Alice Bliss (14 page)

He turns back and starts trudging up his driveway, staring at the scuff marks and the incipient holes in the toes of his Chucks. Until he is stopped by the sight of the toes of his mother’s brown sensible tie shoes. Pointing directly at him.

Don’t look up, don’t look up, he tells himself! What did she see? Did she see anything? Can he never, not even once in his life do something that his parents don’t know about or find out about, or stick their noses into and ruin? Like
splat
, total
splat
. Ruin forever.

“Everything all right, Henry?” his mom asks the top of his head.

“Uh huh,” he answers her shoes.

“Alice seemed like she was in a big hurry to get out of here.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you need to talk about it?”

“Uh uh.” And he shakes his head for emphasis.

“You sure?”

“Uh huh.”

“How’s the homework coming along?”

“Fine.”

“You want a snack?”

“We ate the Oreos.”

“All righty, then.”

Mrs. Grover heads back inside, the laundry basket resting on her ample hip.

Henry dares to look up only after the front door has closed with its solid
thump
. And then he throws himself on the grass, the cool, damp, early-spring grass. He can feel the wet already seeping into him, but he doesn’t care. What if, he’s thinking, what if that really
was
a kiss?

 

The orange Dodge has one of those bench seats in the front. Alice has never seen one of those before. The whole car smells like wax it’s so spic and span.

“Nice car, Uncle Eddie.”

“Isn’t she a beauty? Who knew an old Dodge could have so much style?”

“What’s that thing on the steering wheel?”

“Necker’s knob.”

“What?”

He puts his arm around her and pulls her across the seat until she’s snugged right in beside him.

“So you can drive with one hand.”

“And . . .”

“Find a country road, open the windows, drive real slow, and give your girl a kiss.”

“You ever have a car like this when you were a kid?” she asks as she slides over to her side of the seat and rolls the window down.

“I wish! I had to drive my old man’s Ford. Stripped down, strictly utilitarian. Boring, boring car. How are you doing?”

She thought they were talking about cars, now he wants to know how she’s doing?

“Where are we headed?”

“I thought we’d go up to the high school parking lot and just get a feel for things.”

Alice is thinking that might be a better idea much, much later in the day or in the middle of the night or some weekend when there’s no game and no practice going on and really absolutely no people around to watch and make her want to hyperventilate.

“You know how there’s that faculty parking lot out by the maintenance shed? I thought we’d head over there.”

Uncle Eddie can read her mind.

Next thing she knows she’s behind the wheel. When they adjust the bench seat so she can comfortably reach the gas and brake pedals, Eddie is left with both knees jammed against the dash.

“No problem,” he reassures her. “Plenty of room.”

She puts on her seat belt.

“Okay. You know the difference between the gas and the brake?”

“Gas is right, brake is left.”

“Which foot do you use for the brake?”

“Trick question! Right foot for both.”

“Smart-ass.”

She smiles at him.

“Put your foot on the brake.”

He talks her through the gears. The Dodge is automatic but the shift is on the steering column. She’s never seen that before. It’s cool, though, the way you grab the handle, pull it toward you, and slide the lever to “D” for drive.

“So let’s just start real slow in a nice big circle around the parking lot.”

“Okay.”

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Put her in drive and then release the brake nice and slow.”

Alice does as she’s told and they’re moving! She’s driving! Okay, so she could walk faster than this, but she’s driving!

“Can I give it a little gas?”

“Not yet. Let’s just focus on steering.”

She misjudges the first turn.

“Straighten out your wheels. You feel that now? You’ve gotta get a feel for how she handles. Every car is different, different turning radius, different responsiveness to the steering wheel.”

The second turn she drives right off the asphalt onto the stony shoulder, but pulls the car back in line a little more smoothly.

“A little more to the left.”

The third and the fourth turns are pretty easy. She’s proud of herself, but she doesn’t dare take her eyes off the macadam in front of her to look at Uncle Eddie and judge his response. By the third time around she’s starting to feel pretty good. She actually sits back in the seat a bit and relaxes the death grip she’s been keeping on the steering wheel.

“Can we go a little faster?”

“Don’t get cocky. You’ve been driving for five minutes.”

“I’m a natural. I take after you.”

“Next time. Maybe.”

“I think I’m getting dizzy.”

“So stop in the middle and start going the other way.”

She finds the precise middle of the parking lot, comes to a full stop, puts on her blinker for good measure, and turns right.

“Who taught you to drive, Uncle Eddie?”

“Your mom.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I made my old man crazy in a car. He swore he would never go anywhere with me behind the wheel.”

“How come?”

“He thought I was a hothead.”

“Were you?”

“Sometimes.”

“A lot of times?”

“According to my old man. But as you can see, I’ve mellowed with the years.”

“What kind of a teacher was Mom?”

“Awful. Her knuckles would be white, she’d be holding her breath and grabbing at the dashboard or the door handle for support every other minute.”

“How’d you get her to keep getting into the car with you?”

“I paid her.”

“You did not!”

“I was desperate. She would even gasp and moan whenever I did something stupid.”

“But if she hated it so much—”

“She needed the money.”

“For what?”

“College.”

“So if she was such a scaredy-cat how’d you get to be such a good driver?”

“I love it. Have you noticed? People tend to be good at the things they love.”

“She’s not happy about this.”

“She’s not thinking it through.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just the two of you taking care of things while your dad’s away. There could be an emergency where you’d need to be able to drive.”

