All Alone in the Universe (9 page)

nine

 

 

W
E HAD APPLES, SO THE HORSES WOULD COME CLOSE TO US,
and cookies. I wore my CPO jacket, which of course is not an actual CPO jacket like everyone else gets to wear (“They look sloppy,” says my mother), but more like a heavy wool pullover shirt with a loop and button at the neck. It used to belong to my cousin Mike, and when I wear it, I feel not only warm but also athletic and adventurous. I don‧t know what Alice was wearing, probably something shapeless and colorless. Actually, if I think about it, she was probably wearing green pants that were too short, thin socks sliding down into beat-up blue Keds, a striped windbreaker, and a light gray turtleneck. Alice is the only person in the world who has a turtleneck this color, because after the first one was made, the manufacturer realized that it was a big mistake.

 

Big October clouds ambled peacefully across the deep blue sky. They covered up the sun for twenty minutes at a time. Whole streets, entire hillsides were left in shadow. Then the sun would pop out, and the shadow would be peeled back down the street, across the hillside. We decided it would be quicker to cut through the woods, so down we skidded, hopping and tripping over roots and fallen branches all the way to the bottom, where the creek trickled along next to the railroad tracks. Partway up the next hill we sat on a rock in a passing patch of sunlight and looked back at our town. Because now we were in Birdvale. The trees and rooftops of Seldem looked so tranquil, so orderly. The cookies were store-bought oatmeal with the marsh-mallow cream in between and tasted exquisite.

“Do you like that new song in chorus?” I asked Alice.

She thought for a moment, then started to sing. I sang, too. I love singing in harmony, even with a wobbly soprano like Alice. She is wobbly but fearless. My own voice is unexceptional but reliable, which is all anyone expects from an alto. The song we were singing there on the rock was a semidopey one called “The Stars That Guide the Voyager,” but it had some good parts, like the long, tricky run on the word
be.

 

Lots of different notes, no place to take a breath, hard to do. After that we did “Adoramus Te,” which makes everyone feel like a vocal champion because it‧s simple, and not too high, but sounds mysterious and holy and is in Latin. Then it was time to stand up and move again.

As we crested the hill, we were startled to see more hills rising in front of us. For some reason we both thought Bird Township would be right there. We kept going, though, down and up, down and up, down and up until finally we came to an open field. On the far side were a few houses. We had been walking for a couple of hours now, and I wondered if Alice knew where we were.

“How much farther do you think it is?” I asked her, to find out.

“It‧s taking longer than I thought,” she said, “but we should be getting close.”

She stopped. She looked carefully in every direction. I looked, too, and then I watched Alice looking. I think that Alice will someday solve problems that have baffled humankind for centuries. But they are not going to be problems like: Where are we, where is the horse farm, and how do we get home without climbing any more hills?

“Let‧s head for those telephone poles,” I said. “There‧s probably a road there.”

We crossed the muddy field and caught a tiny glimpse of Birdvale High School. The telephone poles were planted alongside an unfamiliar country road. We walked in the direction of the school.

“Do you think the horses are between here and the school?” I asked Alice.

“No,” said Alice thoughtfully.

“Let‧s eat the apples then,” I said.

 

A little while later we walked past the empty parking lot of the empty high school into the streets of Birdvale. It felt exotic to be there on foot, with nothing but feet to get us home again. We had been to most of the stores, and some of the houses, in cars, and they were a lot like the stores and houses in Seldem. At the moment, though, they seemed somehow more interesting. We reached the block of stores where the bakery was, between the hardware store and the doll hospital.

“Do you have any money?” I asked Alice. We fished in our pockets for change. I had some; Alice didn‧t.

“I‧ll treat,” I said, and we went inside the bakery. Fans hanging from the high old ceiling turned slowly, wafting heavenly smells all around. Paper cutouts of jack-o‧-lanterns and autumn leaves were Scotch-taped to the walls. We looked at every tray before deciding. I chose a cream puff, and Alice selected a flaky apple turnover. It was turning into a day of great eating, and we walked along Pittsfield Street, silently savoring our personal pastry paradises while trucks and cars whizzed by. Alice had little flecks of apple turnover on her lips and chin.

“Do I have any crumbs on my face?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “Do I?”

“Just a couple,” I said, and brushed them off.

Pittsfield Street was long, dirty, and noisy, but eventually it led us under the railroad trestle and into Seldem. We were running out of steam. The late-afternoon shadows were horizontal and blue. Alice told me about a book she was reading about snails. I could read a magazine article about snails, but not a whole book. Alice was telling me only the most interesting parts, though, like how some people eat them. I guess the pastry made her think of it. We got to my house and said good-bye.

