Alice in the Know

“We just have to stay one step ahead of the patrol. No big deal,” said Keeno.

  “I’m fine here,” said Gwen.

  Karen made a face. “Oh, c’mon.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Old Play-by-the-Rules McKinley,” said Brian, laughing at me.

  I could hardly stand him. “You’ve got that right,” I said, and turned away.

  The group broke up soon after that. Jill and Justin drove Karen and Penny home. Gwen was spending the night at Yolanda’s, and Patrick had an early-morning landscape job. Pamela and Liz and I talked awhile at the corner, then each went to her own house. I thought about Brian and Keeno heading for Wheaton Regional Park in Brian’s car. About Yolanda’s superstition that someone I knew would die. Somewhere down the line, I figured, if it wasn’t Molly, it might be Brian or Keeno, and we’d be putting teddy bears and flowers at some particular place along a highway.

  It was almost ten thirty when I started up the walk, and I startled when I saw someone there on the porch. A man. I came to a dead stop, afraid to go on, trying to make out who it was in the darkness. Keeno? Brian? Patrick? I took a few more steps. Wrong on all counts. It was Lester

  “Les!” I said, and started up the steps.

  “Just leaving,” he told me.

  “So what’s up?” I asked. “Sit down!” I tugged at his arm and pulled him down on the steps beside me.

  “I dropped by to see Dad, but he and Sylvia have already sacked up. I hadn’t realized it was after ten,” he said.

  “So talk to me!” I said. “It’s glorious out.”

  He hesitated, like I was a poor substitute for Dad, but then he leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees.

  “Any news?” I asked hopefully. “Doesn’t Tracy have a birthday about now?”

  “Yesterday,” said Les.

  I grinned. “Was she wearing a red or yellow dress?” I asked knowingly. And then I couldn’t help myself: “She was at Hecht’s looking for a dress for a special occasion.”

  “That must have been the birthday party her family threw for her the day before. I took her out last night.”

  I grabbed his arm and shook it. “And? And? Did you buy the ring?”

  “She said no.”

  The words didn’t make sense. “She doesn’t want a ring?”

  “No to getting married, Al. She said it very nicely, of course. But it’s still a no.”

  I could only stare. “Why?”

  All I could see of Lester’s face was the side illuminated by the streetlight. But in that one side I saw such sadness that I could hardly bear it.

  “Why, Lester?” I asked again.

  He shook his head. “The more she tried to explain it, the more complicated it got, and the more I knew it was over. What it boils down to, I think, is that her family just didn’t approve.”

  “How could they not like you?” I asked, stunned.

  “Without much difficulty, it seems.”

  “But what reason … ?”

  “Actually, to be fair to them, it wasn’t me as much as the idea of marrying outside their race. From what I gather, the strongest objections came from her father and grandmother. The grandmother said that I would never really fit in with that big family—their traditions, their inside jokes, the way they worship… . That I would never really feel a part of that.”

  “Wouldn’t that be for you to decide?” I said indignantly. “How does Sylvia fit into ours? How does any outsider get to feeling at home in a family?”

  “Yeah. I gave that speech too. But her dad told her I’d just be using her. Either I was attracted to her because I think she’s exotic or I’d be using her for political purposes.”

  “You’re running for mayor now?” I asked sarcastically, angry at Tracy’s dad. “This is all so insulting to Tracy—that you just find her ‘exotic.’”

  “I told her that. I asked if I could talk to her dad one-on-one. She said he wouldn’t agree to that.”

  “And how does she feel about all this, Les? Isn’t that what matters?”

  He sighed. “I pulled out all the stops, believe me, but she’s afraid it just wouldn’t work. It’s not that she thinks her dad is right. She says when you marry, it’s not just one person: You’re marrying a family. It would be me against all sixty-seven of her relatives, and though she’s sure they’d always be polite to me, they’d never really look at me as anything but an outsider. And that would break her heart—feeling like she had to choose between them and me.”

  “But she’s breaking yours! Doesn’t she even care about that?” I cried.

  Lester didn’t answer. I heard him swallow.

