I'll Cry Tomorrrow Page 21

  I awoke in darkness. Were they branded on my eyes, or in the walls again?—gigantic spider bat-faces with cigars in their mouths. They came nearer. The burning ash of the cigars would put out my eyes. I rolled out of bed to the floor, crawled to a bottle. I screamed, and the scream echoed down the dark corridors of my brain and vanished in a thin white trickle of sound.

  The voices came back, soft, submerged, babbling: “She’s low she’s awfully low do you think she’ll make it she’s done terrible things to herself her mother never raised her girl to end like this she’s no good maybe she will get out of it do you think she will do you think she won’t.” They rose, and died away.

  The faces, as if on cue, took their place, the glowing cigar tips whirling like pinwheels. The spiders came, they dropped from the ceiling onto me, they crawled over me. I dug frantically into my skin. I knew I saw all this, felt all this, heard all this, yet all this was not real.

  “It’s in my head,” I thought wildly, beating my head against the wall. I tore at my hair. “It’s only in my head. If I get it out of my head it’ll be gone.” I could endure it no longer. I threw open the window. I’ll jump, my head will crash against the pavement, my brains will spew out-and I’ll be rid of it. All of it, all that accumulated horror will pour out of my skull and I’ll have peace.

  I stood up, arms outstretched, against the open window. The wind blew on me, hot and cold, a burst of heat like a terrible desert blast. I shuddered, started back, stumbled, and fell backward to the floor. I blacked out.

  I do not know how many times I must have blacked out during the days and nights I remained alone in my room. Toward the end I remember slowly getting to my feet, and working my way to the bathroom. I peered at my image in the mirror. My eyes had difficulty focusing, but slowly I saw myself. Was that ghastly human being me? My hair was matted and filthy. My face was a purple blotch, my cheeks lacerated, my lips black, split and caked with blood. My fingernails were ripped and bleeding. My pajamas were soiled and in shreds. My eyes were almost swollen shut.

  Look at yourself objectively, Lillian. What would you do if you met yourself on the street, knowing what you know about yourself? She’s better off dead, you’d say in horror, lifting your dress lest you contaminate yourself, turning your face away lest you become sick at the sight of her. God assuage the grief and shame of the mother who bore her, of the father who once said in joy, “Look at her, Katie! Isn’t she beautiful!”

  I began to pace back and forth, faster and faster, banging the wall with my palm at each turn, raging at myself. You won’t take another drink. You won’t. You stop right here…

  I could not. I drank, and again I was calm. I was sober drunk. Think clearly, try to concentrate. You have several outs. What are they?

  One. If Katie learns about this, she will be forced to put you away for your own protection. She certainly won’t let you wander about sick. Now, you can swallow the rest of these sleeping pills. I counted them laboriously. An even dozen. Well, yellow jackets are powerful. Maybe 12 of them would do the job. But if they failed and you wake up—you’ll find yourself in a state institution just the same. So that’s one-try to commit suicide by an overdose of sleeping pills.

  Two. You can still jump out that window.

  Two isn’t half bad.

  Wait-isn’t there a three? Dr. Head? When the going got too tough, call him, he said.

  Carefully I walked to the telephone, and rang Bloomingdale’s, and waited for the familiar voice to come on the wire. When I heard it, I broke down.

  “For God’s sake, Doctor,” I sobbed hysterically. “I’ve got the horrors. I’ve tried to come out of it for days and I can’t I don’t know what to do. I’ve no place to go, no place to turn. Please, Dr. Head, come and see me right away. I’m going out of my mind!”

  He heard me out. “Now Lillian, don’t get excited. This is Sunday. It’s impossible for me to get away. Take a few sleeping pills, go to bed, and I’ll come to see you Tuesday morning.”

  “Tuesday? Well, then, you’ll find me in the Morgue!” I screamed, and slammed the receiver. I reeled again to the window and looked down. I stood there, the 12 Seconals in one hand, arguing the question…Eleven stories. That’s final, for sure. But a ledge protruded only three stories below. Icy fear gripped me. Suppose I land on it? A three-story fall might not kill me, but only smash my face. I’d live with a grotesque face and broken bones all my life. I’d be even worse off, then.

