Finding Alice

by Melody Carlson

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  “That’s Phil. I’m Lane.”

  “Where you guys headed?”

  “Salem.”

  “But I thought we were going north.”

  “You’re turned around, sister.”

  “H’m.” Why should I be surprised?

  “What’s in Salem?” I ask.

  “Peace rally.”

  “Huh?”

  “Want to come?”

  I consider this. “Sure. Why not.”

  He laughs. “All right! A new recruit.”

  “So what are you guys protesting?”

  “We’re not protesting. We’re advocating peace.”

  “Cool.”

  “This whole Middle East thing is getting way out of hand.”

  I nod, as if I’ve been paying attention to world events.

  “We got to make the Senate understand we’re not just playing around here. We’re expecting like two, maybe three thousand folks to show up.”

  “Wow. That should make an impression.”

  “That’s our goal.”

  “What’s going on up here?” asks Phil as he sleepily drapes himself over the back of my seat. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Alice.”

  “Cool. Where you from, Alice?” he asks. I smell the mix of stale cigarette smoke and beer on his breath.

  I consider my answer. I’m guessing these guys can be trusted, but then you never know. “Portland,” I finally say. “How about you guys?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Cool.”

  “What’re you doing down here?” asks Lane.

  “Just visiting.” I imagine myself telling them that I escaped from the nut house, and part of me wants to tell them, but a more careful part says don’t. And so I keep it to myself.

  Then Lane begins to exit the freeway.

  “Why are you exiting?” I ask, a tinge of fear creeping down my spine. Suddenly I imagine all sorts of horrible things with these two strange guys I’ve never met before, things far worse than the Queen’s Prison at Forest Hills.

  “We got to pick up some others,” he says as he pulls off the freeway and turns down a dark side road.

  “Others?” I hear a slight tremor in my voice.

  “Yeah, don’t freak,” says Phil. “We’re not like going to drag you out into the sticks and hurt you or anything. There’s just this commune out here, and we need to give some folks a ride is all.”

  I am a bit relieved but still shaky, and I’m not sure I can believe him.

  “What do you do, Alice?” asks Lane. I get the sense he’s trying to calm me, and I wonder how he knows I’m feeling pretty scared. Or maybe he wants me to be scared.

  “I’m a student.” I consider this, then add, “Or I used to be.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, we all used to be.”

  “Right on,” says Phil. “The used-to-be’s.”

  “Do you work or anything now?” asks Lane.

  “Not really. I’m not really sure what I’m doing, you know.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.” Lane is driving down a bumpy road now. I hold on to the door and consider jumping out. It’s pitch-black out here, and I think I can get away if I don’t break any bones when I leap.

  “Want a beer?”

  “No. Actually, I think I’d like to get out.”

  “Out?” Lane sounds surprised. “You mean you want to get out here? We’re still a few miles from the commune. I don’t think there’s much of anything out here.”

  “Yeah, but I, uh …”

  “Look, Alice,” says Phil. “I can see why you’re nervous, but we’re really not going to hurt you or anything.”

  “Yeah,” adds Lane. “It probably looks weird though. I’m sorry about that.”

  For some reason I think maybe they’re telling the truth. “Well, you guys, I’ll be straight with you, okay?”

  Lane turns and looks at me as if he thinks maybe I’m going to pull out a gun or something. This almost makes me laugh. Almost. “You see, I just got out of the loony bin, you know, the nut house. I’m really not crazy, but that whole ordeal sort of made me come unglued, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah,” says Phil. “I can see why you’d be nervous. But really, we’re just ordinary guys out trying to change the world, you know?”

  “Yeah, I believe you.” And mostly I do. However, a small part of me is still suspicious.

  Finally Lane turns the van toward what appears to be a run-down farm. I see lights on in the house, and back a ways is a barn. There is a variety of decrepit vehicles parked here and there, and several dogs run up and bark at us as we pull in front of the house.

