“A few blocks that way and two doors down,” pointed the receptionist. Allison impressed the directions in her memory and left. Maybe she wouldn’t return. Sheila LaVelle—oh brother!
Macy’s was as enormous as she remembered but not nearly so busy. She’d gone Christmas shopping there with Stanley last December. He’d picked up dozens of expensive trifles for his new wife. Of course, Marsha’s real present had been a full-length silver fox coat.
Allison passed the long glass case of the perfume counter. Pretty boxes and cut-glass bottles lined the shelves, and a pleasant aroma tantalized her nose. It was nothing like Marsha’s heavy perfume. This fragrance was light and airy, almost like a spring meadow.
“May I help you?” asked a perky blonde. She wore a tight sweater and a little too much lipstick, but her smile seemed genuine.
“Something smells wonderful. Can you tell me what it is?” Allison asked.
The clerk’s eyes lit up. “Well, I just sampled a little of this new perfume,” she whispered confidentially. “It came in from Paris yesterday—the first we’ve gotten from this company since the war. It’s called Fleur des Champ, or flowers of the field.” She held up her wrist for Allison to smell.
“Luscious,” breathed Allison. “I’ll take some.” The price was surprising, but Allison had never purchased perfume before.
“Have a good day,” said the cashier with a bright smile as she handed Allison the package.
Allison rode the escalator to the top of the store and down again. There was so much to see, she didn’t know where to begin. She stopped on the fourth floor. What she really needed was a warm nightgown. Marsha’s flimsy things were for the birds. She selected a thick flannel with tiny pink rosebuds.
Glancing at her watch, she was dismayed to find it was only half past eleven and already she felt ravenous. That light breakfast just hadn’t cut it. Maybe an early lunch would help. In Macy’s restaurant she quickly devoured a BLT, then lingered over tea. Nanny Jane had always made a good BLT. Often she used lettuce and tomatoes straight from her tiny victory garden.
After Allison started school at Oakmont, she’d always looked forward to returning to the Cape for summers and holidays. Occasionally Marsha stopped by in between productions, but Nanny Jane was the one Allison looked forward to seeing. Nanny Jane had a rented cottage that overlooked the sea and provided a haven for Allison. Together they combed the beach, baked cookies, and had tea out on the screened sun porch. Nanny knit hundreds of woolen socks for soldiers during the war, and Allison helped. She wondered if perhaps her father had worn a pair of her socks before he died. . . .
With a deep sigh, Allison finished her tea and paid the bill. It was then that she noticed her billfold getting thinner. “Excuse me, miss,” she inquired of the blonde on her way out. “Do you happen to know where I could pick up a few food items nearby?”
“Well, there’s a specialty food store down the street. I can’t afford to shop there myself, but I’ve heard they have quite an interesting selection.” The blonde patted her sleek hair in place and smiled prettily.
The shop, a kind of a gourmet delicatessen, was easy to find. Allison chose some tangerines, a petite loaf of bread, a small tin of smoked salmon, and another of Danish ham. On top of these she placed a round of Gouda cheese coated in red wax and a wedge of Swiss. Groceries aren’t cheap, she thought as the woman totaled the bill.
Since it was now almost one, she placed her parcels in a large shopping bag and returned to the salon. Did she really want to do this? But she couldn’t bear to wear hats all summer, and her long hair looked so juvenile. They weren’t ready for her appointment, so she flipped through a magazine. There in a swimsuit ad was just the hair she wanted. It looked kind of like the blond cashier’s. Smooth and silky and turned under at the shoulders, with short bangs in front.
“Miss LaVelle,” the brunette called. “Sheila LaVelle?” she repeated impatiently and tapped Allison on the shoulder.
“Oh yes,” Allison answered. “I was . . . uh . . . just daydreaming, I guess.” She smiled her most charming smile and this time the brunette returned it.
“This is Helen. She’ll take care of you, Miss LaVelle.”
The beautician wore a pink smock that blended with her face, and she tied a matching pink cape over Allison’s shoulders. Everything in the salon seemed to be the color of cotton candy.
