Mad Love

  “Alice?” The reverend had hobbled across the foyer. He took my arm. “You’re mumbling to yourself. Clearly you are in need of food.”

  “I need to go to Neighborhood Bagels.”

  “Bagels? Nonsense. Why would anyone choose bagels over chow mein?” Though weak in the knees, the reverend’s grip was still as strong as a young man’s and before I could explain, I was standing next to a table set for Wednesday lunch.

  A clean, cheerful place, the reverend’s apartment, but that had not always been so. There was a time when I didn’t want to go in there because it smelled disgusting. Those were the months when he’d almost given up on life. Fortunately, someone had come along and had set things right.

  I was ten years old when Mrs. Ruttles had her fatal heart attack. My mother held my hand when we stepped into the sterilized hospital room, which was sickly sweet with the scent of get-well bouquets. The reverend sat beside the bed, his head bowed. A machine stood nearby, bleeping with each worn-out beat of Mrs. Ruttles’s heart. I watched the screen bleep and flash, bleep and flash—life itself reduced to an annoying noise.

  “Is there anyone you want me to say hello to in heaven?” Mrs. Ruttles asked when my mother coaxed me toward the bed. The dying woman’s eyes, once bright green, had faded to a mossy gray. Mrs. Ruttles, her voice barely a whisper, repeated the question.

  “Lulu,” I whispered back.

  The reverend raised his head. “Lulu?”

  “The dog we had when Alice was very little,” my mother explained.

  “My dear, dogs do not go to heaven,” Mrs. Ruttles said, closing her eyes. “Pick someone else.” Then she gasped for air.

  My stomach clenched. I ran from the room with its poisonous stench and torturous noise, where death waited in the corner, ready to pounce. My mother found me outside and we sat on a bench beneath a broad oak. “Of course dogs go to heaven,” she said, holding my trembling hands. “Don’t you let anyone tell you differently. In fact …” She smiled cherry red at me. “Dogs run heaven.”

  Following Mrs. Ruttles’s death, it came as no surprise that the reverend did not take well to living alone. The church ladies did their best, but after a year had passed they eventually stopped bringing salmon loaves and Jell-O salads. Grief sickened the reverend and he retired from his church. Day after day he shuffled to the mailbox in the same sweatpants, the sour odor of unwashed feet trailing behind.

  “Enough is enough,” my mother said, and she placed an ad for a roommate. The ad went something like this:

  Older, male roommate wanted for older, retired reverend. Must be quiet, clean, and have conservative values. Good references necessary and domestic skills appreciated.

  Archibald Wattles, never Archie, was not what anyone had in mind when they pictured the perfect roommate for the reverend. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Once a neighborhood of affordable rents and retired couples, Capitol Hill had slowly become the gay center of Seattle. When Archibald, a legal secretary, stepped into the foyer in his perfectly creased slacks, polished loafers, and blow-dried hair, my mother whispered to Mrs. Bobot, “This should be interesting.”

  The reverend was asleep on the couch in a stained undershirt and sweatpants. “Poor fellow,” Archibald said in a soft voice. He asked about the rent while collecting strewn socks and underwear. He asked me about school while beginning a wash load. While he and my mother discussed the lack of available men, he loaded up the dishwasher. While he and Mrs. Bobot discussed the benefits of using one’s imagination while cooking, he whipped up a pot of cream of potato and onion soup from the meager ingredients in the reverend’s pantry. The scent of the soup woke the reverend, who stumbled to the kitchen table and ate like a stray dog.

  “Is this your wife?” Archibald asked, holding up a small, framed photo.

  “Yes,” Reverend Ruttles replied, wiping away tears. “She took such good care of me. I’m lost without her.”

  “My partner, Ben, died last year,” Archibald said, wiping tears from his own eyes. “I’m lost without him.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yes. My boyfriend.”

  My mother, Mrs. Bobot, and I stood quietly in the corner, watching as Reverend Ruttles absorbed Archibald’s words. My mother wrapped her arm around my shoulder as we waited for the reverend’s reaction. The silence felt endless. Then, soupspoon in hand, the reverend said, “This is the most delicious soup I’ve ever tasted.”

