Keeping Promise Rock (18 page)

“What question?” Oh… damn. Damn. That was another person touching him. It suddenly didn’t matter if sex was involved or not—it was human contact. Deacon kept his eyes closed and hoped Jon couldn’t see what was shower and what was not as it slid weakly down his face.

Human contact. Human touch. It was almost as good as booze—who knew?

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

And now Deacon was
really
glad he had his eyes closed. “Because I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered. Suddenly Jon’s arm was around his shoulder, getting sopping wet down through the dress shirt that Jon had been wearing when he walked in.

“Too bad, Deacon,” Jon murmured, and Deacon clung to him, completely ashamed and unable to stop himself. “You’re one of the blessings of my life—hell, you’re one of the blessings of my marriage, do you know that? I get to see you however you are, whatever shape you’re in. You’ll always be a blessing, okay?” Jon’s whole body was in the shower now, completely clothed and wrapped around Deacon like a friendly, warm blanket. Jon seemed to be crying some more, and Deacon didn’t feel quite like such a pussy as he gave into his weakness and leaned on his friend.

“All things considered,” Deacon mumbled against his friend’s sodden chest, “I bet you’re wishing we’d sprung for the fancy silverware as a gift instead.”

“Nah,” Jon mumbled against his shoulder. “We got two of those from Amy’s parents. We’ve only got one of you.” Deacon had some sort of fantasy about getting out of the shower, grabbing something to eat, and getting started on the house. Jon barely managed to get him dried, dressed, and into bed where he could sleep off the violence of his body’s withdrawal. He woke up towards the evening and pattered out of the bedroom, looking around the house like it wasn’t his.

“What,” he muttered, “did the house fairy visit? Who cleaned up all the bottles?” He rounded the hallway corner to the living room and almost turned back around and went back to bed. “Awww, fucking Jesus.”

“Good morning to you too, Deac,” Amy said dryly, glancing at him over her shoulder. She was standing in the kitchen, working on something at the stove. “What, did you think Jon wasn’t going to tell me?” The living room was spotless—not an empty bottle or old plate of food in sight, and someone appeared to have dusted as well. The kitchen wasn’t looking bad either, but there were four big Hefty bags by the door to the porch, waiting to carry the bottles to the recycler.

“I was sort of hoping you’d stay away out of sheer disgust,” he mumbled with complete truth, feeling his eyes water again.

She put the spoon down and turned her little brown face towards him, and he saw her eyes widen and thought longingly of going back to bed. “No,” she said, her voice a little broken. She scrubbed at her cheek viciously and turned back towards the stove. “I may beat the shit out of you at a later date, but you’re not shaking us that easy.” With a sigh, Deacon came all the way into the living room and perched himself on a stool at the counter that divided it from the kitchen.

Without even asking, she filled up a glass with water and set it down in front of him. He drank greedily, and as she filled it again, he asked,

“Where’s Jon?”

“Feeding the horses,” she said shortly, and he hopped off the stool with a guilty little thump.

“Shit—I’ve got to go help him.”

“Sit the fuck down, Deacon.” The words came out like a whip-crack, and Deacon glared at her.

“I’ve been feeding the damned horses my whole life.”

“Don’t care.” She turned towards him again, and she’d given up on keeping the evidence of tears to herself.

“Aw… dammit, Amy.” He moved in to the kitchen to pat her on the back. “Don’t cry. Man, I’m just not fucking worth it….”

“You just shut up, Deacon Winters,” she sniffled, launching herself at him in a stealth and attack hug. He hugged her back, and she choked a sob as her hands felt his shoulder blades cutting through his worn T-shirt.

Then she pushed away from him and turned back to the stove. “Shut up, sit down, and for Christ’s sake eat something. You look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” he lied as pulled the stool around from the counter, and if he thought she was mad before, he’d never seen her really angry.

“Fine?” her voice cracked. “Fine? Deacon, remember when I got drunk after the game that one time, and you held my head while I puked on my shoes?”

Deacon held back a chuckle. “You got drunk a little, our senior year,” he admitted.

“You didn’t judge me. Not once. You worried, you fretted, you
begged
me not to let Crick see, but you didn’t judge.” There was a splat, and then a huge bowl of Mexican chicken soup was shoved roughly at him over the cutting board. The spoon got thrown in with a plop, and then a hunk of cornbread with butter. She glared at him, and he got the hint and started to eat gingerly, and then with some more enthusiasm as his stomach promised to behave.

