One Night Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  One Night

  Dedication

  What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

  one

  two

  three

  One Night

  By Marsha Qualey

  Copyright 2013 by Marsha Qualey

  Cover Copyright 2013 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 2002.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Marsha Qualey and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Thin Ice

  Venom and the River: A Novel of Pepin

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  One Night

  Marsha Qualey

  for dave

  What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

  Think hard. Be honest.

  Drink? Drink and drive?

  Spread dirt on a friend? Cheat on a test?

  Lie about something? Lie about nothing?

  Ever kick a dog?

  Have you hated someone hard for no reason at all?

  Or maybe you had reasons—skin color, clothes, or

  That gold symbol hanging around her neck.

  You can’t get much lower than that.

  Unless you’re poor Kelly Ray.

  Poor, beautiful, lost Kelly Ray.

  Nineteen now and just holding it together.

  Nineteen and fighting to stay sober and clean.

  Nineteen and trying, she’s trying.

  It’s her second time clean, she’s trying.

  Yes, it’s that old story, drugs.

  Addicted so young, that old story.

  But that’s not the worst, that’s not what has frozen her soul

  And locked up her heart.

  (Forgive me; it’s her aunt Kit’s rather ripe description.)

  Poor Kelly—No, forget the poor. She’d say you should.

  She’d say, Don’t waste your pity on me.

  She’d say, I did what I did, it’s my life not yours.

  She’d say, What you think and what you feel don’t even reach me.

  That’s what she’d say, if she talked about it at all.

  And what did she do that has frozen her soul and locked up her heart?

  (I think I like Aunt Kit’s description.)

  What did she do? Okay, I’ll tell, but hold tight because it’s pretty bad.

  Two years ago, when she was seventeen, detoxed and rehabbed

  And clean for six months and trying…

  Two years ago she took a fast slide…

  Two years ago she…

  Did I say that it’s pretty bad?

  Two years ago Kelly Ray nearly burned up her mother’s new baby.

  Still with me? I hope so. Because as awful as it is to think about—

  Oh, God, yes, just think: sweet baby Louisa, five-month-old baby Louisa

  Gasping for life in the smoke and the heat of the flames. Just Think.

  Yes, it’s awful.

  But this isn’t going to be a replay of nightmares,

  Or a chance to crank up our cool

  With an armchair cruise through dark places. No.

  This, if not quite a fairy tale,

  This, Reader, is a love story.

  one

  delivery girl

  I bet ninety-five percent of all the female addicts in this town have really short hair. Buzz cuts, shocks, Marine mows, spike lids—whatever they’re called, the Dakota City junkie/ex-junkie style is short. It’s not like I’m noticing this for the first time or anything. I’ve just never thought about it. God, that’s so true about everything, really. All the day-to-day crap, I’m only now clear enough to think about. This is sobriety, folks: the acuity to contemplate junkie hairstyles.

  But still: the hair. Why short? Oh, nothing deep there, of course. First of all, it’s The Look in this backwater town, and a big part of the user’s fix comes from belonging, being part of The Scene. Fashion—any fashion—is all about the herd mentality, and why should it be different for dopers?

  And then, too, who wants to bother with hair when you’re only ever thinking of getting high, planning the how, when, and where of the next time? And especially why bother when sugar-voiced Julio down at Utopia Spa will pay twenty-five or more for even a short fist of dull brown hair. Or if you’re lucky like me and your hair is—was—shoulder-length golden sun-streaked country dub blonde (yes, it’s natural, Julio, can’t you tell?), then you get more. Seventy-five cash, or maybe you’d prefer—wink, wink—some very nice product?

  Sure, Julio, keep the cash. I’ll just take a few bags of that, uh, conditioning powder.

  Okay, so it’s clear why all the users go short, but why oh why when we get clean do we all stay that way? I mean, look at the women at this meeting. All of us no longer using, but holding on and moving on, yet nearly everyone here still looks like she belongs to a coven of religious penitents, maybe one of those groups that—

  “What is going on in your head? Did you listen to anything anyone said today?”

  I lifted the head in question and locked stares with a stern middle-aged woman. A stern middle-aged woman with a salt-and-pepper spike lid. Wendi? Bambi? No, Sandi, as in: Hi, I’m Sandi Q, and I’m cross-addicted. “Hey, Sandi,” I said “Meeting over?”

  “You’d know if you’d listen. You never listen. Never listen, never talk. Every day I see you come in here, take a chair close to the exit, drop your head, and sink into some daydream riff. About as involved with your surroundings as a statue. Yes, the meeting’s over, and if you don’t mind we’re hauling the chairs over to the big room. One o’clock AA needs them all.”

  I rose and she pulled the chair away, snapping it together and tucking it under her arm. I looked down at the foam cup in my hand. An inch of cold black coffee was left in it. I closed my eyes and drank it down.