  Archibald moved in the very next day, along with his cat, Oscar. Soon after, the sound of vacuuming and bursts of Lemon Pledge filled the morning air. On Sunday nights, the reverend’s apartment once again smelled like pot roast. Within a few months he was back on his feet, attending church and his community meetings, and greeting everyone with his usual, “Praise the Lord, what a glorious day.”

  And so it was, on that Wednesday at lunchtime, that the reverend gently pushed me into a chair. “Wonton?” Archibald asked, holding out a platter.

  My mind still raced with Errol. The faster I got through lunch, the faster I could get out there and find him. I heaped food onto my plate. “Thanks.”

  “Can you believe this heat wave?” Archibald asked.

  “Mmmmph.” My mouth was already full.

  “Don’t eat so fast,” Reverend Ruttles said. “You’ll get acid reflux.”

  I grabbed another wonton. “I’ve got something to do,” I said between doughy bites. A jittery current ran through my body as if I’d had too much coffee. Is it normal to be annoyed by a guy one day and yearn for him the next? I could barely remember a time when I hadn’t felt the yearning, which seemed as much a part of me as the blood flowing through my veins.

  “What do you have to do?” Archibald asked, smoothing the tablecloth.

  “Just stuff.” I scratched my bandaged spot, then plunged my chopsticks into some chow mein. What did Errol look like under that hood? Was his hair long or short, straight or curly?

  “We can help,” Archibald said.

  “You can?” A clump of noodles slid off my chopsticks. “Do you know Errol?”

  “Who?” Archibald asked. He’d taken to wearing Hawaiian shirts during the heat wave. That day’s shirt was covered with an orange bird-of-paradise print. “Did you say Errol?”

  I chewed like a gerbil. “Uh-huh. Hey, do you have clam juice? I’m thirsty.”

  The reverend sat back in his chair. “Did you say you want clam juice?”

  “Um …” I screwed up my face. Do I actually want clam juice? Errol drank clam juice. “Yes, I do. Clam juice. Craig’s Clam Juice would be nice.”

  “Sorry. Don’t have any. But we have tea. How about some tea?”

  “No, thanks.” I snagged another noodle clump. It would be rude not to have any clam juice for Errol when he came to see me. I wanted to have all his favorite things, whatever they were.

  Errol, Errol, Errol, Errol, Errol, Errol, Errol.

  I was about to take a bite when someone at the table said my name. “Yes?” I answered.

  The reverend looked up. He’d been struggling with a piece of celery, trying to trap it between the smooth wooden sticks. “Are you speaking to me?”

  “You just said my name. You said Alice.”

  The reverend set his chopsticks aside and stabbed the celery with a fork. “I didn’t say Alice.”

  “Nor did I,” Archibald said.

  “Oh.” Having eaten as much as I could, I pushed my bowl aside. “I need to go,” I said, wiping my mouth on a crisply ironed napkin.

  Alice.

  “Yes?”

  “What?” the reverend asked.

  “You just said my name again.”

  The reverend shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  “Nor did I,” said Archibald.

  Alice. Find me, Alice.

  Pressing my palms on the table’s edge, I leaned forward. “Listen. Someone just said, ‘Find me, Alice.’ ”

  Reverend Ruttles and Archibald leaned forward and tilted their heads. For
a few moments, we sat in silence. Then I heard:

  Alice, find me, Alice.

  Neither Archibald’s nor the reverend’s lips had moved. “There it is again,” I said, jumping to my feet. My bowl wobbled. Where was it coming from? It was a man’s voice, distant but clear, but not just any man’s voice. I recognized it from Neighborhood Bagels and from Elliott Bay Books. Errol’s voice was calling to me, telling me to find him.

  Archibald and the reverend shared a long look. I knew that look. I’d exchanged it many times with Mrs. Bobot when my mother had spun into one of her moods.

  My hands dropped to my sides and I stood very still. My gaze darted between the two men as they watched me, worry deepening the creases in their faces. Even Oscar the cat, who lay in the fourth chair, stared at me with unblinking green eyes.

  Find me. Find me. Find me.

