Intensely Alice

  There was hesitant laughter around the room, and Carol looked quickly over at her mother, leaning forward as though trying to catch her eye. But her mom barreled on.

  “Now, I’m no prude,” Aunt Sally continued, and I saw Uncle Milt pat her hand, giving her the “sit down” signal, but Aunt Sally didn’t stop. “I just want Carol to know that while I never approved …”

  Oh no! I thought. Please, Aunt Sally. Don’t lecture her now about moving in with Larry last year.

  Lester saved the day. He interrupted, standing up at his own table and raising his glass: “Oh, I know that story, Sal, and I hope you’ll let me finish it for you, because after all these years I’ve just got to set the record straight.”

  Aunt Sally looked flustered, but Milt was tugging at her arm, persuading her to sit down, and Lester’s smile in her direction finally convinced her that things would be okay. She sat.

  I stared at my brother.

  “I think we all know what devoted parents Sally and Milt have been to Carol,” Les continued, “and though times are changing, some things are just too hard to accept. The night I invited Carol for a sleepover, I’ll admit, was over-the-top.”

  There were more giggles, and Aunt Sally looked at him in surprise.

  “I was eight years old,” Les said, and now the room rocked with laughter. When it quieted down, he continued: “Carol was twelve—Alice was only one, so she doesn’t count. The truth is that I wanted to watch a movie a friend had loaned me, but I didn’t want to watch it alone. I knew that if I told Mom or Dad what it was about, they wouldn’t let me see it at all. So I persuaded both sets of parents that Carol and I were going to play Monopoly, and we did, till about midnight. We were cousins, after all. But now, Aunt Sally, you deserve to know the truth. After everyone else had gone to bed, Carol and I watched Vampires of the Deep, not once, but twice, and neither of us got a wink of sleep the rest of the night.” More laughter. “To Sally and Milt and my parents, my apologies. To Carol and Larry, may you have more memorable nights than that by far!”

  The room erupted in laughter and applause, and I heard Aunt Sally say, both pleased and puzzled at the toast, “Why, I don’t remember that at all!”

  Carol looked gratefully over at Les, who was taking his seat again, and Dad was grinning too, and he gave Les the thumbs-up sign.

  Later, when the bride and groom were dancing again and people were moving about the room, talking with each other, I slipped over to Lester’s table and sat down on the empty chair next to him.

  “I never heard that story before, Les. Carol never mentioned it either.”

  Les glanced toward Aunt Sally, then back again. “That’s because it never happened,” he said, and grinned as he downed the last of his wine.

  8

  Max and the Med

  Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Swenson were off to Greece for their honeymoon, Les had flown back to Maryland, Dad and Sylvia were relaxing with Uncle Milt and Aunt Sally, and at 11:47 a.m., I stepped off a bus on Michigan Avenue across from Water Tower Place.

  The weather had grown sultry again, and I was wearing my cutoffs and a halter top, sunglasses and sneakers. I had my jeans and other essentials in the carry-on bag over my shoulder, and I hoped that Patrick would be on time and I wouldn’t be stranded in downtown Chicago.

  Just thinking about Patrick, though, made my throat feel tight with excitement. And there he was, sitting on a bench, a baseball cap tipped low over his forehead. A redhead, he’d always had to be careful about the sun, and his freckles got a shade darker in summer.

  When he saw me, he bounced up, smiling broadly.

  “What a coincidence!” he said. “I was just hoping somebody I knew would come along.” And he kissed me. Then he took my bag and slipped the strap over his own shoulder. “Man, it’s good to see you,” he said, smiling down at me and putting one arm around my waist. “Have any trouble getting down here?”

  “No. Uncle Milt offered to drive me, but his instructions seemed simple enough,” I said.

  “So, what do you want to do first? See the sights? Want to eat? To walk? What?”

  “I’m not especially hungry,” I told him. “Why don’t we just walk, and we can stop for something when you like. I’ve already seen downtown Chicago. Not everything, but a lot.”

  “Bet you haven’t been to the beach.”

  “Beach?”