  Sandi’s fingers drummed on the back of the chair. “A bunch of us are going to lunch. I don’t suppose there’s any reason to believe you might want to join us. Do I need to even tell you that you are and always have been welcome?”

  Several people had gathered near the exit. It was the usual NA post-meeting mix: some people laughing, some finishing up the tears. Most of them young and smoking.

  I turned to Sandi, who was old enough to be mother to almost everyone in the room. “I have to go to work.”

  She rolled her eyes. “A real loner, aren’t you? Honey, no one stays sober by staying alone. I used to be like you. I’d come to meetings and never do much but warm a seat. I crashed—crashed hard and stayed down until I started to do the work.”

  “I have to go to work,” I said.

  She followed me to the trash. I could hear her snicker softly as I tossed the cup and it bounced off the rim onto the floor. I leaned
over, picked it up, and carefully placed it in the basket.

  “What is your story?” she said. “I just hope I’m here the day you give it up.”

  “I’ve told my story. I’ve talked during round robins.”

  “Name tag stuff, that’s all. We know your name, we know you’re a sniffer not a shooter, we know—”

  “I have to go, Sandi.”

  “Oh, yes: And we know you work for your famous aunt. What we don’t know is why you’re here every day when she’s on the air. Why is that, Kelly? Have you lucked out and found a job that’s no job at all?”

  People were waving from the doorway. I tipped my head toward them. “Your friends are waiting for you.”

  “Your friends, too—if you’d allow. Just tell me the one thing, Kelly: If you’re really the assistant to a big shot radio star, why aren’t you at work when she’s on the air?”

  I drew a breath, then released it in a silent whistle. “Because when Kit Carpenter is on the air, she doesn’t need anyone.”

  Sandi handed the folding chairs under her arm to a lanky guy who was collecting them onto a cart. “Oh, so she’s that big? I guess that explains why she doesn’t even need Simone Sanchez.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “Paying attention now?”

  “What do you mean—no Simone Sanchez?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Kit Carpenter’s assistant didn’t know?”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  Her eyes lightened, pleased with my interest. “I ride the bus, right? Same route, same bus, same driver. Every day. And every day Teddie, the driver, has a radio tuned to KLIP. I always take the seat right behind Teddie because it’s the safest place, and on the midtown route, you just never know. Anyway, so I’m up front behind Teddie and her radio, and all week I hear the promos: Simone Sanchez, live on ‘Kit Chat.’ But guess what. On the bus this morning Teddie’s of course listening to the radio and suddenly she’s pounding the wheel and swearing. Apparently, there’s no Simone Sanchez. Instead—and I have to tell you, she nearly drove the bus onto the sidewalk when she heard this—all Kit Carpenter’s devoted listeners were going to get today is your aunt grilling some lame community college professor about Lakveria and the conference at the U. No explanation whatsoever about why everybody’s favorite singer is not going to be on the show. ‘Couldn’t be with us’ was all your aunt said.”

  Oh, Kit. I swore, practically sputtering.

  Sandi smiled. “Not that I approve of such language, honey, but it’s good to see you off the leash.”

  I said, “I have to go to work.”

  *

  Kit Carpenter’s assistant didn’t know and Kit Carpenter’s assistant was pissed. My aunt has one of the highest rated daytime radio talk shows in the country. She’s a natural born talker with a voice that glides through the air. And while she may not need anyone when she’s mesmerizing her millions of devoted listeners, she gets plenty of help before the On Air sign lights up, most of it from me. For weeks I’d been researching and prepping her for the Sanchez interview.

  Sanchez is a Diva Deluxe. So is my aunt. Who called whom to cancel?

  I had my suspicions.

  Normally it doesn’t take me long to go from the meeting to work. It’s a quick ten-block walk from St. Ambrose’s Open Life Church down Washburn, then through the Medical Arts parking ramp to the unmarked staff entrance of the nation’s biggest AM radio station, KLIP, where my aunt reigns and ruins. If the NA meeting runs long or the weather is bad, I can hop a bus, but usually I like the walk. And, as I said, usually it doesn’t take long.

  Unless you’re dressed the way I was dressed today. Specifically, we’re talking shoes.

  I dress with care. This is not a fashion statement, or a declaration of class warfare. It’s not even (I try to believe) the residue of once owning too many Barbie dolls.

  It’s control. There are a few simple road rules for life in the recovery lane. One of the biggies: Control what you can control. My options aren’t many, but I can control how I look, so each day I present to the world a visually coordinated me. This doesn’t always involve sensible shoes made for sprinting ten city blocks.

  Today I was wearing some butter-soft Italian leather sandals. I can’t buy these things on my salary, of course. I’d found them in my aunt’s closet when I was hunting for scarves to braid into a belt for the red linen sheath I was wearing. I found the scarves—Paris silk; my aunt is nuts about such things—and I found the shoes. Help yourself, Kelly Ray.