  I thought desperately. Is there no sure, painless way out of this? Can’t I even kill myself without botching the job?

  Suppose I miss the ledge and go all the way. I won’t be a pretty sight, either, after I strike that pavement What will they say about me? Will they say, “Isn’t it terrible, what happened to Lillian Roth? She was such a talented girl.” Oh, no, they’ll say, “She deserved it What was she but a no-good, drunken bum?”

  That’s what Art called you. And Mark. And Victor. The judge never said it to your face, but he would say it now. David’s folks would say it. They would all say it And suddenly, standing there, I knew, knew beyond all question or doubt, that I was not a no-good bum. My mother knew I was not Had she sacrificed so much, had she suffered so many years watching me go down, down, down into the gutter, only to have me end as a no-good bum, a drunken suicide with a smashed face buried in a pauper’s grave?

  I won’t let them say it I won’t let them see me that way. I won’t jump—

  Marty Mann. The name leaped into my brain. What had the Times said? She lived to tell her story to Alcoholics Anonymous.

  I clutched at the straw. I wasn’t ready then, said Dr. Head? I’d have to be ready now. Now, now! With great difficulty I managed to get into the tub. Later, with shaking hands, I tried to dress: but perspiration rolled from me; alcohol seemed to ooze from my pores: no sooner was I into my underclothes and dress than they were soaking wet. I borrowed a dress from Edna’s closet and put it on, finally. I must be halfway presentable when I go to Alcoholics Anonymous. They mustn’t think I’m too much of a drunk.

  It was nearing 12 and the noonday sun was creeping lazily into the bedroom when I dragged myself out of there.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  I FOUND MYSELF standing before the headquarters of Alcoholics Anonymous. The building was a former church on 41st St., near 10th Avenue, in Hell’s Kitchen, only a few blocks from where I’d lived as a child. Hadn’t I once told Estelle Milgrim that I would be back on 10th Avenue someday—penniless and alone?

  I hesitated. Was this an evangelist society? Would people pray over me? But, maybe they would teach me how to drink normally. Laboriously I climbed the steps.

  “Where do you get information, please?” I asked a man walking out.

  “In that office down the hall,” he said, pointing.

  In a small cubby-hole sat a fat, jovial man about 60, wearing a cap. Ah, I better be careful. Guards at mental institutions wear caps like that Bet he’ll want to test me to see if I belong here or in an institution. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “A girl friend of mine is very drunk and almost jumped out a window. She needs help. What can I do for her?”

  “My, my!” he said, as he stood up. “Well, now, don’t you worry. Let us take care of it But first things first Aren’t you having a little trouble, too, Miss?”

  I grew indignant “Me? Oh, no. I just came over to get information for this girl.” Later I learned that alcoholics invariably begin with the story of another person’s troubles, real or fancied.

  “O. K.” he said. “What’s your name?”

  Again I hesitated. “Aren’t you supposed to be anonymous here?”

  “You don’t have to give your name, Miss,” he said. “But we’re all friends here.”

  “Oh, well. It’s Lillian Roth.” It doesn’t mean anything, anyway, I thought to myself.

  “Well, Lillian, why don’t you come upstairs and have some coffee with us?”

  As if by common consent we b
oth forgot my fictitious girl friend. He helped me up the stairs. We entered an enormous room in which many persons sat at long wooden tables, picnic style, drinking coffee, nibbling at cake, some playing solitaire, others talking. In the rear I saw a cafeteria.

  “What is this place?” I demanded. “Who are these people?” I was confused. The voices were back whispering in my ear. She’s going in there. That’s a laugh! They won’t even want her. They’ll probably send her away. They’ll know she’s mad. She’s taking an awful chance, the fool. Boy, what a mess! Look at her shake!

  “These are all alcoholics,” the jovial man said, his voice gratingly loud over the chorus with me. He waved his hand expansively. “They’ve all solved their alcoholic problem and they’re happy now. Someday you’ll be happy, too.”

