That night B.D., the coach, calls her mother and tells her that maybe they should get her a pair of running shoes. And shorts and a T-shirt and a sweatshirt, too. Angie wants to know what this is all about.
Alice just says, “I guess I joined the track team.”
March 31st
Alice makes a deal with Henry so he’ll pick up Ellie and take her home with him on the days she has practice, which is turning into every day. Henry doesn’t seem too happy about this, but Ellie loves it. Ellie and Mrs. Grover have started to play Scrabble. Ellie is memorizing all of the acceptable two letter words. Mrs. Grover is scrambling to keep up. Their scores are going through the roof. They’ve even ordered competitive Scrabble playing dictionaries via interlibrary loan. Mrs. Grover has set up an extra table in the dining room dedicated to Scrabble. Don’t even think about doing your homework at that table. And every day at four thirty she serves tea in real china teacups. With little cakes. And sometimes special sandwiches.
Mrs. Grover is good at doing things that really matter but nobody notices. Like being nice to eight-year-olds, or running the community drive to collect children’s books for the nursery at the YMCA, or supplying the local kindergarten with craft supplies after all the budget cuts eliminated just about everything except construction paper and snub-nosed scissors. All the kindergartners love Mrs. Grover’s feathers, which she collects all year long on her walks through the Mendon Woods, or around Pond View Reservoir, or out by the lake.
Today, right before practice starts, Stephie and a clutch of older girls pass Alice and the other runners on their way to the student parking lot. Alice knows that Stephie, whose new friends call her Steph, as though two syllables are just too much trouble, would not be caught dead running. Stephie is paler than usual and she’s wearing one of those push-up bras and a short skirt. When Jeremy Baskin, a senior, catches up to her and runs his hand over her ass, Stephie looks over her shoulder at Alice. But she’s too far away now, and Alice can’t tell if that’s defiance or fear.
Alice turns back to the track. Ginger, the redhead, tosses her a baton on the fly as she sprints past her. They run, one forward, one backward, tossing the baton back and forth. Ginger’s hair is cut almost as short as a boy’s, she has strong legs and big feet, and she never looks down when she runs, she only looks up. She plays with the baton like Ellie would, and, with her energy and her quickness, she lifts Alice into a world where running is play.
Alice finds herself fantasizing about being the school’s top tenth-grade 400-meter runner, not that there are a lot of other tenth-grade girls giving up cheerleading or softball to be on the track team. The idea that she might have talent at such a simple thing is amazing. Henry just rolls his eyes when she talks about running sprints while B.D. screams at her: “Breathe, breathe, breathe!”
But nobody needs to scream at Alice to run or to breathe. When she’s running she doesn’t want to stop, she just wants to keep going. She feels something she’s never felt before; she feels powerful and strong, she feels like no one can hurt her. Being outdoors, getting into a groove, the freedom and the repetitiveness of her stride; she doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but something settles in her head. Running for time or for distance, on the track, on the roads, through the woods, getting lost, falling, the hard runs, the easy runs, all of it, every minute of it, she’s living and breathing in another world. It is an escape so profound she finds herself longing for school to end and running to begin.
Alice arrives home to find Mom and Ellie waiting in the car.
“You’re late,” Ellie says.
“Late for what?”
“I have a surprise for you girls,” Angie says, as she pulls out of the driveway.
“Daddy called!” Ellie crows.
“And I missed it? Are you kidding me?”
“An incredibly quick call,” Angie says.
“Like five minutes. Super fast.”
“He’s moving to a new base. And it’s normal for mail to be slow.”
“Write me, he said to me; and to Mom and to you, Alice. He wants letters. Lots of letters. I’ve already written him two times and drawn four pictures.”
“Where are we going?” Alice asks.
“You’ll see,” Angie says.
“Did he say where he is?”
“F.O.B. Falcon,” Ellie says.
“For the time being,” Angie adds.
“What’s F.O.B?”