  He turned me around and we started walking the other way. We must have been facing the lake, because there was more of a breeze now on our faces, and it felt good.

  Patrick leaned down as we walked, kissed me again, and then we walked on, both of us smiling, Patrick squinting against the sun. I felt absolutely exhilarated as we strolled past the fancy stores on Michigan Avenue along the Magnificent Mile, as it’s called. I probably couldn’t even afford a pair of socks from any of those places.

  “So how did the wedding go? Anything dramatic happen?” he asked.

  I told him about the bachelorette party, the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, and Lester’s quick save at the reception.

  Patrick laughed. “Leave it to Lester,” he said.

  “So how’s summer school? How many courses are you taking?”

  “Three, but they’re consecutive and very intense. The university doesn’t want you taking more than one at a time.”

  “What are they?”

  “I just finished Ancient Egyptian Language, Culture, and History. The next is American Law and Litigation, and the third is Introduction to the Civilizations of East Asia. This one deals with Japan. Tons of reading in all three, but they count toward my core requirements.”

  I tried to imagine spending my summer studying all that. “I don’t know how you do it, Patrick. I don’t even know why, but I’m glad you’re you,” I told him.

  “Me too,” said Patrick. “I’d hate to be anyone else.”

  The early-afternoon sun was hot, despite the breeze. The sky was opening up the closer we got to the lake, and after the next couple of blocks we entered an underpass. As we came out the other side, there it was: sand, water, sky, and people sunbathing all over the place, right along Lake Shore Drive. People in suits and ties holding briefcases on one side of the street; people in bikinis sitting on towels on the other.

  “Patrick, I love it!” I said.

  He held on to my arm as he balanced on one foot, removing one sneaker, then the other, and I did the same with mine. Our feet sank into the sand as we walked down to the water.

  “This is so wild!” I said, looking around. “Seagulls and sailboats in one direction, skyscrapers in another.”

  “Would you believe some people live in Chicago for years and never know the beach is here?” Patrick said.

  The water seemed icy cold to me—my toes hurt after only a few minutes, and there weren’t many swimmers. But we sloshed ankle-deep along the shore, enjoying the warmth of the sand when we detoured for a minute or two, then went back in again, lifting our faces and closing our eyes against the breeze.

  I nuzzled Patrick’s shoulder to let him know how happy I was, and he gave my waist a little tug, pulling me closer. Once, when he kissed me, we almost lost our balance and toppled into the water, but we laughed and righted ourselves in time.

  We found a pretzel stand and bought a couple to eat on a bench in the shade. For a while we just cuddled and watched three little kids chasing a seagull across the sand, like they really had a chance. Then we went in search of a drinking fountain and took turns squirting the water high over the rim while the other used it to rinse the sand from between our toes. Only half succeeding, we put our shoes back on.

  “What next?” I asked.

  “We’re going to take the six—the number six bus—back to Hyde Park. We’ll be within walking distance of Max P.,” Patrick said.

  “Who’s Max?”

  He laughed. “Max Palevsky Residential Commons, to be exact. It’s where they house all summer school students. Like a dorm. We’ll stow your bag and then go somep
lace for dinner.”

  Everything was an adventure with Patrick. The walk, the traffic, the lake, the gulls, the bus rolling block after block, mile after mile to Chicago’s South Side. I wondered if the other passengers were looking at us and thinking, A guy and his girlfriend or just, A guy and a friend?

  At some point Patrick rested his hand on my leg. “It’s hot,” he said. “No more sun for you until you lather up.”

  “The sun will be down in a few hours,” I said.

  “And that’s when the neighborhood really comes alive,” Patrick told me.

  I hoped I’d have a chance to clean up a little before we went to dinner. My feet were still sandy inside my sneakers. I wanted in the worst way to ask Patrick where I’d be sleeping, but I didn’t want to sound too eager.

  Max P. was a modern-looking building, not at all like the ivy-covered stone buildings that formed most of the University of Chicago campus. I signed the visitors’ list at the front desk, and as we went up the stairs to the second floor, I heard what sounded like a flute and violin practicing together from somewhere.