  Isn’t that ridiculous! I thought. Me happy! These people haven’t gone through my hell. Silly my being here. And do I really want to get sober? I have nothing to look forward to. I started to turn away.

  The jovial man gently wheeled me around and led me to a table. Someone else was at my elbow, guiding me into a chair. There were blurred faces about me, and suddenly I was pouring out my woes, trying in a few minutes to tell the tragedy of my life—how I had been all alone in my room…”Well, I know you won’t believe it, but I almost committed suicide!”

  One of the faces said, “I almost did, too.”

  “You did!” I was shocked. “My story isn’t unusual?”

  A cup of steaming black coffee was pushed in front of me.

  “No,” a man said. “Drinking follows the same pattern in all alcoholics.”

  I seized on the word. Alcoholic? I don’t like that. I drink a little too much but no wonder, with my problems. I better get out of here. They don’t understand me.

  A woman said, “Don’t run away yet, Lillian. We’ve just met.”

  How did she know I was going, I wondered? Maybe she has the gift of mental telepathy, too…. Her voice continued: “You don’t have to be ashamed to tell us what bothers you. In fact we already know. We’re all completely honest with each other. And that’s why we can help each other.”

  O. K., I thought. Be honest. TU show you something,” I said fiercely. I fumbled in my purse and my shaking hands managed to extract a pint of gin and the box of sleeping pills. “See these? I came in here and deceived you. I had these with me all the time. Now I’m giving them to you.” I held them out dramatically, and a hand appeared and took them.

  “Good,” a man’s voice said. “You’ve made your first move to sobriety—giving yourself up.”

  I talked ceaselessly. People came, sat with me, drifted away. A long time had passed without a drink: I had to get out of there. And after all, I had some bringing up. You mustn’t overstay your welcome. The courteous thing now is to leave.

  I rose shakily to my feet. Two men approached me. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going home, but I want to thank you for your hospitality.”

  “We’d like to take you home,” one man said. His spectacles glinted in the light. “May we?”

  “Oh, thank you but 1 can make it alone”

  “It’s a pretty long walk,” he went on, conversationally. “One of us has a car. In fact, we have a lady who would love to go along. She lives in your neighborhood, too”

  I couldn’t lack graciousness. “Well, then, of course,” I said formally. “Whatever you wish.” I thought, I must get rid of them, quick. I’ve got to have a drink.

  Outside I was introduced to a plump woman, her face round and smiling, her dark hair short and curly. “This is Julia,” said the bespectacled man. “I’m John—and this is Larry.” Larry helped me into the car, and as he did so, he pressed a small cold object into my hand. I looked at it It was a crucifix. Oh, I thought, he thinks I’m Christian, but I’ll take it. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  As we drove off, John remarked, “Julia works for Bellevue.”

  “Bellevue!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, she’s in the receiving office.”

  Receiving office! They had tricked me! They were taking me to the alcoholic ward. But my panic subsided when it became apparent we were driving down 10th avenue, to my apartment house. When we arrived, I stepped out with dignity and extended my hand. “Thank you very much, Julia. And thank you very much, gentlemen. It was most pleasant.”

  “Would it be all right if we came up for a minute?” John asked. “I’d like to make a telephone call.”

  Good God, I thought, don’t these people know when a person wants to be alone? But how could I refuse? “Of course,” I said.

  Once upstairs, they seemed in no haste to leave. I sat, outwardly calm, but I felt rivulets of sweat running down my back. My nose was becoming congested. I had difficulty getting air: my jaws were growing stiff; my heart began to pound with the effort to breathe. My fingers were clenched. I had not had a drink in six or seven hours now, and…I don’t know what way to turn I thought in panic. I can’t make a scene or they’ll take me to Bellevue.

  “I don’t want to frighten you,” came John’s voice, suddenly. “I’ve been watching you. You need alcohol or a hospital. You ought to go to Knickerbocker Hospital for five days. Have you any money?”