  “Oh, Les, I’m so sorry!” I said. “I’m mad, too, but I’m really sorry. I liked Tracy a lot.”

  “Me too,” said Les.

  “Come on in and I’ll make you a shake. Coffee? An omelet? Anything?”

  “No, they’d hear us poking around, and if they came downstairs and I spilled my guts, they probably wouldn’t sleep very well. I shouldn’t have come over this late.”

  “I’m glad you did. I’m glad you told me.”

  “Well …” He stood up. “I’ve got to get to bed too, and so do you. I’ll let you tell Dad and Sylvia in the morning. I’m too depressed to talk about it anymore.”

  “Les … you’ll be okay, won’t you?” I asked.

  He gave me a weak smile. “I’m not going to jump off a bridge, if that’s what you’re thinking. ’Night, Al.”

  He went down the sidewalk, got in his car, and drove away.

  * * *

  They’re prejudiced! That’s all I could think. They don’t even know Lester. They don’t know our family. Tracy should have stood up for him, defended him!

  I couldn’t tell anyone before about Lester proposing, and now that he’d been refused, I couldn’t tell anyone after. Only Dad and Sylvia, and for that I had to wait till breakfast. Lester had actually confided in me! He’d told me before he’d told Dad, and I felt as incredibly grown up as I felt incredibly sad.

  “Oh, I feel so terrible for Les,” Sylvia said the next morning, pushing her roll away.

  Dad silently sipped his coffee.

  “It’s prejudice, Dad! If he were black, they wouldn’t be talking this way about him not fitting in, as though that’s the only thing to consider. So he wouldn’t know their family jokes! Big deal! They’d explain them to him! That’s what families do. They just don’t want Tracy to marry a Caucasian, and they won’t make the effort to get to know Lester as a person. How could she let her family decide something that important for her?”

  “There’s another possibility,” Dad said.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe Tracy wasn’t that much in love with him to begin with.”

  I looked at him incredulously. Not in love with Lester? How could any woman not love my brother? Marilyn and Crystal used to be crazy about him! “Then why did she go out with him all those months?” I wanted to know.

  “Why does anyone go out with someone? Because she was trying to get to know him better—see how she felt.”

  I thought of all the times I’d seen them together. It had always been Les who was doing the handholding, the back-of-the-neck massaging, the brushing together of the lips—all the little gestures you make when you’re in love. Hadn’t I wondered about it then? That they never seemed to originate with Tracy?

  “Then … maybe Les just jumped the gun and proposed too soon! Maybe if Tracy’s family gets to know him better—,” I said.

  “Al, keep out of it. My guess is that her answer is pretty final. If it’s not, she’ll let him know,” Dad said.

  I just couldn’t believe it. I’d been so sure. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Tracy might not love him enough, and then I was surprised at myself for not considering it.

  What had turned her off? I wondered. What didn’t she like about Lester? The way he walked? Talked? Smelled? Ate? Laughed? Joked? Kissed? His haircut? His ta
ste in music? Clothes? Beer? Was it religion? Values? Somehow Tracy just didn’t see him fitting into that close-knit family of hers, and I’d lost the sister I’d never had. I was more devastated than I had any right to be, because deep down, deeper than I’d even dug before, I wondered if I hadn’t thought that Tracy would be thrilled to marry a Caucasian. Flattered that he loved her. Eager to get involved in our family. And perhaps, all this time, it was Les who didn’t quite measure up.

  What were our family traditions? What were our inside jokes? How did our Christmas rituals start? Was there ever a round-robin letter that went from family to family? What stories or heirlooms were passed down from generation to generation? Quilts? Silver? Anything? If there was a quiz called “Family,” would we even pass?

  I hunkered down in my chair. “I’m still upset with her,” I murmured. “Some people wouldn’t know a good thing if it fell in their laps.”

  Suddenly Dad started to chuckle. “You sound just like your mother, Alice. That’s just what Marie used to say and the way she said it.”

  It was Gwen who asked. Not about an engagement. Just whether Les and Tracy were still an item.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Really? Any idea why?”

