead of coming over to take Sammy out for supper, as he had promised he was going to, and somewhere during the course of the evening, had a rare attack of conscience and decided he wanted to pick her up after all. He had not been happy when Karen refused to let him take his daughter, but he shut up pretty fast when she reminded him that he was still on probation from his last brush with the law, and he knew Karen wouldn't hesitate to call his probation officer. Or the police, if need be.
"Mom, I'm glad you did it... but why didn't you tell me?" Alison asked. "You know I want to hear if anything big happens, and that was pretty major."
"I know, Alison, but I just didn't want to upset you for no reason. You've been doing so well and I, well, I didn't want to upset the applecart," Karen said.
"You mean, you didn't want for me to freak out and start drinking and using."
"Now, don't get mad, honey," Karen started.
"No, Mom, you don't have to treat me like an invalid. Or a... a crazy person. It's been three years, Mom - three years! I'm strong enough now to know what's going on in my daughter's life." Alison said.
"Alison. Let's talk about this later. I've got a forty-minute drive and I still need to press her dress for tomorrow.
"Okay. Mom... it's not that I don't appreciate everything you do for her... for me. Geez, if it weren't for you..."
"Alright, enough already," Karen said, patting Alison briefly on the shoulder. "Come on, kiddo, let's get going," she called in her hurry-up voice. Sammy ran out from the bedroom, called out, "Bye, Mommy!" and then they were gone.
Alone again, naturally. Thank you, Gilbert and Sullivan. Alison picked up the few toys scattered around the apartment, then went into the kitchen and scrubbed the scorched broiling pan, which she had left soaking in hot soapy water. She wiped off the countertops, wrung out the dishrag and leaned against the sink, wondering what to do with the rest of her evening. Too late for a meeting, too early for bed. Maybe she'd start reading the paperback she'd picked up at the bookstore.
Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. When Alison looked through the peephole, she saw a tall black police officer standing in the hallway. What the... She immediately opened the door.
"Officer, what's the problem?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"Ms. Marcus, Alison Marcus?" he inquired.
"Yes, I'm Alison Marcus. What's going on?"
"May I come in, Ms. Marcus?"
She stepped back to allow him entry, then closed the door and leaned back against it. By that time, her heart was pounding and her palms were sweaty as visions of a fiery car crash pulsed through her mind.
"Please, Officer, you're scaring me. Is it... did something happen to my daughter and my mother?" she asked.
"No, ma'am, I'm sorry if I've alarmed you," he said, a trace of kindness warming his brown eyes. "I'm here to ask you a few questions about a hit-and-run accident that occurred last night. May we sit down?"
"Oh! Of course, have a chair." Alison pointed to the high-backed armchair across from the couch. "A hit-and-run? You wouldn't be talking about Doug Kretzky, would you?"
"Yes, I am. You were acquainted with Dr. Kretzky?"
"Were? Are you saying he's dead?" Alison asked.
"No, no, Dr. Kretzky is alive. He's in pretty rough shape right, still unconscious, but he is alive. How do you know Dr. Kretzky, ma'am?" The warmth was gone: the cop, Officer Simmons according to his badge, looked as solemn as a stone.
"Well, he's my boss's ex-husband. I've talked with him a few times when they were still married. But what's this got to do with me?" Alison asked.
"Do you have a kind of car**, Ms. Marcus? Out in the parking lot in the back?" Simmons asked her.
"Yes, that's my car. I just bought it from Trish, my boss," Alison said.
"Can you tell me what you were doing Friday evening between nine and ten o'clock?"
"I worked until nine thirty, then I walked home and ate supper and baked cookies for my daughter," Alison said. Irritation was rapidly replacing fear. "Why do you want to know, Officer Simmons? It's beginning to sound like you're interrogating me."
"Would you know what that's like, Ms. Marcus? To be interrogated by the law?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into her green ones. Startled, Alison looked down at her hands, which were gripping her knees. "Is it true that you were arrested seven years ago for driving under the influence? That one year later, you were picked up for possession of a controlled substance? And that in the following year, you spent a night in jail for drunk and disorderly?"
Alison's chest burned with shame. Her thoughts raced as she tried to formulate an answer, an adequate defense. Against what, though?
"You still haven't told me what you think I did," she managed to get out.
"I don't necessarily think you did anything, Ms. Marcus. I'm just asking you some questions."
