Finding Alice

by Melody Carlson

  “Look, Alice, if you’re not going to listen to me, I’m not going to keep talking to you.” Then she walks away.

  So for today I will ignore Amelia’s suggestion. We’ll see about tomorrow. The truth is, I don’t want go to that horrible place where the flesh will melt from my bones. Where the howling and gnashing of teeth never stop. Then I ask myself, Which is worse? To live like this or to die like that? I really don’t know. I don’t even know if all the things I’ve heard since childhood are true. Not too long ago I felt certain they weren’t. Now I’m not so sure. It’s those unknown answers alone that keep me affixed to this cold, damp bench.

  It’s as if I am stuck, just like that fly in the spider web. I am caught between two confusing worlds, yet belonging to neither. I am neither alive nor dead. Between here and there. Perhaps Amelia is right. Maybe I do need a bridge to take me across.

  I am a bridge.

  I turn around to see who said that, but no one is there, and I know it’s not Amelia’s voice. I sigh as I compare this voice to all the other voices in my life. It’s not like the voices that are always trying to destroy me. The unnamed voices that spew profanity at me and accuse me of all sorts of horrible, unspeakable things. And it doesn’t sound condemning like Pastor John’s voice or Dr. Thornton’s or even my mother’s when she is coming down on me. No, this one feels different. I sense no threatening tone in this voice. I don’t think it’s trying to harm me or even control me. But I have been tricked before.

  chapter SIXTEEN

  Tweedle Dweeb and Tweedle Dumb

  I sit on my bench so long that my hindquarters grow numb with cold. I stand up and move around, trying to decide what to do next. My mind seems to be running in circles that get only tighter and tighter, like a ball of yarn being pulled backward. I have no doubts that I am talking to myself as I pace back and forth in front of my bench, but I don’t care. I need to solve this problem.

  “Hey,” calls out a guy who is walking toward me along the path beside the river. I look up to see that there are two of them, or maybe I’m just seeing double. Two round orange blobs. I blink my eyes, then squint, but as they get closer, I realize there are indeed two of them. They are both wearing those puffy down-filled parkas that make them look like the Michelin tire man times two. Both parkas are this obnoxious shade of orange that’s a shocking contrast to the gray, watery scene of the Willamette River in November. I imagine that they are chubby twins, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but as they approach, I can see that their heights vary, and they look nothing alike. I also notice that their almost neon-colored jackets aren’t quite as vivid up close. I can see now that they’re streaked with the kind of dirt and grime that suggests a daily life on the streets.

  The taller guy’s baggy jeans are soaked along the frayed hems, and his dirty blond hair is stringy and wet. But his smile is bright. The shorter guy has a black knit cap that’s pulled low on his brow, giving him a rather dark and intimidating appearance. The two of them stop at my bench, and the big guy pulls out a dog-eared box of Camels and asks if I have a match.

  I glare at him because for some reason this feels like my last straw. “No!” I shout. I pull out my jeans pockets so that they are hanging inside out like two limp ears. “I don’t have a match. I don’t have a penny. I don’t even have a stinking key to my freaking apartment. I have absolutely nothing. So if you want to mug me, you are totally out of luck!”

  The taller guy holds up his hands and steps back as if he thinks I’m about to rush him. “Hey, sorry. I just wondered.” He tucks his Camels back into his pocket, then smiles again. “Looks like you could use a friend.”

  I shrug and glance uncomfortably over my shoulder, then turn back and carefully study these two guys—the Tweedle twins.

  The taller guy sticks out a grubby hand. “I’m Martin, and this is my buddy Cal.”

  I reluctantly shake his hand, but the other guy just stands there without saying a word. I can tell he doesn’t like me. I don’t tell them my name. I’m not totally stupid. I attempt to act nonchalant as I return my inside-out pockets back to their former state, taking care to wipe any grubby germs from my hands as I do.

  “We were just about to go get us some lunch,” says the friendly guy as he wipes his damp nose on the already stained sleeve of his parka. “You want to come?”

