Chapter 3
The Riverside Center
Leaning up against the wall in the men's community room, Deacon was discouraged. The hours were ticking by and so far Rayna hadn't shown up. He scanned the large, utilitarian room with its white walls and beige linoleum. In an attempt at festivity, it had been decorated with colorful streamers and balloons, but by now everything was starting to sag, the balloons taking on a melancholy quality as they inched toward the floor. Deacon decided that if Rayna didn't show up in the next 10 minutes he would go back to his room. He hated parties in general, and they were especially noxious when he wasn't drinking. The pressure to engage in small talk and have fun always made him anxious.
Hell, putting a bunch of drunks and junkies together and telling them to whoop it up eating sandwiches and drinking fruit punch was pretty much a lost cause, he thought. He looked around again, taking in the awkward clumps of men dressed up to impress their visitors, and winced. He felt like he'd been transported back to eighth-grade cotillion.
Screw it. She wasn't going to turn up, that much was obvious, so he could stop kidding himself. Deacon tossed the plate of half-eaten food he'd been holding into a nearby trash can and headed for the door. He exited into the hall, starting to go to the right, toward his room, where he figured he'd play his guitar until it was time for his evening group meeting. But something caught his eye and he glanced to his left.
And there she was, leaning up against the wall at the other end of the hall, looking even more beautiful than he remembered her. He froze, astonished, and then chuckled to himself, overjoyed as he recognized that she was here for him, once again. He started to walk toward her and quickly broke into a run. But she was staring at the floor, seemingly lost in thought, and didn't look up until he was right in front of her.
"Darlin', you made it! Oh Ray, I'm so glad you're here," he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her and lifting her off her feet in his exuberance. He swung her around and pulled her into his chest. She was surprised at first, he could tell. It took her a moment, but gradually he felt her relax and return his embrace.
"Hey," she whispered into his ear after he put her down, resting her chin on his shoulder. She felt so good; her perfume was so familiar. The warmth of her body pressed against his was like a tonic for his battered soul. He couldn't begin to tell her how much he had missed her; missed holding her. "I can't believe you're really here," he said. He pulled back and looked at her for a long moment, his arms still around her.
"What're you looking at?"
"You. You're just so damn beautiful."
Rayna smiled and Deacon brought his face close to hers and sought her mouth with his own, kissing her hungrily. She returned his kiss, as if she couldn't help herself, but quickly pulled away, stepping out of arms.
"Deacon-" she began. But he was already talking over her.
"What happened, did you get lost? I been waitin' on you all afternoon. C'mon, you hungry? There's lots of food down here." He put his right arm around her waist and walked her down the hall toward the community room.
He felt some kind of reluctance in her, but she went along with him. "I found the place just fine. It's not far from your cabin. I actually got here a while ago. I've been talking to Jill."
"You got to meet Jill? That's fantastic! Isn't she great?"
Rayna raised her eyebrows and turned to him, looking surprised. "She's … interesting."
Deacon was puzzled. Rayna usually got along so well with people. "What, you don't like Jill?" he asked.
Rayna took a deep breath. "She's unique. I'll say that for her."
By now they were in the community room, which had started emptying out since the party was nearly over. "Let me get you somethin' to eat. There's lots of food left," he said, steering her over to the buffet table, which was still crowded with platters of forlorn sandwiches, wilted vegetables and crackers piled up among half-eaten chunks of cheese.
Rayna took a long look at the food and then turned away quickly, her face white as a sheet.
"What's wrong, baby?" he asked, alarmed.
Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and she brought her right hand to her mouth. "I think I'd like to just sit down for a minute," she murmured. He pulled a chair over for her and she sank into it, breathing deeply.
He waited a moment, until she seemed to compose herself. Then she looked up at him, her face serious.
He raised his eyebrows, concerned. "You okay, darlin'? What's the matter?"
"I'm fine, sorry. I just … can you get me some water and a few of those crackers?"
"Sure. That all you want?"
"Yeah. I had lunch before I left. I guess something didn't agree with me."
Deacon looked at her again. Something else was wrong but he had no earthly idea what it might be. He walked over to the buffet table and returned with a bottle of water and a plate of crackers.
"Thanks," she said, taking a long drink and slowly eating some crackers. After a couple of minutes, she looked up at him again, her face so serious that it scared him. "Deacon, we need to talk," she said.
"Okay, darlin', whatever you want. Let's get outta here." He took the plate from her and reached for her hand. He wasn't sure what was going on. But whatever was wrong, he wasn't going to hear about it in front of a bunch of strangers. He led her out of the community room and down the corridor. "Thought you might want to see the place anyway," he said, smiling. "Maybe I could take you on a little tour."
