Under the Cloud

Under the Cloud

Diann Russell

Copyright 2013 Diann Russell

Smashwords Edition

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RANT: Politics & Snark in the Age of Obama

RANT 2.0: Even More Politics & Snark in the Age of Obama

Sliding Home Feet First

Liberals Gone WILD!!! The Not-So-Silent Conquering of America

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: June, 1972

Chapter 2: April, 1960

Chapter 3: June, 1972

Chapter 4: April, 1960

Chapter 5: June, 1972

Chapter 6: May, 1960

Chapter 7: June, 1972

Chapter 8: June, 1960

Chapter 9: June, 1972

Chapter 10: June, 1960

Chapter 11: June, 1972

Chapter 12: July, 1960

Chapter 13: June, 1972

Chapter 14: August, 1960

Chapter 15: June, 1972

Chapter 16: September, 1960

Chapter 17: June, 1972

Chapter 18: September, 1960

Chapter 19: June, 1972

Chapter 20: September 17, 1960

Chapter 21: June, 1972

Chapter 22: September 17, 1960

Chapter 23: June 1972

Chapter 24: September 18, 1960

Chapter 25: June, 1972

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1: June, 1972

The evening sun felt good against her face. Carol sat down on the stone bench outside of the church, shut her eyes and let the warmth of the sun chase away the chill from the meeting. Those church basements were so damn cold. It didn’t matter that it was the start of summer. After the first few meetings, she began carrying a jacket with her to ward off the cold.

All around her, her fellow meeting-goers stood in clusters smoking cigarettes and talking. Carol kept her distance and her eyes shut. She agreed to go to these meetings, but that didn’t mean she was going to be social. The other people seemed to take the hint and left her alone with her closed eyes and her thoughts.

A barking laughter, like a shotgun blast, yanked Carol from her reverie. She knew the source. Slim Mo. A large black man she saw at every meeting. He must not have a job or a family or anything better to do in the evenings than to sit in a church basement on a folding metal chair and drink the glorified burnt water that passed for coffee. Slim Mo’s head was back and his teeth shown white against his dark beard and skin. The men with him were laughing too. The abandon of Slim Mo’s laughter always surprised her. Carol wasn’t finding much to laugh about lately.

Carol watched Slim Mo through narrowed eyes. Most of these people were drawn to him – his infectious laugh, his open smile. Slim Mo apparently saw his role at these meetings as greeter, doorman and maître d' all rolled into one very large package. It was impossible to avoid his cheery smile, booming hello and extended hand on the way into a meeting, and nearly impossible to escape him afterward.

Carol turned her back on Slim Mo and his fellow smokers and glanced down at her watch. The meeting ended ten minutes ago. A cloud of cigarette smoke surrounded the group around Slim Mo. They wiled away the evening as if none of them had anything better to do on a Friday night in Manhattan. The meeting after the meeting, she heard Slim Mo call it once.

If it were up to her, she would be on her way by now. She would have hailed a cab as soon as the group muttered their amens at the close of the Lord’s Prayer. She’d be up the stairs, out the door, at the street corner, arm raised for a taxi home. She was spineless. She never could say no. If she could, she wouldn’t be in the mess she was.

She shouldn’t have agreed to go to dinner with Mark. It only encouraged him. Besides, he couldn’t be on time to save his life. If the Russians threatened to level the city in a nuclear blast if he didn’t arrive on time, Mark would pull up just as the mushroom cloud was forming, irked that the Ruskies didn’t have the decency to wait for him.

Fifteen minutes and still no sign of Mark. Carol bit back the urge to start screaming. It wouldn’t be so bad if she were waiting outside the Met, or even Carnegie Hall. But she was outside of this church, with a bunch of AA men behind her, so the waiting was driving her nuts. She didn’t have anything against these men. They were really nice and accepted her into their group without treating her like a Faberge Egg. Most people, when meeting Carol McMillan, became star-struck and awkward. Men would shift from foot to foot, looking down at the ground like nervous teenagers. Women gushed openly or were outright hostile. But these people from AA didn’t seem to give a damn who she was.

Part of that was intentional. Carol carefully and deliberately chose her clothes to minimize her appearance – baggy sweatpants and sweatshirt, a New York Yankees ball cap pulled down over her long, straight hair which she kept yanked severely into a ponytail. Jackie O sunglasses covered her distinctive green eyes. She never wore makeup at meetings, and rarely made eye contact with anyone. Carol believed she disappeared among them. The only close call happened one night after a meeting. Before she could make her hasty retreat, an older women cornered her on the sidewalk and attempted to engage her in the meeting after the meeting. While Carol stood there scanning the street for a cab, a city bus rolled to a stop, and on its side was an ad for Bloomingdale’s. There was Carol McMillan, lying on her side draped in nothing but ermine. Carol froze at the sight of it. But the woman never batted an eye.

