The Temporary Detective

Chapter Twenty-Six

It turned out that there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at noon near Bill's office, and James found himself there—not because he eventually brought himself around to calling Bill, but because Bill showed up at James's apartment only moments after Jayla had gone.

"She called me last night," Bill reminded James.

James had a vague recollection of Jayla talking to Bill the night before, but it was so fuzzy, he thought he'd dreamed it.

"You didn't have to drag yourself all the way up here," James said.

"Were you going to call me?" Bill asked.

"I did."

"But you didn't leave a message..."

"Okay, maybe. I don't know, I feel so, so..." James struggled to find the right word, but Bill was ready with it.

"Ashamed. We've all been there. Falling off the first time is, in some ways, the worst. But now you know better what you're in for."

Yeah, a lifetime of folding chairs, James thought, taking a seat in the meeting room of Park Avenue Presbyterian Church on Twenty-second and Park Avenue South.

"Are you going to speak?" Bill whispered to James, while a young NYU student with curly black hair and glasses shared her struggle to stay sober in the face of campus temptation.

James shook his head.

"You might find it helpful. This group always leaves time for additional speakers."

James stole a glance at Bill. He was in his mid-thirties, a divorced insurance broker with two small children he rarely saw. His sandy blond hair was thinning, and there was a permanent sadness in his eyes, which morphed into pain when he talked about his kids. He was a good sponsor for James. Steady, but careful not to push too hard. He had been sober himself for three years. Obviously, he'd had a good role model.

"Do you still have a sponsor?" James whispered back.

"Of course. She's great. Sweet, but tough." Bill scanned the small gathering. "I don't see her here today, or I'd introduce you. She hasn't been to our home group for a while, but she works nearby and comes to these lunchtime meetings when she can get away."

James turned his attention back to the black-haired girl. James wondered if he should talk to her after the meeting. Although he'd started drinking in high school, the real problems had kicked in at Columbia. He probably knew better than anyone else there what she was going through.

She finished speaking and returned to her seat, wiping her eyes.

"Thank you, Jill." The leader smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Jill," the room repeated.

Jill nodded and continued to cry quietly in her chair.

"Does anyone else want to speak? We have a few extra minutes," the leader said.

The room fell silent, and although nobody was looking at him, James felt an acute desire to confess. But he didn't want to do it here. He wanted to save it for his home group, which met at a community center near the Columbia campus.

"Then let's recite The Serenity Prayer," said the leader.

James closed his eyes and mouthed along. He kept them closed a few moments longer, adding his own private prayer. "Lord, help me lick this thing. And help me do what's right."

By the time he opened his eyes, the group had begun to disperse. He caught sight of Jill, the NYU student, standing alone by a rack of folding chairs. He hesitated, unsure whether or not she would appreciate his empathy. Then, remembering how much kind gestures always meant to him, he took a step toward her.