Reluctantly Alice (6 page)

“We'll try anything,” I said. Not checking with Dad, of course.

“It worked for a neighbor of mine. His wife died a while back, and some woman was always chasing him every chance she got. If she wasn't bringing him meat loaf, she was bringing him applesauce. So one day he told her that while he found her very attractive, it wouldn't be fair to get involved with her because she reminded him so much of his wife.”

I tried to figure that one out.

“He said that if they were to get serious about each other, he'd expect her to look and laugh and dress and behave just like his wife.”

“What happened?”

“That's all it took. Once she knew she'd have to live up to what some other woman had been, that poor soul turned on her heels and never knocked on his door again.
Not only did she stop taking him applesauce, she never asked for her bowl back.”

“That's all Dad has to do?”

“He should just tell Janice that every time he looks at her, he feels sad. She'll be grateful to him for telling her, she'll be flattered that he's so fond of her, and she'll understand completely. Believe me, as a woman, I just know.”

I lay on my bed a long time that evening, staring down at the rug, knowing Dad would never tell Janice that. I wondered how something as wonderful as love could make so many people unhappy, and tried to think if there wasn't some other way to handle this. Like having Lester take Janice Sherman to the concert while Dad took Helen Lake.

“Lester,” I said from the doorway of his room, “would you ever date an older woman?”

Lester looked up from the textbook he was studying. “Older than what?”

“Older than you.”

“Depends,” said Lester, and made some notes in his notebook.

“Just for a single evening?” I went on. “If it would save somebody's life?”

Lester put down his pen. “Al, what the heck are you talking about?”

“Dad's in a real mess with Janice and Helen. You just
know
if he takes them both to the concert it's going to be a horrible evening.”

“Al, Dad's a big boy. He can take care of himself. And if you think I'm going to take Janice Sherman to the concert and have
both
Marilyn and Crystal mad at me, you're wrong. The answer is no! Nix!
Nyet!
“

That was pretty definite. The only thing left to do was to tell Janice Sherman myself just how much she reminded Dad of Mom.

I went to the Melody Inn the next day after school because I felt that if Janice Sherman wasn't expecting me, it might be easier to talk. Sometimes, when I rehearse things in advance, the words come out stupid sounding, so I didn't practice. I decided I'd just say what came naturally and see what happened. What happened was that Janice said, “Alice, what are you doing here on a Tuesday?” and I said, “I want to talk to you about my dad.” I mean, how natural can you get?

Dad was at the front of the store showing a grand piano to a woman who looked as though she could afford fifty of them, so Janice knew we'd be alone for a while.

“Sit down, Alice,” she said gently, shutting the door to the office. “What is it? What about your father?”

I swallowed and sat down. The words seemed stuck inside me, though. What was I supposed to say next? I took a deep breath. “It's about you and Dad,” I said, and stopped again.

Janice Sherman was sitting on the edge of her chair, and I had the feeling that if I didn't say more soon, she'd fall forward right into my lap. So I said, “I think you know that Dad likes you very much.”

Janice blushed and smiled in surprise. She twisted the chain around her neck. “We
do
get along well as coworkers, Alice. But . . . other than that . . . well, I guess your dad will just have to speak for himself.
I'm
very fond of
him
, of course.”

“I know,” I said, “and that's why I want to say something because . . .” Uh-oh, I thought as I saw her stiffen. “Because . . . well, the real truth is that you remind Dad a lot of my mom.”

Janice Sherman stared.

“And . . . Dad knows how unfair it would be to you . . . I mean, to fall in love with a woman who resembled his first wife.”

I could tell that Janice was confused.
I
was confused. She had to be flattered, though, that Dad was fond of her and that she reminded him of someone he's once chosen to
marry, so she said, real softly, “Tell me about your mother, Alice. What was she like?”

I wanted to run right to the phone and tell Aunt Sally that everything she said was right. Janice Sherman
did
understand, and she'd be grateful forever. She might not get Dad, and they'd live their separate lives, but deep inside, she would know that there was this wonderful unfulfilled passion. . . .

For the first time that day, I felt my shoulders begin to relax.

“Well,” I said, trying to remember everything I'd ever heard about my mother. “I was only five when she died, so I don't remember her that well, but Aunt Sally says she had a good sense of humor, she always joked a lot. I think she had sort of reddish-blond hair. She never liked oatmeal; Dad told me that. And Lester says she was sort of tall and always wore slacks, and she sang a lot. Especially songs from musicals. And freckles. She had freckles.”

I was going to go on but I realized suddenly that Janice Sherman wasn't smiling anymore. Janice Sherman wasn't even sitting. She got up as stiffly as if her legs were made of wood.

“That description,” she said, her chin trembling a little, “fits Helen Lake exactly, and your f-father seems to find
her
very easy to get along with indeed.” And she headed for the restroom.

I felt awful. I left the office at the back of the store and walked right by the Gift Shoppe where a revolving display case lights up when you press a button.

“We got some cute Beethoven bikinis in, Alice,” Loretta Jenkins said, pushing back the clump of wild curly hair that hung around her face like a mane. She grinned at me but I shook my head.

“No? What about our new Stravinsky T-shirts?”

“I'm just not in the shopping mood today,” I told her, and went home. I decided that Lester was right. Dad was a big boy and could take care of himself, and I had no business saying what I did to Janice Sherman. I hoped Dad would never find out.

What happened was that Dad got a phone call from Helen Lake two days before the concert saying she had to go into the hospital for some knee surgery, that she was
so
sorry, but she'd be coming to Washington again in November, and she'd make it up to him then. Dad was disappointed, of course, but the fact that she was coming in November gave him something to look forward to, and the thought that he didn't have to take both her and Janice out together was a tremendous relief.

