Simply Alice

  “The duration of what?” I asked. “The next three years at the U? Till you get your Ph.D.? What?”

  “I didn’t say I’m a eunuch, Al. The duration of the summer, anyway.”

  He said good night and went back to his room.

  “You know what that means …” said Elizabeth.

  “What what means?” I said.

  “That he’s not going to be a eunuch. A eunuch can’t have intercourse, you know, so if Lester’s not going to be a eunuch, then it can only mean that—”

  “Good night, Elizabeth,” I said. “Sweet dreams.” And I turned out the light.

  15

  Sylvia

  Dad was in a cleaning frenzy. I thought we had already done spring cleaning, but he said we’d hardly begun. Sylvia was coming exactly two days before I left for my three weeks as an assistant camp counselor, and Dad wanted the house to be perfect. When a house has been as imperfect as ours has been for all the years we’ve lived here, it’s sort of a lost cause, I think. Lester and I considered moving to the Y for the week, but we wanted to do what we could to make Sylvia feel welcome. So I finally called Aunt Sally in Chicago.

  “Alice, sweetheart, it’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice!” she said. “How are you?”

  For a moment I was tempted to tell her that Lester had been in jail, because I knew she would catch the next plane to Maryland if I did, and then, as long as she was here, she would clean the house from top to bottom and save us the trouble. Not only clean the house, but bake a couple of pies while she was at it.

  “Is anything wrong, Alice?” Aunt Sally said, and sounded worried.

  “Not at all, we’re just fine!” I said. “Except that Miss Summers is due back from England in a week, and Dad wants the house to be perfect. I don’t know where to begin.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and I was afraid I’d already said too much—that Aunt Sally was even then looking up the number for United Airlines in the yellow pages. But finally she said, “If there are still any clothes of your mother’s around, Alice, don’t let her wear them.”

  “What?” I said, wondering how we got from cleaning to clothes.

  “Out of respect for Marie,” she said.

  “Aunt Sally, I really don’t think Sylvia wants Mom’s clothes. Trust me,” I said.

  “I mean, how would you feel if you were dead and your husband brought home a new wife?” Aunt Sally continued.

  Sometimes it’s best to not even try to answer.

  “Well,” she said, “as far as housecleaning, Sylvia’s not moving in right away, is she? When is the wedding?”

  “July twenty-eighth,” I said.

  “Then I’d let her worry about the cleaning. She’ll have two whole months to clean the house herself. Unless, of course, she’s moving in before they’re married, which I trust is not the case, not with you and Lester there.”

  I had to smile. “No, I don’t think so, Aunt Sally. She has a house of her own, you know.”

  “Good. Then here’s all you have to remember, Alice. Susie Dances Very Well.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “That’s what my mother taught me: SDVW—Susie Dances Very Well. S stands for ‘scrub sinks, tub, and floor’; D stands for ‘dust all flat surfaces’; V stands for ‘vacuum carpets and rugs’; and W stands for ‘wash windows, towels, and bedding.’ If you can remember that, the house will be clean enough when Sylvia gets there, and you don’t have to worry about doing anything more.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Sally,” I said uncertainly.

  “And Alice, if she does move in before they’re married, tell her I disapprove.”

  Dad didn’t pay the least bit of attention to Susie Dances Very Well. You would think our house had termites, vermin, bats’ nests, and mold, the way he got us up early Sunday morning and made us attack the windows, the woodwork, the floors, and rugs. Every finger mark disappeared from the walls, every smudge on a window, every spot on a rug. Lester rented a rug cleaner from the supermart, and we vacuumed and laundered; we dusted and scrubbed. We stripped the beds and washed the blankets, aired the pillows and cleaned the closets.

  By seven that evening, Dad was asleep on the couch, Lester lay sprawled on his back on the living room rug, and I was curled up in my beanbag chair, too tired to move.

  I guess none of us heard the doorbell. Dad was snoring, Les was snoring, even I was snoring, probably, when I was vaguely conscious of the doorbell, then footsteps, then Marilyn standing over me, saying, “Alice? Alice? Is everything all right here?”

