The Singing Bone (7 page)

Molly was saying that Alice was the smart one, and Mr. Wyck turned to her. Alice knew she'd been caught staring at him. “Are you?” Mr. Wyck asked, a slight smile on his lips. “Are you the smart one?”

Alice didn't say anything. She looked at her lap. Her hands were pale against her denim skirt.

“She's brilliant,” Trina said.

“She's, like, top of the class. We call her Genie for genius,” Stover said.

“I'm not top of the class,” Alice said.

“Are you the smart one,” Mr. Wyck repeated, “Genie?”

Alice looked at him. She wouldn't be seen as a child, not by anyone, and certainly not by Mr. Wyck. She lifted her chin at him and smiled. “I am,” she answered, “brilliant.” She held his gaze, but where she'd expected further inquiry (What are your subjects? In what ways? Are you an athlete as well?), instead she sensed a closing off, as if a door was shut. His smile dwindled. He looked at her for a moment as if she disgusted him and then, slowly, he turned back to the group and looked at them one by one, expectantly, but no one said a word.

“Well,” he said, placing his palms flat on the table, “it's getting late.”

  •  •  •  

Before they left, Trina came into the living room with them, and Alice thought she was leaving, too, but then she said, “I'm staying here with Lee,” and Alice was surprised. Trina's parents were strict. If she was five minutes past curfew, she couldn't leave the house for a week, coming and going only for school.

“How?” Alice asked. “Your parents.”

Trina stood in front of her with arms folded. “Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“They don't give a shit anymore. I'm a slut, a nuisance.” Trina smiled a crooked smile. “I'm a drug addict and will be no man's wife.”

Alice shook her head. “You're not any of those things.”

Trina lifted one shoulder and shook her head. “Who cares what they say anymore? They won't even talk to me.”

“Come home with me. My mother doesn't care.”

“With you?” Trina said, raising her eyebrows. “No thanks. I'm happy here.”

Mr. Wyck came out and stood in front of the fire. He lifted a log with the poker. Sparks flew up the chimney. He kept his back to them, but then he turned slightly. “Did you clear staying here with Lee and Allegra?” he asked. Trina didn't say anything. She stood with her arms folded, her hips to one side, looking at Alice. She leaned towards Alice. She wrapped her fingers around Alice's wrist and whispered, “Back there in the dining room? You ruined everything.”

“What did I ruin?” Alice asked, stepping back, but Trina didn't answer. Instead, she let go of Alice with a jolt and walked away, shuffling quickly across the wooden floor in her socks to find Lee. Alice was left standing alone in the foyer, the black shape of Mr. Wyck in front of the fire. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Wyck.” Alice thought she sounded like a little girl.
Thank you, Mr. Wyck.
She sounded as if she was five. He turned, winked, and gave her a sly smile. Relieved, Alice smiled back, but Mr. Wyck's face went slack. He turned away from her again. She could hear Molly and Stover laughing out on the porch, their voices sounding shrill and childish.

“That was no problem, darling,” Mr. Wyck said quietly. “You're welcome anytime.”

Embarrassed, Alice fumbled with the door's lock, turning it one way and then the other, until she finally realized it had never been locked in the first place.

She didn't hear him come up behind her. He stood there, pressing one large palm into the heavy wooden door. She turned to look at him. He dropped his hand to his side and stepped closer. He was right in front of her—a finger of air separated their bodies. They breathed in unison. She couldn't see his face. His chin grazed the top of her head. He smelled of wood smoke, unwashed hair, and something secret and sweet—a soap, a tea, the wooden cigar box she kept her pot in. She felt light. He opened the door. He had to turn her around again and he did this gently, with both hands on her shoulders, guiding her. When her back was to him, he lifted her hair from underneath her scarf and brushed it gently down her back. She stumbled.

Molly and Stover glanced up when Alice came out and then went back to what they were doing—Stover held his palms out flat and Molly tried to slap them both at the same time before he pulled them away.

“See you, Mr. Wyck,” Stover said. “Thanks for the grub.”

“Yeah, thank you!” Molly called as she ran out ahead of them.

