Junonia (2 page)

Before they unpacked the car and settled into the cottage, they always took a first look at the ocean from what Alice considered her beach. Alice ran ahead, reaching the shoreline before her parents. A shiver of excitement coursed through her. She knew that it was the Gulf of Mexico that lay before her, but to Alice it was simply the ocean or the sea, because the word
gulf
seemed too small for something so big. On the apron of shiny sand, Alice kicked off her shoes, then inched forward to test the water. It was cold, so she jumped back, staying just beyond the water's grasp. Looking from left to right, up and down, there were only two things: sky and sea. Alice blinked her eyes and gulped the air as if she could draw the whole blue world inside her and keep it forever.

Her parents caught up with her. Her mother grabbed Alice's right hand. Her father placed his hand on Alice's left shoulder. The three of them stood in silence, dwarfed.

It felt to Alice that her brain was splitting apart into pieces, each piece telling her to do something different from the others. One piece was saying: Stay with your parents. Another was saying: Hunt for shells. Another: Unpack your bag. Still another: See who else is here.

Alice's eyes swept over the beach, searching for any great shells that might have washed ashore and not yet been discovered. Then, suddenly, she broke free from her parents, turned around, bent down, snatched her shoes, and headed back toward the cottage. “I'm going to see who's here,” she called. She was loose jointed, and although she felt awkward much of the time, she often appeared graceful. She swung her arms in smooth half circles; her legs moved like ribbons.

The brilliant orange gladiolus in the vase on the screened porch of cottage number seven meant that the Wishmeiers had arrived. Alice leaped up the steps and knocked on the door.

A deep, friendly voice drifted out to greet her. “Is that my girl from Wisconsin?”

“Yes, it is,” Alice replied.

Mr. Wishmeier appeared before her and threw open the flimsy door. Alice entered the screened porch and, after a moment's hesitation, leaned into him for a hug. Mrs. Wishmeier was waiting with a hug of her own for Alice.

Early on, years ago, Alice had been afraid of the Wishmeiers. They'd seemed big, stern, and formal, like concrete statues in a public park. But, over time, they'd changed in Alice's eyes. They'd become warm, jolly, and easy to be with. Sometimes Alice pretended that they were her grandparents.

Mr. Wishmeier was a retired English professor; Mrs. Wishmeier was a retired elementary school principal. They were from Michigan. They both had short-cropped silvery blond hair and shiny pink skin. They were tidy in appearance—no jeans or T-shirts for them. When they strolled the beach they wore matching wide-brimmed straw hats, and Mr. Wishmeier used a walking stick, the handle of which was carved to look like the head of a bear, a bear inlaid with red glass eyes that Alice imagined to be real rubies.

“Are Colin, Chad, and Heather here yet?” asked Alice, nearly breathless. They were the Wishmeiers' grandchildren; their father was Mr. and Mrs. Wishmeier's son. Colin and Chad, twins, and Heather were older than Alice, but they never dismissed or ignored her, and they treated her with genuine kindness and not a trace of condescension. They were the older siblings she'd never had.

“I'm sad to say they're not coming this year,” said Mrs. Wishmeier.

Mr. Wishmeier nodded and offered an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. “Too much schoolwork to be missed. Colin and Chad started high school this fall and Heather's in eighth grade now.” His square shoulders drooped, becoming uneven.

“A young, unfriendly couple with a noisy baby are staying in their cottage,” said Mrs. Wishmeier. The tip of her tongue flashed out and in. “It breaks my heart.”

“Oh, Judy,” said Mr. Wishmeier, “that's harsh and unfair. It's not their fault our kids aren't here. Don't misdirect blame.”

Once, last year, Alice had overheard Mr. Wishmeier call his wife a troublemaker, and Alice had ballooned with pleasure at this glimpse of a private moment.

Mrs. Wishmeier tossed her hand and her head and sniffed dramatically. “Well, we'll have more time to spend with you,” she told Alice, her voice softening.

“Oh,” was all Alice managed to say. Disappointment seeped into her. Her face was a sad moon. Her big family was shrinking.

Suddenly, from outside, a familiar, quavery, gentle voice called, “Look who I found.” The voice belonged to Mr. Barden, Booth Barden, the oldest person Alice had ever met. He was in his nineties and stayed in the cottage closest to the ocean. He had found Alice's parents and was standing between them outside the screened porch, curved over his cane, gripping it tightly. “Is that nice little girl in there?”

Alice and the Wishmeiers went out and there were proper greetings all around.

Mr. Barden lowered his glasses and studied Alice, smiling. Then, as if he were trying to wipe food off her face, he brushed at her speck with his thumb. Normally Alice would have despised whoever was doing this (it had happened before), but because it was sweet Mr. Barden with his crinkled, papery hand, he was forgiven, despite her embarrassment.

Mr. Barden had a smooth, dappled head with the most delicate wisps of white hair sticking out from behind his ears. His nose and chin were sharp, his fingers bony. His eyes were sunken into lavender hollows and were so pale and milky it was difficult to say what color they were. His features were a combination of hard and soft, and Alice couldn't decide if he reminded her more of a baby bird or a wizened old one.

Alice blurted out the disappointing news that Colin, Chad, and Heather would not be coming.

“Oh, that's too bad,” said Alice's mother.

“Sorry, Pudding,” her father said quietly.

“I already knew that,” said Mr. Barden.

Then the five adults talked on and on, and Alice felt misunderstood. How could they discuss traffic on the island and the weather at a time like this?

“I'm going to unpack,” said Alice flatly. “Good-bye and see you later,” she added, trying to be polite, trying to hide the sulkiness that was rising up in her.

Alice withdrew and marched away, with her parents close behind her.

