Naturally, this reminds me that I could really use a bathroom break. I think it must be nearly time for Pioneer Plaza to open, and their bathrooms are located quite handily next to an entrance, so I decide to make my way over there. If I can remember the way, that is. My sense of direction seems more confused than ever today. Finally I remind myself that it is toward the river, and that means I must go downhill.
I tell myself that if I can just keep moving my feet downhill, I will get there. I imagine myself as one of those cheap plastic walky toys that can wobble down an incline without any batteries. I watch my dirty socks as I go, the soggy toes flopping like dog tongues on the ends of my feet now. Flop-flop-flop. Only the dampness is keeping them on my feet. I trudge, step by step by step, downhill. Just put one foot in front of the other, I tell myself. One foot ahead of the other. After a while I realize that my floppy socks are literally disintegrating right off my feet. I sit down and peel them off to discover that they are nothing more than filthy, shredded rags.
“Who did this?” I ask, looking around for the culprit. Perhaps even Amelia has pulled a fast one. But no one is around to take the blame. So I shove the tattered socks into my giant coat pockets along with the other miscellaneous items I’ve collected during the past few days. This includes a broken shoestring, a bottle cap, a safety pin, an empty Tic Tac box, a golf pencil, and a brand-new book of matches. I smile to myself to think how Tweedle Dweeb won’t like that I got away with his matches.
Now that my feet are completely bare, I can feel the skin on my soles peeling away layer by layer. I wonder if my feet will be shredded up just like my socks, only bloody. Then I suppose I will have to put them into my pockets too. I try to remember where I set my shoes but cannot. I decide that they must’ve been stolen. Maybe it was Tweedle Dumb. He never did seem to like me.
By the time I reach the bathrooms at Pioneer Plaza, my feet are red and actually bleeding in places. I sit down on the floor in a corner of the bathroom and try to clean them with soap and wet paper towels, but it is useless. The dirt is ground in so deep that I’m certain it will never come out again. And so I decide to wrap them up. I make soles out of folded paper towels, and then I attach these to my aching feet with my shredded up socks and the shoestring, sort of like sandals. But every time I stand up and walk a few steps they start to fall apart. It is hopelessly hopeless. So I just sit there with my head hunched down on my knees, and I cry.
“I want to disappear,” I keep saying over and over. “Just disappear.” I believe if I chant these magic words enough times, it will actually happen. Finally I sense someone is watching me, but I’m afraid to look up. Afraid that I have finally been caught. I know that I am cornered here in the bathroom, and there will be no escaping because my ruined feet cannot run. Not very far anyway. I refuse to look up.
“Do you need help?” It’s a woman’s voice, but then this is the ladies’ rest room. Finally I look up and just shake my head without speaking. I look back down again, my heart pounding so loud that it echoes off the ceramic tile of the bathroom, boom-boom-boom.
Just go away, I think, or maybe I say these words out loud. If I had given it more thought, I might have held out my hand and panhandled. At the moment I just want her to go away and leave me alone, and thankfully she does. But now Amelia is back, and she is telling me that the woman was really a spy and that she has just gone to security or the authorities or whomever, and she is going to tell them I am hiding in the bathroom. Amelia tells me to get up and get myself out of there, and I know I must obey. Despite the stabbing pain that comes with each step, I hobble out.
Tears blur my eyes as I slowly make my way to the park across the street. It seems to take me forever to get there, but finally I do. At last I sit down on a bench and cradle my bleeding right foot in my hands, rocking back and forth as if that might somehow ease my pain. All the voices are yelling at me now, including Amelia’s. They are calling me names and telling me how stupid and worthless I am. And it’s not that I disagree; I just want them to go away—to leave me alone with my suffering. I am trying to tell them this. I want to explain it and make it perfectly clear, but I can’t remember the right words, or perhaps they are just scrambled in my head. I suspect this is Amelia’s doing, trying to get back at me. Perhaps it was that woman in the bathroom. Did she do something to my words? Or maybe my words have been encoded so that others won’t understand what I’m saying. I’m not sure.
