At first the rehab center had felt like prison. When he finally faced himself, he had felt like hell. After weeks of intensive therapy, he began to believe he could do it, he could stay dry, he could fight this curse in the blood. The center then felt less like prison and more like a school to teach survival.
Alcoholism stalked the Lorillards, selecting its victims with savage relish. Rarely did the more phlegmatic succumb to the siren call of gin, bourbon, or vodka, or perhaps those more modern allures, heroin and cocaine. The victims were bright, personable, possessed of talent. Sam’s mother, at the end, had looked like a stick figure. She died not even knowing who she was. Her uncle drank himself to death in his little house. When they finally found his body on the sofa and picked him up to remove him, he’d languished there so long his skin sloughed off.
Generation after generation, one or two more Lorillards battled the bottle, drugs, or pills. Most smoked.
As near as anyone could tell, this proclivity arrived from France with the first Lorillard in 1679. It flourished among both black and white Lorillards. Some overcame it even before the days of clinics, Alcoholics Anonymous, and drug rehab. They learned never to take one drink, not one drop, nor to fiddle with any other substance that made their bodies soar with pleasure, only to be smashed to earth. Those Lorillards showed great strength of purpose. Nowadays when Sam felt that terrible thirst come over him, that parching of the throat coupled with the memory of sweet bourbon and the warm buzz it gave him, he’d remember the family curse.
In Sam’s generation, Timothy Lorillard, white, had owned a large company that produced picture frames. He’d lost everything. Another cousin, Nina Davis, black, went cold turkey after the birth of her first child. She never looked back. Maybe working as a nurse in the local hospital snapped her awake, too.
Sam knew it could be done, and he prayed constantly:“Dear Lord, give me the strength to do some good in this life, what’s left to me.”
Anyone who had known Sam from his drinking days would burst out laughing at the thought of the rebellious man praying. He prayed grooming horses. He prayed while drinking a cup of coffee. He prayed each time he saw his brother; he most especially prayed then because he thought he would kill himself before letting his older brother down. When Gray had endured his divorce, Sam couldn’t help him because he couldn’t help himself. When Gray had broken down and cried because he did love his wife, and because he couldn’t believe the condition of his brother, what did Sam do? He took another drink.
When he felt himself ravaged by guilt, he’d tell himself, “I can’t change the past. The past is past. I can only live in this minute and do the best I can. I can forgive myself. I forgive myself.”
He walked along the railroad track, rails gleaming in the night, ribbons of steel reflecting the sparse streetlights from the raised road above, a chill squiggled down his spine. This is where his brother had finally found him, hauled him up by the collar, threw him in the SUV, driven his drunken ass all the way to Greensboro, North Carolina, to the special place there for people like Sam, people who ran Fortune 500 companies as well as filthy people who sprawled on baggage carts at the station.
The temperature dipped to twenty-nine degrees, signaling the end of the thaw. Ahead, the Chinaman’s hat light hung over the door into the station. The drunks couldn’t go in here; the station master chased them out. The stench of the men offended customers.
Addled as he had been when he used to end up here, Sam remembered the pleasant odd hum of the rails when a train was coming. The vibrations started a mile off. He could hear the hum as the train drew closer. Many times on an unruly horse, his senses had saved his butt. They had saved him even when he hit bottom. He had pulled Rory Ackerman off the track when he fell asleep and a train was coming. Drunk as he’d been, Sam possessed a sixth sense.
That sixth sense now brought him back.
Rory, huddled behind a cart, back to the wind, looked up, blinked.“Sam.”
“How you doin’, man?”
“Doin’,” the large man, coal black hair, heavy beard, shrugged. His eyes, black as his hair, were cloudy. Cleaned up, shaved, Rory would be good-looking, although it was hard to imagine it now.
“Where’re the rest of the boys?”
Rory snorted,“Salvation Army, bunch of goddamned pussies.”
“Been cold. Got to warm up sometime.”
“I’d rather be cold than have the Bible rubbed off on me. They’re down there cleaning up ’cause there’s a service for Tony and Mitch.”
“Hadn’t heard about a service.”
Rory stared up at him.“Why would you? You ain’t one of us no more.”
“I’ll always be one of you,” Sam said with a simple dignity. “I’m not better; I just decided I wanted to live. Wish you would, too.”
“For what?” Rory said this without bitterness or self-pity. “I’m good for nothin’.”
“We’re all good for something.”
“You. You good for horses. You got something. I didn’t even get out of junior high.”
“Some of the dumbest people I know have an education.” Sam laughed.
Rory laughed, too.“Hey, got a smoke?”
“Yeah.” Sam handed him a weed. As Rory fumbled in his pocket for a match, Sam lit the cigarette for him with a two-dollar blue disposable lighter.
“Least you haven’t gone totally pure.”
“I can only give up one vice at a time. Calms my nerves.”
“Yeah.” Rory inhaled, closing his eyes. “What you doin’ here, man?”
“Wondering what really happened to Tony and Mitch. Don’t guess anyone told Ben Sidell but so much.”
“Mmm, he’s okay, but still, he’s a cop.” Rory shifted, turning up the collar of his shirt, an old muffler, caked with dirt around his neck, an ancient down jacket over that.
“You warm enough?”
“Yeah. Worse time is just before sunup.”
“I remember.”
“Mitch and Tony drank some bad shit; that’s all I know. I think they drank it at the same time. Took longer to find Mitch, who was frozen stiff. Like a board.”
“Did you see anyone give them a bottle?”
“No.”
“Were they working? Enough for the next bottle?”
“Yeah. They’d go down to the S.A.—” He used the initials of the Salvation Army. “—shower, shave, get some clothes that didn’t stink, get a job for a day or a week or however long they could hang on.”
“Where?”
Rory shrugged.“Tony was a pretty big guy. I know he delivered feed for some guy over in Stuart’s Draft. He’d catch a ride over. Never said who was driving. He’d stay over there sometimes. Unload furniture for Clay Berry sometimes. Tony mucked stalls with Mitch, too. Mitch knew all the horse people.They’re all the time needin’ someone. ’Cause they get hurt a lot, I guess.” Rory half smiled. “Not you.”
“I’ve bought my share of dirt.” Sam hunkered down to be eye level. “Rory, if you want to change, I can help.”
Rory’s eyes flashed for an instant. “Change for what? Who’s gonna hire me iffin’ I do?”
“If you’re willing to work, I’ll help you there.”
“You saved my white ass once. I never did squat for you.”
“We had some laughs.”
“Yeah, yeah, we did.” Rory softened. “How’d you do it, man?”
“I ran out of excuses.”
“Well, I got a few left.”
“When you run out, let me know.” Sam handed him a folded sheet of paper with his phone number on it at home and at work. Inside the paper was a five-dollar bill. He figured Rory would buy a bottle or two of vile cheap stuff with the money on Monday, but, well, he couldn’t walk away without giving him something.
“Thanks.” Rory saw the money inside the folded paper.