Roz L., the perky and competent Director of Personnel at University Research Corporation (URC), where I worked, stopped by my desk and said, “If you want to connect with Carolyn, here is her number,” as she handed me a pink memo slip. I looked up from my work, surprised, and started plying her with questions. She put up her hand to stop the queries and said, “Gary spoke with her and she would be pleased to hear from you. She has been at an alcohol treatment center in Cleveland for about 5 weeks and will be finishing the program next week.”
Gary, a Harvard MBA in his mid 30s, was the newly minted, personable and well-liked president of URC. Slim, athletic, and warm, he was determined to expand the base of the company’s government contracting work and saw Carolyn as key to that. A writer-editor, Carolyn was also the company’s major proposal writer, with a good track record of winning contracts.
Roz answered the question that had been on my mind for weeks, where was Carolyn, but unleashed a dozen others. I had last spoken with Carolyn almost 3 months ago, about two weeks after she arrived in Cleveland to stay with her sister. After living in D.C. for more than 20 years, Carolyn left for Cleveland rather precipitously, saying, “I want to live closer to family,” which didn’t ring true because I knew of her strained relationship with them, and how much she loved living in D.C. But I now knew why she left D.C., and I was also glad to hear from her after a silence of a few months.
That evening, I called the number Roz had given me. The operator answered with the name of the treatment center. “I’d like to speak to Carolyn,” I said. The operator, in a friendly but business-like manner, asked, “Who is calling and what is your relationship to her?” After explaining our friendship and twenty years of working together, the operator replied curtly, “I will tell Carolyn you called,” took my phone number and ended the conversation.
As I was waiting to hear from her, my mind drifted back to how we first met. It was 1965, and I had returned to work, part-time, at the Institute for Youth Studies at Howard University, after the birth of my first son. I was part of a three-person evaluation team for a recently funded Institute project to test approaches for expanding employment for inner-city blacks. Referred to as “New Careers in Human Services,” the project helped to create para-professional positions in public agencies, while training participants and evaluating the overall program.
Since it was a large and visible project that caught the attention of Rep. Scheuer of New York, the documentation and evaluation would get a lot of scrutiny, and Carolyn had been hired to work with us. She and I bonded as we worked together, though we couldn’t have been more different. A few years later, the Institute merged with University Research Corporation and we both became employees of URC.
About my age, Carolyn was the daughter of a Methodist minister and as a child had moved among several small towns in Ohio as her father changed pulpits.
Her upbringing was strict, religious and austere, with dancing and music forbidden. She was about 5’5”, fair in coloring, blond, about 30 pounds overweight. She was quite indifferent to fashion and dressed simply in a plain blouse and skirt or pants with large bulky sweaters. She was friendly, yet reserved, and it wasn’t easy breaking through her shyness, but as I did I discovered her depth and passions and we found points of connection.
As a student at the University of Ohio, she worked on the college newspaper and was active in politics and liberal leftist causes. She also began a long-term relationship with a black professor who later became president of a college in D.C. After college she moved to New York City, became an avid follower of the Harlem jazz scene, and got to know Jews, whom she felt were kindred spirits. Being Jewish and an ex-New Yorker definitely was a positive in her mind, and helped us connect.
I was deep into my thoughts when the phone rang. “C.D.,” I said, an affectionate nickname used by her close friends, “how are you?” “It is a long story,” she said, “and we will have time for that, but I wanted to tell you that Gary has offered me a job if I want to return to D.C. He will also lend me money for the bus ticket.” I was taken by surprise. “Wow, that’s great,” I said. “If you plan to return to D.C. you can stay with me for a little while until you get settled.” “That will really help,” she replied, “but the Center will need to affirm that before they release me. Can I give them your name and contact information?”
It all happened so fast, and my invitation to her was spontaneous, and almost a surprise to me until I heard myself saying it. As I reflected on the offer, however, I felt comfortable. I lived in a big house and could easily accommodate her for a few weeks. Plus, it would be good to have C.D. back in town and back at the office. My therapist, whom I saw two days later, however, was not so sure about my offer. “People released from a treatment center often have relapses,” he said, introducing a note of reality, “and it could be quite challenging for you.” “I am sure it will be fine,” I replied. “You don’t know C.D., and we are old friends,” expressing more confidence than the situation warranted.