“Well, what can I do for you today, honey?” Helen asked warmly. She didn’t look like a beautician. Instead, she had that motherly look, sort of like an advertisement for baking powder. Allison could just picture her with a rolling pin and flour on the tip of her nose.
Allison showed Helen the magazine. “I’d like my hair just like this.”
“You mean this cut and style?”
“Yes, and that color, too,” Allison stated boldly. She hadn’t really intended to change her hair color, but why not? Marsha’s disdainful words echoed through her mind again. “Her hair’s red, just like his.”
Helen studied the photo and gently fingered Allison’s long curls. She looked at Allison and frowned. “How old are you, honey?” she asked.
“I’m almost eighteen.”
“Hmm.” Helen pursed her lips. “Well, honey, it’s none of my business, but I can’t understand why you want to get rid of that beautiful color. Why, just yesterday Madeline Witherspoon was in here—wanted me to color her hair this very shade. And she’s a very tasteful and lovely young debutante.”
Allison considered this. No one had ever called her hair beautiful before. Something about Helen made Allison trust her. “Okay. How about just the cut and style?”
Helen smiled. “I think we can do that.” After washing, cutting, curling, and what felt like hours under the hair dryer, Helen finally styled her hair. “Now, if you just put in a few curlers on the ends at night like this,” Helen explained, “it’ll be real easy to keep up.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Helen. I just love it!” Allison beamed into the big mirror before her.
“Well, honey, I’m sure glad. Now, don’t you ever think about changing that beautiful color, understand?”
Allison nodded, paid the cashier, and carried her hat out the door. She knew the Grand Hotel served afternoon tea, and once again she felt half starved. A young man in a pinstriped suit tipped his hat as she entered the hotel restaurant. She blushed and looked the other way. Masculine attention was new to her. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. It might take some getting used to.
The specialty of the afternoon was cream caramel custard. She hadn’t tasted any since before Nanny died. She swallowed each bite over a large lump in her throat and reminisced over her last afternoon with Nanny Jane.
They’d sat in Nanny’s sun porch overlooking the cliffs by the sea. It was only last fall—Labor Day weekend. If Allison had known it was the last time she’d see Nanny . . . oh, the things she’d have said. “I love you.” “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” “Thanks for all the care packages you’ve sent me at school, full of cookies and mittens and packed with love. . . .” But Nanny was gone, and this time an even larger vacuum had entered Allison’s heart.
What was it Nanny had said that day? Allison racked her memory. Something like, “Allison, you’re almost a woman now, and you’ll have to make your own choices in this world. You’ll have to learn to depend on yourself and create your own identity. Separate from the rest of them.”
What had she meant? Allison wondered. What identity? Separate from what? Suddenly, Allison saw herself in a whole new light. Here she sat in a fancy New York restaurant dressed in her mother’s clothes, the woman she disdained more than any other. Had she already become like Marsha?
The thought turned her stomach. No, this was just a masquerade—a silly game. Allison tried to convince herself, but did she believe it?
Back at the apartment, Allison noticed a small pile of mail inside the front door. It seemed a little odd that Marsha still had her mail delivered while she
was gone, but Allison just left it on the floor. Wouldn’t Marsha be furious to find her apartment like this? Well, it served her right for trying to ship Allison off to that awful camp!
Allison kicked off the platform shoes in relief, stashed her food rations away, and put some Glenn Miller records on the phonograph. The apartment felt so stuffy she opened a window. The air outside wasn’t exactly springtime fresh, but it helped a little. She heard sounds of rush-hour traffic and automobile horns far below. She imagined a tired dad going home to his wife and kids in the suburbs. A world about as familiar to her as Mars or, better yet, Mercury, like her middle name. She remembered how Marsha had gotten irritated when Allison asked about that name.
“It was your father’s silly idea,” Marsha had stated, giving Allison that don’t-bring-it-up-again look.
