r.kv.r.y quarterly literary journal summer 2006
shorts on substances
shorts on substances
joy despite the cracks by pamela knight
A huge, sparkling “8” adorned the roof of Star’s restaurant. "Wow," thought Joyce, Star’s and I have
the same anniversary. Eight years sober. A slight smile crossed her lips as she remembered the
stargazer lilies her friend Marie gave her to celebrate the occasion. Stars again. It'll be good to see
Marie this weekend. Thank God for friends.
The twangy voice of the radio D.J. hummed in the middle of a skit that Joyce was not following.
“Crackpot!“ his edgy voice squelched.
“Crackpot, crackpot!” Brenda and Bobby, ten and twelve, seized the word excitedly, trying it out in
various insulting forms. Laughing and poking each other. They were delighted with their new word.
"Your kids are such all around kids !" one friend had gushed. "Not afraid to talk or laugh or enjoy
things." Admittedly, Bobby delighted his basketball team. Brenda drew balloons to herself like a
magnet.
Joyce was less enchanted to hear a word that so rawly summoned up images of substances.
“Crackpot means crazy or a sham,” Joyce explained before drifting back to her self absorbed reverie.
"A lot like my last relationship." Despite Joyce's best intentions not to think about Paul and to move
forward, she slid into the pain of their recent breakup.
The pain was gnawing and obsessive. Paul made her feel complete even though Joyce knew no one
"completes" you. Day dreaming about him and how it would be when she was with him -- how it would
be when they got married -- had been distracting. Had been sufficiently numbing to keep her from
dwelling on her mother’s health, unpaid bills and Bobby falling asleep in class at school. Now that the
relationship was over her thoughts prefaced each illusive longing with "if only, if only."
If only we could have had a life together like the day we went down the Cape -- a day that as a
microcosm of life with Paul Joyce dreamed of. The phone conversations leading up to the date purred
gently and suggestively. The kids were spending the weekend with their father. Paul pulled up to
Joyce’s home early with his van and loaded her bike beside his. The early summer sun shone.
The tentatively defined couple drove to the Bourne Bridge. Parking the van, Joyce thrilled to be doing
something with someone who shared her drive for exercise. Happily, surrounded by breezy salt
scented sunshine, they began the seven mile scenic ride along the Cape Cod Canal. Once they
stopped and rested on a park bench and ate the snack Paul had thoughtfully prepared.
Afterwards, calmed and invigorated by the bike ride, they continued flirting. Joyce knew she was falling
in love despite Paul’s reminders throughout the eight month relationship to keep things casual. They
traveled further down the Cape to Dennis Beach and found a secluded sand bar. Paul read his novel,
comfortably settled in a webbed lounge chair, as Joyce, fantasizing of many days to come like this one
read the newspaper contentedly.
Topping the day off, the two stopped at Joyce’s parent’s house and Joyce proudly introduced her new
boyfriend. The perfect day was rounded out with a meal out and a visit to a local AA meeting. Sleeping
together ended the ideal day.
But Paul called a few weeks later, stumbling over, "it's too soon after my divorce for me to be serious.”
Joyce reeled. She was still stunned, empty and grieving as she journeyed to the Recovery Convention.
Joyce pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton Tara where she and the kids would spend the
weekend. She was looking forward to attending workshops but was not to the nitty gritty settling
requiring trips back and forth for the cooler and luggage. Getting the kids to help remained difficult.
“Mom, this is too heavy,” Brenda whined, struggling to hold up her end of the cooler.
“Ma, can’t we just go swimming? Can’t we do this later?” Bobby definitely would prefer to shirk. “We
could have just bought drinks here anyway.”
“Honey, you know I'm trying to save some money by bringing our own.” Joyce wrestled with two
suitcases and a backpack.
the same anniversary. Eight years sober. A slight smile crossed her lips as she remembered the
stargazer lilies her friend Marie gave her to celebrate the occasion. Stars again. It'll be good to see
Marie this weekend. Thank God for friends.
The twangy voice of the radio D.J. hummed in the middle of a skit that Joyce was not following.
“Crackpot!“ his edgy voice squelched.
“Crackpot, crackpot!” Brenda and Bobby, ten and twelve, seized the word excitedly, trying it out in
various insulting forms. Laughing and poking each other. They were delighted with their new word.
"Your kids are such all around kids !" one friend had gushed. "Not afraid to talk or laugh or enjoy
things." Admittedly, Bobby delighted his basketball team. Brenda drew balloons to herself like a
magnet.
Joyce was less enchanted to hear a word that so rawly summoned up images of substances.
“Crackpot means crazy or a sham,” Joyce explained before drifting back to her self absorbed reverie.
"A lot like my last relationship." Despite Joyce's best intentions not to think about Paul and to move
forward, she slid into the pain of their recent breakup.
The pain was gnawing and obsessive. Paul made her feel complete even though Joyce knew no one
"completes" you. Day dreaming about him and how it would be when she was with him -- how it would
be when they got married -- had been distracting. Had been sufficiently numbing to keep her from
dwelling on her mother’s health, unpaid bills and Bobby falling asleep in class at school. Now that the
relationship was over her thoughts prefaced each illusive longing with "if only, if only."
If only we could have had a life together like the day we went down the Cape -- a day that as a
microcosm of life with Paul Joyce dreamed of. The phone conversations leading up to the date purred
gently and suggestively. The kids were spending the weekend with their father. Paul pulled up to
Joyce’s home early with his van and loaded her bike beside his. The early summer sun shone.
The tentatively defined couple drove to the Bourne Bridge. Parking the van, Joyce thrilled to be doing
something with someone who shared her drive for exercise. Happily, surrounded by breezy salt
scented sunshine, they began the seven mile scenic ride along the Cape Cod Canal. Once they
stopped and rested on a park bench and ate the snack Paul had thoughtfully prepared.
Afterwards, calmed and invigorated by the bike ride, they continued flirting. Joyce knew she was falling
in love despite Paul’s reminders throughout the eight month relationship to keep things casual. They
traveled further down the Cape to Dennis Beach and found a secluded sand bar. Paul read his novel,
comfortably settled in a webbed lounge chair, as Joyce, fantasizing of many days to come like this one
read the newspaper contentedly.
Topping the day off, the two stopped at Joyce’s parent’s house and Joyce proudly introduced her new
boyfriend. The perfect day was rounded out with a meal out and a visit to a local AA meeting. Sleeping
together ended the ideal day.
But Paul called a few weeks later, stumbling over, "it's too soon after my divorce for me to be serious.”
Joyce reeled. She was still stunned, empty and grieving as she journeyed to the Recovery Convention.
Joyce pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton Tara where she and the kids would spend the
weekend. She was looking forward to attending workshops but was not to the nitty gritty settling
requiring trips back and forth for the cooler and luggage. Getting the kids to help remained difficult.
“Mom, this is too heavy,” Brenda whined, struggling to hold up her end of the cooler.
“Ma, can’t we just go swimming? Can’t we do this later?” Bobby definitely would prefer to shirk. “We
could have just bought drinks here anyway.”
“Honey, you know I'm trying to save some money by bringing our own.” Joyce wrestled with two
suitcases and a backpack.
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