  I shrugged. “I think maybe he liked her more than she liked him. It’s just a guess.”

  “Probably the grandmother,” said Gwen.

  “What?”

  “When a grandmother makes up her mind, you’ve got a mountain to climb in order to change it.”

  “What can we do to change Tracy’s grandmother?” I asked.

  “Change four hundred years of black history,” said Gwen.

  So here’s where things stood with what was left of the summer: Les and Tracy were kaput; Jim Sorringer was engaged; Molly was going through chemo; Faith had definitely given up her scumbag ex-boyfriend for Chris; Mrs. Stedmeister had put her foot down about marijuana and beer in her backyard; and Liz and Pamela and I were packing to go to the beach with Pamela’s dad.

  I told Juanita at Hecht’s that I’d be back on August 23, and I found a new bathing suit on sale. The day we left, Mr. Price drove Liz and me over to the Joneses’, and Liz and Pam and I sat out on the front steps as Pamela’s dad packed the minivan.

  I saw there was room for one more and wished Pamela had invited Gwen, but of course she couldn’t. Her dad had told her once that if she ever brought home a black boyfriend, he wouldn’t let either one of them in the house. The same was probably true for girlfriends.

  Just then, however, a green Honda pulled up in front, and a woman stepped out carrying a large bag in one hand, a smaller case in the other.

  I stared. “Meredith?” I asked.

  “She’s coming too?” asked Liz.

  “Apparently,” said Pamela. “Dad probably didn’t tell me because he didn’t want Mom to know.”

  “What’s to know?” I asked. “Your mom could date again if she wanted.”

  “It doesn’t quite work that way,” said Pamela. “I think Mom figures that as long as Dad doesn’t marry again, she still has a chance with him. I haven’t seen a ring yet, but if Dad and Meredith are engaged, I don’t want to be the one to tell Mom.”

  “You know what?” I told them as we watched Mr. Jones and Meredith work to squeeze her bags in the minivan beside ours. “I’m going to go these whole four days without thinking of love once.”

  “With all the guys around on the beach?” said Pamela. “The tanned bodies, the bleached hair, the furry chests, the thick thighs, the sweaty backs, the—”

  “Nope!” I said. “They’re all irrelevant. I’m going to enjoy my girlfriends. I’m going to play volleyball and bodysurf and read books and shop and—”

  “Watch for hunks out of the comer of your eye,” said Pamela.

  12

  Sun and Sand

  It’s about three hours from Silver Spring, Maryland, to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware. More, when you count the slow crawl of traffic over the Bay Bridge and the even slower procession into town.

  Mr. Jones and Meredith sat in front, Liz and I were in the middle seat, and Pamela sprawled out on the third seat, her legs draped over the cooler and the bags piled at one end. Pamela’s dad was very tall. His face was pockmarked from early years of acne, but he was handsome in a rugged kind of way. Meredith was a plain-looking woman who wore her long brown hair flipped up in back, the ends fastened to her head with a clip. If she wore makeup at all, it wasn’t noticeable. Nice figure. Healthy-looking, I guess you’d call her.

  Mr. Jones consented to put our CDs in the player, but he turned off the speakers up front, I noticed:

  Thrill me with your hot lips, baby,

  Put your powerful hands upon my thigh.

  Let me feel your love inside me, baby,

  Hold me till I truly wanna die.

  We caught Mr. Jones and Meredith exchanging amused glances, but it didn’t keep us from singing along. I can’t carry a tune, of course, so I just spoke the words, but Liz and Pamela really cut loose on the refrain:

  Baby, baby, baby,

  Gimme sweet, sweet kisses,

  Baby, baby, baby,

  I’m your one-night missus… .

  I turned toward the window and took in the view. I’d been to the ocean only once that I remembered, but I love the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. As you approach the tollbooth, you can see cars high up there on the curved span, and finally, when it’s you up there, you look down on a sea of sailboats from a road bridge three hundred feet up and four and a half miles across.

