Before the truck warmed, she smoked the last cigarette in her pack. She had forgotten how small her hometown was, and out of habit, had scheduled twenty minutes of travel time. In Quinn, twenty minutes would get you to the next county. She had time to buy more cigarettes.
The gas station was empty, and the cashier was her new teammate. Rachel attempted small talk with left field, and the woman was terrified. In her truck, Rachel turned up the heat, cracked her window, and lit up. Once again, Rachel had become a smoker.
Athena had turned to food after she sobered up. Athena had stuffed herself to create a buffer for protection from any outside threats. Rachel tried to find serenity, was told to pray until it found her. In Quinn, she said her prayers out of routine, and they did not make her feel stronger, just confused and angry, overwhelmed. The claustrophobia, the actual weight of all that snow, had caused doubt to grow around her edges. Like black mold.
She needed a meeting desperately. She smoked another cigarette as she fishtailed out of the gas station parking lot, rewound a Depeche Mode song as she drove. She heard only half of it; the library was a two-minute drive.
Inside, as she passed the librarian, Rachel turned her face away. That was Peggy Davis, and she had been the sole librarian in Quinn, the only employee since it had been built in 1954.
Rachel rushed past, through the stacks and the aisles and the rows of microfiche machines. She walked so fast that the pages of Redbook magazines ruffled in her wake.
Once she entered the room, Rachel’s plans to pretend to be someone else were dashed. She knew every single one of these old men: Mr. Tyler, her former biology teacher. Mr. Fisher, the conductor of her high school marching band. John Fitchett, Ginger’s former brother-in-law, who had always driven the snowplow in Quinn, which made him more invaluable than the mayor. Pat Garrison, Black Mabel’s father. PJ Garrison, Black Mabel’s older brother. Larry Giefer, the owner of the grocery store. And the Chief of the Quinn Volunteer Fire Department, who did not seem to possess a real name. He identified himself as the Chief, and just like in the fire hall, he did not fuck around.
Seven old men, and her. She felt like Snow White. She stared at the seven dwarfs around her; they weren’t particularly short, just wizened and gnarled from years of hard drinking. She poured herself some coffee, sat down on a metal folding chair, and checked her watch.
John arranged the books carefully, passed a small wicker basket to Pat Garrison, who put in a dollar for the Seventh Tradition. When the basket was passed to Rachel, she dropped in a five-dollar bill. That was approximately the number of meetings she had chickened out of since returning to Quinn. John cleared his throat, and began. “Hello, my name is John, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, John,” said all of the men.
“I guess I’m chairing the meeting tonight.”
“Damn right,” uttered the Chief.
Larry read “How It Works,” and Pat read “The Promises.”
John looked right at her when he announced the topic. “This morning, I read out of the big book, like I always do, and I couldn’t get any peace out of the damn thing. I just kept thinking about the fucking snow.” The men laughed at this. “The snow pays my bills, I guess. I’ve been really depressed since my daughter left. She was only here for two days, but she managed to bring up every single shitty thing I ever did to her. She hasn’t seen me drunk for eight years. I guess she needed to poke the bear, or something. But I’ve been depressed ever since. So, this morning, I called my sponsor.” John winked at the Chief, who nodded. “He reminded me that my past is just a reference book, like here at the library. I can put it on a shelf and leave it there. I only take it down to open for a fellow drunk when I need to share my experience. I don’t have to live in that shit. Thanks.”
“Thanks, John,” said all the men in the room. Rachel tried to avoid small meetings, because it meant that everybody had to share, or share several times. She discovered that Mr. Tyler’s first name was Jack, and Mr. Fisher’s first name was Jerry. She learned that two of the men in the room had served time in prison for felonies, and one had been committed to the state institution. Rachel knew this meeting would make her feel better, and wished she hadn’t been so damn scared. She listened as each man shared how they dealt with their past, and looked at her watch. There were still twenty minutes left. She would have to speak.
“Hi. My name is Rachel, and I’m an alcoholic.”