Intensely Alice

  I could smell your shampoo on my towel, he e-mailed back.

  Gwen called that Saturday.

  “You still on for next Monday? For the week?” she asked.

  My mind spun like a pinball in a machine, and I finally remembered agreeing to work evenings in a Montgomery County soup kitchen.

  “I’m still up for it,” I said. “Pamela’s coming back tomorrow. Have you reached Liz?”

  “Yeah. I thought she might have run off by now with one of the Naked Carpenters, but I finally got her.”

  I laughed. “You’ve noticed too? Her thing for Keeno?”

  “She’s sure having fun, I’ll say that,” said Gwen.

  “You know what? Since Brian quit coming around so much, Keeno’s been hanging out with Mark, and Mark’s a different guy. Have you noticed? I mean, who knew he could play the harmonica? Who knew he’d get up the nerve to play in his underwear?”

  “What was he like before?” Gwen asked. She hadn’t really been part of our group until high school.

  “Sort of like … well, background music. A lot like his folks. Lived in Brian’s shadow. I hope he and Keeno make some big bucks with their carpenter gig. Listen, we need to get together and catch up. Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon—I’ll get Pam and Liz if I can—and we’ll just hang out on the porch.”

  “About three, maybe?” said Gwen.

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  Pamela was slightly tanned and, we noticed, letting her blond hair grow longer. She was stretched out on our chaise lounge, where Gwen, in a wicker chair, was also resting her feet. Pam’s pink toes against Gwen’s brown ones looked like little edibles on a dessert tray.

  “What year was it, Pam?” I asked lazily. “The year of the gum?”

  “What?” asked Pamela.

  “Your hair. You’re letting it grow. I’m trying to figure out how many years it took you to get over Brian putting gum in it—how long since you cut it off.”

  “Seventh grade,” put in Liz. “How could you forget?”

  “More than four years!” I said. “That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”

  “She should have cut off Brian’s hair instead,” said Gwen, giving Pamela’s toes a nudge.

  “I figured I’d start letting it grow this summer and see if I couldn’t get it shoulder length by the time I go to college. Speaking of which …” Pamela turned to me and set her glass down on the bamboo table. “How did your visit go with Patrick? How did the wedding go? Everything?”

  “Terrific!” I said. “And you wouldn’t believe the bachelorette party.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Pamela. “I’ve heard about those parties. You went to a bar, right? And Carol had to unzip a guy’s fly?”

  I spit my ice cube back into my glass and coughed. “No! Nothing like that. But we played Pin the Penis on the Guy.”

  “What?” said Liz.

  I laughed. “It was a takeoff on Pin the Tail on the Donkey. No guys involved. But she had to ask a man for a condom.”

  Liz was still looking wary. “She didn’t have to put it on him, did she?”

  “No. But she had to go in the men’s room and lecture the guys about leaving the toilet seat up.”

  “Tame!” Pamela insisted. “I’ve heard of brides-to-be having to straddle a customer and give him a lap dance.”

  Liz sank back in her chair. “If I ever get engaged, guys, just forget it, okay?”

  “Yeah? So what’s with you and Keeno?” Pamela asked. “I go away for one week and come back to hear about you and a Naked Carpenter and a musical saw!”

  “It’s a lot of fun!” said Liz, and explained about the Naked Cowboy in Times Square and Keeno and Mark wondering if they could pull off something like that here. “I don’t think they’re going to do it much longer, though,” she added. “Keeno says tips are falling off. Once people have seen them play in their underwear, they just smile and walk on by.”

  Gwen studied her. “But you like him.”

  “Keeno? Yeah, I like him, naked or not. We’ll see where it leads.” Liz was grinning.

  “Speaking of which … ,” Pamela said again, and turned once more to me. “What did you and Patrick do? Where all did you go?”

  “None of the touristy places,” I said. “We walked to the beach at the east end of Michigan Avenue—it’s almost like being at the ocean—sand and everything. Then we took a bus to the South Side and I saw his room. I took a shower and we did the campus. Met his friends at their favorite restaurant. Checked out the bookstore, the Reynolds Club, the library …”

  “Where did you sleep?” asked Liz.