  Patrick unlocked the third door on the left, and we went into a small living room, sort of—a couple of chairs, a couch, a lamp… .

  There were three more doors in this room—one led to a bathroom and the others were for the bedrooms, with two narrow beds in each.

  He opened the door to the room he shared. A large guy with dark hair and thick eyebrows lay sprawled on his back on one of the beds. A notebook lay open, facedown, on his chest, and a copy of the Sunday Tribune was scattered on the floor. Patrick’s roommate barely opened his eyes when he saw us and closed them again, his lips half open as he slipped back into sleep.

  “Sorry,” Patrick told him, and then, to me, “This is my room and that’s Abe.” As we backed out, he whispered, “Migraines. He says he gets one after every exam, and it lasts for a day or two.”

  After he closed the door, I said, trying to sound casual, “Hey, Patrick, where am I staying tonight?”

  “A friend’s checking with some of the girls. She said she’d call.”

  “When will we know?” I asked.

  “Soon. You won’t have to sleep out on the steps, I promise.”

  That wasn’t what I was thinking about, and I wondered if Patrick could read my mind. He just reached down and kissed me—really kissed me. This was the first time we were truly alone together, and then he kissed me again. When he let me go a second time, he said, “You can clean up if you want. Kevin and Spence aren’t back yet.”

  While Patrick sat down with the Sun-Times, I went into the bathroom and locked the door. You could tell this was a guys’ bathroom. There were hair shavings in the sink and on the bar of soap. Damp towels were clumped together on the towel rack. Not all that different from girls’ bathrooms, I guess, except for the hair shavings.

  I undressed quickly and got in the shower. I didn’t know when the other two guys were coming back or when Abe might wake up. So I washed quickly, all but my hair, and just as I stepped out, I realized I didn’t have a towel.

  “Patrick?” I called. “Do you have a spare towel?”

  There was no answer.

  “Patrick?” I called again, putting my mouth to the door.

  Nothing.

  I unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “Patrick?”

  The living room was empty. Great! I locked the door again and studied the wet towels. There were only three of them, and all were wet and rumpled. Moldy-smelling, actually. There was no bath mat, only a dirty piece of a shag rug that needed washing.

  I stood on the rug and did a little drying dance, trying to shake off every drop of water that I could. I could tell I’d got a sunburn despite the sunscreen I’d put on before I’d left that morning. My arms and legs would soon be dry, but there were other parts of me that needed extra drying. I was tempted to wipe off with toilet paper, but there wasn’t much left of the roll. Even if the guys didn’t need it, I surely would.

  I was doing my shake-off dance again when I heard a door open and close, then Patrick’s voice outside the bathroom: “Hey, Alice? I brought you a clean towel. Stick out your hand.”

  Gratefully, I did, and I was finally dry enough to put on my bra and underwear, my good jeans, and a tank top. I luxuriated in the feel of clean toes without sand between them.

  “You’re looking great,” Patrick said when I came out at last. I knew I’d taken longer than I should when Abe came charging out of Patrick’s room and immediately took over the bathroom.

  “Sorry,” I said as he shut the door behind him. And to Patrick, “He looked angry.”

  “It’s the migraine,” Patrick said. “Now … you hungry?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “What do you crave?”

  “What I’d really like, Patrick, is to just be you for a day. Go where you’d go to eat on a Sunday night, do whatever you do.”

  He grinned. “Hey, you’re a cheap date. Okay, let’s go to the Med.”

  “What? Sounds like a clinic,” I said as he held the door open for me.

  “The Medici,” Patrick said. “My favorite hangout. A popular place back in the sixties, they say.”

  It was a beautiful night on campus. We walked with our arms around each other, hands in the other’s hip pocket. Every so often Patrick gave me an affectionate little hug, pulling me closer, and we’d kiss as we walked. And yet, we were anonymous too. There were so many people out enjoying the evening that no one paid any attention to us.

