Reluctantly Alice

  Stay calm, I told myself. What would Mom do if she was here? That didn’t help. If Mom was here, we wouldn’t be taking my Language Arts teacher to the concert.

  I counted the number of “Summers” in the Maryland directory. There were sixty-four, and seventeen of them were women. The others had either men’s names or initials. I looked for any female Summers that lived in Silver Spring. There were four. I called them. Three answered and said they were not my teacher. The fourth wasn’t home.

  Okay, I told myself, there are only three things that could happen, and it’s not the end of the world: You will somehow, miraculously, find out the phone number of Miss Summers; she will find our phone number and call us; no one will call anybody and you will flunk Language Arts.

  I put in my three hours at the Melody Inn the next morning. Janice Sherman seemed to be adjusting to the fact that Dad couldn’t allow himself to love her, because she had a little sprig of holly pinned to her blouse, and she smiled and said good morning like she really meant it.

  I went about my work dusting all the pianos, and suddenly I remembered that Miss Summers had said that this was where she bought her music. I didn’t know what kind of music, but if she had an account with us, I might be able to find her address. I walked back to the office and looked up “Summers” in the records. And this is when the Great December Miracle happened. There was an account for Sylvia Summers, in Kensington, for two different orders of piano music—one, a year and a half ago, and the other in September. I copied down the address and phone number, and as soon as I got home at noon, dialed her number.

  A low voice said, “Hello. This is Sylvia Summers. I’m not at home right now, but if you will leave your name and number, I’ll call back as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep.”

  The beep was in my heart, because that was my teacher’s voice, all right, even though it was coming through a machine.

  Beep, went the machine.

  “Uh . . . Sylvia . . . I mean, Miss Summers . . . this is Alice McKinley, and we’ll pick you up at—well, somebody will pick you up at two o’clock tomorrow for the Messiah Sing-Along. We’re really happy you can go. Good-bye.”

  Then I dropped the receiver like it was hot or something, and wondered why I’d said two o’clock. Kensington wasn’t far from the church on Cedar Lane where the sing-along would be.

  What were we supposed to talk about all that time in between? Then I remembered I didn’t have to worry about that because I wouldn’t be there. Maybe Dad and Lester could take her for ice cream first or something.

  I went in the bathroom and stood at the mirror to work on my “sick” face. I wrinkled up my forehead a little and let the corners of my mouth sag. I didn’t look very sick to me. I took a washcloth and rubbed my face all over as hard as I could. One minute. Two minutes. I looked in the mirror. My face was fiery red.

  At dinner that night, I picked at my food and finally said I was going upstairs to lie down.

  “You sick, Al?” Dad asked.

  “Sort of,” I murmured.

  “We’ve got tickets for the Messiah tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe I’ll feel better by then,” I told him.

  “They cost seven dollars each,” Dad said, to make me well in a hurry.

  “Don’t worry,” I heard Lester tell him as I started upstairs. “If she can’t go, I’ll invite Crystal.”

  14

  HALLELUJAH

  I DIDN’T GET OUT OF BED SUNDAY MORNING. My stomach growled, and I wished I’d at least smuggled some Ritz crackers upstairs to eat until Dad came to see what was wrong.

  Ten o’clock came. Eleven. Eleven forty-five. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I put on my socks and padded down to the kitchen. Dad and Lester were in the living room reading the paper and didn’t even look up when I passed by in the hall. Just for that, I ate the last three slices of cinnamon bread and the next-to-the-last banana.

  I was finishing up all the orange juice, too, when Dad came out in the kitchen. “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Sort of wobbly,” I said, trying to hide the banana peel.

  “Think you can go this afternoon?”

  “I hope so. I’m not sure.”

  The phone rang, and my stomach flip-flopped. What if it was Miss Summers saying she couldn’t go, and Dad would say, “Who can’t go where?”

  It was Crystal Harkins calling Lester. Dad was just pouring himself some more coffee when Lester put down the phone in the hallway and came out in the kitchen.

  “Dad, Crystal has two tickets to the Messiah and wants me to go with her. I—”

  Dad wheeled around in exasperation. “What am I going to do? Go to this thing all by myself? I’ve got three tickets, but you’re going with Crystal and Al’s sick. I thought we might do something as a family for a change.”

  “Relax! Relax!” said Lester. “I’ll still sit with you. Okay?”

  “But I’ll have two extra tickets,” Dad said.

  I leaped up. “No, you won’t. I’m feeling fine, really. I’m going!”

  Dad turned around and stared at me.

  “And I’ll get someone to go with us. Okay?”

  “Well, okay.” Dad shrugged. “Tell Pamela or Elizabeth we’re leaving at two thirty sharp.”

  I sank down in my chair again, relief all over my face, legs spread out under the table.

  “That was a fast recovery,” said Dad.

  “I guess it was the orange juice,” I told him. I could feel his eyes on me as I went upstairs to get dressed.

  I took a shower, washed my hair, rubbed some of Lester’s deodorant under my arms, and topped it off with a little talcum powder Aunt Sally had sent for my birthday. I smelled like peach ice cream. Then I went through my closet twice, looking for something to wear, and finally took out a black velvet skirt that came down below my knees and used to be my cousin Carol’s, and a pink blouse that came from I don’t know where. Sears, probably.

