Whittling Away

Burnt coffee and mildew greeted Jon’s nose as he entered the basement of Memorial Baptist. Averting glances from the others, he meandered to the snack table, clutching his worn leather messenger bag at his side.

At a typical meeting, Jon would pour himself a cup of coffee in spite of its bitterness. (In uncomfortable settings, it’s best to have something to hold and stir.) But this time, he opted for a doughnut. Jon’s heart had been racing on and off all day, and he didn’t need to exacerbate that with a six-p.m. jolt. This week was hard enough without adding a heart attack to the mix. He filled a small, Styrofoam cup with water from the cooler.

“Jon, hello!” He felt a bony hand on the back of his shoulder. Fucking Gina.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Gina’s voice was gravelly, sincere, and sincerely annoying. Jon swallowed his sip of water, half smiled, and gave a small nod of acknowledgement. “Let’s chat after the meeting, okay?” She firmly patted him on the back, flashed a gummy smile, and walked to the front of the room before he could mutter a reply.

“Welcome, welcome! Does everyone have a seat?”

Gina’s curly, dyed-black hair bobbed as she spoke with an eagerness that would have been more fitting for a room full of second graders. Not twenty-odd men and women who had each, at least once, blown up his or her life for nothing more than a bottle of whiskey. Or beer, or pinot, or vodka, or cough syrup—to each their own. For Jon, it was whiskey. 

He sat in the back and munched his donut through the familiar refrain:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Swiping his shaggy brown hair from his eyes, Jon scanned the room, looking for one familiar bald spot. Lawrence was his sponsor and the only person he actually wanted to see. Tonight was important, and Lawrence knew that. Surely, he was just running late.

The hour and a half went by, and as usual, there were some new faces.

A greasy thirty-something with a southern accent. “Hi, Jared.”

He won’t be back.

A blonde, rich-looking soccer-mom type. “Hi, Samantha.”

What does she have to drink about? And where’s Lawrence?

As usual, the appointed speaker for the evening shared a testimony about how hard it is to not drink, how bad his life used to be, how much better it is now, but goddamn it’s hard to not drink. And as usual, Jon spent the hour and a half whittling.

This time, it was a rabbit. He was hoping to have it finished by Easter to give to his mother. He hardly kept any of his animal figurines anymore. His one-bed, one-bath apartment just didn’t have enough shelf space, and he needed what little there was to store his chess sets.

Chess was the one thing in Jon’s life he was truly proud of. He wasn’t much of a player—the game itself was too complicated. Making the pieces, though—that was simple. A block of wood. A sharp knife. Nick, nick, nick, nick… a pawn, a king, a bishop. Knights were the most challenging, so those were his favorite. But most importantly, whittling was something to do. Something that didn’t leave room in his hand for a drink.

A few grooves into the chunk of wood that would become the rabbit’s tail, Jon’s heartbeat quickened. The meeting was letting out, and he knew what that meant. He inhaled as Gina beelined for him, eyes sparkling and arms outstretched.

“Hi, Gina.” He hugged her with one arm. “Uhh…” He gave the room one last search. “Do you know if Lawrence is here?”

“No, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Gina was a bit older than Jon, but definitely not enough to call him sweetie.

“Come on. Let’s go sit down.”

He followed her down the hall to one of the Sunday school rooms and sat across from her at a children’s drawing table. The red plastic chairs were comically small for him, but they fit Gina’s tiny frame perfectly. He shuffled uncomfortably, which she didn’t seem to notice.

“So, Lawrence tells me you’re coming up on step nine.” She folded her hands and placed them on the table, looking him squarely in the eyes. “That’s a tough one.”

“Wait,” Jon stammered. “Lawrence talked to you?”

She leaned back, breathing in. “He’s asked me to take over as your sponsor for a while.”

Jon shuffled again through a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. Gina went on.