  Again, no one’s lips had moved. No one had flinched. Only I had heard the voice.

  A shiver ran down my spine.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d thought I might be losing my mind. There’d been that time on the bus, last year, when a soft buttery glow had floated around a woman’s head. And the year before that there’d been a man carrying flowers, streaks of watery blue radiating from him. On both occasions I’d turned away, refusing to acknowledge the visions. As a little girl I’d thought that the colors and sparkles that danced around my mother were real. Of course they were simply the result of an overactive imagination. Illusions. Nothing more, I’d often told myself. Imagination, not madness.

  But never, never ever, had I heard voices.

  Find me. Find me. Find me.

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” I announced.

  Archibald reached out a hand. “Wait, Alice. You seem so tired. We can help you with whatever you need to do. We love helping you.”

  “Yes, yes,” Reverend Ruttles said. “We love helping you.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t need help.” I shuffled in place to hide my trembling legs.

  “How about we open our fortune cookies?” The reverend cracked his. “Oh, look at that. ‘Love thy neighbor.’ Isn’t that nice?”

  “Thanks for lunch,” I said.

  I fled the worried eyes, the serious expressions. Once inside my apartment, I leaned against the bolted door and looked down the hallway. The walls pressed in.

  I’d tell Archibald and the reverend that I’d been tired, that the voice had been music playing from the street. But even as I struggled to find a rational excuse, to keep my head above the waters that I feared, the voice threatened to pull me under.

  It had followed me into the apartment and had grown louder. I tried to shut it out by putting my fingers in my ears. Why was Errol’s voice in my head? Why was this happening?

  Find me. Find me. Find me.

  On that day, it wasn’t loneliness that waited to pounce on me. Instead, terror sped toward me, rolling down the hallway like a tsunami, closer and closer until it swept me into its dizzying turbulence. I sank to the floor. No, no, no, no, no. Please, no.

  In those articles about mental illness, the ones that mentioned genetic predisposition, hearing voices was a bad sign. A real bad sign.

  My deepest fear had come true. I was losing my mind, just like my mother.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, my arms frozen around my knees. But it was Mrs. Bobot’s voice that broke through the trance.

  “Alice, let me in this minute! Let me in or I’ll go upstairs and get my key.”

  Slowly I stood, oddly disconnected from my body—like the time when Beau, a boy from Welmer Boys Academy, had given me that can of beer at the winter dance. When I unbolted the door, Mrs. Bobot rushed in, her face contorted with motherly worry.

  “Realm just told me that you were struck by lightning. Why didn’t you call me? Someone should have told me.” She ran her hands over my head and neck. “What happened? How do you feel?”

  I pushed the frantic hands away. “I’m fine.”

  Errol’s voice sang in my ears. Find me. Find me. Find me.

  Mrs. Bobot stepped back. “Did Realm make it up or did you get struck by lightning? Tell me!”

  The memory was buried deep but I could see its edges—a stack of library books, two freckles on a cheek, and then the sun-drenched sky. I scratched the Band-Aid. Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something—something for my mother?

  “I don’t see how you could have been struck by lightning. There’s been no storm today.” Mrs. Bobot pressed her cheek to my forehead. “You’re not feverish, but you have a glassy look to your eyes. Why would Realm say such a thing? She nearly scared me to death. But you do look a bit pale. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  The building’s doorbell rang.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. It’s the new tenant.” Mrs. Bobot took my arm. “Come and meet her and then we’ll take your temperature, just to make sure.” While leading me to the front door, Mrs. Bobot said, “She’s very young and adorable. I think you’ll like her.”

  “Hi.” A young woman with short, strawberry red hair stood on our front stoop. A red heart-shaped gem sparkled at the corner of her right eye. Her hoop earrings swayed as she waved some papers. “Here it is. The rental agreement. All signed and everything.”

  “Hello, Velvet,” Mrs. Bobot said, taking the paperwork. “I’d like you to meet Alice. She’s the landlady’s daughter. We’re both watching over the place until her mother gets back from her trip overseas. I think you two will become fast friends.”

  “Hi.” Velvet batted false eyelashes at me. “Here’s the check for the first and last month’s rent and the cleaning deposit.”