  “Did you know that some people panic when they get up here on the bridge?” Meredith said to us over her shoulder. “I had a friend who had to wrap herself in a blanket and curl up on the floor of the backseat before her husband drove them across. She’d whimper the whole time.”

  We laughed, but then I remembered my old fear of the deep end of swimming pools. I’d probably still be afraid of deep water if Les hadn’t helped me through it. I guess everybody’s got something… .

  When we turned off Route 50 and took a back road to the southeast, we drove through small towns that Mr. Jones said were speed traps. We saw lots of American flags. Lots of people sitting on porches, watching the tourists stream through. As we did the homestretch into Rehoboth, Pamela declared she could walk faster than we were traveling. So we entertained ourselves by waving and hooting at cars full of guys who were stuck in traffic beside us, kidding around with them, telling them we were eighteen. One of them asked where we were staying, but Pamela’s dad wouldn’t give us the address.

  And then finally—finally—we pulled up to the small yellow cottage that a friend of Mr. Jones had loaned him. It was about three blocks back from the beach and not quite what we had imagined. But it had a screened porch and a grill out back, so it would do. As soon as we were assigned a bedroom, we put on our swimsuits, pulled on our cutoffs and sneakers, grabbed our towels, and took off.

  “Freedom!” Liz cried, flinging her arms open wide, which happened to clip a guy right in the mouth as he was walking around us on the sidewalk.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry!” she said, but he just grinned and went on. That put us in a good mood—that you could accidentally clip someone in the mouth and he wouldn’t get mad.

  Everything smells different at the ocean. The air smells of fries, fudge, fish, and coconut oil lotion. Everything feels different—wet sand underfoot, the heat of the boardwalk, the breeze in the face. Things sound different—the continual shriek of gulls, the laughter of children, the music coming from the shops, the soft wallop of breakers on the beach.

  Guys looked down on us from motel balconies as we walked along the boardwalk, and some of them shouted out party invitations:

  “Come by around nine… .”

  “We’ll look for you at ten… .”

  “Hey! Come and bring your girlfriends… .”

  We just laughed. Some little kid got separated from her parents and was howling loudly; we stayed with her unt
il her frantic mother came rushing out of a shop and swooped her up in her arms. We bumped into little children carrying balloons, girls with cotton candy. Passed guys with T-shirts saying I’M WITH STUPID (arrow pointing to a friend) and guys with no T-shirts at all. We bought Pennsylvania Dutch pretzels, ate half, and took the rest down to the water to feed to the gulls.

  Pamela wanted to lie on the beach and flirt with the lifeguard, but Sylvia says that the sun wrinkles you—sun and smoking—and I’d rather be in the water anyway. At least you’re moving when you’re horsing around, not just letting one side of your body, then the other, slowly bake.

  I liked sloshing ankle-deep in the foam, trying to pick up little shells before they were washed out to sea again. Liked going in up to my knees, where I could back up when I saw a wave coming. But I was still afraid of the breakers.

  Liz wanted to swim out beyond the point where the waves were breaking, so that we could just float around in the gentle rolling of the ocean. But to do that, we had to wade out there, and every fifteen seconds or so, another wave came in. Once you’re in waist-deep, you can’t jump over them any longer. And if they knock you down, you go head over heels, your knees scraping the sandy bottom, water throbbing in your ears, the force of the water tossing your head first one way, then another. I hate that. I hate water in my nose and ears, which is why I never learned to dive.

  We were holding on to each other’s arms, and Liz said, “Alice, you’re shaking! Are you cold?”

  “I’m—I’m terrified!” I said. “Oh God, here comes another one!”

  Here’s what girlfriends do. Here’s what real friends say: “We’re going to teach you to go under them,” Liz said.

  “No!” I cried, horrified at the thought of all that water thundering over me.

  “When I say ‘duck,’ hold your nose and try to sit on the bottom,” she yelled.

  “I’ll die!” I said, my voice quavering.

  Pamela just laughed. “Here comes one! Get ready!”

  I screamed as I watched the green water swelling higher and higher before me, like an open mouth, ready to swallow me up.