I sit in the middle of the city, removed from everyone and everything, separated, quarantined perhaps. I see people passing by, a blur of winter coats and blank faces, going places I cannot go. I am not welcome there. I am not part of them, and they are not part of me. Maybe they don’t even exist. I am utterly helpless, but those busy people cannot help me. They will not. I am encased in Plexiglas, a specimen to be gawked at. It is too late. No one can save me now. I cannot even save myself. I know I can’t walk another step. I can’t go on. I decide I must simply stay here on this park bench. Forever, I guess.
I imagine myself turning into a bronze statue. There are many artfully placed around this park but mostly animals, I think. I don’t recall a human. I particularly like the little otter with the oyster shell on his tummy. And the bear cub. I think humans don’t matter so much around here. We are more expendable, disposable, replaceable. Not endangered like the spotted owl or muddy tree toad or whatever it is they’re trying to protect here in Oregon these days.
I hold very still now and imagine they will name my statue The Street Girl. I see her hunched over on her park bench wearing an overcoat that seems to swallow her whole, with her skinny wrists protruding from sleeves too long, arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s trying to hold in all the pain—to contain it so it doesn’t spill over and touch or soil or contaminate. Of course, I cannot think these thoughts in real sentences or even in actual words since they are encoded. I can no longer process the events of my life in such a congruent and literary fashion. Instead it’s just a long string of jumbled feelings, random thoughts, broken syllables, all coated in layer upon layer of confusion. But who really cares?
I care.
W
The sky is getting dusky, and I am cold when I feel her standing near me. I cannot see her, but it’s as if I can sense her presence. Maybe it’s just her body heat, or maybe it’s her smell—a mixture of mothballs, old newspapers, and something unfamiliar. Or maybe Amelia has told me she is here, but somehow I know. Even so I am afraid to look up, and yet I’m afraid not to. When I finally force my eyes to focus, I see that it is only Betty Grable, and somehow I don’t think she’s here to take me away. Not that I would really care. I don’t care about much of anything right now.
Betty still has her rusty grocery cart from this morning, but she is holding something out toward me. I try to focus my blurry eyes to see what it is, and for a moment I think it’s a gun. Is she going to shoot me? Am I relieved? Then I see it is something wrapped in a gray metallic-looking plastic bag.
“Huh?”
“Here.” She nods to the bag.
I take in a deep breath, then reach for the bag.
“Go on, open it.” She’s frowning at me as if I’m a half-wit.
I untwist the top of the bag and look inside. It is something red.
Two somethings that are red. I take them out. It’s a pair of red satin bedroom slippers. The kind with open heels that you slip your foot into. I can see they are slightly used but not badly. And they look clean.
“Put them on.”
I study her carefully, wondering if this is some kind of a trick. I remember a story from a lit class about a pair of red shoes, and when the girl puts them on, she can’t quit dancing. I think she dies dancing, but I’m not sure at the moment. I imagine myself dancing with my worn-out feet. I can imagine that it would kill me, but I don’t know if I would mind.
Carefully I slip them on my raw, aching feet. They are a bit too long in the back but feel comfortable on the cracked, bruised soles of
my feet.
“Thanks,” I mutter, my eyes still staring in wonder at the shiny red slippers. Then I look up to see that she is smiling. I just stare at her face for a long moment. It looks like a miracle all lit up like that. I’ve never seen her smile before. Then she grabs hold of her shopping cart and wobbles away. I am amazed. Part of me wants to go with her, to ask her about her million-dollar legs. But then I am not sure if I could keep up or if she would even want me. So I remain on the bench, still pretending to be a work of art, only the title has changed. Street Girl in Red Slippers.
chapter EIGHTEEN
In the Mean Time
Days and nights blur into the gray fog of my memory. I am not sure of much of anything anymore. How much time has passed? Who is trustworthy, and who is not? Where will I sleep tonight? I cannot remember when I last ate or where I went yesterday or what I did. Of course I have no idea where I am going. Besides running, that is. My life is all about escape these days. The voices are my constant companions now. So much so that I almost don’t even notice them sometimes. Then they start screaming and demanding that I pay attention, and so I do, or I pretend to; I’m not sure anymore.