  Dad stirred, Les raised his head and plunked it down again, and I heard Marilyn say, “Thank goodness! When no one answered the door, I looked through the window and thought you were all overcome by carbon monoxide or something.” Then she saw the buckets and brooms and mops. “Wow!” she said. “House Beautiful!”

  “I’d get up and ask you to sit down, Marilyn, but I don’t think I can move,” said Dad.

  “I won’t even try,” murmured Lester.

  I just sat up and rubbed my eyes.

  “I brought over the inventory you asked for, Mr. M. I worked up some figures at home,” Marilyn said. “I thought you might want them.”

  “Just put them there on the table, will you?” said Dad, his lips barely moving.

  Marilyn looked around at us. “Have you eaten?”

  “Too tired to cook,” said Dad.

  And suddenly Marilyn became Mother Superior. She went to the phone and ordered antipasti and veal scallopini to be delivered, with an order of cannoli for dessert. Then she set the table, lit some candles, and when the food was delivered, paid for it herself, which finally brought Dad to his feet so he could reimburse her.

  By then, the smell of the food had revived us, we managed to get ourselves to the table, and invited Marilyn to eat with us.

  “Well done, Marilyn,” Dad said. “Hiring you was one of the best things I ever did.”

  “Now’s your chance, Mar,” Lester joked. “Ask for a raise.” We all laughed.

  “As a matter of fact,” Dad went on, “she got a raise just last week, and she’s worth every penny of it.”

  Marilyn beamed.

  I watched Les watching Marilyn, and Marilyn watching Dad, and Dad eating his scallopini, and thought what a great, happy family we’d be if Les would just marry Marilyn in a double-ring ceremony with Dad and Sylvia. We could all live here together, and …

  “I can’t stay any longer,” Marilyn said, before she had dessert. “Jack’s coming over a little later, and I want to be there.”

  “Big date, huh?” Les said.

  “Yes. He’s pretty special,” Marilyn said, and smiled. “Well, thanks for letting me stay, Mr. M. Glad you enjoyed the dinner. Double glad you weren’t all dead! Scared me to death for a minute there.”

  And then she was gone.

  It could have been so perfect—Les could have fallen in love with Marilyn again, and proposed over the cannoli. He could have forgotten all about Lauren and being in jail and … Life isn’t like that, I guess. Sometimes change isn’t for the better.

  I was afraid he’d really be depressed now. Not only had Lauren dumped him, but his old reliable girlfriend was seeing someone new. Lester, though, looked refreshed and relieved. Maybe he was feeling the same way I was now: free to enjoy being unattached for a while.

  “Thank you, you two,” Dad said to us later as he walked through the living room, the clean scent of Lemon Pledge and Windex wafting through the house. “Sylvia’s going to be impressed.”

  “I think Sylvia will have eyes only for you, Dad, and all this work won’t matter,” Les told him.

  We decided that we’d all go to the airport to meet her. We wanted to welcome her back as a family, so she would feel really glad about moving into our house and taking Mom’s place. Les and I wanted to show that we loved her, too.

  So the three of us stood at the gate at Dulles when her flight was due, knowing she’d be coming through customs, that
she’d be tired from the long flight, but we were ready to give her and Dad space once we got home. Les, in fact, was going to take me to the movies.

  All these months, Dad had been the patient one, the calm one, the man who could put his dreams on hold till his love was in his arms again. And now, waiting for Sylvia, he was as jumpy as I’d ever seen him, like a horse at the starting gate. He’d be talking with Lester and me one minute, then striding over to the window to see if a shuttle was coming yet from the far terminal. And as each shuttle arrived and disgorged its passengers, he watched every face, hoping for a first glimpse of her. Checking his watch, raising himself up on his toes to see over the crowd, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them again.

  And then, coming out of a fourth shuttle, there she was—the light brown hair, the beautifully shaped brows, the wispy green silk scarf on top of her blouse, her smile. She was as beautiful as ever, but more tired looking than I’d ever seen her. Her eyes, of course, were on Dad, but they lit up, too, when they saw Les and me, and she put down her carry-on bag and opened her arms to embrace us all at once.