Over the next several days, I set out to learn what I could about her departure to Cleveland and how she ended up in a drug and alcohol treatment center. Carolyn verified the things I learned and filled in the missing details when, a few weeks later, she came to stay with me. We had many conversations and she said she wanted to level with me, reveal the extent of her problem and the ups and downs of her battle of more than 20 years. “I am just too tired of living my life in the shadows, of trying to cover for the times I drank too much, overslept and was late for appointments, or wouldn’t show up at all.” Because she was prodigious, though unconventional in her work habits, people cut her a lot of slack. She had a track record of coming through, but sometimes it was on her own timetable, and it could be frustrating for others.
I knew that Carolyn periodically struggled with alcoholism. But I didn’t know this was a long-standing problem and that she had sought treatment on an out-patient basis twice before. I learned that before she left for Cleveland, she had accidentally caused a fire in her Bethesda apartment and was facing eviction for wanton and careless behavior, a euphemism for drunkenness. The eviction precipitated her move to Cleveland. She had run out of options.
The Treatment Center called to verify that I would provide her a room. Though I expected probing questions to determine my suitability, they just wanted to be sure she had a place to live before they released her. Carolyn and I spoke a few more times before she left for D.C., mainly about logistics and arrangements. I correctly felt that more difficult conversations would best be handled face to face. I also checked in with Gary about her job at the company and expectations for when she would start.
Two weeks later I picked her up at the Greyhound bus station in Silver Spring. As she descended the stairs of the bus, I noticed how shaky and wan she appeared. We hugged for a long time, so glad to see each other. On the car ride to my house we exchanged small talk about the bus trip and updates about people we knew. We were both biding time for the heavy discussions we needed to have. As I pulled into my driveway, she said quietly but with great relief and pleasure, “I can’t believe I am back in D.C. I thought I had left it for good. But thanks to you and Gary, I have another chance at life here, when I thought I would die in Cleveland.” Later she told me she meant that literally. “I hit bottom. I was living on the streets, sheltering in doorways. I thought I would die.”
She was profoundly exhausted from the bus trip and the ordeal of the last few months. We had a sandwich and a cup of tea and I took her up to the guest room on the second floor where she could unpack and settle in. My son Jesse, age 16, poked his head in and greeted her with a welcoming smile. Over time, they grew to be good friends and even confidants. She settled into the guest room and slept a lot those first few days.
My feelings vacillated. It felt good to have Carolyn back in D.C. and under my roof, and I also felt extremely anxious about what was ahead of us. Periodically, I heard my therapist’s warning and lots of questions kept poking at my brain. Should I remove the liquor from the liquor cabinet? What do I do if she drinks again? Will she be able to meet the demands of work? How long should she stay? Would Jesse and I be OK?
These ruminations brought to mind childhood experiences with drunks in my neighborhood, a not infrequent occurrence given that there were saloons on almost every corner. Drunks scared me, and I ran into the hallway of my house whenever I saw them staggering up the street. I would watch through the glass entrance doors and wouldn’t come out until they were gone. One New Year’s Day my family and I looked out the front window of our second floor apartment and saw a man dressed in a pea jacket and beret lying on the icy pavement, astride the front entrance to our building. I stared at him. He didn’t move. I thought he was dead. My father shrugged it off. “No, he just had too much to drink celebrating the new year.” We also had a neighbor, Mr. G., who lived on the fourth floor, whom we heard every Friday, which was payday, staggering up the stairs drunk, calling loudly to his wife, who faithfully met him on the second floor, where we lived, to help him the rest of the way.
But those unpleasant experiences were balanced by the good humor the family had for a cousin who always drank too much at family weddings. “Harry is a little shiker (drunk),” they would say with amused tolerance. Harry was usually a quiet man, unusual for a New York City cabbie, but his wife Jean talked for the both of them. Harry lost his inhibitions when he was inebriated, and was funny, outgoing and the center of attention. He would pinch the cheeks of all the young girls, saying, “You will be a beautiful kallah (bride) when you grow up, just like the bride today.” We pretended to run away but never so far or so fast that we lost out on his good wishes for us.
As the days passed, Carolyn and I settled into a comfortable routine. She returned to work and was buoyed by the welcome she received and the caring she was shown. Almost immediately she joined AA and went to their daily meetings. She found a sponsor whom she liked, who was committed to her recovery and was available to Carolyn whenever she was needed. She also began to incorporate the AA language of a “higher power” into our conversations. I could see that it was a comfort to be able to turn to a higher power for help in solving her problems. She told me she had tried AA previously, but couldn’t abide their religious orientation. Her feelings about religion, however, were softening; she had stopped running from her childhood memories of its harshness and began to see how it could be healing and comforting for her.
