Saving Alice (22 page)
Later I strolled through the judicial building, procrastinating my return to work. After peeking in on several proceedings, I sat in on a hearing and watched as the accused man pled guilty to stalking his ex-wife. In a matter of minutes, he agreed to counseling, signed up with a parole officer, paid a fine, and was released.
I didn’t last much beyond that. Later at the office, Larry didn’t even pretend interest in the details of my morning.
“Buried?” I asked him, standing at the edge of his papered abyss.
“Drowning,” he replied.
“Need some help?”
He took a sip of coffee. “Give me a week or so.”
I went to my office, closed the door behind me, and flicked off the lights. I took the phone off the hook and sat for half an hour.
It’s over,
I thought, letting it sink in again, replaying Donna’s and my morning conversation.
Very soon I’d begin paying a generous alimony despite Donna’s refusal. Maybe I could finally persuade her to live in the house. Certainly, she would never have to work again, not if she didn’t want to. Financially, I was on my way to complete solvency. But most important, Alycia and I had reconciled.
In spite of all this, I couldn’t shake the lingering apprehension.
T
here’s a tired old expression that truth is stranger than fiction. Sometimes I’ve read stories that seemed unbelievable, only to wonder later: Were they really that untrue to life? Or did they lack credibility because they were even
truer
to life?
Another expression: Tragedies happen in threes. Usually, though, three tragedies don’t happen to the same person. But, again, occasionally the unbelievable happens. Consider a copy of
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
or something by Shakespeare. Or an even better example, the Bible.
Why do you like tragedies?
I’d once asked Donna.
What’s the point of reading when you know the story won’t end happily?
I should have paid more attention to her answer. As for my own story, I suppose if someone had written a novel with what would happen next, I wouldn’t have believed it. Then again, if I’d read it in a newspaper, I might have.
On Tuesday, the market broke its fractal on higher volume. Having waited nearly two months for a buy signal, I shifted the entire account into a long S&P futures position.
On Wednesday, the market sputtered. Several unexpected earnings disappointments were announced, and the market plunged one percent in the space of thirty minutes. I was stopped out with a loss of twenty thousand.
On Thursday, I set a buy stop at a new divergence point.
The market rallied through, retrieving my twenty thousand, then sputtered again, dropping below my stop loss. All told, I was down thirty thousand plus since the first fractal.
On Friday, the market continued its recovery threat, but this time, instead of setting a buy stop according to my system, I hesitated.
Recover your nerve,
I told myself.
Take a break
.
On Saturday, Alycia and I took another drive into the country. She seemed more reserved, which I’d expected following the finality of the divorce. I knew she was angry with me but was fighting hard not to give me the silent treatment. I also knew she would forgive me. We both seemed determined not to let things deteriorate again.
When I dropped her off, she bubbled her cheek, and when I kissed it, she let it pop. I jumped, startled, and she giggled.
“Still love me, sweetie?”
“Yes, Dad. Even though you’ve really blown it this time.”
I let this settle in. “Is your mom okay?”
She forced a smile. “She’s breathing.”
She’ll be fine,
I almost said but decided against it. I also wanted to tell her that her mother deserved a chance at true happiness, but that would be a conversation for another day.
Next Monday, the market roared back without me. By Wednesday, I panicked for a completely different reason. I was missing the entire move. I set a buy stop at the next fractal point, which was way beyond the base and a clear violation of my system, but at least I’d get on board. One little deviation wouldn’t matter, would it?
The next day, I was stopped in—but scared to death. At this elevation, I closed my charts and refused to look down. Unfortunately, more earnings disappointments rang through the halls of Wall Street, followed by a disappointing inflation report. Then, when the Fed chairman made disparaging remarks about the state of the economy, the market went into a freefall.
I’d been suckered in. That evening, I mentally calculated my “paper” losses. Seventy thousand. Operating my brain was like thinking underwater. Pure emotion—fear and impending doom—had taken over. I shut down my computer again, determined to take a long break from the market and let my sell-stop handle the rest.
On Friday, by the time I arrived at Joe’s, Paul had been there for three hours. Considering his inebriated state, making intelligent conversation became such an effort, I quit after five minutes. When I suggested he might slow down a bit, Paul came uncorked. “Mind your own business.”
Our argument took a predictable course until I sputtered, “Fine. It’s your life.”
He caught Jennifer’s eye across the room and gestured for another, but she only shook her head. He began seething again. “If you hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have had the guts.”
At that point, Susan walked in, wearing her usual tight jeans and even tighter blue sweater. She placed her hands on her hips and declared: “Well look-ee here! Is it … no, it can’t be …
Stephen
?”
I pulled out a chair, but Susan shook her head. “Sorry, hanging with you guys ain’t good for a young lady’s prospects.”
I shrugged, guiding the chair back under the table. Susan patted Paul’s shoulder. He only grunted. She cast me a look—
what’s wrong with Cheerful?
—and went to sit at her end of the bar and begin flashing her eyelids, smiling at nearly everything in pants, methodically unreeling her net.
Paul remained silent. In spite of his relentless mood descent and Susan’s latest prowl, I was preoccupied with my own graying cloud.
I’m still up eighty thousand,
I told myself.
Nothing but a temporary setback
. I glanced over at the counter and noticed that Spider Woman had already snagged a new guy. Minutes later, she was hanging over him as if he were a long-lost friend.
