Mirror Image

Dorothy Rae’s reblossoming self-confidence wilted a little, but she resisted the temptation to go to the bar and pour herself a reviving drink. “I… I’ve stopped drinking, Jack,” she blurted out.

He lowered the newspaper and looked at her fully for the first time that evening. The new hairdo was shorter and fluffier and flattering. The subtly applied cosmetics had moistened the dry gullies in her face eroded by rivers of vodka, and given color to the wasteland it had been.

“Since when?”

Her newfound confidence withered a little more at his skepticism, but she staunchly kept her head erect. “This morning.”

Jack folded the newspapers and tossed them to the floor. Reaching for the switch of the reading lamp mounted to the headboard, he said, “Good night, Dorothy Rae.”

She moved to the bed and clicked the lamp back on. He looked up at her with surprise. “I mean it this time, Jack.”

“You’ve meant it every time you said you were going to quit.”

“This time is different. I’m going to check myself into one of those hospitals you’ve wanted me to go to. After the election, that is. I know that now wouldn’t be a convenient time to be committing a member of Tate’s family into a hospital for drunks.”

“You’re not a drunk.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes, I am, Jack. Yes, I am. You should have made me admit it a long time ago.” She put out her hand and tentatively touched his shoulder. “I’m not blaming you. I’m the one responsible for what I’ve become.”

Then her fine chin, which had somehow withstood the ravages of abusive drinking and unhappiness, came up another notch. Held at that proud angle, her face bore traces of the beauty queen she had been and the vivacious coed he’d fallen in love with. “I’m not going to be a useless drunk anymore.”

“We’ll see.”

He didn’t sound very optimistic, but at least she had his attention, which was something. He didn’t listen to her half the time because she rarely had anything worthy of his interest.

She urged him to scoot over so she could sit at the edge of the bed beside him and primly folded her hands in her lap. “We’ve got to keep closer tabs on Fancy.”

“Good luck,” he snorted.

“I realize we can’t put her on a leash. She’s too old.”

“And too far gone.”

“Maybe. I hope not. I want her to know that I care what happens to her.” Her lips parted in a small smile. “We actually got along together this afternoon. She helped me pick out a new dress. Did you notice the one she was wearing tonight? It was still flashy, but conservative by her normal standards. Even Zee commented on it. Fancy needs a firm hand. That’s the only way she’ll know we love her.” She paused, glancing at him hesitantly. “And I want to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Recover from your disappointments.”

“Disappointments?”

“Mostly Carole. You don’t have to admit or deny anything,” she said quickly. “I’m stone sober now, but I know that your desire for her wasn’t a drunken delusion I had. Whether or not it’s been consummated doesn’t matter to me.

“I couldn’t blame you for being unfaithful. There were times when I loved my next drink as much as I loved you—maybe more. I know you’re in love with Carole—infatuated, anyway. She’s used you and hurt you. I want to help you get over her.

“And I want to help you get over other disappointments, like the one you had this morning when Tate went against your decision to keep those consultants.”

Gaining courage, she touched his face this time. Her hand only shook a little. “Whether anyone else gives you credit for the fine man you are, I do. You’ve always been my hero, Jack.”

He scoffed at that. “Some hero.”

“To me you are.”

“What’s all this about, Dorothy Rae?”

“I want us to love each other again.”

He looked at her for a long moment, more meaningfully than he had looked at her in years. “I doubt that can happen.”