  Mrs. Bobot took the check. “And here’s your key.” She handed it over. “Velvet’s only twenty years old and she owns her own business,” she told me. “Isn’t that impressive?”

  “I had some trust fund money,” Velvet said, smoothing her short skirt. The silver bangles on her arms made music when she moved. “And college wasn’t my thing, you know?”

  “College isn’t for everyone.” Mrs. Bobot examined the check. “Velvet’s Temple of Beauty. Is that the name of your salon?”

  “That’s it. Velvet isn’t my real name. My real name is Sara Smith but that’s so boring. I mean, can you get any more boring than that? Hey, you two can come to the salon anytime for free haircuts. We can do a whole makeover thing.” She reached out and touched my hair. “I’ve got this unbelievable conditioner that will fix those frizzies.” She leaned a bit closer. She smelled like grape Kool-Aid. “And we do eyebrow waxing too.”

  I might have been insulted, except that voice was still bouncing around. Find me. Find me. Find me. I stuck a finger in my ear and wiggled it, trying to loosen the voice, trying to set it free so it would fly out the front door and into someone else’s head.

  Mrs. Bobot cleared her throat. “So, when will you be moving in?”

  “I think he’s moving in first thing in the morning,” Velvet said. She pulled a compact from her purse and drew on some lip liner. “It’s so hot out. Everything sweats right off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Bobot said. “Did you say he?”

  “Uh-huh.” She pulled out some gloss and applied it. “Errol.”

  I pulled my finger from my ear and my body went rigid. “Errol?”

  “Yeah, my friend Errol. He’s the one who’s going to live here, not me. I already have a nice apartment. But he’s totally broke and he needs a place where he can rest and get better, so I told him that I’d rent an apartment for him. I’m lending him some of my extra furniture. I’ve inherited so much furniture I don’t know what to do with it. Well, guess I’d better be going.”

  “What?” Mrs. Bobot’s mouth fell open. “You’re not the tenant?”

  “I am, on paper.” She shrugged. “I mean, I’ll be paying the bills.”

  “Wait.” I held out a hand. “Your friend’s name is Errol?” It couldn’t be the same Errol. “Does he wear a black hoodie?”

  Velvet closed her
purse. “All the time. Hey, do you know him?”

  My heartbeat doubled. “Where is he?” I practically screamed. “I need to see him!”

  “Alice,” Mrs. Bobot said sternly, pulling my hands off Velvet’s tan shoulders. Guess I’d been shaking her too hard. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  “Please tell me where he is,” I said, scratching the Band-Aid like a dog scratching a flea. “He wants me to find him. I must find him. Please.” My voice cracked with desperation. “PLEASE!”

  Velvet’s blue-shadowed eyes widened until she looked like a fish. “Oh, I get it.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Mrs. Bobot said, stepping between us. She pressed her hand to my forehead. “She’s not well. Alice, come back into the apartment and lie down. I’m going to call the doctor.”

  “I’ll say she’s not well,” Velvet said. “Now I see why Errol wants to move here. They’re in love.”

  “What?” Mrs. Bobot gasped. “Alice, is this true?”

  “Of course it’s true. Look at her. She’s a mess.”

  In love? I had a welt on my chest, a voice in my head, and a raging yearning to see someone I barely knew. That wasn’t love, was it? And yet I needed to be near Errol. I HAD to be near him, in the same way that a magnet is drawn to a refrigerator, I felt his pull. “Where is he?” I pleaded.

  Velvet laughed. “Oh my God, you have it so bad. I used to be in love with him, ages ago. But it wore off. Now we’re just friends.”

  Mrs. Bobot waved the rental contract at me. “Alice, this is not going to happen. You can’t have a boy move in here. I’m going to tear up this check.”

  “NO!” I cried, grabbing it.

  “Hey, you already agreed and I signed that lease. And you gave me the key,” Velvet said. “Don’t worry. Girls fall in love with Errol all the time, believe me. But it never lasts. She’ll snap out of it eventually.” She walked down the front steps.

  Girls? What girls? Did Errol have other girlfriends?