When Alice's father unlocked the door to the pink cottage and Alice stepped inside, she brightened up instantly. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The walls of the main room and of each smaller room were paneled with honey-colored wood, once highly polished, now scrubbed or rubbed dull in places. The floors and low ceilings were wooden, too, very knotty, and each year Alice felt as if she were entering an enchanted house from a fairy tale—the interior of a tree or an enormous worn-out shoe or a giant nutshell. The many knots were benevolent eyes, keeping watch day and night.

All of the cottages were named for seashells. Alice's cottage was named Scallop. A small oval plaque engraved with elegant lettering hung above the front door on the outside, making it official.

“Hello, Scallop,” said Alice, twirling around. “It's so good to see you again.”

 

Alice went right to work. She neatly stacked her clothes in the dresser. She lined up her shoes and sandals under the window. She hung her jacket on the peg in the closet. And then she flopped down on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress.

The sun-bleached bedspread was printed with a pattern of a seaside Chinese village. Alice ran her finger over rooftops and archways, over billowy swarms of butterflies and blossom-covered trees. Like a sailing ship, her finger traced over waves that reached up toward the clouds and swirls of mist.

Here and there, the bedspread was threadbare, but Alice hoped it would never be replaced. She often fell asleep imagining that she was part of the village, wandering the twisting streets among the butterflies, collecting armfuls of fallen blossoms.

Alice turned onto her back. With her eyes half closed, she stretched her arms and legs as far and wide as possible, covering the bed. She was thinking that she was a butterfly. She was wiggling her fingers and toes—fluttering her wings—when she heard a sharp rapping at the front door.

It was the Wishmeiers. “Message from the office,” Mrs. Wishmeier said through the screen. “More bad news. Helen Blair can't make it. She's snowed in in New York. Biggest storm in years, apparently.”

Alice and her parents flanked the door. Mr. Wishmeier opened the door a crack and carefully slipped something into Alice's hand. It was a hollow sea urchin, purplish, light as paper. “For you,” he said. Mrs. Wishmeier had already moved on, spreading the news. Mr. Wishmeier chuckled sadly, wrinkling his forehead, and stepped quickly in the direction of his wife.

Alice heaved a deep, miserable sigh. A new black cloud was putting its stamp on the day.

“I know,” said her father.

“Maybe she'll rebook her ticket and come tomorrow or the next day,” said her mother.

“I really wanted to see her,” said Alice. The urchin was beautiful, but it didn't change how she felt. “This is going to be my worst trip to Florida ever.”

“Not true,” said her mother.

“Let's see the urchin,” said her father.

She handed it over, thinking that Helen Blair would have had something wonderful to say about the urchin, something that no one else would say. And she would have said it with such unwavering attention that Alice would have felt as if she were the only other person alive.

Helen Blair always stayed in the cottage next to the Rices'. She was an artist from New York City. Every year she'd have wonderful gifts for Alice's birthday, often including something she'd made herself. Last year she'd given Alice a small bird she'd sculpted out of clay. It sat on Alice's dresser at home, next to her jewelry box and her jar of her best seashells.

Helen Blair played tiddlywinks and jacks with Alice, she did card tricks, she made the most spectacular sand sculptures, and she'd taught Alice a game called Sweet or Sour. To play, you wave and smile at passersby. If they wave or smile back, they're sweet. If not, they're sour.

Alice preferred coming across sour people, because Helen would roll her eyes and lift her head to the side with a flourish, saying, in her fluty voice, something like, “Sour. Absolutely, positively sour.”

Helen was probably as old as Mr. and Mrs. Wishmeier, but she seemed much younger. Alice thought of her as a friend more than an adult.

“Let's take a walk on the beach,” said Alice's mother.

“Grab a bag for shells,” said her father. “I feel lucky.”

Alice didn't feel lucky. Not the slightest bit.

They'd rambled down the beach for quite a distance and were coming back.

“We're empty-handed,” said Alice.

“
Empty-handed?
” said her father. “Speak for yourself. This bag weighs a ton.”

“But it's filled with common shells, and they don't count.” Alice zigzagged between her parents and then in and out of the surf. She imitated some sandpipers chasing waves. “I hope I find a junonia this year,” she said. “Or at least an alphabet cone or an angel wing.”

“They're all beautiful to me,” said her mother. She had a faraway look about her, a dreaminess.

Alice thought it would be nice if everyone's heads—except her own—had small windows built into them and she could see what was going on inside their brains. She imagined that her father was thinking about what they would have for dinner. She imagined that her mother was thinking about world peace or the glory of the ocean. Right now, Alice was thinking that she'd feel much better if she found a rare shell.

The water was darkening. The patches of tall grass, the palm trees, and even her parents' faces were softened by the sinking sun. Clouds, like shredded rags, were scattered across the sky. Up and down the beach, people gathered in groups to watch the sunset.

Just as the sun dropped from sight, Alice had a realization. It struck her suddenly that if Helen Blair wasn't coming, someone else would be staying in her cottage. There were so many awful possibilities to consider, and so Alice tried to drive the subject from her mind. But it was there nonetheless, bothersome, like something lodged between her teeth.

After sunset, they went out for dinner and grocery shopping. As the evening wore on, Alice's eyelids grew heavy. When Alice and her parents returned to the beach, Helen Blair's cottage was dark and empty. Alice felt a mingling of sadness and relief—and exhaustion. She couldn't wait to get into bed. Her arms and legs seemed to be bound with weights as she moved from the car to the porch. Climbing the few steps was a chore.

Once inside, Alice's parents tugged off her clothes and maneuvered her into her thin nightgown as if they were undressing and dressing a doll. Quickly, her body was turning itself off. Her parents gently tucked her in. Within minutes Alice was asleep, breathing steadily beneath the twisting streets of the Chinese village, her hands curled at her chin like unusual, smooth pink seashells.