She glanced back down at her watch and decided Mark had lost his chance. She decided to hail a cab.

Nothing worse than waiting for a ride, someone said from behind her.

Carol glanced around and realized that she and Slim Mo were the only ones left. Slim Mo towered over her, his straight white teeth exposed in an amiable smile. He was as large as an NFL linebacker and as broad as a park bench. He managed to block out the caressing warmth of the evening sun.

No license? He expelled a billow of cigarette smoke from his lungs. Or just no car?

My ride is late.

I lost my license in sixty-seven. The third time. He took another drag off his Lucky Strike. You know, I don’t miss it. This time, I just decided to forget the whole thing. Who needs a car in Manhattan?

Carol glanced down Sixth hoping to see Mark’s black Chrysler heading toward her.

Last time I was behind the wheel, I took out a light post, a New York Times distribution box, and a large blow-up doll of LBJ. Slim Mo laughed at his own memory. I think it was running LBJ over that got my license yanked and my ass in jail.

Carol cringed inwardly and wrapped her arms tightly around her. Two months of meetings and still she couldn’t get used to these people recounting every horrid, frightening, embarrassing, shameful thing they ever did. The thought of being that brutally honest filled her with sickening dread. It made her blood run cold to even think about what had happened to her and how far things went. Even if she felt some inclination to share, her publicist warned her to keep quiet. One misplaced statement and it would be all over Page Six. It would end her career. So she kept silent. How so much like her father her publicist was. Daddy used to say, we don’t air our dirty laundry. She felt a shock run through her. She hadn’t thought of her father in ages.

I blame it all on Jefferson Airplane. I was blasting ‘White Rabbit’ on the radio. Just singing along at the top of my lungs. Bottle of vodka between my knees, big fat doobie dangling outta my mouth. I was too busy scanning the sidewalks for someone who might be holding a little something-something. No surprise I took out good old LBJ.

And right there in front of the gothic-looking church, Slim Mo sang, One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small.

He tossed his head back and barked out a laugh, then took a long drag on his Lucky Strike. He glanced down at Carol grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She gave him a tentative smile and looked away. Why couldn’t these people just keep this stuff to themselves?

She heard the honking of a car horn, and there sat Mark, a look of impatience on his face. The nerve of the guy.

Here’s your ride!

Carol gathered her large canvas bag she’d been using for a purse since she lost her glove compartment and the car that surrounded it.

Good night.

You’re gonna be okay, kid.

Carol was stopped in her tracks. She looked back at Slim Mo who just nodded and smiled his gap-toothed smile.

Keep comin’ back.

Carol nodded back and started toward the car.

Right. One day at a time! See you tomorrow night over at Saint Mary’s, right?

Okay. Carol heard herself say. She didn’t mean it; any more than someone saying, You too! when wished a good day.

Behind her, Slim Mo was singing One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small. Carol couldn’t get away quickly enough.

I’ve been sitting there forever.

Newsflash, traffic on a Friday night is a nightmare. Mark kept his eyes on the line of cars in front of him. You try driving all the way downtown in this and being on time.

Carol didn’t say anything. She sat staring out at the passing buildings feeling tired and not at all in the mood for dinner at a restaurant.

Don’t they have these things uptown? Why do you insist on going to meetings in the God-damned Village?

These guys don’t treat me any differently than they treat each other. They aren’t pretentious. And they aren’t likely to call the Daily News and tell them that Carol McMillan is a drunk.

You’re not a drunk. There was that exasperation she was growing really sick of hearing. You just made a mistake.

Carol clutched her bag and slouched down in the seat.

One mistake. That’s all this was. I swear to Jesus Christ these freaks are brainwashing you.

Carol slumped further down against the plush leather and kept her eyes on the passing buildings. She heard Mark sigh and mutter under his breath.

Ever since she was arrested, Mark had an irrational need to explain away what happened – her line of work, the business she was in, the celebrities, the parties – something else was responsible for her arrest, not Carol. It was the price she paid for having the privilege of spending time in the company of people like Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger and Mia Farrow. Mark was offended that she regarded the arrest as a reason to dial back on the frenetic insanity that came with being Carol McMillan. She was his ticket in to the best parties with the most beautiful people, and he took her need to walk away as a personal affront.

I was thinking Moroccan. Something a little off the beaten path.

I’m not very hungry.

She heard him give another labored sigh.

Listen, I got the call from Vogue. Women’s Wear Daily did a double-page spread on last night’s show. Got some great shots of you. They were impressed. I think I may have them poised to offer the cover in December. Holiday cover? Now, we’re cooking with oil!

Carol smiled absently and struggled to look like what he was saying mattered to her. Since the day of her arrest, Carol went about her work on autopilot. Just how important was the fall fashion line after spending time in a holding cell?