"Look, I didn't have anything to do with the hit-and-run, if that's where you're going with this. I don't even drive my car yet," Alison insisted. "It'll be seven years since my DUI next month, and then I'll be eligible for lower-rated insurance. I didn't even test-drive the thing - I knew from Trish it was a good car. It's just been sitting in the parking lot for about two weeks. Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway, Officer Simmons?"
"A witness at the scene of the crime reported seeing a late model*** driving in a suspicious manner about two blocks from where Dr. Kretzky was hit. Vi Underberg, the doctor's next-door neighbor, mentioned that his ex-wife owned a similar car," Simmons said. "When we questioned her, she said she'd sold the car to you. That's why I'm asking you all these questions, Ms. Marcus. That and the fact that you seem to have an extensive history of substance abuse, and we're looking at the likelihood that Dr. Kretzky was hit by a drunk driver."
"Yes, Officer, I had a history of substance abuse, but that's what it is," Alison said vehemently. "A history. As in, in the past. I have been clean and sober for three years this coming July, and I can assure you I would no more get behind the wheel of a car intoxicated now than I would... than I would put a gun to my daughter's head."
"No need to get upset, Ms. Marcus," Simmons said in an infuriatingly placating tone. "Just wanted to ask you a few routine questions. Seems that a boy in Dr. Kretzky's neighborhood has a similar car**, and we'll be asking him the same kinds of questions." He rose and headed to the door. "Thank you for your time, ma'am," he said as he opened the door and left.
Left Alison quaking with a soupy mix of emotions: anger, fear, guilt. Guilt when she hadn't done anything wrong, she protested to herself, wiping away a tear. She was innocent! Alison couldn't remember a time when she truly felt innocent, when she didn't feel that whatever accusations were hurled her way, she no doubt deserved them. But, dammit! She'd worked hard, so hard, to break away from the alcohol and the drugs and the crazy, crazy life she'd led. Would nobody ever accept her for who she was today? Hands shaking, she reached for the phone and dialed Trish's number. She got the answering machine and then remembered the gallery was open late tonight.
Dumbass, she rebuked herself as she called the gallery.
"Trish's Art Emporium, Trish speaking," her boss answered.
"Trish, it's Alison. The police were just here," Alison said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, love! This is just unreal, is it not? That bastard cannot seem to quit causing trouble for me," Trish said. "But I'm so sorry you had to get dragged into this. The police talked to me, first on their list, I'd imagine. The spiteful ex-wife. I had to tell them that you had bought the car, but I also told him you were working the night that Doug got his just desserts. Only I didn't phrase it quite that bluntly," she chuckled. "Did the officer harass you, darling? He was quite scrumptious, though, wasn't he? Officer Simmons."
"Scrumptious? I didn't really notice, Trish. I was too busy trying to defend myself. He... he knew about my record," Alison said.
"You're worried about that old bullshit? That's ancient history, kid. Nobody's worried about all that," Trish said dismissively. "And besides, you were working that night. I can vouch for it. Really, Alison, I'm sorry that he bothered you, but don't get all worked up over nothing. Officer Simmons said something about talking to one of Doug's neighbors, some teenager who just got his license and a new car from Mommy and Daddy. It'll probably turn out that he was the one behind the wheel of the car that hit Doug."
"It's just that... it brought back a lot of bad memories," Alison said.
"That's all they are, darling. Just a bunch of bad memories," Trish said, her voice unusually gentle. Now, really, I don't want you to give this another thought. I'm sure it'll be all wrapped up in a week or so, and everything will go back to normal. Did you have your little girl today?"
"Yes, Sammy was here. We had a great day," Alison said, her spirits lifting at the thought of Sammy.
"Glad to hear it. Are you okay now, Alison?" Trish asked.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Okay, then, I'll see you on Monday," Trish said briskly.
"Thanks for hearing me out, Trish," Alison said, then hung up the phone. She brushed off the seat of the chair where Officer Simmons had sat, as if she could wipe away his presence, could make it as if he'd never entered her territory. Scrumptious? All she could remember was his accusatory tone when he'd asked if she'd ever been interrogated before and the poorly disguised scorn on his face while he recited her arrest history.
It was a look she'd seen for as far back as she could remember, long before her own involvement with drugs and alcohol. The first time Alison had seen "the look", as she'd come to think of it, had been on the face of her first-grade teacher, Mrs. Merriweather.
To read more of Under The Influence, contact me at j_e_m_clark@hotmail.com