The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart: A Hart Brothers Novel (3 page)

“Drew, why don’t you and I talk after the
meeting?”

He offers up a curt nod and then I smile. It
eases the tension in the room some. Jen smiles back at me in
gratitude. She’s a meek girl and is ill-equipped to deal with
someone as forceful as Drew. He’s like a damn army tank, trying to
crush her at every turn.

“Would you like to continue, Jen?”

“Well, I was just about finished. But I was
going to add that I still get the urge. You know? Even after six
months.”

Everyone in the group nods and murmurs. I
know I need to say something here.

“That’s what a recovering addict is all
about and that’s why you come here … to talk about it and find ways
to deal with it. It’s why you came to a meeting every single day
for the first thirty days when you left rehab. I’m twenty-four
months out and I still get the urge. Not as often now. And it’s not
nearly as strong. But some days I think how great it would feel to
just have one hit. Or one rush of the stuff. And then I remember
the end. When I was living on the streets. And I think there’s no
way I want to go back to that.”

The stench permeates everything at first,
but after a couple of days, the haze that infuses what’s left of my
warped and chaotic brain, I no longer notice it. At first I wonder
about that, but then it never enters my mind again. I live in a
constant state of filth, covered with the grime of the streets,
subways, and God knows what else. When I’m clear enough to think of
it, I know I’m better off here than with my dragon of a father. He
was right all along. I’m worthless. Meaningless. I am nothing.

I look around the circle and see nodding
heads.

“So lets talk about triggers. Who wants to
kick this off?”

That stimulates another discussion and the
newer people get involved in this. Drew looks at everyone with
intense hostility. I know it’s because he hears what they’re all
saying and recognizes his own triggers. But he won’t stop using.
Not yet. But the great thing is he’s here. And I’ll do everything
in my power to keep him here.

The clock on the wall lets me know the time
is up, so I wrap up the meeting. Drew hangs back and after the room
empties, I ask him if he’d care for a cup of coffee. He
declines.

“Let’s get this over with,” he begins. “I
think this is bullshit and I’m only in here because if I don’t
attend these meetings, there will be consequences.”

“I’m aware of those consequences. I have one
question for you. Do you want to stop?”

He fidgets. Then he looks at everything in
the room except me. “Sometimes.”

“What about the other times?”

“When I’m with my friends, I like getting
high and drinking. Having a good time with them.”

“You can’t. Ever again. Once you decide to
get sober, go clean, you have to give it all up. For the rest of
your life. Until you decide to do that, you’re wasting my time and
yours.”

He still won’t look me in the eye. “But if I
don’t come to these meetings…”

“Let me stop you right there, Drew. There
are people who come here that want to stay clean. They need an
attitude in here that lends them to that. I’m not ever going to bar
you from coming here. You’ll always be welcome. But I won’t have
your antagonistic attitude fucking with my people. You got me?”

His unyielding eyes finally lock with mine.
There is no give in them so I continue.

“Those people that were here, the ones you
saw, come here with an open mind, looking for help and sometimes
answers. They don’t want to have someone sabotaging their hard work
and efforts. It’s tough to give up drugs, but it’s even tougher to
stay clean. And personally I’m not sure you have what it takes to
run that gauntlet.” My gaze matches his and it’s equally
unrelenting.

I’ve just crossed the line with him and I’m
taking a huge risk, but I have to bust through his barriers first,
and then bust his balls. A challenge may be what he needs. Or I may
fail miserably.

His head rises, chin inches forward, and
bows up and says, “What do you mean I don’t have what it
takes?”

“You understand English don’t you? I don’t
think I can be any plainer in my speech.”

He walks up to me, puts his finger in my
chest and says, “No one ever says shit like that to Drew Griffin.
No one!”

I grab his finger and push his hand down.
“And no one ever puts their finger in my chest like that. You’ll do
well to remember that in the future. If you want to continue coming
here, fine, but if you do, don’t
ever
antagonize or
intimidate any of the attendees. If so, you’ll have me to answer
to. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” he snaps and starts to turn
away.