“I know you two are close, and I know this is hard given the circumstances. Step nine isn’t exactly the ideal time for a sponsor change, especially since you have a history of relapse around this—"

“What is a while?” Jon interrupted, ignoring Gina’s blunt reminder of his previous failures.

She sighed. “He didn’t say.” She spoke quietly. “He just said he had to leave town. He also told me this isn’t your first time trying to make amends. That you’ve never gotten through it before without drinking. Is that true?”

Jon’s nostrils flared.

Leave town? Shit. I should’ve stayed home.

As if reading his mind, Gina continued, “He also said you probably wouldn’t come if he told you ahead of time.”

Dammit, Lawrence. Gina? Of all people? Fuck.

Jon sat forward and looked at her, trying futilely to think of a way out of this arrangement. He gave in.

“Yes.” He said, curtly.

“Yes?” she replied.

Jon was visibly annoyed now. In one motion, he stood up, dragged the plastic kid’s chair to the side, and plopped into the much more appropriately sized office chair at what he assumed was the teacher’s desk. “Yes.” He said again. “This is my fourth time trying to make amends.” He laid his leather whittling bag on the desk, signifying surrender.

Gina turned quickly in her chair and grabbed a black marker from a chest of drawers against the wall. From a different drawer, she slid out a single piece of neon-green construction paper.

“So, you know the drill.” She handed him his tools. “Go ahead and write down a list of all the people in your life who you believe have been harmed by your alcoholism.” She lingered on the word harmed, tapping the paper aggressively with her index finger.

“That’s step eight. I’ve already done that.”

“Oh. Lawrence told me you didn’t have a list.”

“Right, well—I meant I’ve done it before. The last time. He said I can skip that part,” he admitted. “There’s only one person anyway.” Mindlessly, he began to write a name in black ink.

“Only one person? Wow, I had at least twenty.” Gina snorted. “Could’ve been a hundred if I’d wanted to be real thorough.”

Jon explained, “No, it’s just… I already made amends with everyone else.”

“Ahh,” Gina sighed, knowingly. “So who is this person you just can’t seem to face?” Fixing her eyes on the green piece of paper, she saw the name Ellen lovingly scrawled in small, slanted letters.

Jon closed his eyes. “My daughter,” he said.

Jon’s pocket buzzed. It was dark out now, and the bright light on his phone flashing LAWRENCE DEMARCO produced a slight twinge in his temples. He answered the call.

“Lawrence, you’re a sonofabitch.”

“Hey, Jonny.” Lawrence’s voice was always a comfort, which was annoying to Jon at this moment, since he wanted to be mad at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell ya. I figured you’re on your way home so I’d give you a call now.”

“Gina?” Jon complained.

“Gina is a handsome woman.” He sounded offended.

Jon sighed. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m just fine, Jonny. My sister, well, not so much.” Lawrence chuckled in the sad way old people chuckle when they’re talking about heavy things, like death, or addiction, or cancer. In this particular case, it was cancer.

“Pancreatic,” he revealed. “Two months, tops.”

Jon was quiet.

“So anyway, I reckon I oughta be with her right now, ‘specially since Albert passed, and the kids have plenty worries of their own. I ain’t got nothin’ goin’ on but keeping you on the wagon,” he laughed.

 “Lawrence, I… I don’t know what to say. I’m… sorry.”

“Ahh, don’t think nothin’ of it. Bette’s had a good life. It’s you I’m worried about.” He paused. “Now be straight with me, Jonny. Are you gonna make your amends with Ellen? Or are you gonna use my leavin’ as an excuse to stop by Total Wine and Spirits on your way home tonight?”

“Hah,” Jon guffawed. “That’s not a bad thought.”

He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know, Lawrence. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it. She hasn’t heard from me in over three years. I don’t even know…”

Jon silently flipped through a mental rolodex of things he no longer knew about his daughter. How tall she was now. Her favorite subject in school. Her best friend’s name. Whether she had a boyfriend. Oh no, does she have a boyfriend? What color she had dyed her hair most recently. It was… blue the last time I saw her. Or was it… purple? God, how do I not remember?

