Telling the Truth
Physical exertion had probably saved my life as much as reading and possibly movies. I had always run around as a child but in high school I played soccer and even when I drank and did drugs I rode my bicycle, ran, swam, did modern dance or aerobics. I was addicted to endorphins, even more when I had my first taste of sobriety. The Sicilian was naturally thin, a chain smoker, a picky eater and lazy as fuck. He had no interest in raising his heart rate or sweating. He enjoyed standing around looking pale, thin, and vaguely threatening, usually smoking, dressed in black leather.
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The Wedding
After the Sicilian proposed, I ordered a glass of wine. I waited for the AA police to slap the glass from my hand, to make a citizen’s arrest. I waited for lightning and thunder and my higher power to speak, but nothing happened. I looked at the waiter. Help me, I thought. The glass was set in front of me. “I thought you didn’t drink.” “I won’t marry you unless you let me drink.” And so, I drank. It seemed inevitable. It tasted insignificant. I did not get drunk. But the next time, I drank more, and my brain remembered how much better it felt to shut down. I drank with some degree of control because getting married was on the menu, and if the Sicilian knew the sad heart of his future bride, he might panic. I drank and flashed my diamond at work. I took a brief trip to Dublin and announced I was no longer an alcoholic. I got very, very drunk with Gabrielle, and she asked me if I loved my future husband.
“No. But it doesn’t matter. I have a diamond ring. I want to get married.” “And then?” Her forehead was lined with worry. “Then I’ll kill myself.” “Molly! You mustn’t.” No, I must because then my mother will finally believe how terrible I felt.
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The Sicilian, Part Two
During my phone company days close to Christmas, I was sent to check on a new installer trying to connect a residence line. He had called in to say he was afraid, and the people who lived there were trying to burn the house down. When I pulled up, the installer stood outside the house, a shabby ranch, dark amid the other houses decorated with lights and Santa, looking stunned. "Listen, these people are in some kind of cult."
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