“Hey, psycho,” Stover yelled after Molly. “It's kind of dark out there. Do you want some light?”

Alice walked backwards, looking at Mr. Wyck, who stood unmoving on the porch. She kept her hands in her pockets and took careful steps. He lifted one hand at her, but she didn't return the gesture. Stover caught Alice's arm. “Where's T.?” he wanted to know. “Come on.” He put his arm around her and pulled her along. “So where's T.?” He was a little out of breath. Molly was waiting for them up ahead.

“She's staying there. With Lee.”

“What? Do Mr. and Mrs. Malik have a warrant out for Lee's arrest yet?”

“She says her parents don't care anymore.”

“Since when?”

Alice shook her head. They were in the woods now, their flashlights banded together in a bright circle around them. “I'm sorry if I said something stupid in there.”

“Like what?” Molly asked. “You
never
say anything stupid.”

Stover turned and shone his flashlight full in Alice's face. “Alice, are you a
genius
?” He dropped his voice an octave and leaned towards Alice, menacing, then laughed. Alice shielded her eyes and Stover turned the flashlight on and off. “Anyway,” he said. “We started it.”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed. “Anyway, you
are
smart. I didn't get why Mr. Wyck suddenly got so weird.”

“I'm not smart. I just didn't want to seem, I don't know,
something
, in front of Mr. Wyck.” Alice didn't exactly know, but for a moment, she'd felt as if she were standing in a small room with Mr. Wyck in front of her, towering, casting a shadow over her.

“I get it,” Stover said, switching the flashlight off. When he turned it on again, he shone it on his own face. “
That's
where Trina sits,” he said, imitating Allegra, and Molly and Alice laughed. “And what's up with Trina?” Stover said. “She's so serious.”

“Do you think she's safe there?” Alice took Stover's hand in hers.

Molly took Stover's other hand. “So I told Trina there was a party in the field this weekend and she rolled her eyes at me, like
I don't do that anymore
. She's too sophisticated.”

Stover squeezed Alice's hand. “You don't think T.'s safe there?” He looked down at her. He flipped his flashlight on and off again.

“Keep it on, Stover,” Molly protested.

“I didn't say that. They all just seem kind of—”

“Weird?” Stover laughed. “Really fucking weird.”

“Different,” Molly said.

“Yeah, different.
Unusual
.” Alice was tired. “I guess she's safe—no one's going to axe-murder her.”

“Did you see all of Mr. Wyck's tattoos?” Molly asked.

“Trina said that's what he does for a living.” Stover wasn't looking at them. “Hold on,” he said. “Shhh.” He put his hand out and stopped walking. “Listen. Turn your flashlights off.” They did, then stood in the dark together, listening, for what Alice didn't know. A branch cracked nearby.

“What's that?” Molly whispered, but neither Stover nor Alice answered. Alice held her breath. Someone was in the woods with them.
But no, it must be an animal
, she thought. The woods were full of deer. She was cold. There was no light from the moon, and Alice couldn't see Stover or Molly. She could feel them, though. She took Molly's hand in her own and squeezed it. Molly's breath was quick and light, a small wheeze in her throat.

“It's just a deer or something—or Stuart,” Alice said.

“No.” Molly stood close to Alice. “It's not Stu. He'd never come out this late.”

“It's nothing, Molls,” Alice said. “Stop scaring Molly, Stover. She's about to have an asthma attack.” She turned her flashlight back on. “I didn't hear anything,” she said. “Let's go.” She wanted to get home, to bed, to hide under the covers. Maybe she'd sleep with a light on.

“I swear someone was following us,” Stover said, turning on his flashlight, letting the beam bounce over the tree branches behind them.

They started walking again. “I hate it when I can't breathe,” Molly said. “Allegra wants to make me a special tea. She says beets really help. I hate beets, but she said she could make them in a juice. The kitchen is cool. She has all these leaves and flowers hanging from the ceiling so they dry out. She said she never gets sick. It smells so good.”

“That's kind of cool,” Alice said. “Did you like Allegra?”

“Oh my god,” Molly said. “I
love
Allegra. She was telling me about her guru, too, but she said Mr. Wyck is sort of her guru here.”