“…I don’t even know,” he finished, too embarrassed to say any of his thoughts out loud.

“I think she’ll be happy to hear from you, Jon,” Lawrence said, with a certainty that Jon wanted desperately to believe. After a few seconds of heavy silence, the old man cleared his throat. “Alright, well I gotta be goin’. Give Gina a chance, will ya please? She’s a handsome woman, I tell ya. And kind. Kind is rare, Jonny.”

“See ya, Lawrence. Give Bette my love.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” Jon smiled and hung up.

Throughout the following days, Jon’s waking hours were filled with only two things: waiting tables while filled with anxiety and dread and whittling in front of the tv while filled with anxiety and dread.

It was early Friday afternoon when he got a text from Gina.

“Hey Jon! 

Can’t wait to catch up with you Monday! 

Let’s make a plan and make some AMENDS!!! 

-Gina.” 

He rolled his eyes at her excessive exclamation points and wholly unnecessary signature. Then another text: 

“P.S. Friendly reminder that you’re on doughnut duty this week. One maple for me, please! Also, Samantha said she likes crawlers.” 

What the fuck are crawlers? Exasperated, he set his phone face down on the coffee table.

The section of rug under Jon’s feet was littered with wood shavings. He usually tried to keep up with cleaning it, but he’d been whittling so much lately, there didn’t seem to be a point. He’d finished his mother’s rabbit last night and was focusing now on a new chess set for a rare Etsy customer. As he made the final nicks and grooves on a small, basswood rook, his alarm went off in the bedroom. Groaning, he left the rook on the table, turned off the alarm, and jogged to his closet to throw on the white button down, black slacks, and non-slip shoes every server at Chateau Rose was required to wear.

Jon had been waiting tables at Chateau Rose almost nightly since he moved out of Abby’s house three years and seven months ago. Abby’s house. He still wasn’t used to calling it that. He had tried to take a few days off work to finish the chess set (the Etsy money would offset the lost tips), but when he saw the bewildered look on his manager’s face at the mere suggestion of time off, he rescinded his request. Chateau Rose was one of those “your work is your family” places.

But the staff at Chateau Rose was not Jon’s family. Most of the other servers were much younger than he was, and they routinely made it clear with their slang and inside jokes that they had little interest in befriending a 44-year-old divorced alcoholic. He couldn’t blame them, and it wasn’t like he could go to the clubs with them anyway. Everyone says you’re supposed to avoid the people, places, and things that might tempt you to drink. And there was plenty of whiskey at the club. No, these people were not Jon’s family. Jon’s family was somewhere else. At Abby’s house. Happier and better off without him.

Shit shit shit. I forgot to ring in the salad.

Hurriedly, Jon pushed his way to the edge of the kitchen and threw together a bowl of mixed greens, tomatoes, cucumber slices, shredded cheese, and croutons. Honey mustard on the side, he remembered.

He didn’t usually forget things, but tonight, Jon was distracted. Up until now, he’d successfully gotten through the week without thinking too hard about what he would soon have to do. Gina’s text however, in all its gloriously tone-deaf enthusiasm, had brought him back to reality.

Making amends. Such a simple, unthreatening concept. Take responsibility for your actions, say you’re sorry, slip in a few tears, and you’re golden. He had done it before. A few times, it actually felt good. Cathartic—like it was supposed to.

He had made amends with Mark, whose car he drunkenly smashed up in 2014. The car had been parked, and insurance had covered the damage, so he wasn’t technically harmed, but still.

He had made amends with Emily, the young waitress he routinely stole extra cash from in 2017 to keep the Total Wine and Spirits purchases off of the joint checking account. She really needed to keep her purse less accessible.

He had even made amends with Abby. That one was hard. But Ellen? Impossible.