  I narrow my eyes as I try to discern his motives. Why’s he being so nice? What’s the catch? In my mind I am already calling him Tweedle Dweeb because he looks the part. The other guy I christen as Tweedle Dumb, because he doesn’t seem able to speak. Finally I answer. “Look, I already told you that I don’t have any money. What do you want from me?”

  Tweedle Dweeb nods. “Yeah, I got that. But we’re going over to the mission for Sunday dinner. It’s free. You want to come?”

  I frown and look down at my canvas tennis shoes, which are soaking wet. The idea of a warm meal and a dry place is somewhat appealing. But can I really trust these guys? I study their appearance. The way they look in their matching round parkas almost makes me want to laugh.

  “Why do you have the same jackets?” I ask.

  “ ’Cause they were free.”

  “Huh?”

  “We got them from the homeless shelter. They were donated by L.L.Bean.” He shrugs. “I guess ’cause of the color they didn’t sell so hot.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I can believe that.”

  Tweedle Dumb nudges his friend and nods toward the street.

  “Yeah, we better hurry if we want to get the good stuff. Sometimes they run out, and then all you get is a peanut-butter sandwich and a piece of fruit.” Tweedle Dweeb starts walking now with Tweedle Dumb right in step. He looks back over his shoulder. “You coming or not?”

  I begin to walk, staying a few paces behind them so I can keep my eye on them and watch for any surprises. We go under the bridges and then dash across Burnside and walk toward the Chinese district, stopping at an old brick building where the down-on-their-luck lot are already beginning to line up.

  “This is the place,” announces Tweedle Dweeb with a grin wide enough to reveal that he’s missing a front tooth. “You ever been here before?”

  I shake my head as I step into line behind him. Most of the people in line are males. Some very old, but many are my age and even younger. I notice a woman who looks to be about sixty. She has on several layers of clothing and is carrying a garbage bag that’s beginning to rip.

  “That’s Betty,” says Tweedle Dweeb. “She’s a regular. Sometimes, when she’s in a good mood, she’ll tell you that she’s that old movie star Betty Grable, and if she’s feeling really good, she’ll even show you her million-dollar legs. That’s what she calls ’em, her million-dollar legs.” He makes a face. “I wouldn’t give two cents to look at them. Most of the time she’s a grump though.”

  Tweedle Dumb frowns at his friend, as if he’d like him to shut up, and I don’t think that I disagree with him. I turn to look at the line that is steadily building behind me. I wonder where all these people have come from. Where do they sleep, and what do they do all day? Oh, sure, I’ve seen the drunken bums curled up on the sidewalk beneath the overpasses, but what about the rest of them? How do they get by? And is this how I’ll have to live from now on? The mere thought of this new lifestyle terrifies me beyond words. Suddenly I want to run, sure that if I flee this place and run really fast, I can escape. But where do I go? Where?

  “Smells like chipped beef gravy and mashed potatoes,” says Tweedle Dweeb as he rubs his grimy hands together. Dumb just rolls his eyes and moves another step forward in the line.

  “Come on,” urges an old man standing behind me. “Move it.” I can smell the saturation of alcohol on him. It’s as if it’s seeping out through the pores of his skin. His eyes shine milky, and the gray bristles on his chin look like he hasn’t shaved in a week or two. His once dark overcoat is faded with weather and hard wear. Reluctantly I move forward, and he steps up right behind me. Too close.

&nbs
p; “Want cuts?” offers Tweedle Dweeb.

  I sigh and nod in relief. I step in front of him, relieved to be a foot farther from the smelly old coot behind us. Only now I am standing between Dweeb and Dumb, and I can tell that Dumb does not like it. I’m trying to remember their real names, but they are lost in my brain by now, and perhaps it doesn’t matter anyway.

  Dishes and pans clatter inside the mission, mixing with conversation and the occasional outbursts from those who are disgruntled with either their food or the people they are seated next to, or maybe it’s just life in general. I guess that’s to be expected. But even so I am a bit surprised at the whining and complaining that goes on. I am reminded of that old saying, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” But apparently that doesn’t apply here.

