The Axeman's Jazz

on her cheeks. Her mother had spoken in that unfamiliar voice, the one that sounded … sincere.
    But that isn’t how she is, it’s the way I am.
Skip was the one kidnapped by aliens and dumped in foreign territory—all Elizabeth had done was move from Monroe. It wasn’t fair, and that wasn’t half the story. Skip had been bullied, browbeaten, and beleaguered all her life by a harpy of a mother trying to get her to conform, to be like everyone else, when Skip had no more idea how to do it than she knew how to summon the flying saucer that had set her down on an inhospitable landscape.
    How dare Elizabeth, if she knew how it felt! Worse, how dare she claim feelings in common with Skip? That was almost the toughest part to take.
    Oh, Skip, don’t be such a baby
.
    She scrunched down smaller, hoping her mother couldn’t see her, and tried to get her mind off herself. Fortunately, conditions were right. The next speaker told riotous stories of stealing cakes, eating them in locked bathrooms, replacing them so no one would know—but getting the flavors wrong.
    When it was over, Skip knew the jig was up: everyone stood and joined hands in a circle. She was trapped—couldn’t leave without making a spectacle of herself and couldn’t hide in the circle. But Elizabeth gave no sign she saw her.
    To Skip’s horror, everyone closed eyes, bowed heads, and said the Lord’s Prayer.
    Then things got worse. A squeeze went around the circle. Skip felt both her hands being jerked up and down. “Keep coming back,” said the group in unison and in rhythm with the jerks. “It works if you work it.” Two last emphatic jerks.
    She felt embarrassed and used. Was “used” the right word? “Manipulated,” perhaps. At any rate, forced to participate in something that wasn’t her idea, to conform. She hadn’t been given a choice and it made her mad.
    Her mother left, eyes straight ahead, but most people stayed to socialize. Skip found the phone lists—kept, she was glad to see, in a spiral notebook, which meant those of many past meetings were available. Quickly, she looked over the last four or five for “any Toms or Linda Lees,” as Joe had put it, and found two Toms. Better still, she discreetly removed last week’s.
    She left starving and picked up a shrimp po’ boy on the way home. She couldn’t help wolfing it, in fact felt compelled to, and decided OA wasn’t for her. Or maybe she just felt compelled, period. Compelled to stay in motion, to avoid stopping and thinking about what she’d been through. She compared the phone numbers of the two OA Toms with Tom Mabus’s number—no match. She started dialing numbers from the pilfered list, trying to coax out last names, saying she was looking for a friend named Linda Lee. In a few minutes she’d reached seven answering machines and four human beings, two of whom had revealed last names and none of whom knew a Linda Lee (though one had once met a Linda at a meeting).
    When she took a break to get a Diet Coke, the phone rang and she cringed.
    No wonder I’m being so compulsive about the damn phone list.
    But it wasn’t her mother.
    “Skippy, it’s Alison.”
    “Alison Gaillard, guess what? I went to OA today.”
    “You want to meet a fat guy? Anyway, I thought you were already booked.”
    “Alison, have you ever noticed I could stand to lose a few pounds?”
    “A lot of people in OA are thin—especially the women.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Oh, all right. So I went a few times.”
    “Is everyone in town into this stuff?”
    “Didn’t I tell you? But a lot of people dropped out. You may have heard, those people don’t drink.”
    “I thought that was just AA.”
    “It’s just not a party crowd. Which brings me to the reason I called. I’m having an Axeman party. Come and protect the rest of us. You could even wear your uniform.”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
    “Did I say something wrong?”
    “I’m sorry. I knew it was going to happen. I was just thinking what a nightmare that whole thing’s going to be—if we don’t catch him by then. Sort of a mini-Mardi Gras.”
    “Listen, Skippy, the party’s on even if you do. Please come!”
    “I have a horrible feeling I’m going to be working.”
    “I hope not—you won’t believe the band we’re having.”
    And then the dreaded call did come.
    “Skippy, I thought I ought to let you know I saw you at the meeting.” Skip stifled a sigh as she realized her mother’s voice was back to