  “Here we are,” he announces as he turns off the engine. “Just in time for dinner too.”

  So we climb out, and feeling relieved, I follow these two guys up the front porch steps. Some pumpkins and cornstalks stand guard in a corner, and I am surprised to remember it’s still autumn. It seems as if months have passed since all this started and it should be springtime or summer by now.

  Soon we are seated at a big wooden table with a bunch of others eating some kind of bean soup and homemade bread. Even though it’s not much, it tastes better than the institutional food I’ve grown accustomed to lately.

  “Are you from Seattle too?” asks the girl next to me. I think her name is Cammie, but I can’t remember for sure. I’m guessing she’s about my age, but she has a baby balanced on one knee.

  “No, Portland.” I smile at the baby. “What’s his name?”

  “It’s a she.” She grins. “She just doesn’t have much hair yet. Her name is Poppy.”

  The guy across from us grins. “Cammie may have named her Poppy, but we call her Poopy most of the time. She usually needs a diaper change.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” says Cammie as if she’s not amused.

  The girl with cherry red hair and a ring in her nose refills my soup bowl, and I thank her. The room is warm and noisy, and I’m suddenly very sleepy.

  Cammie gently nudges me with her elbow. “So, are you a regular?” she asks in a quiet voice.

  “Huh?”

  “You know, at the rallies?” She glances around the table, and it seems everyone else is engaged in fairly loud and animated conversations about everything from food labeling to whether terrorists are about to attack.

  Cammie lowers her voice and continues. “I’m just not sure if I should go or not. I mean with Poppy. Do you think it’s okay for babies?”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t really know. This is a first for me, too.”

  She nods, then looks down at her baby and strokes her pale wisps of hair. I can tell she really loves her child. I think I’m going to cry, but that seems silly. Suddenly I want to tell her that she and Poppy should stay home, but I have no idea why I think this, and so I say nothing.

  After dinner the whole group piles into the van and another old truck, the only one on the farm that actually works. I think there are a dozen of us in the van, packed in like sardines, but I may be exaggerating. Their plan, I have surmised, is to camp at the capitol tonight so we’ll be ready to march first thing in the morning. I sit next to Cammie and her baby. I try to help but don’t really know much about babies. I find that I’m useless when Poppy begins to cry. In fact, her crying aggravates me, and I am reminded of the Duchess’s crying baby again, and I begin to imagine that Poppy is really a pig baby, and this bothers me a lot.

  It’s not long before we arrive, but it’s getting late, and it appears that most of the campers are settled in. The guys begin to toss out a bunch of tents, sleeping bags, blankets, and other bedding from the back of the pickup.

  “You girls and the baby can sleep in the van if you like,” offers Lane. As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure I want to sleep with that noisy baby.

  “Come on,” urges Cammie as she hands me Poppy. “I’ll go get us some blankets and stuff.”

  I jiggle Poppy, and she suddenly quiets down, and I begin to think that
perhaps it won’t be so bad after all. It is pretty cold outside, as if it might even rain before the night is over. Cammie and I climb into the van and are soon joined by another girl from the commune. Her name is Feather, and she has a squeaky voice. I suspect, from her constant chatter, that she’s rather flighty, which seems to fit with her name. Perhaps she’s simply excited because she hasn’t been off the farm for a few months.

  We finally get the bedding arranged, and Poppy is fairly quiet. A mixture of exhaustion and nervousness washes over me. I remember this sensation from before, back when I was just moving into my apartment. It’s as if I’m so tired I can’t think, and yet I can’t stop myself from thinking either. My brain is running about three hundred miles an hour on empty. Amazingly I find myself longing for a sleep med, which just makes me angry.

  “I’m going back out there,” Feather announces only minutes after we’ve settled down to sleep. “I need to use the can.”