  I wonder how that applies to any of us, or anything else for that matter. I mean, haven’t we all made our choices? Haven’t all of these choices brought us to the places we are today? Begging. This is exactly what I imagine Pastor John or Mrs. Knoll would say to me right now. I can just see them pointing their fingers and accusing me of being the only one to blame for the sorry state my life is in. According to them, this is all my fault, my reward for being such a sinful person in the first place. But I’m still not convinced they’re right. Sometimes I wonder if I’m simply being persecuted for my belief. Because my mind’s working differently than everyone else’s out there. Because I am God’s chosen one. Maybe this is just a form of religious persecution. Although at the moment I am not entirely sure what I believe exactly. Things have been so confusing lately that it’s hard to know anymore.

  Finally we are seated on a long bench at one of the many butcher paper–covered tables. It is warm and moist in here, almost too warm after being outside all morning, but I tell myself to soak up the heat while I have the opportunity. Voices seem to be coming at me from all directions. So many different smells, like warm green beans and onions mingled with ammonia and body odor, mostly unpleasant. I wish I had some kind of scarf that I could wear across my face, like a bandit or those women from the Middle East. Something to filter the foul air I am forced to breathe. But I will try not to think about that as I scrape the chipped beef gravy away from my potatoes. I will eat everything but that. Red meat still makes my stomach turn.

  “You don’t want that?” asks Tweedle Dweeb, pointing to my chipped beef with hopefully raised brows.

  “Go ahead,” I tell him, relieved to get rid of it. I avert my eyes from his dirty hands as he scrapes the mucky mess onto his plate. Then I continue to eat my mushy green beans and white roll and fruit Jell-O. I like the Jell-O the best and wish I could go back for more, but I don’t want to seem too greedy.

  “You want anything else?” asks Dweeb, standing.

  “Jell-O?” I venture.

  He grins. “You got it.”

  Suddenly I’m thinking maybe I’m being too hard on this guy. Maybe he’s really okay. I glance over to Tweedle Dumb, and he appears to be glaring at me with open hostility now. I am sure he resents my intrusion into their friendship. I vaguely wonder if they are gay. Not that I care.

  Tweedle Dweeb returns with not one but two servings of Jell-O that he proudly sets in front of me. Then he turns to his buddy and announces, “They’ve got chocolate cake for dessert.”

  Tweedle Dumb frowns and shakes his head.

  “He doesn’t like staying for the message,” Dweeb tells me in a serious voice.

  “The message?” I take a big bite of Jell-O and act interested.

  “Yeah.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward what appears to be the staff people standing huddled in a corner. “You don’t get to have coffee and dessert unless you stay to hear them preach.”

  “Oh.” I nod knowingly, as if this is a bummer. At the same time I’m thinking it might be worth it, especially since I have so much difficulty tracking with people’s words when they say more than one sentence in a row anyway. I’m thinking I can just sit here and daydream and then have some chocolate cake and coffee. Plus I might be completely dried out and warm by then.

  At that moment I notice Amelia wedging herself onto the bench next to me. She begins elbowing me and urging me to leave. “Get away from all these dirty, germ-infected people before you catch something,” she tells me.

  I glance around the room and know she’s right. This place is probably infested with all sorts of horrible diseases.

  “You gonna stay?” asks Dweeb.

  I shrug uneasily.

  “You can’t trust these guys,” says Amelia. “They’re going to kill you.”

  “That cake smells pretty good,” says Dweeb, completely oblivious to my friend.

  I glance over my shoulder to see Amelia’s reaction, but she is leaving. I can tell by the way she stomps out of here that she’s mad. Still, I don’t go with her.

  “The cake’s got some really good frosting,” he says. “You gonna stay?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  He looks over to Dumb. “Let’s stay too.”

  Tweedle Dumb frowns and looks down at his plate. I can tell he doesn’t like this idea any more than Amelia did, but I wonder why he doesn’t just speak up and say so.

  “Does he ever talk?” I whisper to Dweeb.

  He grins. “Yeah. But not much. He’s a man of few words, you know.”

  I nod and begin to eat my third Jell-O.