I do have a few fleeting memories, like the evening Betty Grable gave me these red slippers, which now are stained and threadbare. And I remember the old man in the tweed three-piece suit who bought me a cup of coffee with real cream in it and a whole-wheat bagel. At first I thought he was from the CIA but then maybe not.
I also remember quite vividly the time I was grabbed and then dragged into a dark alley by a big guy in a cologne-soaked leather coat who thought I “wanted some.” I tried and tried to scream for help, although I’m not sure that any actual sounds came out of me. I begged for Amelia to rescue me, but she was nowhere to be seen. The creep had my neck painfully pinned against the cement wall so tightly that I could barely breathe. With his free hand he clumsily unbuckled his belt just as Tweedle Dweeb and Tweedle Dumb turned the corner. When they realized what was going on, they ran over yelling and cussing at the stupid pervert and then pulled him off me. They even threatened to beat him up, and together I think they might’ve actually been able to do it. More important, the jerk was convinced and took off in the other direction.
I was so shook up that I stuck close to those two for the rest of the night. I would’ve been content to stay with them all night until Amelia started harping at me to get away from them, telling me I couldn’t trust them. Of course the other voices were yammering at me too, and before morning came, I was so freaked that I just got up and quietly sneaked away. Sometimes my head is a really screwed-up radio station that’s tuned into everything all at once. Voices, voices, voices—all jabbering at the same time. Sometimes the ones without names almost make sense, but mostly they are cruel and twisted, and violent too. Then there are voices that I think are my grandma’s and maybe Pastor John’s and a child’s voice that makes me very sad. Amelia’s is the strongest, but even she can be nasty when she’s in a foul mood.
I still see the two Tweedles here and there, and sometimes we talk or get something to eat together, but I am never completely sure if I can trust them or not. And every time I decide to trust them, Amelia assures me that they are truly evil, and somehow she makes me believe her. My life is completely impossible.
Mostly I remember being alone and afraid. I remember hearing the voices and running from the various people who are always after me. That’s what my life seems to be about these days. I just don’t know how much longer I can take all this. Although some of the voices, including Amelia’s, tell me they have the solution. Destruction.
But I try not to consider that route. I don’t know where it would lead me, ultimately anyway. In the meantime I am trapped in the never-ending nightmare of my pursuers—this is my reality. I know this is how it will continue, and I am so very, very tired, so afraid that I will never be able to rest.
Come to me, and you will find rest.
chapter NINETEEN
The Cheshire Cat
At last I am ready to give up, call it quits, and give in to the demands of the voices, including Amelia’s; she is more persistent every day. I accept the fact that I am worthless now—my life is meaningless; I am the refuse of the world. Amelia delights in reminding me that this will never change.
I feel lost and beaten and remember a day long ago. I think I was about ten. I made a kite out of sticks and newspaper. I used poster paint to create an orange-and-yellow sun with a happy face on the front and waited impatiently for the paint to dry. Then I tied it to a ball of string and took it outside. A gusty March wind promised a perfect maiden flight for my beautiful kite. I couldn’t wait to see my sun smiling down from the cloudy sky. I didn’t really know much about kites and hadn’t known to attach a tail. Somehow I managed to launch my kite into the air, but it whipped and zipped wildly about, completely out of control, and quickly snagged on an oak tree, where it instantly broke into a tangled mess. My poor sunny kite became a hopeless wreck as it flapped and fluttered in the branches, beaten by the relentless wind. I am there with it now, I think, battered and abandoned to the elements. It is time to give in.