  I told them about the three other roommates, the layout of Max P., and how I slept on the couch in their living area.

  Pamela, Gwen, and Elizabeth all groaned in disappointment.

  “And you two didn’t get together during the night?” asked Liz.

  “He had to get up early for class, and it was almost two when I got to bed,” I said.

  “Yeah, but … your one night at the university … ,” said Pamela.

  “The couch was pretty narrow,” I told them.

  Gwen was still mulling it over. “A girl … a guy … what’s one night without sleep?” She studied me intently.

  “Gwen, any one of those guys could have walked in on us,” I said, but my face gave me away.

  Gwen started to smile. “Then I’m going to suggest that possibly something went on between you and Patrick before you went to bed alone on the couch?”

  I could feel the heat rising in my neck, my cheeks, and knew they’d seen it.

  “Aha!” Pamela cried. “Look at her cheeks! Alice, if you ever tried to take a lie detector test, your face would give you away. What happened?”

  I could have told them everything. I could have told them about the midnight walk around campus, about Botany Pond and the secluded bench that knew our secret. But this was something that belonged to Patrick and me, not to be divided up and parceled out for inspection among friends, however close we were.

  I just smiled and leaned back in my chair. “Let’s just say it was a beautiful night in the neighborhood, and I spent some of it in Patrick’s arms.”

  “But … did you … ?” Liz asked, because we’d had this promise to tell each other when “it” happened.

  “No,” I said, and smiled again. “Subject closed.” Then, for something we could talk about, I told them about Doug Carpenter putting his hand on my knee on the plane.

  “Good for you, Alice!” Gwen said, when I told them how I’d embarrassed him. “Where did he go after he left your row?”

  “Who cares?” I said. “Maybe the only seat left was the john, and the attendant made him sit there the rest of the way to Chicago.”

  On Monday at four in the afternoon, Dad let me off work early, and Gwen picked up Pamela first, then Liz and me, and drove us to People Care in downtown Silver Spring.

  There was certainly nothing attractive about the building—the ground floor of a warehouse or something—but the volunteers who ran the soup kitchen had made it as welcoming as possible. There were blue-checkered curtains at the windows, which were barred from the outside, and a bouquet of artificial pansies on each long table. A big man—perhaps three hundred pounds—was setting up folding chairs, adding them to the assortment of wood chairs that already completed some of the tables.

  “This is William,” said the woman in charge—Mrs. Gladys, everyone called her. “He’s our right-hand man. He’s been helping out here for thirteen years, haven’t you, William?”

  The big man beamed. “You helped me, I help you. Simple as that,” he said, and continued whacking the legs of each chair and standing them up with military precision.

  There were nine volunteers to start—Mark and Keeno had said they’d come by later and help with cleanup. Mrs. Gladys assigned seven of us to help prepare the food; two others to set the tables and arrange the little trays of condiments needed for each table.

  Gwen
and Liz and I helped out in the kitchen, along with a guy named Austin—horn-rimmed glasses and dreadlocks; a smaller guy, Danny; and two girls. Shelley, the redhead, smiled continually; and Mavis, the tall, lean one, had a “let’s get going” attitude. As soon as Mrs. Gladys explained the menu and what needed to be done, Mavis was chopping up chunks of celery and dropping them in the food processor.

  Shelley and I set to work peeling the hardboiled eggs for the tuna salad, and the others added veggies and pasta to the soup.

  There was always soup, Mrs. Gladys explained. Even on the hottest days, many of the homeless wanted soup. She guessed it was because it helped fill them up, and if People Care ran out of the entrée, a double portion of soup might satisfy.

  “We appreciate you young people helping out,” she told us, stopping a moment to wipe the perspiration off her forehead, where her hairnet had released one gray curl. She had a round face, wide as a dinner plate, and violet eyes that seemed to belong to a younger person. “Last summer was the first year we put out a call for young folks to relieve our volunteers for a week, and we were so pleased with the result.”

