Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [90]
AT TOPS, Lewis found Barbara and a fair sampling of the core Nightcrawlers in a large corner booth.
“Our fearless leader,” said an actor named Kip, who moved over to give him a seat.
Celia, a rock singer, spoke in her throaty voice. “I was thinking, Lewis, that maybe you should be a minister.” She turned to the others. “Don’t you think Lewis would make a good minister?”
“What, was I too preachy?”
“No, no. I didn’t mean that.” Celia turned to Barbara. “Jesus. I thought I twisted things around.”
“You would make a good minister,” Kip said. “You’re funny, smart, sufficiently spiritual. You think well on your feet.”
“I fornicate, I blaspheme, plus I don’t believe in God, per se.”
“Who cares?” said Kip. “You’re a natural speaker.”
“And you cried, Lewis,” Celia added. “That was so sweet it killed me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.”
“Are you kidding?” said Barbara. “He’s a total sponge-face.”
“When I quit smoking,” said Lewis, “I was furious at everybody for about a month, and then I started getting weepy at Pepsi commercials.” He sat back so the waitress could pour his coffee. “Although I never actually cry cry, much less sob. Just leak from the eyes.”
Kip laughed. “And I always love hearing about how your first sponsor stole your girlfriend. That’s really rich.”
“I say that for effect, but the truth is, I’d already broken up with her.”
“So you said. But the body wasn’t cold.”
“I don’t want my friends going out with my ex-lovers,” Barbara said. “People should find their own mates, not pounce on your leftovers.”
“Did you really punch your sponsor?” Renee was a robust young woman with thick straw-colored hair and clear blue eyes; she looked more like a picture of the right life than a girl who used to unplug the phone, lock her bedroom door, and retire for the weekend with a couple quarts of vodka.
Lewis bowed his head. “It was awful, actually, to boil up so fast. It was like watching someone else. I still feel like shit about it.”
“Sounds to me,” said Kip, “like you need to make amends to yourself.”
“Yeah, well …” Steam tumbled upward from Lewis’s coffee cup in a small shaft of light.
“So you made amends, right,” Renee said, “for hitting him?”
“Renee’s about to make her amends—can’t you tell?” Barbara, who sponsored Renee, gave her an affectionate glance.
“Good for you,” said Lewis. “I didn’t start feeling lighter and freer until I made my amends. But no, I never did with Red. I like to think that staying the hell away from his girlfriend was amends enough.” He tried to laugh, but what came out was a humorless hack. “Look, can we change the subject? Or do we want to spend the rest of the day on what an asshole I am?”
“Hey, hey,” said Kip. “We’re all assholes here. Isn’t this Assholes Anonymous? Or am I in the wrong program?”
Big sighs at this old joke, then the waitress came up to take their food orders. Lewis was too keyed up to eat. He had liked being on the podium, but it wore him out. After three cups of watery coffee, he felt scorched around the edges, and his friends were beginning to look like unflattering caricatures of themselves.
“You okay?” Barbara asked.
“It just caught up with me,” said Lewis. “I need a nap.” He stood and threw two dollar bills on the table.
Barbara’s face darkened. She considered his naps “another place to hide,” an escape only slightly less contemptible than drinking.
“I’ve got to,” Lewis told her. “Just a quick one.”
“Well, thanks for speaking. You were great, Lewis. I really appreciate it.” She stood and put her arms around him and kissed his cheek.
As if suddenly fragile, he walked slowly back to his car. Each time he remembered anything he said at the meeting, it seemed stupid or corny. Had he really snuffled over a woman in front of all those people? Quel dope. No wonder Lydia was leaving for Paris without him.
The neighborhood Lewis walked through had Spanish-style homes with red tile roofs and tidy yards. Cars, cleansed from yesterday’s rains, sat in driveways. Not a soul was in sight. Sunday: the day of deep family burrowing. Throughout