Allison O'Brian on Her Own

by Melody Carlson

  “No, Lola, I can find it, thanks.”

  “Say, how did it go with Heather at camp?” Lola asked in a conspiratory tone.

  “Just fine. Heather had a great time.”

  Allison opened the door at the end of the hall expecting to find a small, impersonal room, something akin to the one in Marsha’s New York penthouse. Instead, she discovered a large, comfortable room with an adjoining bath. The luxury seemed even more foreign after her previous weeks of bunking in a rustic log cabin.

  Her watch was still set on camp time, and she figured they would just be ending the campfire by now. It would be the last campfire of the summer. Tomorrow her father would be there. What will he do when he finds out I’m gone? she wondered. The thought of his disappointed face placed a large lump in her throat, and she socked a bed pillow in anger.

  “Here’s your bag, miss,” an older man outside her open door said. “I’m Adam, the butler, miss. Where can I put it for you?”

  “Right there is fine,” said Allison, wiping an angry tear with the back of her hand.

  “Everything okay, miss?” he asked kindly.

  She forced a smile. “Just missing someone.”

  “Oh, I know how that goes, miss.”

  “My name’s Allison.”

  He smiled. “Fine, Miss Allison. If I can be of any help, just call.” He turned crisply and walked away.

  Allison started unpacking her suitcase. Had she remembered to pack her letters? She dug until she found them buried on the bottom, tied with a satin ribbon. She slowly reread each one and felt comforted by the knowledge that her father was still working to get her back.

  The next morning, Isobella brought a tray into Allison’s room. This was something new. Allison had never been served breakfast in bed before, not even at Tamaqua Point—although Muriel had tried once.

  “Good morning, Allison. I’m Isobella,” the maid announced curtly. She clanked the tray down noisily on the bedside stand and turned.

  “Thank you,” Allison said as Isobella disappeared. “And it’s so very nice to meet you,” she called to the back of the door.

  Allison looked up at the clock and saw it was already after nine. She didn’t normally sleep this late, but last night she’d stayed up long past midnight writing letters to everyone in Oregon. Now a neat stack of envelopes lay on the white vanity table. She stretched and looked about the room. The walls were a deep salmon color, and the furniture was all white-enameled French Provincial. The bedspread was covered in big peach-colored cabbage roses and leafy vines. This bedroom could have sprung from a page of the latest decorator’s magazine, but it couldn’t hold a candle to her room back in Grandpa’s house. Like her room in Oregon, this one also overlooked a garden. Only this garden looked more like a tropical paradise, full of unusual plants with spiky leaves and bright, succulent flowers. Allison finished her breakfast, pulled on some shorts and a blouse, and decided to explore her new home.

  Marsha’s door was closed, and Allison tiptoed past and down the stairs. She found several rooms that all looked much the same. What interested her most was the game room at the end of the house, complete with a large green billiards table and big glass doors that opened out to a sumptuous swimming pool wrapped in a large tiled deck. She opened the doors and walked out to get a better look at the pool. It was shaped like a giant four-leaf clover and bordered with ornately painted tiles. Wooden outdoor furniture with fresh blue-and-white-striped cushions lazed around the deck. It looked like a perfect place for fun times of swimming and relaxing in the sun. And it made Allison mad to think that it appealed to her. She felt like she was selling out to the enemy.

  “So, Allison, what do you think?” Lola asked from behind her. Allison turned in surprise. There stood Lola with an icy drink and cigarette, clad in bright yellow clam diggers and a cropped white top. Allison had never seen her in anything but business clothes, and this new side of Lola was slightly amusing. Lola sat down on a deck chair and took a long drag from her cigarette.

  “It’s very nice,” Allison said.

  “Nice, nice . . . You sound just like your mother! It’s more than nice, it’s fantastic! I did a terrific job, and if no one else will admit it, I’ll just have to compliment myself.” Lola reached over her own shoulder and patted herself on the back.