  I shook my head. He knew the next stages, as I did not: first, your nose grew more congested, then it bled, then you went into a paroxysm of coughing and choking, and then into violent convulsions. “Hospitalization costs a little money,” he was saying. He paused. “Do you really want this program?”

  “Yes,” I said. Yes,yes,yes. “I want help. What do you mean, program?”

  “We’ll come to that later. Easy does it. Have you any liquor in the house?” I had to be honest with him. “Yes,— about a quarter of a bottle of gin”

  “Well,” he said, “if you can’t afford a hospital, maybe we can help you here. Right now, I think you need a drink.”

  Oh, I thought, these people could be trusted! They do understand. This man’s from heaven!

  I led him to the bottle in the kitchen. He poured a drink for me, and held it to my mouth for I could grip nothing in my hands. It went down, and I grew a little calmer. I could swallow again, I breathed more easily, my jaws relaxed, my fingers released.

  Julia said, “Honey, I must leave now, but I’ll pick you up tomorrow if you want me. Meantime I’m going to send over another little lady to stay with you a little while this evening.”

  Then she was gone, leaving John and Larry.

  They talked. I thought, I can’t stand this. I began to feel the insects crawling under my clothes again. But John and Larry were involved in a long, never-ending story of their alcoholism: the money they had once been worth, the agony and shame they had suffered. There was no continuity to their story. They droned away, first one, then the other. What had all this to do with helping me get sober? I dared not tell them the torture I suffered this very moment They might be psychiatrists trying to determine if I was sane or insane. It’s impossible for people to sit this many hours with me unless they are psychoanalyzing me.

  Someone knocked on the door. A man and a woman entered, and then there were four of them, talking, talking, talking, while I thought frantically how am I going to get them out?

  They went into my kitchen and brewed coffee. “Here, drink this,” they said. “It will be good for you.” Isn’t this ridiculous, I thought. Can’t I drink coffee by myself? I drank coffee. Sometimes it seemed I dozed off, then awakened. They were always there, talking.

  John glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s three o’clock,” he said, and the four rose. The liquor stores were closed, the bars shut down now. The only liquor I could have now was the gin remaining in the bottle in the kitchen— and there wasn’t enough there to help me.

  “You’re exhausted now, aren’t you?” John asked. “You’ll be able to sleep.”

  “Yes, yes, everything’s fine. I couldn’t expect you to stay another minute. Thanks very much. It was so good of you to take this inte
rest in me. See you again some time. Goodbye.”

  They left. The door closed on them, and I sighed. I raced into the kitchen—and stopped short. I dared not finish the gin now. I would probably need it terribly before this long night was over. It had to last.

  I slipped into bed, and the voices began. They’re going to get you, they’re coming to get you, they know all about you. Julia’s face appeared; it dissolved into many faces, then dwindled into a spinning blob, then expanded into another face. What do you expect, I asked myself. You’ve only had that one drink John gave you since two in the afternoon.

  The faces-Julia’s, John’s, the moonfaced Admiration Cigar man, the old man with the silver paint brush, came at me. I pulled the covers over my head and stuffed the corner of the pillow into my mouth to smother my screams.

  After a little while, I passed out into a nightmarish coma.

  I came to before dawn, laboriously dressed, and watched the clock, waiting for 9 a.m. when the liquor stores opened. I dared not drink the gin. A fit might come upon me and I must save it for that.

  At 8:30 the telephone rang. “Well,” said John’s voice, “feeling a bit rough today? Can I come up?” I could scarcely reply. My mouth was swollen, my hps cracked. I was shaking. “Come up,” I finally croaked. The pulses in my temples banged like a drum and my fingers fumbled as I tried to comb my hair.

  He walked in. “I’ve made you my assignment for the day,” he announced cheerily.

  “Assignment?”

  “Easy does it,” he said, as he had the night before. “Let’s get out in the air” He took me to a cafeteria and brought a small glass of orange juice.

  “It won’t stay down,” I faltered.

  “Sip it little by little and you’ll get it down if we have to stay here an hour.”

  How much had I eaten in the last two days? Three days?

  I don’t remember eating anything.” I said. “I just remember drinking.”