First Night

My beds were the first to arrive in my new space at 276 Benefit Street. I've been dreaming for months about sleeping here, closing the doors, and listening to the quiet, knowing no one could call me or get in. I'd lock myself up in a cocoon. Once my bed was set up that was it, and when my Kitchen Aid came, then it was home. That first night was not shadowed by the fact that a loved one of mine was over in shanty town in a half-way house. I took my shelter like any scared, worn-out, war victim might do and found a cozy foxhole.and left the battle behind me. Woke up feeling like I was in heaven. Might have bathed in the serenity of it all morning, if it wasn't for fact I wanted a cup of black smack to enhance the dream. The coffee shop next store to the church was open. A while back, I had put the bug in their ear-- if you would open earlier, the people going to the A.A. Meetings at 8 a.m. would buy their coffee here. Whether that piece of advise was the start of the booming business that followed,I don't know.But there is a waiting line most of the day now. I took my coffee into the meeting,and let the comments wash over me. A good cup of coffee, the meetings next door, and my safe place to go nearby... my cup had run over. I had made my mind up that I would have no phone. This disturbed my family, but this new life I had chosen was not designed to get their approval. The weeks that were to follow were filled with adding more pieces of furniture, something I had told myself I wouldn't do. I even rationalized buying this wicker chaise with the intentions of sending it to the other house which was starting to look so empty without me. It looked so wonderful in my new living room, I just couldn't part with it. In Newport, I picked up these french curtains that fell like white clouds. They were floor length with a 5-inch eyelet border. Perfect they were for the room, just waiting for Persuasion to arrive. Made a commitment to keep a journal, which I did without fail for almost two years. Sure came in handy when I would forget why or how I arrived here. With everything so new, I did forget why I left my home. This wasn't a place I'm come to to write the great novel, no I had moved out to salvage what I could of what was left of me. I knew years ago that there was a drug war on, I was shell shocked from it. But the denial of it was in me at times. The freshness of my new surroundings was the disinfectant that cleared the way for my new life. Here I was learning to live again, even when I wanted out. What I didn't know then, was that I had packed a few of my old patterns. They were tucked away so neatly, I denied their existence. The no- phone worked out well, since I had a habit of calling up for trouble like someone might order a pizza with the works. Nine months later, I was burglarized, just weeks before Kim my daughter was to be married. They cleaned me out of jewelry, TVs, and my designer fur coat. I had worked three shifts that day and didn't take the time to come home and check things. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had just gotten out of work. My first reaction was feeling that one of the children must have been in the house. Seconds later, I knew what had happened. I ran back to work, Kim and Tom were still there. We all came back together to check what was missing. Kim went first to see if the fur coat she was going to take on her honeymoon was still there. I checked for her wedding dress that she left in my closet. They both wanted me to stay the night with them, but no dice. I had stayed through the capture of my three blind mice and a lot more. This was, without a doubt, a challenge, and I never did sleep that night. To give into anything at that point could have weakened me. My growth depended on it Looking out onto the street I wondered, how did I get here? When did the erosion start in my family? I remembered the morning I found myself ten years sober and thought, Who is this man sleeping beside me? How could I have missed the journey? If life be God's power, then Wall Street can close its doors.

Copyright; Ruth Mahoney