“You were just being a little wild,” he mumbled through a mouthful of El Pollo del Soleil. It was really very good.

“And you were just being a lot sad!” she snapped. “Did you think we were going to hold it against you, that you got sad?” He didn’t have an answer for that. The enormity of being drunk for three months, of lying to Crick and Jon and Amy, of letting down Benny—well, it just didn’t seem to be covered by “sad.”

“And you thought you’d do it all yourself,” she muttered, trying to get him to respond. He still wouldn’t look at her, so he guessed she figured she’d try another tack. “Do you remember my friend, the one I brought home from college?”

“Karen?” he asked—there had been a couple of girls Amy had introduced him to, but Karen had been the most memorable.

“The one you took to the hospital because she was bleeding from a botched abortion?” Amy snapped. “Yeah, Deacon—that’s the one. Did I tell you she went into med school?”

Deacon shook his head. “No.”

“Did I tell you that she tells people to this day that you’re the one who inspired her? She says that anyone who could be so kind to someone Keeping Promise Rock

so piss-stupid has to make you want to do something better with your life.”

“Oh Jesus.” What part of this was supposed to make him feel better when he could barely hold a spoon without shaking and his body was already begging him for one more fucking shot of whatever the hell he could find?

“Well she sent me a prescription for Valium because I asked and mine isn’t strong enough. What she sent should be enough to last you through detox, but she thought I was kidding when I told her how much we guessed you weighed. She put her med license on the line to do that, Deacon, and I didn’t even ask her to. She volunteered for you, because she says you saved her life—man, that’s one person. One person you touched, and you hardly knew her. You and Parish—you’ve had over sixteen muckrakers, and Crick may be the only one you kept, but the others owe you both a helluva lot. You’re going to take a lifetime of being there for the whole rest of the world and just….” She’d been a whirlwind of activity through this speech—dishing out two more bowls, pouring milk for the three of them from groceries she and Jon had apparently bought, throwing stuff into the sink with undue force. But now she just froze in the kitchen and looked at him with red-rimmed, haunted eyes.

“Just shit it away in a bathtub alone?” she sobbed, and Deacon put his soup spoon down and went to comfort her again. Her tiny little body shook against his and he tried a tentative, “I’m sorry.”

“You could have died, Deacon,” she said against his chest. “She says that with all the weight you’ve lost, with how much you must have been drinking… if Patrick hadn’t called us in a fucking panic, you could have
died
!”

“Thank you,” he muttered. “Thanks for coming… you know, bailing me out.”

“Don’t thank us!” she ordered, even though the sound was muffled against him and she was clinging to him hard enough to make him stagger.

“Don’t thank us… just don’t do it again. And I don’t mean don’t drink—

relapses happen. People fuck up. Just don’t… don’t make us scrape you up off the floor to help you, Deacon! For God’s sake—”

“Shhh,” he hushed, and Jon walked in at that point. Deacon looked up and gave a little jerk of his chin for Jon to come take over comfort 122

duty, and the big asshole wrapped his arms around Deacon’s back and Amy’s tiny shoulders instead.

“What she said,” Jon murmured, and Deacon, surrounded by his friends in a way he didn’t know he could be, muttered broken promises back.

“I’ll ask for help… I swear. I won’t ever make you do this again.” They broke up the little group hug eventually, and Jon and Amy stood in the kitchen and ate while Deacon kept his spot on the stool. He had dropped his spoon twice when he heard a rather meaningful clearing of the throat.

“I believe you’re slacking on that little resolution,” Jon said, half teasing, half angry.

“I’m not,” Deacon muttered, but he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “I don’t want to get too depend… too depend… too dependent on the fucking Valium.”

Jon fiddled with the bottle in his pocket and slapped a tab in front of Deacon on the cutting board, next to his milk, then turned around and stalked out of the kitchen.

Deacon sighed and downed the tablet, then turned a rather disgruntled face to Amy. “This is going to take a little bit of work,” he said thoughtfully.

Amy raised her eyebrows and took a bite of soup. “So’s a teenaged girl—are you sure you know what to do with one around the house?

