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The chairs were more comfortable than he imagined. There were fewer people than he imagined, too. Four other men. About his age, maybe a little bit older. They didn’t even sit down at first. Just stood in the church basement like a service had ended and they were avoiding their wives.
I’m Charlie, he said, introducing himself.
They welcomed him warmly. Samuel, Stanley, Evarist, and Holling. Introduced themselves. The basement smelled of burned coffee, though from outside, the air carried in the smells of earthworms and wet asphalt; irises were blooming.
We could sit outside, Stanley offered. The church has a little courtyard. Nice and private. It’s too beautiful to be inside anyway. C’mon. Grab your chair.
Outside, they asked Charlie questions. About his working days on the railroad. All of them were real curious about that. His retirement and his new life here. Holling knew Vivian; he’d been a high-school history teacher and had taught Melissa so many years back.
How is Vivian? he asked. She getting along all right?
Oh, I think she’s doing well, Charlie said. Real well, I hope. We just got engaged, in fact.
Well, now, Holling exclaimed. Good for you. Good for you both. She’s had a hard go of it, I know that. Her husband’s health. She stood by him—no offense—like an angel. Everyone recognized it. She was so beautiful, and a young mother, and she kept that garage going and was a good wife to him, all that time. I heard that her husband didn’t say a word, those last three, four years. He wasn’t catatonic, but he’d just stare at you, no matter who you were, like you were a stranger. Like he was looking right through you, past you. Must’ve been tough. Well, anyhow, good for you. She’s a keeper.
I’m happy as I’ve ever been, he said to those four men, who held their paper coffee cups in both hands and looked at him expectantly, waiting for the confession they knew was bottled inside him.
You don’t have to say anything, son, Evarist said. But is there a reason you’re here today? Here with us?
Charlie nodded his head and looked at his feet. Birds were singing from the maple boughs and overhead, leaves were gently waving with the evening wind. He took a deep breath.
I need help, he said. I do. I’m an alcoholic, and I want to be free of it. I don’t want to drink anymore.
Well, Charlie, Stanley said, taking a deep breath. You see that tree over there? That big old oak?
Yessir.
You see its shadow—stretching toward the fence?
I do.
You’re that tree, Charlie. And that shadow, that’s your relationship with alcohol. You can’t ever shake it. So don’t think that you will. You come to these meetings, and you bring your shadow right with you. But at least now, you’re acknowledging it. You’re acknowledging that you have this shadow, this dark side. We all do.
Okay, Charlie breathed out.
Stanley set his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. When was your last drink?
A week ago, Charlie said.
How do you feel right now? Do you want a drink?
Charlie looked up, at Stanley’s face. At his kind eyes. At the watch on his wrist, crowded by white arm hair. At the other men, leaning towards him, as if he might reveal some hot investment tip. He looked at their old scuffed shoes. The pleats in their well-ironed pants. He looked at their thick work-worn hands. The sunset was hot against his right cheek, like a warm palm, and he closed his eyes and said, Yes.
That’s okay, son. That’s okay. We all do. We all understand. We’re here to help you.