  But Dad got to her first and couldn’t help himself. He lifted her a few inches off the floor and spun around with her as though he were twenty years old, and what happened next came so fast, we could hardly believe it: Sylvia suddenly pushed away from him, stepped backward, and threw up on the floor. On Dad’s shoes, in fact, splattering the cuffs of his pants as well.

  “Darling!” cried Dad.

  She only gagged again and vomited a second time. People around us averted their eyes and gave us a wide berth as they passed, and an airline employee phoned for a janitor.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ben!” Sylvia said, wiping her mouth, the front of her blouse stained.

  “Sweetheart, you’re sick!” Dad cried, putting an arm around her.

  “Just air sick. There was such turbulence, and …” She clamped her mouth shut, afraid she would vomit again, but I was already heading for a rest room behind us to get some wet paper towels.

  I was back almost immediately, and Dad took them from me. Gently, lovingly, he wiped her face, a spot on her scarf, her blouse, and only when she had been escorted to a chair did he tend to his own pants and shoes. A man with a mop and pail was coming down the corridor, and we moved away to sit with Sylvia.

  “How embarrassing!” she said, smiling at us wanly.

  “For a grand entrance, Sylvia, I’d say you win the prize,” Les joked, and she laughed.

  So it happens to the best and the beautiful, too, I was thinking. All the embarrassing, ridiculous, gross, humiliating things that had happened to me in my fifteen years happened to other people as well, even grown-up career women who were madly in love. It was comforting in a way to know that I wasn’t alone, but terrifying to think that these things go on forever. The only thing that changes, I guess, is the way we react to them.

  “We’re not going out to the car until you’re feeling better,” Dad said, leaning over her and kissing her forehead.

  “Hard to believe, but I’m feeling much better, now that I’m off the plane,” Sylvia said. “I guess the only thing that would have been worse is if I’d been sick on my seatmates.” She turned to Lester and me. “Well, you know how I am. How are you?”

  “Glad to see you, that’s what,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re here to stay.”

  “Neither can I,” said Sylvia, smiling at Dad. For a long minute their eyes feasted on each other, like their eyes were doing all the talking. And finally, when the color had returned to Sylvia’s face and she seemed herself again, she said, “Let’s go home.”

  Les and I stayed at the house for only a half hour or so, and then we headed for the movies. We got there twenty minutes early, but felt we should give Dad and Sylvia as much time alone as we could. So we ate most of our popcorn ahead of time and drank half our drinks as well.

  “That’s what I want.” I sighed, thinking of Dad and Sylvia again. “Did you see the gentle way he wiped her face, Lester? I’ll bet some men would have been disgusted at a woman throwing up in public, especially all over his shoes. But it was as though Dad didn’t even notice. All he cared about was her. When I think about marrying, I’m going to look for someone like that.”

  “So what are you going to do? Give each potential husband the barf test?” he asked. “Puke on his shoes and see what happens?”

  “No, just pay attention to how he treats me when I’m sick. Like, when we can’t go somewhere we’d planned because I’m having cramps or have a bad cold. Or when I’m feeling really upset and depressed, if he can talk to me about it, or whether he just wants me to get over it.”

  I was thinking of Faith and Ron right then, and the way Ron never seemed to care what she was feeling. The way he got his jollies, it seemed, was by ordering Faith around.

  “It works both ways, you know,” Les said. “Some girls—and I’ve known a few—want to be catered to like princesses. Like the guy is her servant, and it’s her feelings, her moods that are important. She never stops to consider what kind of a day he might have had, or how little money’s in his pocket.”

  I remembered the time Patrick got on the school bus and threw up in the aisle, how embarrassing it was for him. And how the next day the kids wanted to tease him about it, but I was the only one who wouldn’t go along with the joke. I felt pretty good just then to know that I could consider a boy’s feelings, and at the same time, I felt a sudden rush of missing Patrick.

  “Neither one of us has a love life right now, Les. Do you realize that?” I asked.