But my voice halts him. “And Drew, I
sincerely hope you accept my challenge. Because it’s so much
sweeter on the other side. You’ll lose friends, but the ones you
gain are much more honest, faithful, and will have your back.”

With sagging posture, he nods, and walks
away.

He’ll be back, but I wonder if he’ll be
clean when he returns. I may have just made an enemy, or possibly a
close friend. Either way, it’s okay. That’s part of my job as a
counselor. I’m supposed to tear them down and build them back up.
Drew may be particularly difficult. I challenged him, but he needed
it.

After I make sure the chairs are rearranged
and the room is orderly, I pick up my things and head home. It’s
Saturday and almost lunch time. I have to be at St. John the
Baptist Catholic Church to give a group music lesson at two. That
gives me time to go home and eat a quick lunch, grab my guitar and
music books, and get to the church.

That I ended up giving music lessons at a
church is pure irony. My family never attended church. And a
Catholic church, no less, is even more ironic. It’s like the devil
teaching a saint. Who knows? Maybe it’s divine intervention. Maybe
God realized I needed His hand in something, after having been
tarnished by my dragon of a father—the demon of a man who raised
me, if that’s what one can call him. To me he was the monster who
drove me to drugs. And I almost lost my life because of him. Now
he’s dead and I’m recovering, but the damage he did throughout the
years can’t be expunged, no matter how hard I try.

~~~~~

The massive structure of the church looms in
front of me. I tilt my head to get a solid look at its spire. It
rises far into the blue sky, with a large cross on its peak. Huge
wooden doors, worn smooth from the elements, greet me as I climb
the steps. When I enter the narthex, the scent of incense invades
my nostrils. It always lingers in here, left behind from the
morning Mass. I don’t know why, but I love the smell of it.
Inhaling deeply, I stand here and take it all in. To my left is a
stairway that leads to the choir loft. The choir director has asked
me several times to join them, but I always decline. What I would
really love is to play that majestic pipe organ that sits up there.
The thought makes me chuckle as I think about what my brothers
would say to that. Kolson and Kestrel would probably roll their
eyes and then some kind of smart comment would follow.

The sanctuary is empty, so I decide to take
a seat in the last pew. The church is beautiful with its stained
glass windows and marble statues. The window I love the most is the
one at the front of the church. It’s in the shape of a cross, and
it’s magnificent with all its colors as the sun strikes it. The
sense of peace that flows through me when I’m in here is
indescribable. It always amazes me. Given my history, I would’ve
thought the walls themselves would try to exorcise me from its
sacred chambers. But it’s the opposite. I feel welcomed here. A
warm sense of peace washes over me, like God Himself is greeting
me. I’ve never been a religious person. The truth is, until I quit
using drugs, I doubted God’s existence. I’m still not sure of it. I
don’t know a thing about the Catholic Church, other than what I’ve
learned since I’ve been volunteering here. Father Anthony has
become my friend, and we have some very interesting and heated
theological discussions. He has taught me a little about the
Catholic Church and its beliefs so I’m not as much in the dark
anymore.

A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Kade! What
a surprise. Saying some prayers to a God that doesn’t exist?” It’s
Father Anthony. He has a big grin on his ruddy face. He’s a large
man with a rounded belly. When I first met him, he reminded me of
Santa Claus, minus the white hair, beard, and red suit. He’s fifty
years old and quite jolly at times. Father Anthony is no stranger
to Irish whiskey either. And he makes no effort to hide it, but he
doesn’t drink around me, out of respect for my addiction
issues.

I chuckle. “Not exactly, Father. I was
actually admiring the stained glass and the marble statues.”

“Ah, yes, they are spectacular, aren’t
they?”

“Fit for the house of the Lord.”

“Come with me a minute.”

I follow him as he leads me to a side room
in the front of the church.

“This is the sacristy. It’s where all the
priest’s vestments, chalices, cruets, and other things we use at
Mass are kept.”

“Ah, the secret room,” I say.