“I wonder if Marsha has any comfortable clothes?” Allison questioned out loud. Her voice sounded strange in the empty apartment. She dug deep in Marsha’s fathomless closet and discovered what must have been the sportswear section, and apparently it had been used very little. She found sweaters, jerseys, trousers, shorts, even several bathing suits. Well, Lola’s good for something, Allison thought. She knew that Lola, her mother’s secretary, did most of Marsha’s shopping, and it was plain to see these somewhat practical clothes had not been picked out by Marsha.
Allison slipped into a pair of tan rayon pleated pants and pulled a squash-colored jersey over her head. “Ah, much better,” she declared. Allison felt frazzled from her day, yet she hadn’t accomplished much. She curled up on the couch to the sweet strains of Glenn Miller and opened her nearly finished novel, wondering if Stanley’s books would last her the summer.
A loud ringing startled her awake. It was pitch black. Where was she? The phone rang again. Oh yes, now she remembered—Marsha’s apartment. The telephone—should she answer it? It rang and rang. Allison remained frozen on the couch, as if the other party would hear her if she moved. At last the ringing stopped, and she fumbled for the lights. Who could be calling? Marsha’s friends would know she was working on location.
Allison yawned, wondering how long she had slept. It was after ten, so she fixed herself a late-night supper with her new groceries. She had better make her food last as long as possible because her money seemed to be dwindling fast. She pulled out her billfold and counted her cash.
“Forty-nine dollars and sixty-eight cents!” she exclaimed in disbelief. How much had she spent? Her money surely wouldn’t last at the rate she’d spent it today. Maybe Marsha had some money around the apartment. She’d think about that tomorrow. Besides, there was always Patricia and Vermont. Maybe she could visit her later in the summer.
The next morning a noise at the front door startled her awake. Who could it be? A burglar? Marsha? A burglar might be the safer of the two, considering the condition of the apartment right now. Was someone in the house? Clutching the covers to her chin, Allison listened. Silence. She snatched the robe and crept into the hallway. Everything appeared to be fine, except perhaps the mail stack had grown. “Oh, just the mailman,” she sighed in relief. “But if Marsha still has her mail delivered, why wasn’t there any mail here on Monday?” she pondered out loud.
She walked over to the mail pile and scratched her head. Now, where did Marsha normally keep her letters and bills? In the corner of the expansive living room, Allison spotted the tall, hand-carved rosewood secretary. Of course! Allison pulled open the writing desk and there lay several neat stacks of mail. Who had been sorting Marsha’s mail? Next to the stack was a list written in Marsha’s scrawled handwriting.
Lola,
Please sort and forward any important mail.
Water the rubber plant weekly.
Clean the refrigerator.
Call my mother every few days and let her know if anything’s wrong.
Write to Allison at camp at least twice a month.
Thanks,
Miss Madison
“Thanks to you, too, Miss Madison,” Allison said sarcastically. “How nice of you to tell your secretary to write to your own daughter! Such a warm and personal gesture!” She threw down the note in disgust and slammed the secretary shut so hard the leaded glass windows rattled above.
Allison stomped into the kitchen and filled the teakettle, then angrily sliced some bread for toast. The nerve of Marsha! Still fuming, Allison sipped her tea, but then suddenly an awful realization hit her. If Lola came regularly to sort the mail and water the plants, that meant she could pop in unexpected—at any time! She glanced around the apartment. It looked as if Hurricane Allison had hit.
She quickly located the maid’s closet and threw herself into fast gear. Sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, and dusting, Allison had never worked so hard in her life. After what felt like hours, the place was at last spotless and looked just the same as when she’d come. The furniture was shrouded, the bedroom and bath straight, and the kitchen shone. Allison wasn’t sure what to do with the laundry. For the time being it could occupy the spare room closet since it was empty anyway.
Allison prowled the apartment. Her sense of freedom and fun were now gone. She felt like a caged animal. All thanks to stupid old Lola!
“I’ve got to escape,” she said out loud. “Before I go nuts.” Chocolate cream pie sounded delicious. She had spotted a little mom-and-pop cafe on her way back to the apartment yesterday. Maybe she could sit there and think.