  He stopped chewing, unsure of what I was going to suggest, I guess. “So?”

  “So, are we depressed, or what?”

  “I don’t know. Are we Siamese twins sharing the same brain?”

  “It’s just that I’m not always sure how I’m feeling. I’ve had a great year, actually… .”

  “So go with the great year! Quit thinking about what you’re supposed to feel, supposed to have, supposed to be—just enjoy the moment, Al.”

  “What about you? What about your year?” I asked him.

  “I had a great time with Lauren, but now it’s over, and I’m enjoying the present. That’s enough.”

  I leaned over and gazed dramatically into his eyes. “Are you enjoying this moment, Lester—sitting in the theater beside your sister?”

  “Get your hand out of the popcorn, Al, and I’ll enjoy it a whole lot more,” he said.

  What’s next for Alice?

  Here’s a preview of the new Alice book,

  Patiently Alice

  1

  Leaving Home

  The summer between ninth and tenth grades, I learned that life doesn’t always follow your agenda.

  I had signed up to be an assistant counselor at a camp for disadvantaged kids. Somehow I had the idea that at the end of three weeks I could get the little girls in my cabin feeling like one big happy family. First, though, I had to talk myself into going.

  I was sitting at the breakfast table watching Dad pour half-and-half in his coffee, and I decided that was a metaphor for my feelings. Half of me wanted to go to camp the following morning, and half of me wanted to stay home and be in on the excitement of Dad’s marriage to Sylvia two weeks after I got back.

  I wanted something to happen. I wanted at least one thing to be resolved. Everything seemed up in the air these days—Dad’s engagement to Sylvia, Pamela’s mother leaving the family, Elizabeth’s quarrels with her parents, Lester’s on-again off-again relationships with women, Patrick and I breaking up. My life in general, you might say.

  “Are you eating that toast or just mauling it?” asked Lester, my twenty-something brother, who was leaving soon for his summer class at the U of Maryland. “That’s the last of the bread, and if you don’t want it, I do.”

  I slid my plate toward him. “I can’t decide whether to go to camp or stay here and be helpful,” I said.

  “Be helpful,” said Lester. “Go to camp.”

/>   I turned toward Dad, hoping he might beg me to stay.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why you shouldn’t go, Alice,” he said. “Sylvia’s got everything under control.”

  That’s what I was afraid of. Not that she shouldn’t be in control. It was her wedding, not mine. But Sylvia had just got back from England, where she’d been teaching for a year, the wedding was about six weeks off, and if they had done any planning, I hadn’t heard about it.

  “I thought you were supposed to start planning a wedding a year in advance,” I said.

  “We’re just having a simple ceremony for friends and family,” Dad said, turning the page of his newspaper and folding it over.

  I lifted my glass of orange juice and took a sip. “You’re not just driving over to the courthouse to be married by a justice of the peace, are you?” I asked suspiciously. Maybe it was going to be even simpler than simple. I felt I couldn’t stand it if Sylvia didn’t wear a white gown with all the trimmings.

  “Of course we’re not getting married in a courthouse,” said Dad, and told me they were still planning to have the wedding at the church on Cedar Lane in Bethesda. That was perfect, because it was sort of where they’d met.

  Miss Summers was my seventh-grade English teacher at the time, and—because Mom died when I was in kindergarten—I’ve been looking for a new mom ever since. A role model, anyway. And Sylvia, with her blue eyes and light brown hair, her wonderful smile and wonderful scent, seemed the perfect model for me and the perfect wife for Dad. All I had to do was get them together, so I’d invited her to the Messiah Sing-Along at Cedar Lane, and the rest is history.

  Well, not quite. It’s taken all this time to make it stick. But she finally gave up her old boyfriend, our junior high assistant principal, Jim Sorringer, for Dad. And now the wedding is set for July 28, and I wanted details. It had seemed impolite to start asking Sylvia questions the minute she got off the plane.

  “Long gown and veil?” I asked Dad.

  “No, he’s wearing a suit,” said Lester.

  “Is Sylvia wearing a long dress?” I asked.