“No, not as much secret as it is
sacred.”

The room is filled with all sorts of robes.
Some are white and some are colored. He explains the significance
of some of the colors. For example, he says that white and gold are
celebratory and what they wear for Christmas and Easter. Purple is
the symbol for penance and sacrifice and is worn during Advent and
Lent.

He rearranges some things, drops off a book,
and then asks, “Are you giving lessons today?”

“Yes, and I’m probably late.”

“All my fault,” he laughs as he replies.

“Hey, it was worth it for a glimpse at
this.”

“Why don’t you come to Mass tomorrow,
Kade?”

“Um, yeah, I don’t think I’m ready for that
yet, Father. But I appreciate the invite.”

“I hope you know the doors are always open
whenever you are.”

We walk together to the school and I lead us
to the room where I’m to give my lessons while we chat about
football. Father is a huge Broncos fan. The room is full when I
arrive and Father takes the heat. Sister Helena purses her lips and
shakes her head. She’s the head of all the nuns here and also is in
charge of the music program at St. John the Baptist School.

“Father, I’m trying to teach these errant
students music. Mr. Hart is kind enough to donate his time and now
you’re responsible for his tardiness.”

“Oh, Sister Helena, don’t worry so. I was
giving him a tour of the sacristy, trying to persuade him to
convert to Catholicism. And you know how wonderful he is. He’ll
make singers out of these students in no time.”

“He’s not supposed to teach them how to
sing! He’s supposed to teach them how to play the recorder,
Father!”

The group of ten-year-old girls breaks out
in giggles. They’re all armed with their recorders. I have my
guitar. No one told me a thing about recorder lessons.

“Um, sister, do you have an extra
recorder?”

“Mr. Hart!”

“I’m sorry. I was only told music lessons,
which meant singing to me.”

The kids all giggle again. Sister Helena
stomps off, her black skirts swishing as she waddles, reminding me
of a very angry penguin. Then I start laughing. Father Anthony
shrugs and leaves and I’m standing in a room filled with
ten-year-old tittering girls. What the hell am I going to do with
them? I have zero experience with little kids. And I mean none.

I lean toward them and whisper very loudly,
“Do you think I’m going to get a detention?”

“Mr. Hart!”

I make a face and mouth, “Oops. Busted!”

They all cover their mouths as they snicker
again. They are pretty cute, now that I look at them.

Sister Helena takes a yardstick and slams it
on a desk. Shit, this woman is a tyrant!

“Students. Now listen up. Pay attention to
Mr. Hart as he has kindly offered to be your teacher today. And if
any of you misbehaves, you’ll have me to answer to.
Understand?”

They all straighten up and answer in unison,
“Yes, Sister Helena.”

She turns, slaps a recorder in my hand, and
leaves. I inspect the damn thing because I don’t remember if I’ve
ever played one of these.

“So, how many of you know how to use one of
these?” I ask, making a funny face.

Every hand shoots up in the air.

“Anyone care to give me a demonstration on
your skill level?”

A little brown-haired girl stands and
begins. She just blows in the damn thing like it’s a kazoo.

“Well, that was nice …”

“Shelby,” she supplies for me.

“Thank you, Shelby.”

She offers me the biggest grin and I can’t
help but melt. Her teeth are huge with giant spaces in between each
one, and they are entirely too large for her tiny face. She’s so
homely, she’s adorable. Did I look that funny when I was that
age?

“So, I take it you all are on Shelby’s
level.”

A sea of nods is my answer.

“Excellent. Any of you read music in
here?”

Another sea of nods, this time in the
negative. Great.

“Then I suppose we should start at the very
beginning.”

I check their music sheets and see that they
are the perfect ones for beginners. So I start with the F-A-C-E and
the Every Good Boy Does Fine. Then I have to find the corresponding
notes on the recorder so they know where to start. By the hour’s
end, we at least have played each note successfully and shared
quite a few laughs. I have to help them all place their fingers
correctly on the little holes so they get the notes right, while
telling them they don’t need to blow in the damn thing like they’re
blowing out candles on a birthday cake. There is one little girl
who doesn’t join in on anything. She quietly keeps to herself,
follows directions, and only speaks when spoken too.