  It’s a neurotic night of disturbing noises. The van is cramped and damp. The insides of the windows are dripping with humidity, and the air is foul and stinky. I suspect Poppy is being poopy. It seems that Feather comes and goes all night long, and the pig baby is constantly squealing to be fed. Cammie breast-feeds her but actually manages to sleep for what seems like twenty minutes while Poppy wails at the top of her lungs. I begin to suspect Cammie is wearing earplugs.

  I can relate to the wild Duchess now, for it’s all I can do not to grab the pig baby and toss her right out the window. Finally I reach my limit, and fearing that I might perform such a feat, I get up and go outside.

  I can tell by the smoky gray of the sky that morning isn’t too far off, but it is cold and damp outside, and I wish I had a heavier coat or had thought to bring a blanket with me. I decide to run around to warm myself. I pretend I am a jogger out for my early morning exercise. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to be that kind of person, one who gets up early with a clear head and jogs just for health’s sake. I jog all around the capitol. I am amazed at all the strange vehicles parked about and all the campers. It looks like a refugee camp.

  As I’m rounding the east side, the sun begins to come up, glinting off the gold statue on top of the building, and I’m utterly amazed at the beauty. I just stop and stare. It is so spectacular that I am certain I must be looking at God. I believe he is talking to me and gently reassuring me that everything is going to be all right. It only lasts a moment, but it feels real. I think it’s going to be a good day.

  chapter THIRTEEN

  The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

  It’s clear that I’m in way over my head with these peace demonstrators. First of all, I must admit that I’ve managed to keep myself pitifully ill informed about world affairs. I fear I’ve been leading a rather self-centered life, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. Especially since I find this whole protest to be stressful. At first I was somewhat amused, but now I am sick and tired of the continuous noise. People constantly bang on pots and pans or chant and shout. Anything to get attention. This whole business is starting to make my head split, and I’m afraid I might start screaming like the madwoman that people like Dr. Thornton believe me to be. Not that anyone would notice. Perhaps the disturbing part of all this is that I’m beginning to believe Dr. Thornton might have been right about me after all. Not that I plan to go back there. I think I would rather die.

  The peace rally started out quietly enough. Early this morning we marched toward the capitol in a peaceful procession. I walked beside Cammie, and we took turns carrying Poppy. We even got filmed by Channel 6 News, which worried me a little at first, but then I reminded myself that my mom and her church friends don’t own televisions. During this march we sang some of the old sixties and seventies songs like “What the World Needs Now” and “Give Peace a Chance,” and it was all pretty cool. I almost felt like I belonged to something.

  After that, we gathered in front of the capitol, and several people gave deeply moving speeches about the atrocities of war and why we need peace so desperately. I clapped and cheered with the best of them. But as the afternoon progressed, it seemed to me that things got increasingly out of hand. It began simply enough. Someone started a fire in a trash barrel, and people were warming their hands over it. Then some guy got all excited and kicked over the flaming barrel, and it rolled into a crowd of people, and everyone started jumping and screaming as if they were being killed. Pretty soon people settled down again and got back to their pounding and shouting, but it seemed to me that the intensity had been ratcheted up a notch or two.

  Now I am getting this feeling that something is going to happen before the day is over. Something bad. I can feel it in my skin—this creepy-crawly sensation, and I just want to get out of here. But I don’t know where to go. I’m not familiar with Salem, and I’m thinking if I could just get myself back up to Portland, back to my old apartment, everything would be okay. Phil and Lane promised to drop me off on their way back to Seattle, but that won’t be until tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know if I can wait that long.

  So I am pacing, pacing, pacing on the perimeters of the boisterous crowd. I nervously glance at the group of protesters from time to time, trying to figure out what’s going on, but it’s as if I’m submerged under water. Everything is blurry, and I can barely move—like I’m in slow motion. My arms and legs feel weird, as though they’re not attached to the rest of me, and this tingling sensation is buzzing through my brain. I see the policemen, and I know they’ve been around all day, but suddenly they are growing bigger than life. I notice their helmets and vests have become very imposing, and they appear to be agitated. As if they’re impatient for something to happen. Like me, they are pacing too.