“Forward Operating Base.”
“Everything has an acronym in the army,” Ellie says. “Like they’ve got their own special language. F.O.B. and TNT and HQ and IED.”
“What do you know about IEDs?”
“They keep inventing new ones: VBIED: vehicle borne IED; SVBIED: suicide vehicle borne IED; DBIED: dog borne or donkey borne IED.”
“Where do you get these little tips?” Alice asks.
“Bobby DiFiori in the fourth grade likes to watch CNN.”
“And he talks about this stuff?!”
“On the playground. At recess.”
“Oh, my God . . .”
Angie pulls up to the Holschers’ farmhouse and beeps the horn, like it’s a prearranged signal. Edna comes out the front door and Hank walks up from behind the barn. They’re both wearing muck boots and barn jackets and grinning from ear to ear.
Mom makes introductions, and Edna walks right up and takes Ellie by the hand.
“Mrs. Holscher . . .” Ellie begins.
“Call me Edna.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
They all follow Edna and Ellie to the barn, all the way down the central aisle to the last stall on the left.
Hank unhooks the door.
“Go ahead.”
Inside the stall, in knee deep straw is a mama goat and three brand new baby kids, nursing.
Ellie goes right to her knees, beside them.
“They were born yesterday afternoon,” Hank offers. “Triplets. Can you beat that?”
“Can I touch them?” Ellie can barely contain her excitement.
“Sure.”
“The mama won’t mind?”
“Let her see you. Go slow,” Edna says.
“What’s her name?” Alice asks.
“Goldie.”
“Hi, Goldie,” Alice says, stroking her nose.
“Can I hold one?” Ellie asks.
“As soon as they’re done nursing, they’ll be climbing all over you.”
Ellie is petting the baby goats and Alice joins her while Angie, Edna, and Hank watch them.
“They’re so cute. Can we bring one home?”
“They’re gonna get big, Ellie.”
“I don’t care.”
“We’ve picked out two names for the babies so far,” Edna says. “Blondie and Walden. Got any good ideas for the third kid?”
Ellie considers.
“What kind of goats are they?” Alice asks.
“LaManchas. Milk goats from Spain. They’re friendly, easy to handle, and great producers. You like goat’s milk?” Hank asks.
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried it.”
“I like it,” Ellie announces.
“You’ve never had it either!”
“I can just tell.”
“Can you tell who’s who?” Angie asks.
“The gray one is Walden. The sandy colored one is Blondie. And the one with the white feet needs a name.”
“Niblets,” Ellie says.
“Niblets it is.” Hank laughs.
“Really?”
The kids finish nursing and, just like Edna said, they climb all over the girls, nibbling their fingers, rubbing their heads against them. Ellie is giggling.
“I can’t believe how soft they are,” Alice says.
“Hi, Niblets,” Ellie whispers into the white-footed kid’s ear, as she hugs him against her.
“We’ve got baby lambs and new chicks, too, if you want to see them,” Hank says.
“Ma
ybe later,” Ellie says, in a dreamy voice.
“C’mon in the house when you’re ready. Just be sure to latch the stall door.”
Alice looks up and smiles at her mom; just a wide-open uncomplicated happy kid smile. Angie bursts into a laugh.
“They’re great, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Really great.”
Hank puts his arm around Angie’s shoulder as the grown-ups turn to leave the barn.
“I made pineapple upside down cake,” Edna calls back to them. “And you can try some goat’s milk when you come inside.”
April 4th
Matt’s letters are finally starting to arrive. Sometimes in a bunch, sometimes just one for Angie. He writes Angie every day he’s not out on patrol.
Ellie collects the mail from the mailbox after school and puts everything on the hall table. Alice and Ellie never open anything until Angie gets home, no matter how tempting. After work, Angie pours herself a glass of wine and they all sit in the living room to open the letter, or letters if they’re lucky. If there’s only one, one for Mom, she’ll read the sections she feels she can share or things Dad asks her to tell them.