“Like what?”

“To get help.”

“For who?”

“Say your mom gets food poisoning or appendicitis.”

“Wouldn’t I just call an ambulance?”

“Or Ellie falls.”

“Ditto.”

“Or Gram.”

“Same.”

“Or something unexpected.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! In my book it’s just a good idea to be prepared. In case.”

“In case.”

“Plus, it’s fun.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ll be the first one—of all your friends.”

“Except for Ashley Cooper who lives on a farm and has been driving a tractor since she was twelve.”

At which point Alice realizes that she is just cruising around the parking lot. Slower than slow, but making the turns effortlessly, like a real driver. She cranks down her window and sticks her elbow out.

“Both hands on the wheel!”

“Okay, okay.”

“Confident is good. Overconfident is not good.”

“Got it.”

Both hands on the wheel, the cool spring air coming in the window, the nose of the car moving slowly past empty fields, the utility garage, the Dumpster, the crowns of the distant weeping willows gilded by the setting sun.

“There you go, kiddo. There you go.”

Alice risks a glance at Uncle Eddie.

“Who was your first girlfriend?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Melissa Pardee. Fourth grade. I followed her around like a puppy.”

“First kiss?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?”

“First kiss?”

“Why the sudden interest in kissing?”

“Quit stalling.”

“Jessie Simons. Sixth grade. On the bus coming back from a field trip.”

Alice tries to picture eleven-year-old Uncle Eddie making his move with little Jessie Simons.

“Did she kiss you back?”

“Who knows? Probably. That was a long time ago. So what about your first kiss?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“’Fess up, Alice.”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“I guess I’m one of those late bloomers.”

“Sure you are.”

“Were you ever in love?” she asks.

“Alice, c’mon—”

“Were you?”

“Lots of times.”

“No, I mean, really in love.”

Eddie looks out the window.

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“That’s a long story.”

“How come you never got married?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Well . . . ?”

“I let her get away.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t commit I guess.”

“Where is she now?”

“Married with four kids, teaching second grade about one hundred miles from here.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“No.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“Geez, Alice, let’s move on to brighter things. You’re
driving
, did you notice?”

She completes one last circuit before pulling up in the center of the parking lot. She remembers to put the car in park, engages the emergency brake, and relinquishes the wheel to Uncle Eddie. He moves the seat back with a sigh and punches her in the shoulder.

“Good job. I can’t believe we need a bigger parking lot already.”

“We could go to the mall.”

“Next week the mall.”

“For real?”

“It’s a date.”

Uncle Eddie turns the radio on to golden oldies as he pulls onto Five Mile Line Road.

“Crank your window down,” he shouts over Van Morrison crooning “Tupelo Honey
.
”

They both start singing along really loud.

Normally this would embarrass Alice, normally she would be all self-conscious about how her voice sounds while at the same time scanning the streets and the sidewalks to see if anyone is witnessing her craziness. But today, she decides, she doesn’t care. Here in the orange Dodge with fat Uncle Eddie, singing at the top of her lungs, she doesn’t have to think, she doesn’t have to worry, she doesn’t have to give a damn. The day has turned to a pink dusk, and just like Henry, she’s got music inside her head and all around her.

Alice does not like being dragged to the pool with her mother while Ellie takes a knitting class in the Y’s paneled, stuffy rec room. After school and track she just wants to go home.

Alice sits in the bleachers. It’s hot, it’s almost dripping with humidity. She hates the bleachers, she hates the chlorine smell of the pool. Underneath all that bleach there’s this nasty, damp rot kind of smell.

This time slot is lap swim only, so it couldn’t be more boring. Just a bunch of grown-ups and old people going back and forth, never getting anywhere. How they can put their faces in that slimy water is beyond Alice.

Here comes her mother from the showers. Her Speedo bathing suit and cap on, her goggles in her hand. She stops where Alice is sitting, sweaty and miserable.

“You don’t have to sit there like a lump, you know.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You
do
have a bathing suit.”

Alice doesn’t bother to answer.

“It’s healthy.”

“Uh huh.”

“You get into a different place in your head. It’s peaceful.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Just once. Will you try it just once?”

“Probably not.”

“You love to swim in the summertime.”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“It’s outdoors, for one.”

“I was thinking this was something we could maybe do together.”

“I’ll think about it,” Alice says.

Angie walks away, hops into an empty lane, pulls her goggles on, gives Alice a little wave, and starts swimming. As she warms up for a few hundred meters with an easy breaststroke, she’s trying not to think about Alice and how is she ever going to reach her or even just feel comfortable with her own daughter ever again? She’s trying not to think about Matt and where he is and if he’s all right; she’s trying not to think at all; she’s trying to get to that place where she’s swimming and
not
thinking, just moving her body, just making her turns, reaching into the backstroke now, her favorite stroke, and letting her mind slow and quiet and then quiet some more until, for a few sweet strokes or lengths or moments, she is nothing but body and breath and motion.

Only it’s not working today. She turns and attacks the crawl as though she is attacking her anger, trying to drown it in the pool. No one talks about the anger, the rage, how the love and longing are all mixed up with these other less attractive emotions. How could he leave me? How could he leave us? This was not the deal, this is not where their lives were supposed to be heading. And that shirt, that stupid blue shirt of Matt’s hanging out beneath Alice’s jacket, looking grubby, looking like hell, looking like a goddamn battle flag waving under her nose: bad mother, bad mother, bad mother.