Long Bright River(71)

—Sit down, says the woman, gesturing to a chair.

I’m momentarily confused. I have my made-up order ready: as many Percocets as the twenty in my pocket will buy me. Three, maybe, depending on dosage. One if the woman suspects I’m an amateur. I’ll get outside, I think, and throw them in the gutter. I’m going to spend twenty dollars, basically, for any information the woman can give me.

I keep my hands in my pockets, warming them up, while the woman disappears briefly into the kitchen and then reemerges, holding a glass of water in her hands. She hands it to me.

—Drink that, she says. You don’t look good.

I do as I’m told. Then I wait. I feel as if there’s been some misunderstanding.

—How’d you hear about me? the woman says.

I pause. A friend, I say.

—What friend?

I hesitate, deciding. Matt, I say.

A safe gamble of a name, in this neighborhood.

—You’re a friend of Matty B’s? says the woman. I love Matty B!

I nod.

—Drink that, she says again. Obediently, I take a sip.

—You sober today? says the woman.

—Yes, I say. It’s the first truthful thing that’s come out of my mouth since I’ve been here. I’m starting to feel bad.

At this, the woman reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. Good work, honey, she says. I’m proud of you.

—Thank you, I say.

—How many days you have?

It’s only then that I notice the framed Twelve Steps print on the wall behind her head, small enough so it would only stand out to someone who was looking for it. Jesus’s head, in the picture next to it, is tilted mildly in its direction, as if he’s contemplating the steps alongside the viewer. I wonder if this is by design.

I cough into my hand. Um, I say. Three days.

The woman nods seriously. That’s great, she says. She looks at me. I bet it’s your first time getting clean, she says.

—How’d you know? I say.

—You don’t look too tired, she says. People who’ve been at it for years just look more tired out. Like me, she says, and laughs.

I feel tired, though. I have felt tired since Thomas was born. I have felt overwhelmed since moving to Bensalem. And I have felt exhausted since Kacey went missing. But I know what she means: I’ve seen the same people the woman is referring to, people who have been in and out of sobriety for a decade, for two decades, for more. In sobriety, they often look like they just want to go to sleep and stay there for a while.

—Anyway, says the woman. Are you going to meetings? Do you have a place to stay?

She glances at the stairs.

—I got about six people staying with me right now or I’d give you a bed. Actually, she says, let me think. Wait here a second.

The woman marches over to the bottom of the staircase and calls up it. TEDDY, she says. TED.

—It’s okay, I say. I have a place to stay.

The woman is shaking her head. No, she says, we can get you in here.

A man calls down the stairs. What’s up, Rita?

—Really, I say. I have a good place to stay. My grandmother’s house. No one’s using there.

The woman, Rita, looks at me doubtfully.

Still watching me, she calls up the stairs. When you going to West Chester?

—Uh, says the invisible Ted, Friday?

Rita says to me, There. We can get you in here Friday if you want. Maybe Thursday night if you don’t mind the couch.

I begin shaking my head, and Rita says, I know, I know, you have a place to stay. Just keep it in mind, she says. Then her face changes. I’m not gonna charge you anything, honey, she says. Is that what you’re worried about? Oh no, this is something I do for myself. Pay it forward, that kind of thing. Only thing I ask for is that you bring in food to share when you can, toilet paper, paper towels, that kind of stuff. And if I think you’re using again I’ll kick you out.

—All right, I say.

I’m starting to feel terrible, misleading this woman.

She looks at me.

—You’ve got a funny way of talking, she says. You from around here?

I nod.

—Whereabouts?

—Fishtown, I say.

—Huh, she says.

All I can think about is how to gracefully leave. But I still haven’t gotten a chance to ask her about Kacey.

—Here, says Rita, let me give you my number. You have a phone?

I take it out. Rita recites the digits of her phone number, and I enter it. While I’m looking at the screen, a text comes in from Truman.

Where are you?

Not far from K and A, I write back.

Then I pull up a picture of Kacey, and I hold the phone out to Rita.

—What’s that? says Rita.

—I’m just asking people in the neighborhood if they’ve seen her around, I say. I’m her sister and she’s been missing for a while.

—Oh, honey, says Rita. I’m sorry to hear that.

She takes the phone from my hand and holds it at arm’s length from her face, trying to focus. She brings it a little bit closer. Her brow furrows.

—That’s your sister? she says, looking up at me.

—It is, I say. Do you know her?

In an instant, a cloud passes over Rita’s face. She is calculating something, realizing something, making connections that I can’t understand.