Tell Ellie we get M & Ms in our ration packets. Some of them are dated 1992.
Tell Eddie there’s a 21-year-old kid named Lewis from West Virginia who has a 1982 Ford Mustang. He’s planning on going to all the hotrod shows when he gets home. And there’s this new kid named Chad. 19. Hell of a poker player. He’s from Wyoming and he loves Texas Hold ’Em. He laughs and laughs every time he takes his buddies’ money.
Tell Ellie I saw a blue and green parrot when we were outside the wire yesterday. Perched on a toppled date palm. Where the heck did he come from? Later that day, a dirty, dusty old tabby cat walked out of a building we’d just dropped twenty shells on. Each one big enough to end the world. Tail in the air. Unbelievable.
Tell Alice she will not believe what I have to do to get some coffee when we’re out on patrol. There’s no electricity and no more water than what we’re carrying on our backs. After two hours of sleeping on a cement floor, coffee becomes very important. I collect packets of Taster’s Choice instant coffee from the kids who are too young to be hooked on the stuff. And then I beg the powdered-cream and sugar packets we all get in our prefab rations. You open your mouth, pour in all three, toss in some water, and shake your head violently. Instant coffee. Outside the wire. Good morning, sunshine!
The part of the letter Angie won’t read, or can’t read, or can’t trust herself to give voice to, says:
Angie, sweetheart,
I miss you more than I could have ever believed. I knew I was going to miss you but I had no idea how much. And it doesn’t go away, it doesn’t calm down, it doesn’t fit inside my pocket with your letters. It’s like an ache, Angie, a constant ache for you.
I can’t imagine all the weeks and months ahead of missing you.
I miss our girls, I miss work, the house, the garden. Nothing like being out here to make you appreciate home.
You’ll laugh at me, but I love thinking about closing up the house every night. Walking downstairs barefoot, turning out lights, locking the back door. Just that sense of easy quiet, knowing the girls are safe in bed, and that you’re in our bed waiting for me. Home. I dream of home, Angie, and you know I dream of you.
Matt
Later, when Alice slips the letter out of the envelope and reads it as fast as she can, the words, no, the feelings, the impossibly intense feelings burn into her. It’s like opening a bedroom door.
April 5th
Three weeks after Matt ships out Ellie gets the stool so she can reach Matt’s shelf of favorite books. First up: his leather-bound college dictionary.
She brings this to the breakfast table and announces she’s going to read the dictionary while Daddy is gone. Alice is thinking, yeah, right, as Ellie opens Webster’s Dictionary, Second Edition, reads the inscription from Dad’s mom wishing him good luck in college, and begins at the beginning, right there on page one. While eating Cheerios. Ellie gets up and digs a pink notebook out of her school backpack and begins noting down superfascinating words.
Ellie’s current teacher is a dictionary nut. She purportedly has hundreds of dictionaries, though this does not sound remotely credible to Alice. Where do you put them? What do you do with them? What, exactly, is the point? She tries to imagine perky Mrs. Baker, who is not even five feet tall, saying to her husband, “I’m just going to curl up with a good dictionary.”
But none of this matters to Ellie, the annoying little autodidact. She is eating up the A’s like they are the elixir of knowledge, like this is a book with a plot, an action adventure, mystery, crime thriller, page turner, can’t-put-it-down-exciting read.
“Ellie,” Alice can’t resist saying, “Dad used the dictionary, he didn’t read it.”
“How do you know what Daddy did or didn’t do in college?”
“If she wants to read the dictionary, let her read the dictionary,” Angie chimes in.
“You don’t think it’s a little—”
“Mrs. Baker says there can be ineffable joy in pursuing the absurd.”
Both Alice and Angie turn to stare at Ellie and think, simultaneously—if that’s possible—where does she come up with this stuff? and, Ellie and Mrs. Baker were made for each other.
“You want to know my new favorite word?” Ellie asks.