I walked around to the back door since my shoes were covered with dried mud. I breathed in the chilly autumn air and felt the achiness of my muscles as they prepared to collapse. I felt something else, too. I felt happy. I felt good. Without Maureen.

“Hmm,” I said aloud. The thought of Maureen threw a shadow over my heart. But I slipped out from under it. Not today, I thought Not right now.

The sun was about to set bathing the world in a golden light. Including my mother‧s face, looking through the window of the back door, golden and rosy. Golden and rosy and furious.

“Where on earth have you been,” she said, opening the door.

It wasn‧t exactly a question, and I knew there wasn‧t exactly an answer, not one that would be good enough. “We got lost,” I said. “We were lucky to find our way home.”

ten

 

 

T
HEN SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENED.

 

It was a Tuesday evening. Mom and Dad had gone out somewhere, and Chrisanne and I were home by ourselves, watching TV. We had made ourselves big sundaes with chocolate and caramel syrup, walnuts and chocolate chips, and Cupcake was sitting up between us, waiting for his turn. Chrisanne finished first. She put her bowl down for Cupcake and went upstairs to take a bath. I was already in my PJs, with my hair rolled around orange juice cans on top of my head.

 

A minute later Chrisanne came hurrying back down the stairs. I looked up from my ice cream as she tripped on the bottom step and knocked over the pole lamp. Nothing broke, but Cupcake jumped up and ran barking out of the room.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

As she picked herself (and the lamp) up, she answered in an urgent whisper, “There‧s a man in our bathroom! We have to get out of the house!”

“Oh. Sure,” I said. I sat back and took another bite of ice cream. Practically every time our parents go out, Chrisanne hears some noise and makes me check all the closets while she stands at the front door, ready to escape at my first scream.

“No!” she insisted. “There really is!” She glanced nervously up the stairs and squatted next to my chair with her face about ten inches from mine. She was making just enough sounds like t‧s and s‧s to make it a little easier than pure lipreading.

“I saw his coat and his shoes. He‧s standing behind the bathroom door. I turned on the light and tried to push the door all the way open, and it wouldn‧t go. Then I looked in the crack, and I could see the chest of his coat and his shoes. We have to get out of here. We have to go to Fran and Danny‧s and call the police!”

She disappeared into the kitchen, the storm door fell shut with a bang, and her blurred form flew by outside the dining room window.

The chest of someone‧s coat and shoes—this was more convincing. I quickly assessed the situation: I had to get Cupcake and myself out of the house, but I didn‧t know where he had gone. I wasn‧t about to walk past the bathroom door to look for him. I wanted to let the man in the bathroom know that everyone was leaving the house, but I also wanted him to think we didn‧t know he was there. So that if he had any sense at all, he would just wait a few minutes till we were gone. Then he could burgle our house in peace without kidnapping or shooting anyone.

“Cupcake!” I called out, loudly but calmly. “It‧s nine o‧clock. Time for us to go over to Fran‧s house. We‧re all supposed to go over to Fran‧s house now. Chrisanne‧s already over there. Come on, Cupcake!”

Cupcake jingled back into the room. I picked him up and carried him, squirming and struggling, as I announced, “Here we go, Cupcake. Over to Fran and Danny‧s house. No
one here now. Here we ail gol
”

My footsteps were slow and even across the back porch, but when I hit the grass, I bolted. I was pretty sure the intruder couldn‧t see me from the bathroom window, especially in the dark.

Tesey and Chrisanne were waiting, and they pulled me, with Cupcake, into the kitchen and locked the door behind me. Fran was already on the phone, talking to the police. “Yes,” she said. “In the bathroom, up on the second floor. One of the girls saw him…. Yes, both of them are here with me now. Next door.” She paused, listening. “That‧s right. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, and then, suddenly, someone was jiggling the knob of the kitchen door, trying to get it open. We all shrieked and flew together in a huddle. Fran positioned herself defiantly between us and the door, which was now being banged upon. Cupcake hid bravely behind her, barking and wagging his tail.

“Get down on the floor!” she bellowed. Then, more reassuringly: “The police will be here in no time. And we have a very good lock on that door.”

“Open the door, Frances!” It was the voice of Danny, Fran‧s husband.

“Oh, cripes,” said Fran. “It‧s Danny. He went down to the store for milk.” She slid the chain off to let him in, then locked it again.

“What‧s going on?” said Danny.

Before Fran could explain, the front doorbell rang, and a deep voice announced, “Police!”