  “Just go home,” I keep telling myself. “Go home.” I think I am saying this in my head, but when a woman in a long denim jumper comes up and asks me if I’m okay, I realize I have been speaking out loud.

  “I’m just nervous,” I tell her. She is looking at me closely now. I think she is suspicious, but I’m not sure why. Then I see the gold cross hanging around her neck, and I am sure that she’s been sent here by my mom or Mrs. Knoll or maybe even Pastor John. I begin to move away from her, but it seems she is following me.

  “Leave me alone,” I tell her.

  “Do you need something to eat?” she calls after me.

  “No!” I yell as I break into a run. “Just leave me alone.” I run until I reach the van and am relieved to find it’s unlocked. I climb inside and bury myself in the damp, smelly blankets. I haven’t eaten anything besides a sweet roll and several cups of coffee today, and that’s only because it was free. Someone from the capitol brought these things out as a “goodwill gesture” this morning. Now I am worried they may have put something into the food. I’m not even sure why I ate it, probably because Cammie did, and I thought she knew what she was doing. Why am I so stupid?

  After apparently falling asleep, I open my eyes, and it is dark. I get out of the van and hear the chanting and pot banging going even louder than before. I wonder if they will ever stop. I wander toward the protest area with my hands pressed against my ears. I am curious what’s going on, but the noise is splintering my mind. I wonder if they’ve had their candlelight vigil yet. Feather said that it’s usually the last thing on the agenda but that it’s very beautiful, and they sing some good songs. I look around, but I don’t see any candles, and even with my hands pressed against my ears, I can still hear the noise.

  I have just reached the edge of the crowd and feel very much like an outsider. It’s as if I have no idea why I’m here or what’s going on. I begin to imagine it’s a religious gathering of some sort. Several fires are burning in trash barrels now, and they send orange-and-red flames into the darkness. The smoke is illuminated by the street lamps, casting an eerie yellow light on the crowd.

  I watch with a mixture of fascination and horror, standing on the edge of hell, just looking on. The crowd quiets down now, and someone is stepping up to
the podium. He taps the mike and prepares to speak. He has long dark hair and a full beard, and suddenly I am certain he is Satan. He is talking now, but his words are getting jumbled as they pass over the heads of the crowd. I know without doubt that he is speaking to me, but I can’t understand him. I think he is using a foreign language. Hellish perhaps.

  He points and gestures, and I am certain he is telling his servants to bring me up there, up to the front where he will humiliate me and have me thrown into the pit of burning flames—the eternal fire that never goes out. I take a step backward, away from him. My heart thunders in my chest. It is even louder than the clanging pots and pans, and I am sure everyone else can hear it too.

  Suddenly all is chaos. Things are thrown, and people are running in all directions. I have no idea what has happened, but I am sure I am the cause. I try to run, but my legs won’t move. My head is throbbing, and I begin to cry as I’m swept into the crowd. I close my eyes as I sink into the tide of arms and bodies running and jostling around me. I know that when I wake up, I will be burning in the fiery pit. My flesh will be melting away from my bones, and I will be in very serious pain. There seems to be nothing I can do to stop this evil thing. I have no resistance left in me, for I am very, very tired. So I simply give in to it.

  chapter FOURTEEN

  The Mock Turtle’s Story

  When I come to, I am stretched out on a paper-covered bed, and I am certain I am back at Forest Hills, probably about to be sent to the Queen’s Prison again. But here’s what’s weird: I am so relieved.

  “How are you doing there?” asks a woman with a stethoscope around her neck. Instead of the regular white nurse’s uniform, she is wearing a purple sweater and brown corduroy pants.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m a volunteer nurse.” She smiles.

  “Where am I?”

  “This is a free clinic that St. Luke’s Hospital set up for the rally.”

  I frown. “Am I still in Salem?”

  She nods. “You took a blow to the head during the riot.”