  “It’s nice to be needed,” I said cheerfully. “Gwen here is the one who rounded us up, made us sign on the dotted line. Two more guys will be coming by later this evening, I hope, to help with cleanup.”

  “We’ll take whatever we can get,” Mrs. Gladys said.

  When Shelley and I finished peeling the eggs, I joined Gwen in layering the large rectangular pans for the bread pudding, the soup kitchen’s signature dish. A mixture of white bread, raisins, milk, vanilla, and eggs, it was baked in the oven and served warm. Once its vanilla scent filled the kitchen, it undoubtedly drifted out into the street from the air vents.

  The kitchen was hot, and the air-conditioning wasn’t the best. I made a mental note to come in a skirt and tank top the following night, not the jeans and polo shirt I’d put on this time. Mrs. Gladys explained that she tried to direct the airflow to the dining room itself after people arrived, as this was perhaps the only place some of them could get cool during a heat wave. As it was, she said many came with everything they owned on their backs, summer and winter, afraid to take it off for fear it would be stolen. No matter what the state of their clothing or their hygiene, only those high on drugs or alcohol were turned away, and William, at the door, saw to that.

  As it grew closer to opening time, we heard William say, “Y’all just wait now—just form me a nice straight line, and soon as Mrs. Gladys says she’s ready, I’ll let you in.”

  The men and women out on the sidewalk seemed to know the drill, and we heard only occasional murmurings, no protests, despite the heat. At last William moved his large body to let them pass. As I watched from the kitchen doorway, it seemed to me that many went directly to chairs they daily claimed as their own.

  As some of the others served the soup, Shelley and Mavis and I arranged the egg slices on the platters of tuna salad, then dotted them with ripe olives someone had donated that afternoon.

  “How did you hear about People Care?” Shelley asked me as we worked at the kitchen counter.

  “Gwen, my friend over there by the window, told us about it. Her church had asked for volunteers,” I explained.

  “I heard about it at our church too,” said Shelley. “I volunteer for lots of things.” She turned to Mavis. “Are you from Gwen’s church?”

  “No, I don’t go to church,” Mavis replied. “I read about it on a bulletin board at the library.”

  “Oh.” Shelley’s hands paused over the tuna salad, then continued dropping the olives in place. “Well, you’d be welcome anytime if you ever wanted to come to mine,” she said.

  “Not likely, but thanks,” Mavis told her. “I decided that a loooong time ago.”

  Mrs. Gladys took the platters we’d prepared and handed them to Austin and Danny to take to the dining room, gave us more to garnish, then went back to the stove to add peas to the soup.

  Shelley glanced sideways at Mavis. “I’m just curious … I hope you don’t mind my asking … but … what made you decide that? Not to go to church?”

  “I just have a lot of questions, I guess, that the church can’t answer. ‘Because the Bible says so’ was never enough for me.”

  “My church could answer them, I’ll bet,” said Shelley.

  Mavis smiled a little. “Well, I’m not a betting person but—” Just then she got a whiff of the pepper I had sprinkled on top of the tuna salad and sneezed.

  “God bless you,” said Shelley.

  “No, thanks,” said Mavis.

  Shelley looked uncertainly at the rest of us, but the kitchen was hot enough without getting into that at the moment.

  12

  Shelley’s Sermon

  One of our jobs at People Care was to smile a lot and make everyone feel welcome. Shelley was especially good at smiling, and because her red hair was on the wild side, she got lots of smiles in return.

  We watched from the kitchen doorway as Mrs. Gladys pointed out some of the “regulars”: Miss Ruth, who wore gloves when she ate to protect herself from germs; Gordon, who was recovering from a leg amputation and used a crutch; Wallace, who lived under a viaduct; Mrs. Strickler, who had been claiming for the past three years that her son would be visiting soon.

  Some of our diners were drug users; some were alcoholics; some had been conned out of their savings, crippled by illness, fired from their jobs, forsaken by family, or had such a run of bad luck that they were simply out of hope.

  As I passed from table to table pouring coffee for those who wanted it, more than a few of them thanked me politely.