I stared at the man for a moment, wondering why he seemed familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Dismissing this, I turned to Paul and made another attempt. “You okay?” I asked.
He shrugged morosely.
“How’re classes?”
“How would I know?”
I probed further and, despite his surly attitude, Paul threw me enough clues to figure it out. Apparently, he’d been fired, and while he didn’t volunteer the reason, it wasn’t hard to determine. Colleges prefer their teachers to show up sober to their classes.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“When I’m finished,” he replied tersely.
I assured him he was.
His jaw clenched.
I turned to the TV, hoping to avoid another argument. My attention was distracted by Susan getting to her feet. She and her new guy were already blowing the joint. Paul followed my gaze as I watched her slip into the back rest room.
“Leave her alone,” he grouched. “It’s her life.”
“So now you care?”
He expelled an angry breath. “You two are just alike…” And I braced myself for another drunken onslaught.
“She has everything she wants,” Paul said. “She’s got looks and a great personality. But she thinks she’s got nothing.” He practically spit out the last word. “Look at me. At least, I know I’ve got nothing, and I’m tired of you two moping around as if your lives were so miserable.”
Several patrons tossed us curious glances.
“Careful, fella,” I said, lowering my voice. “You’re wearing your dissonance on your sleeve.”
Paul wasn’t finished. “Most guys would give anything to have a woman like Donna. But you … you just throw her away. And then you come in here and tell me
I’m
messed up.”
My stomach clenched as if he’d slugged me. I lowered my voice. “We’re just trying to help, Paul. You’re addicted—”
“
I’m
addicted?
Moi ?
” Paul scowled. “You’re just as addicted as I am, my friend, only your addiction is socially acceptable.”
My addiction?
I refused to get sucked in.
But he stared at me, his eyebrows raised. “Care to play?”
“No,” I muttered.
“Aaaagh!” Paul whined like a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer. Wanna try again?”
“Paul…”
“Aaaagh!” he whined again. “Sorry. Studio audience says … you’re addicted to the past. Wow, there’s a shocker.”
My face flushed angrily. “You finished?”
“What was that chick’s name?”
I frowned. “Who?”
Paul leered crookedly, his eyes scarcely able to focus. “The one you keep dreaming about?”
Years ago, I’d told him about my infrequent but predictable dream of Alice, the one where I’m trying to save her but never reach her in time. He’d replied in typical Paul fashion. “Imagine what might happen if you did?”
“Sorry?”
He’d smiled wryly. “I meant… what if you actually saved her?” He’d leaned forward, his face suddenly pensive, as if poised to dispense a profound metaphysical truth. “Seriously. Maybe by changing the dream past, we can change the present future. In fact, maybe you’d wake up and find yourself married to her.”
I laughed off his comment as silly conjecture, but he’d only shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, Stephen.”
“She wasn’t a ‘chick,’ ” I now said. “Her name was Alice.”
“Ooooh,” he said, his tone mocking. “Of course. Alice. My mistake.”
I looked up at the TV again, hoping he’d drop his little rant. We sat stewing in silence for a few minutes, avoiding each other’s gaze.
Toward the back, beyond the pool tables, the bathroom door opened, and despite my stupid argument with Paul, my emotions switched gears. A shudder of dread gripped me as Susan and her new guy walked by. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. I nodded toward our table. She shook her head no and continued walking toward the door. I turned to watch her go, and she looked my way one last time, narrowing her eyes.
“Leave her alone,” Paul repeated.
Ignoring him, I rose to my feet. Susan was adjusting her coat when I approached her. She turned quickly to the guy. He leaned over. She whispered something in his ear. Looking up, he quickly scrutinized me. Satisfied with my lack of threat, he sauntered out the door.
“Can I talk to you a sec?” I asked, then without waiting for an answer, I grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the wood-paneled wall where we could talk in private.
She jerked her arm away. “What is it now, Stephen?”
“This guy gives me a creepy feeling.”
She smirked. “You don’t even know him.”
“Neither do you.”
“Better’n you do.”
I sighed. “Susan, I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
“Stop trying to run my life, Stephen.”
“Since when—”
“You can’t even run your own.”
I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. She crossed her arms, looking over my shoulder toward the darkened exterior of the barroom. I gazed at Susan and for a split second saw the desperate seventh-grade girl who only wanted her father to love her. And because she grew up blocks from me, and once tried to rescue me from humiliation during a silly junior high dance, I’d felt forever determined to help her. I followed her gaze to where Paul leered at us from his usual table, where he slowly drank himself to death.
Was I so different from Susan and Paul?
When I looked back at Susan, her gaze had intensified, her eyes suddenly desperate and vulnerable. “May I go, please?”
She was right, and so was Paul. I’d made a mess of my own life. Hadn’t I let a wonderful woman walk away?
I searched my memory one last time, trying to place the guy. When nothing came to me, I stepped aside. Without saying goodbye, Susan headed for the door, pushing out into the cold without looking back. I turned to see Paul rambling toward me, adjusting his woolen scarf. He could barely walk. His eyes settled on me disdainfully just before he followed Susan out.
When I arrived home, I found a message on the recorder. It was Alycia. “Call me, okay? Tell me what we’re doing tomorrow.”