The early morning fog creeps along the river, and I am creeping toward the bridge. The tall one. The one that keeps calling my name, entreating me to come and admire its heights before I plunge to its depths.
I don’t know what day it is, but the city is dressed for Christmas, full of good cheer. Down here by the river it is damp, cold, foggy, and dreary, and I blend in quite well. I am looking for the bridge, but I think I am lost. I can see it, but I cannot see how to get on it. I look at the slate-colored water and wonder if I should just jump from the sidewalk, roll down the steep hill and into the water. Then I could swim to the bridge before jumping off of it and back into the water. This almost makes me smile, but instead I sit down and hold my head between my hands and moan. I need relief.
I feel something warm rubbing against my leg, and this makes me jump. When I look down, I see that it’s just a small cat. Not a kitten exactly, but a scrawny tiger-striped cat that isn’t fully grown yet. I reach down and stroke its back. I feel all the bones in its spine, and at first I am repulsed, but then I feel sorry for the cat. He looks cold, like me, and I pick him up and move him to my lap. I do this slowly and carefully, afraid that he will become frightened and scratch me. I’ve heard that cat scratches can be dangerous. He seems grateful for the attention and curls up in my coat and begins to purr.
I continue petting him, and his purring grows louder. I am amazed by this phenomenon. He’s like a machine. The more I pet him, the louder he purrs. I wonder if everyone at the river park can hear him. But when I look around, there is no one within sight, so I think perhaps it doesn’t matter much.
I spend the day with my cat and call him Cheshire Cat, Cheshire for short, although he does not really say much. I believe that God has sent him to me to save me from the bridge, at least for today. As usual, Amelia tells me that I’m wrong, that he’s just a stray and probably full of dreadful feline diseases, but for a change I don’t believe her. Cheshire tells me different. He tells me that he has come from afar to be my friend. I believe he will grow up into a human-size cat, and the two of us will stroll along the riverbanks together. He will protect me from my enemies, and we will be friends forever.
For now though he is small enough to fit in my gigantic coat pockets. I move the contents from the pocket on the right into my left pocket, and this becomes his pouch. I am the kangaroo mama keeping my baby safe in my pocket pouch. I will do this until he grows big enough to take care of me. I’m hoping that won’t be too long now.
Cheshire and I stay together for a while. Is it only a day? Or a week? I cannot be sure. But when I see the Tweedles, I show them my treasure.
Tweedle Dweeb just frowns. “Your cat looks pretty sick, Alice.”
I look down at Cheshire and shake my head. “No, he’s just sleepy.”
Tweedle Dumb surprises us by speaking. “He look
s half-dead to me.”
“He is not half-dead,” I insist. “Just sleepy.” Now, however, I am starting to wonder. He didn’t want to drink any water this morning, and that did seem a bit odd.
“You should take him to the Cat Lady,” says Tweedle Dweeb as if I should know what that means.
“Huh?”
“This lady who takes in stray cats and knows how to make them well. The Cat Lady. Haven’t you ever heard of her?”
I shake my head no and look down at Cheshire. I know in my heart that he’s not well. I just don’t want to believe it. A gigantic lump, the size of a pumpkin, grows in my throat because I am afraid he might die.
“Where is the Cat Lady?” I demand suddenly. “I must go to her at once.”
So the Tweedles lead me to the northeast side of town, where houses are small and run-down. First we ride the MAX, which is free, but then we walk for miles and miles, or so it seems. I am worried that my worn-out red slippers will disintegrate before we reach this place.
It is nearly dusk when we stop in front of a little pink house. It is shaped like a box and has multicolored Christmas lights strung about the windows and a plastic holly wreath hanging on the door.
“This is it,” says Tweedle Dweeb with pride. “I told you I could find it.”
I stand there and look at the house, wondering what I should do. “Go on up,” urges Dweeb. “Knock on the door.”
Finding Alice Page 12