  The sandals were gorgeous but flimsy, not meant for movement more energetic than a quick stroll down a carpeted couture runway. By Washburn and Eleventh the toe loop on the left one had popped loose. By Eighth Street the right sole had split and was flapping loudly every time I took a step. By the time I reached the parking ramp, the other toe loop was loose, and every fourth step one or the other of the sandals would fly off.

  A reasonable person might ask: Why not go barefoot? And a more reasonable person might answer: Not on your life. Not on city sidewalks three days into a sweltering heat wave.

  Controlling what I could, I flapped and shuffled onto the ramp. The attendant glared at me as I ignored the No Pedestrians sign and walked up the down driveway toward the station door. Nothing unusual about that—she always glares at me when I ignore the sign and take the shortcut. But today she rapped on the window of her booth and shook her fist. I was about to wave her off when she stepped out and shouted, “Tell your aunt we don’t need any more of the asshole professors. Where was Simone?”

  I stared a moment, my jaw dropped open in imitation of the village idiot, then shrugged.

  Miller, the KLIP security guard, also wouldn’t let me pass without comment. Of course, he always has something to say about nothing. He came out of his booth, stepped in front of the heavy gray door, and crossed his arms on his chest. “Kelly,” he said.

  “Hello, Miller,” I replied. “Are you going to let me go to work? Or do I have to use the front door like the tour groups?” I looked down at my two dirty feet. “Please don’t make me go in the other way.”

  “Kelly,” he repeated.

  “Miller,” said I.

  He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Would you please relay to your aunt the depth of my disappointment because today, contrary to what I’d been told, there was no Simone Sanchez to walk through this door and brighten the morning for a poor working slob. Instead I get to hold it open for a very angry station manager and a very livid president of programming.” A slight smile spread as he watched me. “That’s right, both about twenty minutes ago.” He uncrossed his arms and motioned with his index finger. “C’mon, where is it? You know the rules, sweetheart. They’re sitting in central security watching everything that comes across on that camera, so please help me do my job by wearing the badge where they can see it.” He hummed softly as I pulled my wallet out of a pocket and fished out the ID. “Oh look at that,” he said. “You’re still holding only a temporary ID. Well, I don’t suppose there’s any hope of that changing now.”

  I slipped the wallet back into my pocket. “What do you mean, Miller?”

  He shrugged. “After today’s stunt, management will have to do something. Kit’s untouchable, but the people around her might not be.”

  “Thanks, Miller. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’ve been warned, sweetie.”

  *

  The very angry station manager and the very livid president of programming were going at it right outside the elevator door. Tyler McCall, my aunt’s producer, was backed up against the wall. Obviously they couldn’t get at the real target, so they were spitting at him instead.

  “She locked the door again?” I asked as (barefoot at last) I stepped out of the plushly carpeted elevator and walked around them.

  “You—” said one angry man.

  “You tell her—” said the other angry man.

  Tyler leaned limply against the wall and said nothing
.

  I didn’t slow to hear what I was supposed to tell her, because after all, my aunt paid my salary, not the station, and I only wanted to hear what she had to say.

  The two bosses followed me down the hall to Kit’s office suite and stood breathing down my neck as I fished in my bag for the keys. The lock clicked free, the knob turned in my hand, and then I felt them start to push past me. “Gentlemen,” I said. “It’s in her contract; you have to be invited.”

  Yow, how those boys can curse.

  Raoul, the station manager, added something else: “Goddam junkie gofer.”

  I beg your pardon: ex-junkie gofer.

  *

  The first time I remember seeing my aunt Kit was at my grandfather’s burial when I was five years old. I was standing at my mother’s side, her hand clenched hard around mine, when I unglued my eyes from the long, shining coffin and looked up as the crowd shifted slightly, opening up, everyone turning. All that morning people at the house had been talking about my father and whether he’d show for the funeral; after all, the dead man was his father. After hearing all the talk, I was wondering the same thing because I had never seen him. But it wasn’t my father who caused the rustle, just a tall woman at the back of the crowd. The others whispered a bit, then returned their attention to the casket and the words being said. I kept my eyes on the woman, though. She was staring straight at me, and without her glance wavering a moment she produced a cigarette pack, tapped it, then removed a cigarette and placed it in her mouth.

  Who smokes at a waiting grave? Back then I was not the least bit aware of those kinds of rules; that was not the astounding thing to five-year-old me. No, what held and charmed me was that the woman did it all with a silver claw.

  I found out after the burial that she was my father’s older sister. My mother and I had been living with my father’s parents, which when you think about it must have been a royal complication in family life, certainly one so twisted and tight, I’m still not able to understand it. Unless, of course, it wasn’t complicated at all, unless it was something as simple as my grandparents saying to my flat-broke mother and me, Our son has screwed you over, but we will keep you safe. But probably it was more twisted than that, because not only did my father keep his distance from his parents, so did my aunt Kit. She hadn’t visited her parents in years. So I had never met her. Until the day of the burial I’d had no idea I had a one-armed aunt.