As if they could say no.
“Sesquipedalian, which means ‘long word.’ I’m collecting them: long, rare words.”
Angie is making sandwiches for a change, Alice notices, as she opens the paper to international news. It’s just PB & J, but still. And then she sees the headline.
“Gram’s taking you two for haircuts after school today.”
“Finally!” Ellie says.
Alice closes the paper, folds it in half.
“She’ll pick you up here at four thirty.”
“I have practice.”
“I know exactly what I want. I have a picture,” Ellie announces.
“You’ll just have to get out of practice a little early, Alice.”
“You’re gonna be surprised, Mom,” Ellie sings.
“I don’t need a haircut.”
“Just a trim.”
“I don’t need a trim.”
“Do you know how long it took me to get the two of you an appointment when Gram was available?”
“Ellie could still go.”
“You’re both going. End of discussion.”
“But, Mom—”
Henry arrives, shouting, “Good morning, Mrs. Bliss!” As they head out the door, Alice grabs the front section of the paper. She passes up Henry’s invitation to come to the auditorium while he plays piano and instead sits on the front steps and watches all the students and teachers arriving at school. Does everyone have a secret life, she wonders? Is everyone carrying an impossible, unbearable secret?
Students stream up the steps and into the building past the army recruiter’s table, the baseball bake sale table, and the lone ninth-grade girl passing out fliers for the pep rally. When the stream becomes a trickle she gets up, dusts off the back of her pants, and heads into school, down the hall, past the principal’s office, on her way to the stairs to her homeroom. She suddenly notices that everything is worn: the linoleum, the paint on the edges of the doors, the ceiling is cracked and veined. When she glances into the principal’s office she can see Mrs. Bradley; even Mrs. Bradley looks worn as she pulls her sky blue sweater over her soft stomach and then leans over to search for a file in the file cabinet. Alice is trying to remember—didn’t somebody tell her that one of Mrs. Bradley’s kids died of cancer when they were little? Yet here she is every day.
Mr. Fisher, who actually knows every single kid in all four grades in the high school by name, steps out from his office to ask Mrs. Bradley for something and before he speaks, his forehead is creased in a frown. He is pinching the bridge of his nose, as though to relieve pressure or pain
. Both of them look pale and drained. And there it is again: worn.
Mr. Fisher straightens his slumped shoulders, leans both fists on Mrs. Bradley’s desk, and says something that makes her laugh. You can tell he used to be a football player; he’s got that low to the ground swagger to his walk even though he’s now too chubby and about fifteen years too old to pull that off particularly well.
Alice’s legs are feeling so heavy she’s not sure she’ll be able to walk up the flight of stairs to her homeroom. Maybe she could just head on down the first floor hall to the nurse’s office and ask to lie down. Or back out the door and down the street to Gram’s apartment, or all the way home. Suddenly she just wants to lie down on the floor. She crosses to the wall and leans against a locker. She manages to slide along the wall to a seated position before she falls down. She’s thinking she should bend her knees; she should fold herself up so no one will notice her, but her legs are ignoring her. She grabs fistfuls of her dad’s shirt as she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hold on to something solid. She’s having trouble breathing. She thinks she might scream or throw up or pass out. She thinks that not one of these options is a good one.
The National Guard and marine recruiters are folding up their tables, packing their brochures into boxes, chatting and laughing and greeting students they seem to already know by name. Their uniforms, their boots, their bearing, everything about them seems to be shouting at her to pull herself together.
Bells start ringing; she’s missed homeroom entirely. How did that happen? Doors are being flung open and she can hear hundreds of feet coming down the hallways above her and all around her. She brings her hands up to her ears to drown out the sound.
A crowd eddies around her, edging closer. No one approaches her, no one kneels down to ask if she’s okay. Some kids gawk and move on, others hang on waiting to see how this will play out. Alice keeps her hands clamped over her ears so she can’t hear their comments.
Alice Bliss Page 6
