Whittaker 03.5 If Nothing Changes by Donna White Glaser Page B

standards now that I’m sober. Anyway, whoever killed Jillian must be one of us. Nobody except A.A. folks can come to the dance.”
    “ A.A. people and their families,” Sue said.
    “ Was Jillian’s family here?”
    “ Not hers. But Quinn’s wife was.”
    Sue waited while I picked my jaw up off the table. “He’s married? How did I not know that? What was he doing dating Jillian?”
    “ They’re in one of those ‘open’ marriages, although from what I understand, he’s the only one with the key to the door. I don’t think Nan’s ever hooked up with anyone else. Not that I’ve heard, anyway.”
    “ Jillian wasn’t still seeing Quinn, was she? I mean, if his wife was going to kill her wouldn’t she have done that during the affair? Why wait four months?”
    “ With Quinn, I wouldn’t rule anything out. He likes to play ‘doctors without borders,’ if you know what I mean. Jillian dating some other guy wouldn’t stop Quinn from making a play any more than his being married has. In fact, I could see her becoming more of a challenge for him.”
    “ Why would his wife put up with that?” There were so many people at the club that it was conceivable I might recognize Nan without knowing she was Quinn’s wife. Especially since I hadn’t known he was married to begin with. Sue, having been in recovery far longer than me, had a better understanding of who belonged with whom in the club. “Do I know her?”
    “ Probably not,” she said. “Unless you’ve been going to Al-Anon. Nan’s a regular there. She’s great at giving advice, but not so good at listening.” Sue gave me one of those “significant” sponsor glares, which was supposed to help me recognize one of my own character defects.
    “ So, was she at the dance?” I persisted.
    Sue scowled. “I have no idea. I mean, I can recognize her if she comes to the club, but in a costume? No way.”
    I kept my eyebrows raised in expectation. She sighed.
    “ Okay, I’ll ask around at the next Al-Anon meeting, but Letty, I’m not kidding. You be careful.”
    Well, duh. Of course, I’d be careful.
    * * *

    Jay N. was easy to track down. For one thing, everyone was talking about him. For another, he was the only male weeping openly in the lobby. And the meeting room. And in every connecting hallway and adjacent side room. Word had it that he only left the club to go to work, which was sporadic.
    As a therapist, I’m used to men who cry, but in Northwestern Wisconsin, I was in the minority by a wide, wide margin. Occasionally we get a drunk guy who stumbles in to the club bawling at the thought that sobriety might require actually giving up booze. That was easier to overlook. We’d all wrestled with that conundrum as we teetered on the cusp of making a change.
    Sponsors are usually okay with crying, too. Tears get shed when we look at our past, our mistakes, our willful wronging of others. That’s not uncommon in private meetings, or even in our home groups. Even strong men break down then.
    But in the lobby? Whoa.
    A six-foot radius existed around Jay, as men and women alike gave him a wide berth. He sat on the same couch every day, crying and picking absently at the threads on the armrest. Every now and then, when he’d used up all the tissues, some Good Samaritan would toss him a fresh box. I surprised him by plopping down beside him, immediately wishing someone had tossed him some deodorant. The hammer-blow-to-the-nose B.O. smell proved that the few occasions he’d left the club hadn’t included a trip home to shower.
    He recognized me. Grabbing my hand (which would have been fine if not for the soggy tissue squishing between our palms) he said, “You found her, didn’t you? My Jillian? You’re the one who found her.”
    “ Yes, I did. I’m so sorry for y - ”
    “ I don’t know if I can deal with this. I feel like I’m going crazy. I know I’m freaking people out, but I’m afraid to leave the club. It’s my sanctuary. All I can