The Axeman's Jazz

tonight what these women were all about.
    The pirate was named Alex. His voice, like his manner, had a touch of a swagger in it. She was uncomfortably attracted to him, instinctively didn’t warm to him, but couldn’t help responding sexually.
    He was saying that he didn’t think men were taught much about vulnerability, indeed that the notion had never entered his head until recently.
    “I suddenly found myself at the mercy of the fates. I always thought I could control my life. It was easy. I could just use my talents and skills—the stuff men are taught—and there wouldn’t be any problems. I held all the cards. But I had a couple of reversals—me, Alex.” He waited for his audience to snicker. “That kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me.” He lowered his voice. “And then my mother died. I’ve spent the last year learning what it is to be powerless, to live a life that’s become unmanageable. But it’s really hard for me to admit that.”
    Skip recognized a paraphrase of the first of the twelve steps, admitting powerlessness, but it seemed not so much that as a rote repetition. Saying he found it hard to admit, she thought, was supposed to be a kind of admission of vulnerability, an asking for help, a courageous confession that a macho man was having trouble. Why did it sound like a clever performance?
    “But I’m like Missy,” he continued. “I’m working on it.”
    Sure you are.
    She wondered why she was so suspicious of him, and figured it was because he was so attractive. It paid to suspect attractive men if you were Skip Langdon.
    I wonder if I should go to Sex Anonymous?
    No, I’m not addicted to sex. I’m just a girl who can’t say no.
    She hated herself for wondering if Alex was still watching her as she went to introduce herself to Di; she certainly wasn’t going to turn around to check. She chatted briefly and, once again finding the notebook setup, managed to tear out last week’s phone list, which she was stuffing into her purse when she heard a voice at her elbow.
    “Joining us for coffee?”
    It wasn’t Alex, but Abe. “I beg your pardon?”
    Di said, “After the meeting, we usually get together for coffee at PJ’s. Join us, won’t you?”
    Abe and Alex both came, and Missy without her companion. Seeing Missy alone, Abe quickly abandoned Skip and sat next to the one she was sure was his first choice. Another attractive woman, a redhead in pink jeans, plopped down purposefully next to Alex. Good. That meant she could sit by Di and pump her.
    She was glad Leon hadn’t joined them. If she knew who he was, he probably knew her too—that was the way with New Orleans, which might as well have been a village. She had always taken that for granted, but for once it didn’t ring true. It was true for her and for Leon, and certainly true for Alison Gaillard, but it hadn’t been true for Linda Lee Strickland or Tom Mabus, must not be true for most of the people at these meetings.
    She thought it might have been more accurate for most of them to say they were lonely instead of codependent. But even if you were part of the village, you could be lonely.
I’m lonely
.
    She would have given her father’s fortune to see Steve Steinman that night. Something about the way this thing worked was making her melancholy.
    Or horny. Maybe that’s all it is. All these stupid hormones in the air.
    Di asked, “Have you been in New Orleans long?”
    “I was born here, but I moved away. I came back about a year and a half ago. And you?”
    “Born here. Went to LSU, moved back. Are you going to a lot of meetings?”
    This wasn’t the way Skip meant it to go. She meant to do the interrogating. But she guessed it was normal for Di to take the initiative, considering she was the new one. She had a semi-cover story ready and waiting.
    But surprisingly, she didn’t need it. All Di’s questions related to Skip’s experience with twelve-step programs; she supposed the eschewing of personal questions was a form of protocol, of respecting people’s anonymity, and found it refreshing.
    “Is the group usually the size it was tonight?” she asked.
    “Usually. Sometimes it’s bigger.”
    “I was just wondering—I know somebody from another meeting who goes sometimes. Tom—do you know him?”
    Di looked pensive. “Tom. No, it doesn’t ring a bell. He might be one of those people who never share.”
    She pronounced hardly any r’s at all; her voice was like butterfly wings. Skip had an