The morning of the concert, though, Janice Sherman called in sick at the Melody Inn and said she had a migraine and hoped Dad would understand that she couldn't possibly attend the concert.

“You want to go to the Kennedy Center tonight and hear the National Symphony?” Dad asked me at dinner.

“Sure, Dad,” I said, wanting to give him every little bit of comfort that I could.

“Les, you want to go?” Dad said. “I've got three tickets.”

“What are they playing?” asked Lester, his mouth full of potato.

“Schubert, Vivaldi, and Brahms,” said Dad.

“Spare me,” said Lester.

So Dad and I went to the concert together, he bought me a six-dollar Coke at intermission, and I put my jacket on the empty seat.

 

IT WAS THE FOURTH WEEK OF SCHOOL
when I thought of the seventh good thing about junior high, to cancel out the seven bad things. But before the week was over, I discovered an eighth bad thing that sounded so awful, so terrible, that it canceled out all seven of the good.

I woke up one morning remembering that while we had General Music, we didn't have to sing unless we wanted to. We could play a tune on a recorder instead. No more lining up to walk to the all-purpose room where a woman at the piano taught you a song. No more teachers making us sing it row by row, then two by two, until they
found out where that awful sound was coming from—namely, me. I would never have to sing another note in front of people in my life unless I wanted. Which I didn't.

Patrick thinks it's weird that I'm the only one in my family who can't carry a tune. Lester says that Mom sang all the time; Dad sings and plays the piano, the flute, and the violin; Lester can play the trumpet, sing, and play the guitar. I don't do anything but sort of hum to myself when I'm running the vacuum cleaner.

Last summer Patrick taught me to play some duets with him on our piano, and I did fine. It's just that when I try to hum a tune, what comes out of my mouth doesn't sound like music at all—to Patrick, to anyone. The worst part is that I can't tell the difference.

“So have me tested! Operate!” I told Dad the last time he brought it up, and he said he'd never mention it again. He didn't.

Pamela and Elizabeth, of course, promptly joined the Seventh Grade Chorus, and Patrick joined the band. He became second drummer, and on the days he had practice, his dad drove him to school with his drums and cymbals in the backseat.

I didn't join anything. I wasn't sure I wanted to join something the first year of junior high. Maybe I just
wanted to watch what the other kids did and make up my mind later.

“You're not going out for
any
thing, Alice?” Pamela asked. “You really should, you know.”

“Why?”

“To meet people.”

“I'm meeting people all the time! I'm meeting people every time I walk into a classroom!”

“But you don't really get a chance to
do
anything with them or
go
anywhere,” Pamela continued. “My cousin in New Jersey says that you should join everything you possibly can, because even if it's only a girls' club, most girls have brothers, and the brothers have friends, and it's sort of like taking out an insurance policy that by the time the ninth-grade formal comes along, someone will fix you up.”

“Fix me up?”

“You know, make sure you have a date—that someone invites you.”

“I'd rather someone invited me all by himself.”

“Oh, Alice, you just don't understand how things work.” Pamela sighed.

That night Lester and I were making tostadas for dinner—I was chopping the cheese and lettuce, and Lester was cooking the beef and beans.

“Les,” I said, “did anyone ever fix you up on a date?”

“A few times,” he told me. “Disasters, mostly.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. That's the trouble.”

I gave him my disapproving “Aunt Sally” look, but that wasn't what Lester meant.

“No sparks,” he said. “No music. Just one big mismatch.”

I took the tostada shells out of the microwave and helped Lester pile on the stuff. “I'm not ever going to let anyone fix me up with anybody.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go
that
far, Al. That's how I met Crystal, after all.”

“You
did
?”

Les nodded. “I was really hurting after Marilyn broke up with me, and one of the guys knew this girl who had a sister who had a friend . . . That kind of thing. It was Crystal.”

Lester and I sat down across the table from each other, putting some food aside for Dad because he was working late.

“What's going to happen with you and Crystal and Marilyn?” I asked him.

I thought he might tell me it was none of my business, but he didn't.

“It's up to Marilyn now,” he said. “I told her if she's ready to get engaged, I'll give her a ring and give up Crystal. If she's not . . . well, I don't want to be jilted again.”

I picked up all the little pieces of cheese on my plate, mashed them with my finger, and put them in my mouth all at once. “What did she say, Les?”

“She's thinking about it. The ball's in her court.”

“I like them both,” I said. “A
lot
.”

“Yeah, that's the trouble. So do I.”

The next day at school, something absolutely
wonderful
happened. The cafeteria was serving hamburgers on poppy-seed rolls, the only food they make that's any good, and Pamela and Elizabeth and I had just eaten ours and were heading outside, sharing a bag of Fritos, when we saw two ninth-grade boys standing in the doorway. I noticed that one of them was holding a notebook and pen, and the other had a camera. Just as we reached the door, the one with the pen said, “Hi. You a seventh grader?”

I waited for Pamela or Elizabeth to answer, then realized he was looking right at me. I nodded.

“Well, I'm a roving reporter for the
Eagle
and this is our photographer. I wondered if we could interview you for the school paper.”

I stared.
“Me?”

“If you don't mind,” he said. “We choose a different person every issue—help students get acquainted.”

Not Pamela with her long blond hair? Not Elizabeth with her creamy complexion and thick black eyelashes? Me, Alice McKinley, with this sort of blondish-reddish hair and freckles?

“Uh . . . I guess so,” I said. We went out in the hall, where Pamela and Elizabeth sat down on a bench to wait.

I sat down on another bench facing the reporter while the photographer tinkered with his camera.

“Okay now,” the reporter said. “You're . . .”

“Alice McKinley,” I said, and spelled it for him.

“What are your favorite subjects?”

“Uh . . . Language Arts and Life Science. I guess.”

“Worst subject?”