  Every time we made a turn, it seemed, there was a poster or a bulletin board promoting an organization or a lecture, a concert, a play. Being Sunday, there were notices about religious services and discussions, and I stopped to marvel at the diversity: Sacred Sites Field Trip to Hindu Temple of Greater Chicago; QueeReligions: Gay and Religious Identity Are Not Inherently Conflicted; Christian-Based Agriculture at Lamb of God Farm; Dogs, Zoomorphism, and the Sacred in Ancient India… .

  “Look at all these amazing things you can go to, Patrick,” I said. “How do students attend all this stuff and still find time to study?”

  “They don’t,” said Patrick. “I guess one of the first things you’re supposed to learn at college is to make choices.”

  The Medici was crowded and noisy, and the walls, the tables, the chairs were completely covered with graffiti.

  “Wow!” I said. “They don’t mind?”

  “Not really. Not unless you carve through the tables. And, of course, they never have to paint the place.”

  “Hey, Pat!” a girl called, and we looked to see three people waving to us from a corner table. Pat? Patrick is Pat here at the university?

  “Hey!” Patrick said. “How’s it going?”

  “Great. Sit down,” one of the guys said, and the other pulled out a chair for me. Patrick got a chair from a nearby table, and everyone squeezed over to make room.

  “We were all in soc together,” Patrick explained to me. “The Egyptian class. Alice, this is Fran, Adam, and John.”

  “Hi,” I said, and smiled around the table.

  “You a student here?” Adam asked.

  “No. I’m visiting from Maryland,” I answered.

  “Long way from home, aren’t you?” said Fran, and I could see her blue eyes analyzing the relationship. She wore no makeup and might have been more attractive if she had, but she dressed simply, her hair pulled up off the nape of her neck and held in place with a clip.

  “She wanted to get a taste of campus life, so I brought her here,” said Patrick. “What’s good tonight? We’re hungry.”

  “I’d try the grilled tuna steak or the Moroccan ragout,” said John.

  “But you’ve gotta get the raspberry lemonade,” said Fran, pointing to the word Himbeersaft on the menu.

  “Or the Mexicana hot chocolate,” said Adam.

  I told Patrick to order for me—I wanted to try whatever he liked best—and John motioned the waitress over. After she left, Adam turned to me. “W
here do you go to school? University of Maryland?”

  I was flattered but had to say, “I’m a senior in high school.”

  “Oh,” said Fran. “This your first visit to Chicago?”

  “No, I have relatives here. In fact, my cousin got married yesterday, and my family’s here for that. So I came over to see Patrick. We’ve known each other for a long time.” I wanted to get that said in case Fran had intentions regarding Patrick.

  Adam knew someone who went to Frostburg, John said he had a brother in Baltimore, and then the conversation turned to private schools versus state universities, the quality of professors for first-year students versus fourth-year, and the food at Bartlett Hall, the student cafeteria.

  “Well, the food here is fabulous,” I told Patrick as we sipped our drinks and shared a platter of onion rings. Fran and Adam, it turned out, were freshman students like Patrick, while John would be a second-year student come fall.

  The others finished their dessert and coffee, then excused themselves to go see a movie at Doc Films—one of John’s friends was running the projector. They invited us to come along, but Patrick said he wanted to show me the campus, so we said good night.

  “I’m glad to see that University of Chicago people take time out to have fun,” I told him.

  “Of course. What did you think?”

  “But you still seem to be studying twentyfour/seven… .”

  “Well, but when my third course is over in August, I’m going to spend some time in Wisconsin with my parents. Dad’s brother has a house on a lake, and Mom’s beginning to realize I’ll be away at school for most of the time from now on.”

  “I’ve been realizing that for a long time,” I said softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Ever since you said you were coming here to school. That’s especially why I wanted to see you this weekend.”

  “Want to commemorate it, then?” he asked.

  I guess I looked surprised. Did he mean … ? I smiled uncertainly. “How?”

  He pointed to the tabletop, which was etched all over with names and dates. I’m not sure if I was relieved or disappointed, but some of them were really funny: Nietzsche was here and Leave your appendix at Student Care. One of them read, I sold my car for Scav.