Especially a pregnant one? Now?”

Deacon shrugged. “I don’t know a lot about teenaged girls,” he conceded. “But I know a lot about you. And I know a lot about Crick. She may be built like you, but you know, she’s wired exactly like Crick.” Amy laughed a little and conceded the point. “I think you’re right—

but I think I’ll come by to help anyway.”

“That would be much appreciated.” Deacon tried another bite of barley and chicken and realized that even though the Valium had kicked in and the nausea had faded, he was still full. He pushed it away and sighed.

“It will help with the good faith thing, too. I told her I’d have proof that I would be there for her. I think maybe having you guys around will help prove it.”

Amy took Deacon’s bowl and put it in the sink thoughtfully. “Have you thought about a program, Deacon? You know, twelve steps, that sort of thing?”

Deacon thought about it and shivered. “Amy, I have enough trouble asking you and Jon to come here and help. Do you really think I’ll get all excited about testimonials and complete strangers?” Amy nodded. “I guess there’s no halfway for you, either. I mean…

one drink is off the wagon—there is no moderation.”

“Not in my family,” Deacon agreed. “If I’ve bought a bottle, it’s a pretty sure sign I’m in trouble.”

Jon stalked back in with a sheaf of papers in his hand and the bathroom scale under his arm. Apparently he’d been to Deacon’s computer in the study.

“Stand on this,” he barked, and Deacon sighed. Really—how much more humiliating would an AA meeting be anyway? He stood and looked surprised and then mortified. Jesus… he knew his sweats had been sliding off his ass and even his underwear was baggy, but….

“You’re six feet tall and….” Jon’s jaw tightened, and his movie-star prettiness burned away in the heat of his anger and concern. “Six feet tall and one-hundred and thirty-five pounds. Fuck.” Deacon didn’t have anything to say to that, really, so he waited for Jon to continue.

“Here,” Jon muttered. “I looked it up. Here’s your body weight—

Jesus Christ, Deacon, you couldn’t have sprung for the beef jerky with the Jack Daniels?—and here’s your height and here”—he pulled out a highlighter and circled the number—“is the maximum and minimum milligram dosage for Valium per day. The info I got says you should be taking it for about a week. That’s a week for you to take somewhere between these two numbers—and you have now officially taken the minimum dosage. Are you good now? Is your machismo fulfilled? Can you just give yourself a fucking break and recover?”

“Yes, Parish,” Deacon said humbly—and when Jon glared at him and saw the glimmer of humor in his eyes, he promptly smacked him upside the head.

He had one year, eight months, and fourteen days to go.

Crick—

I’m sorry—you’re right. I haven’t really been all there for you, and I should have. I hit sort of a rough patch there for a while—let’s just say that any alcohol is too much for me, and leave it at that. This box is late too—there’s a reason for that, but it’s not important now—there’s too much other shit to talk about and I want to get to it.

Now brace yourself—I’ve got some good news and some difficult news, but mostly it’s good news. We hope you’ll think it’s good news.

We found Benny (or rather, Benny found me), and she’s no longer obligated to put up with step-Bob because she’s going to have to put up with me. She’s moved into your old room. (We cleaned out the last of your, um, calendars under the bed, btw—fucking subtle, Crick. And so fun to explain.) Anyway, she gets your old room, and in February, her baby gets mine. I sincerely hope you had no illusions about moving back to that room, btw, because you’ve got your choice of colors—pink, purple, orchid, fuchsia, mauve, rose, violet and lavender—with a little bit of off-white thrown in for fun. The house is probably freaking out from all the estrogen. One more girl and the front windows are gonna grow tits.

Your sister is settling in fine, mostly. We’ve had to spend some time getting to trust each other, but Amy and Jon have come by to help. She didn’t want to write—she’s sort of embarrassed, although I told her you’d just be glad she’s okay. (I know I am.) I gave her a camera for when the baby comes, and she took a lot of pictures instead—

she wanted me to tell you that they’re her letter, and she knows you’ll know what she’s saying. She’s thought long and hard about whether to keep the baby, Crick—I don’t know what you’ll say about this, but in the end, she said that you and I were the reason she’s keeping it. I told her that the baby would always have a home, and so would she. I hope that’s okay—and if it’s not, you’ll just have to make it home to bitch at me about it, right?