The alcohol for the office holiday party sat on the empty desk next to mine. I meant to look for a blanket to cover the bottles but never found the time to do so. I wanted the bottles out of sight until after I’d seen the remainder of my clients, most of whom were supposed to be sober. And they were. Mostly.
After four years of getting our budget slashed and one year of a worldwide pandemic, by December of 2020 we were ready to party. We were finally allowed to see a certain number of clients per day. The party was on the downlow. None of the supervisors were in the office. It was a good day to drown our sorrows.
Kathleen was the last appointment of the day. Being of Irish ancestry, I recognized that her ancestors came from the same place. She was distinctly Irish looking. Not modern Irish, long red curls blowing in the breeze off Galway Bay but immigrant Irish from back when they landed by the boatload on Ellis Island. She could have been one of those exhausted women standing next to her carpet bag on the dock, Statue of Liberty behind her. Her first moment in America, tired and starving because the English kept all the good potatoes for themselves while the rest of Ireland starved. The whole era was given a grandiose sounding name to hide the fact that, if shared, there was enough to go around.
“I’ve been sober for ten years,” she said, eyeing the bottles. “Even after losing my apartment, I haven’t touched a drop.” Feebly raising her right hand, she added, “I swear.”
“I believe you, Kathleen. Please have a seat.”
“Where’s Shondra, she’s my usual case worker.”
“Out today. I have all your info right here.” I touched the folder on my desk.
There was no way I could hold her attention with all that booze nearby. I stood up to block out the view that Kathleen couldn’t take her eyes off of. We went over her file; she was next in line for an apartment but I couldn’t guarantee the placement would happen before Christmas since the holiday was days away.
Kathleen nodded sadly.
“It was easier,” she said quietly, while staring intently at my stapler.
“What was?”
“Staying sober when Phil was still alive. We got drunk together, then sober together. But he was a smoker. I’m sure he had COVID, it was before anyone was talking about it. They said he died of the flu. Does that file tell you I’m not even sure where he’s buried? Hart’s Island, I guess. I was planning to cremate him but who knew shoving a dead body in a hot oven would cost so much. The landlord sold the building at the beginning of the year, none of us knew. Right before the shutdown we all got kicked out. Tearing the place down. I lived there since 1968, since I was 18 and ready to take on Broadway. It was rent stabilized. Phil and I would make jokes about having to live on the streets if we ever lost the place.” Kathleen paused and leaned to her left, so she could see around me. Straightening back up she continued, “But that supposed to be a joke, I never thought it would happen.”
“Hold on until January and we’ll have a place for you. This is your first and last Christmas in a shelter. I promise.”
I walked her as far as the receptionist desk then went into my bosses’ office to commiserate. Some cases are harder than others.
On the way back to my desk, I thought I saw Kathleen again, hard to tell since we were all behind masks. I waved to her, but she turned away, cradling her bag like she was holding a baby.
Back at my cubicle, all three bottles of bourbon were missing.
Photo by Ryan Parker on Unsplash