  The crowd shrinks a little after a tall, dark-haired man steps up to a podium. He sets down what appears to be a Bible and then adjusts the microphone and finally clears his throat as if he’s trying to get our attention. I watch with interest as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with each swallow. Then he welcomes everyone and makes a joke about a dog and a goat that I don’t really get. A few people laugh, but most of us just sit there like the deaf and humorless stones that I am thinking we are. Suddenly Amelia pops in again, and this time she says something nasty to me. I can feel my cheeks flush, and I glance around to see if anyone else was listening. She’s furious that I won’t go with her. I’m beginning to wish she would just leave me alone.

  The man begins to speak, and I attempt to follow his words. I can tell his speech is religious in nature, but it doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before.

  “Jesus doesn’t expect anything of you,” he is saying. But I’m thinking that makes no sense. “Only that you open your heart and allow him to love you.”

  “Get out of here,” hisses Amelia.

  But I am transfixed by this man’s gentle words. I had braced myself for a real sermon—the kind that Pastor John gives—in which this guy would really lay into all of us losers, freeloaders, and sinners. I figured he’d yell and carry on, accusing us of being worthless trash and telling us about hell and then finally urging us toward repentance with an emotional altar call.

  But this man is different. He doesn’t raise his voice. “God’s kingdom is about love and mercy,” he says. “That’s why Jesus came to earth and why I work at the mission. It’s all about love and grace.” Amelia curses me and storms off again, but for the moment I don’t care. I am starting to get a little blurry now, but I notice this man mentions Jesus a lot, yet not in that old fire and brimstone sort of way. This man’s voice is surprisingly kind. Even when my brain is so befuddled that I am unable to process his words, I feel that I am still absorbing his message. I watch his eyes, and it seems he might actually care. Either he is a good actor, or else he is sincere. I know I’m not the sharpest about these things, but I think he really believes what he is saying. I’m not sure if what he’s saying is true or not, and I suspect Pastor John would strongly disagree with most of this, but I decide that I like this man’s form of religion. If I were into religion, that is.

  When he finishes, we have our chocolate cake and coffee, and I notice that some people actually go up and talk to this man. I wonder what I would say if I were brave enough to actually speak to him, but I am not. Finally my cake and coffee are gone, and I’m certain I have thoroughly worn out my welcome
here. I head for the door but am stopped by an older woman who has been helping to serve food.

  “Do you need a place to stay?” she asks. I notice Amelia is coming back now. She stops right next to this woman and makes a face.

  “Doesn’t she remind you of someone?” asks Amelia.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Are you homeless?” asks the woman.

  “She’s a friend of your mom,” says Amelia. “Pastor John has sent her here to get you. Better watch out, Alice.”

  I look at the woman with suspicion and realize that she reminds me of Mrs. Knoll, and I begin to fidget nervously.

  “Get out of here,” hisses Amelia.

  “I am,” I say to Amelia, but it’s the Mrs. Knoll-like woman who answers.

  “Well, we have a women’s shelter over on Third Street,” she says. “I think they have a few open beds. If you go over right now, you could put your name down and—”

  “Who told you to talk to me?” I ask her.

  She looks surprised. “No one. I just thought that maybe—”

  “Did my mother send you?”

  She shakes her head. “No, honey, but I’m a mother, and I know how a mother would feel.”

  I back away, thinking Amelia is right about this woman. I’m sure that Pastor John or my mother or maybe even Dr. Thornton has sent her here to ambush me. I quickly move away from the spy and hurry toward the door. It is cool and damp outside, but at least it’s not raining now. Free at last, at least for the moment, I start to walk back down toward the park. Amelia seems happy with my decision.

  “Hey, where you going?” calls out Tweedle Dweeb.

  I turn to see him and his buddy just a few steps behind me. Tweedle Dweeb must’ve found some matches because he’s smoking a cigarette now. Tweedle Dumb pauses to zip his coat, and I wait for them. I remember how Dweeb got me those two extra Jell-Os, and I’m thinking he can’t be too bad.

  “What are you doing now?” demands Amelia.

  “I don’t know.”