"Oh yeah? What kind of tour?" she asked, seeming more like her old self. She smiled at him, what he thought was an encouraging smile, so he led her into a small alcove. She didn't protest as he pulled her against him, a wicked grin on his face. "Oh, I thought we'd take in all the highlights. We could start with my room, for instance." He leaned his forehead against hers and she laughed as he started kissing her.
Then she stiffened and pulled back again, looking down at the floor. "Deacon, we can't do this. You know that."
"But you want to."
She sighed and shook her head. "What I want is just not what matters right now."
"It matters to me, baby. It matters a whole hell of a lot to me," he replied.
She sighed again and looked up at him. Instantly, he recognized the hunger in her eyes, a hunger that mirrored his own. She might not admit it, but he knew without a doubt that she still wanted him.
"C'mon, baby. It's been a hell of a long time. Too long. What, six months at least - right?"
At that, Rayna stared at him, looking perplexed. She started to shake her head and then seemed to stop herself. "Six months?" she repeated, slowly.
"Yeah, right after Christmas, remember? I came to see you at your apartment? I thought we had a pretty good time, didn't we?" he murmured, leaning in to kiss her once again.
But she stepped back, still staring. "Oh," she said finally, her voice faint. "Yeah."
Why was she pulling away like this? For the life of him, Deacon could not understand why she would show up and then act so strange and distant. Then, all of a sudden, it hit him. It's obvious, you stupid idiot. She was getting serious with Teddy Conrad and she'd come up here to break it off with him for good. Probably figured she'd deliver the blow now, he thought bitterly, while he was safely inside. Let him down easy in a place where he wouldn't be in danger of falling off the wagon. His heart sank.
"Ray, you want to talk? About what - Teddy Conrad? You're still seeing him, aren't you?" he asked, his eyes gone flinty and his face somber.
"No, that's not ... I mean, yes, I'm still seeing him but-"
Deacon sighed, annoyed, and stepped away from her. "Why'd you even bother to come all the way up here, Rayna? If you wanted to break up with me, you shoulda just sent me a letter, or an email, or somethin'."
"Deacon, you know you don't do email."
He shook his head, even more annoyed. She'd gotten his hopes up for nothing. He looked at her, anger burning in his eyes. "I thought that you were gonna stand by me. That you were waitin' for me."
"Waiting for you? God, Deacon, that's all I've been doing for years! Don't you accuse me of not waiting for you, because that's just not true!"
"Look, you know what? Why don't you just go on home. Go back to Teddy Conrad. I don't deserve you anyway. I never did."
She laid a hand on his arm. "Deacon, stop talking like that. You know I only want you to be happy."
"You know good and well you're the only thing that's gonna make me happy, Ray."
She stared at him keenly and then a panicked look came over her face. "No - you can't expect for me, or anyone else, to make you happy. That's not right!"
His eyes narrowed. "Oh, you have been talkin' to Jill. That sounds just like something she's always sayin'. And here you said you didn't even like her."
"Well, I didn't. Much. But maybe you ought to listen to her, or someone besides yourself for a change!"
Deacon felt his blood turn icy. What the hell did she know about it? About the months and years he'd spent, trying to change - for her? Who was she to lecture him? "I guess you know everythin' I oughta be doin', don't you?" he said, turning away in disgust.
"Deacon, please ..." She had tears in her eyes. Suddenly he felt miserable. This was not the way the afternoon was supposed to go. Not even close.
A voice came over a loudspeaker just then. It was a reminder that group therapy sessions started in 15 minutes.
"Go on, Rayna. Go on home. I gotta go spill my guts to a whole lotta guys I don't even know."
She looked like she was close to losing it. "Deacon, please don't be mad at me," she whispered.
"I'm not mad at you darlin', it's just – I guess we're not seein' things the same way these days. I'm up here doin' all this for you. I hope you know that."
She shook her head slowly. "You can't do it for me, Deacon. You've got to want this for yourself."
A rueful smile crept over his face. He knew "rehab speak" when he heard it. And Rayna had clearly been pumped full of it this afternoon. He sighed and looked down the corridor, toward the lounge where a group of men were gathering for their meeting. He started to back away. "Thanks for comin', baby. Maybe I'll see you around when I get back to town in a couple weeks."
"Deacon, do you have anything to share? We haven't heard much from you lately, man." Gus, the group therapy facilitator, had a kind face that clashed with his otherwise rough exterior. He was a biker, one who wore chains from his belt loops and sleeveless leather vests that displayed his heavily tattooed arms. He looked over at Deacon, who was holding his head, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet in the lounge. After an awkward pause, Deacon sighed and looked over at him. Gus nodded, encouraging him.
