StoneDust Read Online Free PDF Page B

on the table, I made myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich, poured my coffee, and gave him a cup for his.
    â€œEddie told me you were asking about Reg.”
    â€œ You ?”
    I was surprised. Painter Joe—who I recommended to new homeowners as the best housepainter in Newbury—was an especially upright citizen: daddy of four, Little League coach, deacon at the Frenchtown Methodist Church. Then I recalled that AA meetings were held in that church basement, with the parking lot privately around back. I wondered if he was the good Samaritan who had founded the chapter. I had seen him at the funeral and he had looked pretty broken up. Now Joe sat there placidly munching on a liverwurst sandwich.
    I said, “Thanks for coming. I’ll keep this quiet, of course. I’ll tell Janey what you say, but I won’t name you.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œJaney doesn’t want to believe that Reg died snorting heroin.”
    Joe gave me a look and stopped chewing.
    â€œShe heard from her Plainfield lawyer that’s going to be the medical examiner’s finding.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that.”
    â€œWell, according to Janey, he used to—recreationally—when he was still drinking.”
    Joe Pitkin put down his sandwich. “I’d be very sad if Reg Hopkins was snorting heroin or drinking alcohol.”
    It seemed to me that someone who served as a sponsor for Alcoholics Anonymous had probably seen plenty of what old-fashioned Christians like my Aunt Connie would call backsliding. “Sad or surprised?”
    â€œAnybody can relapse.”
    â€œAnd Reg hadn’t been in the program very long, had he?”
    â€œReg was coming up to his first anniversary.”
    â€œI thought he only joined up after Janey left him.”
    â€œAlmost a year.”
    â€œSo the divorce had nothing to do with it.”
    â€œProbably the other way around,” said Joe.
    â€œYou mean because Reg stopped drinking and Janey didn’t?”
    â€œBeen known to happen. Maybe when he got sober he figured out what he wanted was different than what she wanted. But you could talk circles all day trying to make things simple when they aren’t.” He pulled a bandanna from his overalls and wiped his mouth, then waited patiently while I thought of something smart to ask.
    â€œWhen’d you see him last?”
    â€œSaturday after work. The day he died, I stopped by on my way home. He was doing paperwork. Said he’d be at the Sunday meeting.”
    For the first time since he’d carried his lunch into my kitchen, Joe Pitkin seemed unsure. It wasn’t his expression. It was the way his hands got quite suddenly busy, wrapping up the second half of his sandwich, popping it into the lunchpail, drawing out a Granny Smith apple. He weighed it in his palm like the pitcher he had been, debating a knuckleball versus his slider—a slider that had broken the heart of many a strong boy, myself included.
    â€œIsn’t there a Saturday evening meeting?” They were listed in the Clarion .
    â€œHe wasn’t going.”
    â€œHow often did he usually go?”
    â€œAlmost every day. Which is the one thing that surprises me a little. Most people who relapse have stopped going to meetings.”
    â€œDid it bother you he wasn’t going Saturday night?”
    Joe smiled and took my eye with his. “You can’t hold a man’s hand twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes just being available is the best you can do.”
    â€œJoe, were you worried?”
    â€œNo,” he said quickly.
    â€œDid you ask him to reconsider?”
    â€œI invited him home for supper. Reg said he had to work late, but he promised he’d get a bite at the diner.”
    â€œPromised?”
    â€œYou can get in trouble when you get too hungry. Low blood sugar. It’s something to look out for. Reg knew that. He promised he’d take a break