Tesey and Chrisanne and I were still crouching on the kitchen floor to avoid any bullets that might come flying through the windows. We stayed there while Fran spoke briefly to the policemen, who seemed to fill up the living room, though they were trying hard to fit on the foot-wiping rug by the door. After she sent them next door, we crawled up onto chairs and waited nervously. Fran filled a plate with cookies and slices of nut bread.

“Should I make more coffee?” she said to Danny. Then she said, “Our policemen are so excellent. Did you see how fast they got here? It didn‧t take them five minutes.”

Cupcake‧s toenails clicked back and forth across the linoleum. He was keeping an eye on both doors. Danny sat down at the table with us and picked up a biscotti.

“I‧d have a cup of coffee,” he said to Fran. Then to Chrisanne he said, “So, tell me what happened now, sweetie.”

Chrisanne told the story again, and by this time the intruder was wearing a tweed coat (probably stolen), and she thought he had looked at her through the crack in the door, but she had pretended not to see him before walking calmly down the stairs and leading Cupcake and me out of the house. I was getting ready to comment on the “calmly” part when the policemen returned to the front door.

Fran spoke to them for a few minutes, then came back into the kitchen for Chrisanne. “You‧re going to come back and stay with us until your mom and dad get home,” she said gently. “But the policemen want to show you what it was that you saw.”

Tesey and I looked at each other in suspense as the policemen led Chrisanne out of the house.

My mother had been in a hurry that evening. She had taken a quick bath to freshen up, dried off, and sprinted to her bedroom to dress herself. It was unusual, a once-in-a-lifetime event, for my mom to leave her clothes in the bathroom, but that‧s what she‧d done. She left her Hush Puppy shoes on the floor, neatly placed side by side, perpendicular to the wall. Her gray wool slacks hung from the hook on the back of the door, bulged out a little by the blouse underneath them.

 

Look, you‧ll see what I mean: Chrisanne and Cupcake and I had made a dramatic escape from the threat of wool slacks and Hush Puppies.

The policemen were nice. They told Chrisanne that she had done exactly the right thing. One of them said he had teenage daughters of his own, and he would want them to get out of the house, too, if they ever even
suspected
that someone might be in there. Then I guess he went home and told the teenage daughters, when he could stop laughing for long enough to speak, all about us and how he had rescued us from our mom‧s pants and shoes.

The news spread like wildfire. You would think there would be some kind of law about confidentiality, but overnight Chrisanne and I became semifamous persons. This is not hard to do in Seldem, where you can become famous for having a hangnail. I was glad I could blame the whole thing on Chrisanne, but even so, by Iunchtìme I was looking forward to college, where I hoped no one would know about it I wondered if I would have to go out of state. I carried my tray into the cafeteria and looked around for a hiding place.

“Hey, Debbie, look out!” someone yelled. “There‧s a pair of pants behind you!” It was Steven Heber and some of his dopey companions, sitting at the table in front of me. Well, when someone shouts, “Look out!” it‧s only natural for a person to jump a little bit. So I jumped. This was good for a few more peals of merry laughter. I bristled and walked past as if I had places to go and people to meet Through the noise and the lukewarm brown fog of Meat Cup, I moved toward the table where Alice Dahlpke was sitting with Connie Klemenko and Jane Haslett.

 

I was just cutting into my Meat Cup when a voice nearby said, “Debbie!”

I turned to see Patty Tsimmicz, who was sitting with the next clump of people at the table. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” Patty said back. Then she said, “Listen, I just wanted to tell you that it wasn‧t me who told about what happened at your house. It was my sister, Diane.”

“What?” I said.

“My dad was one of the policemen,” she said. “I wouldn‧t have told anyone, but Diane is kind of a blabbermouth.”

“Oh,” I said. “That‧s all right.” What else could I say?

“You have to admit, though,” said Patty, a smile coming to her lips. “It‧s a good story.”

I braced myself to bristle, but then something happened. A lot of times when people say, “We‧re not laughing at you, we‧re laughing with you,” it just isn‧t all that convincing. But Patty‧s smile seemed to say, “Hey, crazy things happen all the time, to everyone. Isn‧t it funny?”

I had to smile, too. “You should have seen it,” I said. And as I told her the whole story, her laughter and then mine made it funnier than it probably even was. Suddenly I didn‧t feel stupid anymore. It was like the flying-up ceremony back in Girl Scouts, where all of us little Brownies walked over a wooden bridge set in the middle of the floor in the basement of the Presbyterian church, and when we got to the other side and stepped off, we were Junior Girl Scouts. Only this time Patty had helped me over an imaginary bridge from Stupidland to the Land of Knowing a Good Joke.