“What's a guru?” Stover asked. “I mean really,” he said. “Seriously. Like a real guru. Not like a TV guru.”

“I've never seen a guru on TV.” Alice laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” Stover said. “Like sometimes you see one on a TV show like
Charlie's Angels
or something, and he goes: ‘This is the way,' but really he's a bad guy with a
fleet
of Rolls-Royces?”

Molly laughed. “That show is so stupid.”

“No, seriously, though,” Stover tried again. “What's a real guru do?”

No one answered him for a while, but then Alice said: “I guess it's like someone who tells you how to live, but in a really philosophical or spiritual way—like the Buddha or something?”

“Oh man, yeah,” Stover said. “Didn't the Beatles have a guru?”

“Yes!” Molly cried. “I remember that picture of them on
Life
or whatever. Mom had it.”

Alice wondered if a guru could answer her questions. It seemed like a surprisingly simple and reassuring way of finding out about the world: just ask your guru. Maybe if Alice had a guru, he would say, “Well, Alice, I know you've wondered, and let me tell you: the world is a good place. People are kind.”

“Really, Guru So-and-So?” Alice would respond. “Because quite honestly it doesn't always seem like it.” And her guru would lift a curtain away from Alice's eyes, and she would realize that the world is indeed a good place.

Alice could see their neighborhood emerging from behind the trees. The spring leaves were coming. In a few months, she wouldn't be able to see her house from here. “You see, Alice?' her invisible guru said. “It's really not that complicated. Just because you can't see your home doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”

Alice is in yoga class trying to get the pain to leave her back. When she exhales and extends her trunk, she visualizes her spinal cord encased in a rosy glow, the vertebrae spaced evenly, the muscles soft and long. Allegra taught her that.
Your body is made of light.

Alice prefers swimming—especially at six a.m. or eleven p.m. when there are only a few people with whom to share a lane. She likes the rhythm of her breathing, the small muted space she occupies underwater behind her steamed goggles. She likes the treadmill, too. She wears headphones. She doesn't go to yoga often, but when she does, she tries to pick a teacher who doesn't talk too much. A teacher who slips lightly around the room talking about her personal beliefs inspires a kind of hatred in Alice that she rarely experiences.
If you face this direction. If you breathe like this. Repeat after me
. Why? Alice wonders. What will happen? You'll never die. Your children will be healthy. The inequity of the world will not trouble you, and when you realize that the worst of your experiences cannot be traded in for a predictable aphorism, you will not go mad.

She's in the back of the room—close to the door in case she has to escape.
Relax, relax
, she thinks.
Breathe
. She slows herself, moving with precision, inhale, exhale. She likes this teacher, who doesn't bother them with philosophy.

Hans Loomis keeps calling. Alice lets the machine pick up. His voice is soft—softer than it is in the films. He knows how to ask people to do things.

Alice rocks back and forth in happy baby, her legs and arms extended above her. She keeps her spine pressed to the floor. She lets her face go. Inhale, exhale. No matter her other flaws, she thinks, Allegra was a good yoga teacher. Sometimes. She remembers the summer mornings when she first lived in Mr. Wyck's house, how Allegra would take them outside to the yard and show them sun salutations. Inhale, lift the arms, exhale, fold. Unlike this teacher, though, Allegra was always blowing the universe up in Alice's face. She taught them Mr. Wyck's philosophy and on the days that he did yoga with them, too, Allegra seemed less sure of herself. “You are a star in the universe,” she told them, and then looked to Mr. Wyck for reassurance.

They bring their folded knees to one side and then the other. Alice knows
savasana
is coming. She hates
savasana.
Once she loved it, but now, the thought of lying still on her back for five minutes without any intention of napping makes her uncomfortable. She likes to get up before the others, roll up her mat, and have a shower before the locker room gets too crowded, but today she likes the way her back feels on the floor. It's better, so she stays, and she's tired, too. Lately, her sleep is interrupted by strange dreams, by insomnia, by rising at four a.m. to read about Hans Loomis's documentary online. SweetPea has become a lurker on the ­Wyckian Society site. DougRamsey is her mortal enemy. She's glad for the mid-­semester break.