  “Much appreciated. I’ll take me a second cup.”

  Some gave orders: “Fill it to the top,” a scowling man told me. “You never fill it to the top!”

  Some explained: “I have to have three sugars and one sugar substitute for my diabetes,” one woman told me, confused.

  And to each, Mrs. Gladys had instructed, we were to be polite and as accommodating and patient as possible, realizing that for some, a full cup of coffee was the only request they could expect to be granted, the wait staff the only people they could count on to be kind.

  Most nights, Mrs. Gladys told us, clients lined up to be handed a plate from the serving table. But on nights when there was an abundance of volunteers, she liked her men and women to be able to sit at a table and be served restaurant-style. Tonight was such a night, and we carried platters of tuna salad around, serving to the left of each plate, ladling soup out to those who asked for it, and distributing rolls from a basket.

  When all the seats had been taken, we heard William say at the door, “I’m sorry, now, but we don’t have any more room in there. Just wait a bit, and we’ll take you in, long as the food holds out.”

  And when one man’s voice rose in argument, William said, “Y’all just have to get here a little sooner, that’s what. Door opens at five o’clock, you know that, Dennis. Gotta get the legs movin’—git yourself over here.”

  We didn’t try to hurry anyone, but we did tell those who had obviously finished eating that others were waiting for a chair, and slowly the room began to empty. The oilcloth-covered tables were wiped clean, and more diners were led in.

  When all those in the second seating had been served, Mrs. Gladys said that half the volunteers could go out back for a break—the others would get a rest after everyone had gone, before cleanup began.

  There was an old loading dock behind the soup kitchen and low concrete walls on either side. The tall buildings along the alley channeled the air down our way, and I sat on one of the walls, leaning my head back to offer my face and throat to the breeze. I thought of Patrick and our walk along Lake Michigan.

  We talked a little about what else we’d done over the summer, and Mavis mentioned that in June she had gone to Ohio to help out a town that had been virtually flattened by a late spring tornado.

  “I saw that on TV!” Shelley said. “Like the plagues in
the Old Testament. Those people were poor already, and then there was a drought, then a fire in a warehouse, and then … the tornado. It’s hard to understand God’s plan sometimes, but there’s always a reason.”

  “What?” said Mavis. “God’s plan was to burn eleven men to death in that fire and kill two babies in the tornado?”

  Shelley was resolute. “God has the whole world in his hands, Mavis.”

  “Then he’s criminally insane,” Mavis said. “Personally, I don’t believe in God.”

  Shelley looked startled, and even Liz turned her head.

  “You can’t mean that,” said Shelley.

  “No offense, but I do.”

  “But you went to Ohio to help the tornado victims, you’re here volunteering at a soup kitchen … Why would you do these things if you don’t believe in God?”

  Mavis shrugged and smiled a little. “Because they need to be done. Because I want to help. Is that so strange?” She looked around at Liz and me.

  “I don’t think it’s strange,” I said.

  “But you could be at the beach or spending all day at the mall,” Shelley said.

  Mavis laughed this time. “I do those things, too, but this week I want to be here.”

  “You’re serving God, then, whether you know it or not,” Shelley told her.

  “If that makes you happy, then believe what you want, but I’m an atheist,” Mavis said.

  I’m not sure I’d ever met an atheist before—not a bona fide atheist who admitted it, I mean. Like Shelley, I guess I’d have to say that the last place I’d expect to find one was a soup kitchen serving the homeless, but then, why not?

  “I just don’t see how—,” Shelley began.

  “There’s lots of thing I don’t understand, but that’s not one of them,” said Mavis.

  Mrs. Gladys stuck her head out the kitchen doorway. “Ready for cleanup,” she called. “Let’s give the other volunteers a break.”

  We moved slowly back inside as Gwen and Pamela came out, fanning themselves, glad to exchange places with us on the wall. Austin and Danny followed with bags for the Dumpster. They had already cleaned the tables and scraped the plates. It was our job to wipe off the chairs and fold them up so that William could mop the floor.