"I guess all this pretty much started with the nightmares," Deacon said in a quiet voice. He took a deep breath and passed his hand over his face.
Yes, the nightmares were what started it. The terrifying, wake-up-screaming nightmares, the ones that left him drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He would be jolted out of his sleep, never quite able to remember what it was that had scared him to death. He couldn't go back to sleep, and so he would get up and have a drink to calm his nerves. And then another to help him sleep until morning. And once he'd had two, why not four? Why not just finish the bottle?
The stupid, fucking nightmares. They were what set him on the road from heavy drinker to weekend drunk to full-time alcoholic.
"How long ago was that?" Gus's voice was gentle. But all the men in the group knew he could also be insistent. And Deacon had been getting a pass lately. That was obviously changing today.
"I don't remember, exactly. Rayna says they started after Vince died. They're just, I dunno - just terrifyin', is all I can say. I don't know exactly what's happenin' in 'em, I never remember. But I wake up just about scared to death. And then I can't get back to sleep."
"And what does Rayna do?"
"Well, she doesn't always wake up, to tell you the truth. Not if I can keep quiet. But when she does - when she did - she always tried her best to help. Wanted me to talk about it. Stuff like that."
"And did you? Do you talk about it, I mean? With her - or with your sponsor?"
Deacon sighed and ran his hands over his scalp, looking up at the ceiling. "Not really," he admitted. The thought of delving into his nightmares, dissecting whatever it was that tormented him in the wee hours - that seemed more frightening to him than the dreams themselves. And talking about them with Rayna? Even the idea made him sick with shame.
"What happens after the nightmares?" Gus probed, seeing Deacon's reluctance but determined not to let him off the hook.
"Oh, well, uh - most times I just get up an' go have a drink. And then when that doesn't help enough, I'll have another one. Or I'll open a bottle of pills, just to help me get back to sleep. You know?"
Gus smiled, sadly, and glanced around at the men sitting huddled in the circle. "Yeah, I know. I bet we all know about that, right?"
"Oh, hell yeah," came the response from the man sitting to Deacon's right, who clapped him on the shoulder. The other group members nodded and grunted their assent, shifting in their chairs. They'd all been there.
Some men were functional alcoholics: They could hold down jobs; have a semblance of a family life; float along for years, spending most of their waking hours pleasantly sloshed. Some of them were members of Deacon's own family. Hell, he admired them. A man should be able to hold his liquor. That much was gospel where he came from, right up there with the Ten Commandments and the Great Commission.
But Deacon was never that lucky. No, he thought, he was just like his father. Getting drunk might dull their pain and make them forget whatever it was that kept them up at night, but it also made the Claybourne men mean. Mean and sloppy and angry. So fucking angry.
His father had seemed to relish the power drunkenness had given him, the who-gives-a-shit abandon that justified anything he did. But Deacon hated it, even as he recognized it was increasingly taking hold of him. He hated how it made him incapable of playing his guitar, or turning up for shows on time. Or at all.
The worst part was the fear he saw in Rayna's eyes when he was wasted. How everything she did to try and help only made him angrier. And when he was angry, he was liable to pick up whatever was close at hand and throw it against a wall. He had smashed more lamps, plates and glasses than he'd ever owned and sometimes graduated up to larger objects: chairs, tables, guitars.
He'd never hurt Rayna – not yet. Never wanted to, no matter how fucked up he got, and thankfully she was nimble enough to get out of his way. But if he kept up like this, it was only a matter of time, he knew. Only a matter of time before he hurt her. And he would rather die than hurt her.
No wonder she preferred Teddy Conrad. He might be tone deaf and dull as dishwater, but he would never throw an ashtray or bust up her living room set.
Gus continued probing as the evening wound down and Deacon continued on, reciting the measure of each of his failings in all their goriest detail. He hated group, hated therapy of any kind, but confessing what a horrible boyfriend and all-around miserable human being he was had never been a problem for him. Neither had getting sober. The sweats and cravings and delirium tremens felt like exactly the punishment he deserved for being a loser and a drunk.
After the session wrapped up several of the men walked over to Deacon, bestowing silent hugs or shaking his hand, congratulating him for sharing and for the progress he'd been making.
What they didn't know was that Deacon's problem wasn't getting sober, it was staying sober. Whatever it took – willpower or inner strength or a higher power or just plain integrity – he just didn't seem to have it in him. He didn't think he'd ever be capable of laying off the booze and the pills, no matter how miserable they made him or who he hurt. Whether that was his best friend, or the woman he loved. Or even himself.