A Plague Year

stop using drugs. That’s the only thing that works.”

One of the high school guys was eager to share next. He didn’t even wait to be called on. “My brother mugged an old man outside a bank, but they caught him because of his army coat.”

Arthur sounded puzzled. “What do you mean, dude?”

“They caught him because the old man remembered the name on the army coat.”

Arthur held up his hand. “Wait a minute. You’re telling us that your brother mugged somebody while wearing a coat that had his own name stitched on it?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he a moron?”

The guy looked offended. “No. He’s an addict.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Ben agreed. “That guy’s, like, too stupid to live.”

But Angela came to his defense. “Come on! Addicts don’t think.”

The high school guy explained, “My brother was never good at anything. He even got kicked out of the army. So naturally, he’s not a good mugger, either.”

For the next ten minutes, people shared other anecdotes about the stupid, and deadly, and just plain sad things that had happened to users they knew.

All that talk stopped, though, when our guests walked in.

Catherine Lyle looked up at her husband, so we did, too. He was not alone. (Was he ever? How weird was that?) He had two students trailing him, two frat boys who were smiling very wide. They looked familiar, but I couldn’t place them. Our three visitors walked to the head of the table and stared at us like we were some kind of lab specimens.

I hadn’t seen Dr. Lyle since the Halloween party. He wasn’t wearing blue velvet now, just jeans and an old sweater. He had long gray hair tied up in a ponytail. You don’t see a lot of that around here.

Dr. Lyle tried an opening joke. “We just saw your mascot outside, the Battlin’ Coal Miner. We were thinking they might replace him with a statue that better reflects the local economy. We came up with the Battlin’ Walmart Greeter.”

He paused to let us all laugh, but we did not. We just glared at him. His boys did manage a low snigger, though.

Catherine Lyle reacted to this awkward moment by launching quickly into an introduction. “Now we come to the main part of our meeting. We are all grateful to have Dr. Richard Lyle with us today, along with, I see, some of his graduate students.”

The frat boys exchanged a smirk. I hated those guys. We all did; I could sense it.

“Dr. Lyle has been a leader in his field for twenty years, holding professorships at the University of Southern California, the Florida Institute of Technology, and now Blackwater University. I have asked him to talk today about some exciting new treatments that are available to substance abusers. Please welcome Dr. Richard Lyle.”

Dr. Lyle nodded at his wife and smiled at Wendy. “Thank you, Catherine, for inviting me here.” He looked around at us. “Obviously, there is never a good time to be a substance abuser, but if you had to choose a time in history, this would be it. Psychologists and physicians and counselors have been working together throughout the last decade to develop some of the most effective and revolutionary treatments in medical history, treatments that have proven to be highly effective in their success-versus-relapse ratios.

“Substance-abuse centers in California and in Florida now offer total-immersion programs to patients over a twenty-eight-day period. These programs include individual, group, and family therapy; relapse-prevention education; and trust building via team sports, horseback riding, rope courses, and other activities.”

He then launched into a long list of places like the Betty Ford clinic where, basically, drug users could go and listen to people like him all day, and do activities, and get cured of their addictions. After about fifteen minutes, he wrapped it up by saying, “These programs are expensive, though. So my best advice to you is this: Get a job with good health benefits, benefits that cover drug treatment should you ever need it.”

As soon as he stopped, Lilly raised her hand. She asked him, “Wouldn’t the best advice be ‘Don’t do drugs at all’?”

Dr. Lyle looked confused. Then he smiled. “Sure. It would be. But that’s not what my talk was about.”

“But aren’t all drugs bad?”

Dr. Lyle tried to explain. “Well, I would differentiate between hard drugs, which are very destructive, and milder drugs, which are purely recreational.”

Lilly sounded puzzled. “But aren’t they all illegal? Unless, like, you have a prescription from a doctor?”

Dr. Lyle was no longer smiling at Lilly when he replied, “Yes, true. And they are all potentially bad, even legal drugs such as alcohol, or, for that matter, aspirin.”

Then he didn’t say anything else.

After a long silence, Catherine Lyle spoke up. “All right! Thanks, Lilly, for that question. Are there any others?”

Ben raised his hand. “Dr. Lyle? What if you don’t have the money to go to one of those substance-abuse facilities? Where can you go?”

Dr. Lyle suggested, “You could go to your church. They generally have programs.”

“You mean like to an AA meeting?”

“Yes. Those meetings have helped people in the past. But they are amateur operations, where substance abusers try to help each other.”

Ben followed up, “So… what if you don’t have money and you don’t belong to a church?”

Dr. Lyle answered, “Well, there are free social programs out there, but not everywhere. They are mostly in big cities.”

“Yeah! I got diagnosed in Pittsburgh, by a social worker. I was eating stuff.”

Catherine Lyle moved to cut Ben off. “Okay! Those were some good questions, and that was some great information about new options in substance-abuse treatment. I hope you have all benefited from this exchange. Now let’s thank Dr. Lyle and let him get back to the university.”

Most of us just stared at him. But Jenny, ever polite, muttered, “Thank you, Dr. Lyle,” and a couple of other kids joined in.

He replied, “You are all very welcome. And good luck to you.” Then he and his boys started toward the door.

Catherine and Wendy got up to walk them out.

That was when I overheard Wendy ask one of the boys a question. A very strange question. “Couldn’t Joel make it?”

The boy shook his head no.

Arthur heard the question, too. He said to me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Does she mean Joe? ‘I don’t have a website anymore’ Joe? ‘My mommy needs to buy me a new laptop’ Joe?”

Wendy stopped and turned. She asked Arthur, “What are you talking about? How do you know Joel?”

Arthur assumed an innocent face. “I don’t. I don’t know anybody named Joel. I was thinking of a guy named Joe.” He turned to me. “What was Joe’s aura, Tom? Was it, like, ultraviolet? No, no, that’s right—it was yellow. Total yellow.”

Wendy snapped, “Shut up!”

Arthur snapped right back, “You shut up!”

Dr. Lyle stepped toward Arthur and warned him, “Don’t you dare speak to my daughter like that.”

Arthur met his gaze. “Okay. I’ll speak to you, then. How much weed did you and the boys smoke on the way here?”

Dr. Lyle’s eyes widened (and they were really bloodshot). He growled, “I beg your pardon.”

“You beg my pardon? Why? Did you burp?”

“What?”

“Hey, come on, Doc. You didn’t fart, did you?”

“What?”