With time, my urgency to get all my questions answered waned. We had easy conversations and I let her tell me what she was comfortable sharing. Sometimes I gently probed, but mostly she wanted to share the story of her battle with drinking in her own way and on her own time. That was fine with me.
Alcoholism ran in her family. She had an uncle who had been an alcoholic all his life and she believed she carried the gene that made metabolizing alcohol difficult. She used alcohol to self-medicate, treat her anxiety and depression and alleviate work pressures. She also believed, perhaps deceiving herself, that mainly she handled it, until recently. But two weeks on the streets of Cleveland, where the police found her sleeping in a doorway, made her face her addiction. And being in a residential treatment center kept her focused and resolute. She experienced the agony of detox, received individual and group counseling and attended daily AA meetings. “I guess I could no longer fool myself about my drinking,” she said, “a first for me.” She returned to D.C. committed to sobriety and marked the accumulating days of success: “one week, one month, one year, five years, ten years. Can you believe it?” she said at each marker, proud of her success in staying sober.
The days Carolyn lived at my house flowed into weeks and I liked her presence as a housemate. She was good company, and the house was big enough for both privacy and togetherness. When it became apparent that she would be staying longer than a few weeks, she moved into the two-room attic apartment on the third floor, which had a private bath. By then, we had achieved a comfortable living arrangement and it was almost a foregone conclusion that she could stay as long as she wanted. We set a monthly rent, which was fair for both of us.
Our house-sharing arrangements were flexible and ad hoc. I tended to cook dinner each night, especially for the first two years Carolyn was with me, because Jesse, my son, was still living at home. Carolyn usually started her work days late and worked into the evenings, when the office was quiet. She was a night person and I preferred to start my days early. She often ate out, especially after an AA meeting, when several members would go out for dinner together. Sometimes on weekends we prepared a joint meal, sharing recipes and dishes. She especially liked Jewish cuisine and we would jointly prepare dishes that involved many steps, such as making stuffed cabbage.
We shared work interests and political passions, and to our mutual surprise, we enjoyed discussing comparative religious practices, beliefs and philosophies. She liked being part of our family’s Friday night Shabbat ritual, our Hanukkah candle lighting and our Seders. Curiously, these celebrations rekindled her interest in religion and she began visiting churches in D.C., ultimately finding one where she felt at home and was welcomed and supported. She often said, with a grin on her face, “My Jewish friend brought me back to church.” It became central in her life again, and she joined a liberal church in D.C. She became active in their drug and alcohol outreach efforts, and wrote funding proposals for them. This church was different from the ones she knew and rejected earlier in her life, “throwing the baby out with the bath water” in the process.
Our arrangement as housemates lasted close to seven years. During that time, Carolyn was able to wipe out her debts, buy a car and become grounded in the recovery community and a church, which became the twin anchors of her life. Her Cleveland family visited her in D.C.; some rifts were healed, and some remained, perhaps permanently. She was sad about that, but shrugged her shoulders. “C’est la vie,” she said.
We continued to stay in touch even after she moved to an apartment in Northern Virginia. We laughed about her move to Virginia, as we both saw it as part of the old Confederacy, and not only across the Potomac but beyond the pale. I visited her there several times and saw the furniture from her old apartment in Van Ness, which she had reclaimed from storage. It felt like she was rebuilding her life, piece by piece.
As her friendships in the church and recovery community grew strong, ours receded. I didn’t easily fit into either community and we recognized that we were both in different places in our lives. The fondness for each other remained but it no longer seemed enough to keep the friendship active.
About 12 years ago, her arthritis became more debilitating and she relocated to the Ft. Myers area of Florida for warmer year-round weather. We continued to speak a few times a year, to exchange news or birthday greetings. She was ambivalent about living in Florida, recognizing it was good for her health even if it meant “living among aliens.” She periodically mused about returning to D.C. but was afraid of how it might affect her health. She was having trouble walking, she had gained weight and her health was deteriorating.
Three years ago our contacts stopped. I tried to reach her, but her phone had been disconnected, and her e-mail address no longer worked. Our mutual work friends from long ago had also lost contact with her. It’s hard for me to accept the possibility that she might have died without my knowing, but it is possible. If so, it feels like an unfinished chapter of the story of our friendship.