She stared out the window at the passing buildings, the oblivious crowds making their way to some evening event, and that familiar confusion began to well up inside her.

Going to those meetings left Carol with a mixture of relief and despair. Sitting in those smoky basement rooms, hearing the Serenity Prayer, the reading of the Twelve Steps, listening to them talk about being a drunk and living sober, was both frightening and comforting at the same time. She left the meetings in turmoil, desperate for some time alone to regroup. And if regrouping was out of the question, at least some time to sit alone in the dark and sob. Why did she agree to dinner?

When her attorney suggested she attend AA to gain leniency from the judge, Mark blew a gasket at the mere mention of his highest grossing client going to Alcoholics Anonymous. They ended up in a knock-down, drag-out fight. His disgust and embarrassment infuriated her. Half the models he represented were hopeless junkies, and he had the nerve to be scandalized by her?! The fact that she was in danger of losing her son wasn’t even a blip on his radar.

Even now, thinking of how close she came to either injuring Philip or losing him through the courts filled Carol with a sickening sense of what if?

She spent the evening before her arrest at some opening – one of those everyone who’s anyone affairs Mark insisted she attend. The party moved on to one club, then another. Most of the night’s events were a blur. She remembered doing tequila shots with some big time Broadway producer. She vaguely remembered his hasty retreat when the homosexual male model Mark represented invited her to one of the bars down on Christopher Street. There were fuzzy images of Carol yanking the clothes off of the young man and organizing an auction to see which lucky guy would get to take the model home for the night. In truth, Carol wasn’t sure if that really happened. By then, the night was vague and cloudy, like looking at the world through gauze.

She finally stumbled home shortly before eight in the morning. Her throat burned from cigarette smoke and too much tequila and way too many gin and tonics. Carol was still so drunk she could barely walk.

She weaved her way to the kitchen for a glass of water and four aspirin. Philip was at the table beside Charlotte, his babysitter, finishing breakfast. Carol gave him a smothering hug and Philip pushed her away, offended by the odor of his mother – the ever-present perfume of stale cigarettes and alcohol leeching from every pore.

She fully intended to drop her bag, kick off her shoes and dive into bed. But the look of disgust crawling over Charlotte’s face burned – more than the cigarettes, more than the bile rising in her throat. Who the hell did this bitch think she was giving Carol that look? Rage clanging in her head, Carol pushed past Charlotte and grabbed Philip’s hand. Before she realized what she doing, Carol stuffed her son into the front seat of her Corvette and began digging for her keys.

Why didn’t he beg her to stop? But he didn’t; he didn’t argue. Instead Philip did what he always did. He tried to make the situation better. Philip the fixer. While she stood at the open passenger side door rifling through her purse, he chatted away about what he and Charlotte did the night before, what Charlotte made for breakfast, how Charlotte was taking him to the zoo the following Monday.

Why don’t you let Charlotte adopt you if she’s such a fucking saint?! If you aren’t going to help me find the keys, then shut the hell up!

Philip sat staring at her as though she slapped him. God, why hadn’t he cried? If he cried she would have snapped out of it. Instead, he brought his hand to his mouth and started gnawing on his fingernails. It drove her crazy the way he did that. Like a rat, chewing, chewing away on his nails. If he hadn’t done that, she would have taken him back upstairs and asked Charlotte to take him to school.

She found the keys buried in the bottom of her purse, slammed the door on her sullen child, climbed into the car, and drove to Philip’s school.

It was dropping him off at the school that did it. A patrol car watched her erratic behavior as she pulled away and back onto Central Park West, making a left into oncoming traffic and then proceeding onto a sidewalk crowded with early morning joggers and dog-walkers.

She heard the screams as people dove out of her way, but they didn’t register. She remembered being very irritated that people were in her way. Her car must have been going pretty fast when she hit the stone wall of Central Park. She was tossed forward and her head smashed against the steering wheel. Psychedelic flashes of light exploded against her eyelids. She bit down so hard on her tongue, blood filled her mouth. Outside, she heard more screaming and saw faces in the driver’s side window.

Carol made no attempt to get out of the car. She sat back against the seat while blood traveled from her nose and mouth and began to drip, drip, drip off her chin – like a line of children each taking their turn on a slide.

The roads and sidewalk were slick with rain. Did it rain the night before? Carol struggled to recall. Her hair and clothes were still damp from the rain and from the blood collecting in her lap when a police officer tapped on her window and asked her to step out of the car. Carol snapped into the moment at the sight of him. She was in trouble.

Standing out on the sidewalk, she tried to focus on the instructions the policemen gave her, not meeting the stares of the gawking people surrounding them. When she tried to walk a straight line, she stumbled and fell. Several people laughed as Carol struggled to stand. In that moment, the clouds parted, and the dim morning sun seeped through.

She