Allison searched Marsha’s closet, being especially careful not to disturb anything this time. She didn’t want to leave any traces of her presence for Lola, and she wasn’t eager to hang up any more clothes today. No wonder Marsha had a maid. At last Allison selected a peach rayon suit and matching peach pumps with dainty straps. She clipped on some pearl earrings and patted her chic hairstyle into place. Today she chose a white straw hat, which she perched lightly on her head as she rode the elevator to the lobby. She’d rather go hatless, but Marsha had always said ladies must wear hats and gloves in the city.
Out on the street, a sailor in a crisp white uniform eyed her and whistled his approval. This time Allison smiled but looked straight ahead, keeping her chin up with confidence. She wasn’t about to be intimidated.
The pie was just what she needed, and she washed it down with heavily creamed coffee. But she wasn’t ready to leave the cozy little cafe yet. A matronly woman poured her another cup of coffee and smiled kindly. Allison looked at the woman and wished she were her grandma.
She knew she was never going to last the summer in New York City. She hated it already. What had she gotten herself into? And what was she going to do about it? She felt reluctant to admit it, but even horrible Camp Wannatonka might have been better than this!
When she felt she’d worn out her welcome at the cafe, Allison stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. She walked and walked until the pretty peach pumps pinched her toes with every step. It was rush-hour traffic again, and everyone hurried home, eager to escape the city. Home, she thought in frustration. I have no home! Before Nanny Jane’s death, she’d pretend that Nanny Jane’s little cottage was her home. It had always made her feel warm and wanted. Now she had nothing . . . no one.
Back at the apartment, she rode the crowded elevator up in silence. Stepping out on the seventeenth floor, she discreetly looked both ways before she let herself into the apartment. Everything looked exactly the same. The mail still lay heaped by the door just as it had fallen. But something on top of the pile caught her eye. It was the name on the return address that stopped her. O’Brian was printed in big, bold letters. That was her name!
She picked it up and examined it closely. It was addressed to Marsha and marked personal. The return address showed that it had come all the way from Tamaqua Point, Oregon. Where in the world was that? She knew Oregon was somewhere out west near California. Perhaps it was from someone on her father’s side—although she’d been told he had no living relatives. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been deceived.
Shou
ld she open it? After all, if it was her relative it might concern her. She ran to the kitchen and put on the teakettle. Carefully steaming the envelope open, she pulled out the letter. The writing was shaky and difficult to read.
June 15, 1948
Dear Marsha,
I know you probably won’t answer this letter, as you’ve never answered any, but this will likely be my final one. The doctor says I may not last the summer, so I’ll ask you once again. Yes, I know you’ve heard it a hundred times. You even went to the trouble to convince me that Allison was dead once. But I know better now. Allison’s nanny, Jane McAllister, bless her heart, wrote to me last year. I know Allison is alive!
I wrote to Allison at school many times this past year, but I never heard from her. I’m certain you arranged to have my letters returned. I beg you, Marsha (and I’ve never begged anyone), if there’s a spark of kindness in you, please let me meet my granddaughter before I leave this earthly life. I’ve enclosed plenty of money to pay for her fare. If she can’t come, please give it to her from me—or else burn it!
Sincerely and for the last time,
Riley O’Brian
Allison read the simple words again and again. Her eyes filled with tears for the sadness of this old man. Could it be true? Did she actually have a real, live grandfather? And why hadn’t anyone ever told her? She remembered one of Nanny Jane’s favorite phrases. “Darling, things are not always as they seem. . . .”
Well, it was settled. She was going to Oregon, and wherever this Tamaqua Point was—even if it was at the very end of the earth—she was going there! She would meet this grandfather. To think he had been trying so desperately to get in touch with her, and Marsha had been preventing it!
Her fury at the way Marsha had manipulated her life was instantly replaced with a sense of urgency. She must prepare to leave at once. He’d mentioned money—sure enough, there in the envelope lay a money order in her name for one hundred and fifty dollars! She called the train station and reserved a ticket westbound on the 7:40.
Allison O'Brian on Her Own Page 3