  It took three tries to get my panty hose on right so that they didn’t feel as if they were twisted around one leg. I put on my black flats, and stuck a pink barrette in my hair. Then I went downstairs. Dad whistled.

  “Is that my daughter?” he said. “I didn’t realize this was a dress-up occasion. I was just going to wear my cords and a turtleneck.”

  “Why don’t you wear a tie?” I suggested.

  Dad was studying me. “I’ll wear a coat and tie if you’ll change your blouse.”

  I looked down. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It just doesn’t seem to go with that skirt somehow.”

  “But why? I have to know why things don’t go with things.”

  “Well, sweetheart, I wish I could tell you, but—Les, come here a minute, will you?”

  Lester lumbered in from the other room and grabbed some grapes off the counter.

  “She look okay to you? Her clothes?” Dad asked.

  “Nix the blouse,” said Lester.

  “Why?” I could feel tears in my eyes. I didn’t care about the blouse, I just had to know what was wrong. If I had a mother, she would know. Did I have to call Aunt Sally long distance every time I tried to dress up? Why did I have to be raised by two men who only knew about football and music and oil changes?

  “Tell you what, let me look through your closet and see if I can find something better,” Dad said. I followed him upstairs and plopped sullenly down on my bed while he looked.

  “This one,” he said, pulling out a white satin-looking blouse that also used to be Carol’s. “It’s heavier material, Al, so it goes better with a heavy velvet skirt. It also has long sleeves. That short-sleeved pink thing was made to be worn with thin summer skirts. That’s why. Okay?”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? How am I supposed to get through junior high and high school if you never know what’s wrong?”

  “Be patient with me, Al. I’m doing the best I can.”

  And then I felt awful. I grabbed his arm an
d squeezed it. “Okay,” I said.

  I felt I couldn’t go another minute without telling him about Miss Summers. “Dad,” I called when he was halfway down the hall.

  He turned.

  “We’ve got to pick someone up at two.”

  “Two? It takes only fifteen minutes to get to Cedar Lane.”

  “Well, I goofed, I guess, and told her two.”

  “Call her back and tell her two thirty.”

  “I—I can’t. We’ve got to pick her up, and I already said two.”

  Dad’s shoulders slumped and he thrust his hands in his pockets. “Al, you are driving me two hundred percent nuts.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Who’s going? Pamela or Elizabeth? Just call and—”

  “Neither one. Someone from school.”

  “Where does she live?”

  I gave him the address on Saul Road. He sighed in exasperation and went into his bedroom to dress.

  All the way over to Kensington in the car, I knew I should tell him what to expect, but I lost my nerve.

  “What’s her name?” Dad said as he fiddled with the car radio. “It’s a her, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Sylvia.”

  “New friend?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What class is she in?”

  “Language Arts.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see you making new friends, Al. Branching out a little.”

  When we got to Saul Road, Dad leaned forward, checking house numbers, then brought the car to a stop outside a tiny little house, and kept the motor idling. “Run up and get her,” he said. “I don’t like to honk.”

  “Dad, I think maybe you’d better go to the door.”

  Dad leaned back and closed his eyes. “Three hundred percent nuts! Al, will you please go get your girlfriend and quit this quibbling?”

  I stared down at my hands. “She’s not a girlfriend. She’s my teacher.”

  Dad’s foot fell off the pedal in shock. The car jerked forward and the engine died. He stared at me a moment wordlessly. “Say that again,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling.

  “I invited my Language Arts teacher,” I said softly. “She said she loved Mozart, and I just thought she might like to come because she’s so nice.”

  “How long ago did you invite her, Al? Just this morning? Without asking me?”

  I swallowed. “Last week.”

  “We didn’t have an extra ticket last week!”

  “I know. I was going to be sick and stay home.”

  “Four hundred percent nuts!” said Dad, and bolted back in his seat. “Does that woman need help getting up and down stairs, Al? How old is she?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Alice McKinley, you are the limit!” said Dad, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the car. He slammed the door and went up the walk like he was out to kill a dragon, but slowed down a little as he started up the steps. I saw him rub his neck, then ring the doorbell.

  For a while I thought Miss Summers wasn’t home. Maybe she forgot all about it and had gone out of town for the weekend, leaving her answering machine on. Maybe she’d never listened to her messages, and decided I hadn’t really meant my invitation after all.

  Then I saw the glass door move. It opened, and there was Miss Summers, stepping out onto the porch in a bright blue coat and high heels.

  I think Dad was in shock. He sort of backed up, then stepped forward again, ran his hand through his hair, then shook the hand Miss Summers was holding out to him. His face was the color of a shrimp cocktail, and he stared straight ahead as they came back down the walk, Miss Summers chattering away.

  As I watched, I tried to figure out just how old she was. Older than Lester, I was sure of that. Older than my cousin Carol, but younger than Aunt Sally. Younger than Elizabeth’s mother, but not Pamela’s. Maybe about as old as Pamela’s mother. Thirty? Thirty-five?

  I smiled as she came over to the car, and she was smiling, too.

  Dad opened my door. “Al, why don’t you hop in the backseat and let Miss Summers sit in front?” he said.

  But Miss Summers already had the back door open. “Oh, no, this will be fine,” she said, getting in. “How are you, Alice? How nice of you to invite me.”

  I grinned back. “I like your coat,” I said.

  “So do I,” she purred. “The warmest, softest thing . . .”

  Dad got in, but he didn’t even look at me.

  “I’ve been to only one Messiah Sing-Along, but that was years ago, and I always wanted to go again,” my teacher said. “So here I am.”

  “Here we are!” I chirped happily.

  Dad turned the key in the ignition and swallowed. “My daughter asked you to be ready rather early, I’m afraid. We’ll probably be among the first ones there.”

  “That’s fine. I can believe that of Alice because she’s never late to class, either.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Dad. I beamed at Dad, but he still wouldn’t look at me. “I hope her schoolwork is as good as her punctuality,” he added.

  “Good and getting better,” said my teacher.

  I beamed again. I felt like the Cheshire cat. And then it happened.

  “You have a wonderful store,” Miss Summers said.

  Dad looked surprised. I saw him glance at her in his rearview mirror. “The Melody Inn?”

  There was a pause. “Of course.”

  “So you’ve been in it, then! Yes, it is a good store. I’m so glad you like it.”

  There was no other sound from the backseat, and I knew I’d goofed by not telling Dad earlier. Miss Summers had believed me when I’d said that Dad and I were inviting her. She probably figured Dad had seen her in the store, found out more about her, and then suggested we invite her to go with us. Now she knew that the invitation was only from me.

  I closed my eyes. Nobody spoke much again all the way to the church. Dad couldn’t figure out what was wrong, but he knew something was bothering Miss Summers. I knew they were going to hate each other. I knew they were going to hate me. This was going to be a terrible afternoon, and Miss Summers would want to be taken home as soon as possible after the concert was over.

  We all climbed out in the parking lot, and no one was smiling. I couldn’t stand it any longer and flattened myself against the side of the car.

  “It’s my fault!” I cried. “Miss Summers, I invited you because you said you liked Mozart, and then I realized we didn’t have an extra ticket and tried, but they were all sold out, and I was going to be sick at the last minute so you could use mine, but Lester’s going with his girlfriend. Please don’t be angry. I just wanted you to come, and I think Dad’s glad you’re here even though he didn’t know it.”

  Dad looked more like a cooked lobster this time than a shrimp. His face was almost as red as his tie. Suddenly Miss Summers threw back her head and laughed. She put one arm around me and laughed some more. Then Dad started to smile, little chuckles coming from his throat, and finally we were all smiling.

  “Alice,” my teacher said, “this is exactly the kind of thing I would have done when I was your age.” She looked at Dad. “I wondered why you looked so surprised when I answered the door. You probably thought I was going to be a young friend of your daughter’s.”

  “No, he thought you were going to be an old lady,” I said.

  Now Dad was laughing, and he grabbed an arm of each of us and started for the building. “The important thing, Miss Summers, is that you’re here,” he said.

  “Please call me Sylvia, Ben.”

  “Sylvia,” he said, and we went inside.

  It was easy after that. Now that things were out in the open, nobody had to pretend. We laughed again when we got inside and saw that no one was there yet but the orchestra. I wanted to take seats in the very first row of the singers’ section, but Dad decided that was a little too close, so we got third row instead, right in the middle, about where the tenors and altos would meet.
Dad went in first to save a seat for Lester, my teacher followed him, then I came last to save a seat for Crystal. That’s just how I wanted it. I was still afraid to sit too close to Dad.

  By 2:45, the singers’ section began filling up fast. When Lester and Crystal came in, I waved.

  “Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . ,” Crystal kept saying as she made her way into our row from the other end, Lester behind her. “Merry Christmas, Alice.” She smiled when she sat down on the other side of me, meaning that she was delighted that she, not Marilyn, had Lester for the day, and maybe we’d be sisters-in-law after all.

  “Merry Christmas,” I told her. What I didn’t tell her was that Lester was spending Christmas Eve with Marilyn. He’d already told me.

  Lester sat down on the other side of Dad, then leaned forward to see if Crystal was settled in okay, and suddenly his lips fell apart and he positively stared.

  “Miss Summers, this is my son, Lester, and his friend Crystal Harkins,” said Dad.

  Lester and Miss Summers shook hands across Dad’s lap, Lester still gawking at my teacher.

  When everybody had settled in and Dad and Miss Summers were talking again, I heard somebody go “Pssst!” and looked around behind my teacher. Lester was leaning way back in his chair.

  “Who is she?” he mouthed.

  I smiled sweetly. “Sylvia,” I whispered, and faced forward again, folding my hands on my purse.

  As last-minute singers took their seats, I could catch little snatches of conversation between Dad and my teacher:

  “. . . when Alice was five.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry . . .”

  “. . . doing okay. I think we’ll make it. How about you? You teach, but you’re a musician, too?”

  “. . . the piano. I love your selection of sheet music.”