  Allison laughed. “Okay, Lola, it’s swell! It’s beautiful! Are you content now?”

  Lola smiled smugly and adjusted her rhinestone-rimmed dark glasses. “We’ll be going to town at eleven. I’ve made appointments at Viola’s and then we’ll go shopping.”

  “Lola,” Allison asked quietly. “Can you tell me why Marsha is being so nice to me?”

  Lola shrugged and blew out a puff of blue smoke. “Don’t be concerned, Allison. Just enjoy.”

  Allison stared at the glistening pool and pondered Lola’s words. Well, why not? There was nothing she could do about her circumstances, so why fight it? “Okay, Lola. I think I’ll take a quick dip before I get ready to go.”

  Lola nodded and sipped her drink. “Smart girl.”

  After a delicious swim, Allison lounged on a deck chair and towel dried her hair in the morning sun. Soon Marsha came out wrapped in a satiny white robe. She stretched and yawned and lazily dipped a well-manicured toe into the pool.

  “We’ll be leaving in half an hour, Allison. We’ll go straight to Viola’s, so don’t worry about how you look, but bring along something nice to wear afterward. That peach suit looked all right, but you better have Isobella iron it a bit.”

  The driver dropped them off at the back of Viola’s, and Allison noticed a woman who looked a lot like Bette Davis furtively glance over her shoulder as she emerged from her white limousine. The clandestine back entrance reminded Allison of a secret club. Inside, they were greeted by a pretty, dark-haired woman dressed in a crisp lavender uniform.

  “Marsha Madison!” she gushed, taking her by the hand. “We haven’t seen you in ages. Viola will take care of you personally. And who have we here?” She looked at Allison.

  “This is my sister, Allison. She’ll have the treatment, too.”

  Allison wondered what the treatment might be. Perhaps some sort of medieval torture? She snickered as she submissively followed another lavender lady up the purple-carpeted staircase. Her name tag identified her as Tessa, and she handed Allison a large white towel.

  “First, you’ll enjoy a nice, soothing sauna,” Tessa said. “Only twenty minutes, though—then meet me out here.”

  In less than ten minutes, Allison could stand the heat no longer and burst out of the claustrophobic room, gasping for air. A sweaty gray-haired woman rolled her eyes at Allison and flipped the page of her magazine.

  “Allison, that was awfully quick,” Tessa said, glancing at her watch.

  “Sorry, it’s all I could take.”

  Tessa smiled. “No matter, come on in here and Greta will give you a rubdown.”

  Greta, a large blond woman, pummeled and pounded Allison’s body like a piece of raw meat. She gently rubbed in a cool ointment that smelled like fresh mint.

  “Das gut, now you feel gut all day,” Greta announced with satisfaction. Surprisingly, when Allison stood up she did feel good, and her muscles were loose and relaxed.

  “Thanks, Greta,” Allison said as she tied her purple robe self-consciously around her. Tessa magically appeared once more and led Allison to a mirrored room filled with bright purple chairs. Beauticians and manicurists flitted around the seated patrons like bees to flowers.

  Allison sat in a chair and sighed. All this attention was kind of nice. She hated to admit it, but this was something she could get used to. And she was pretty sure that she had spied Elizabeth Taylor’s famous violet eyes behind a facial masque. Not that Allison was one to have her head turned by movie stars. She thought they were all superficial and vain, but still it was amusing to see them in person. She would never dream of asking one for an autograph or making a big to-do, but it might be fun to tell Heather and Gr
ace about it later—that is, if there would be a later.

  Tessa introduced Allison to a hairdresser who shampooed and conditioned her hair, then trimmed it up a bit. Meanwhile, a manicurist was painting her nails a bright coral. Allison had never worn nail polish, but she’d decided to take Lola’s advice and just enjoy. The hairdresser rolled her damp hair in tight metal curlers, then sent her over to the cosmetologist.

  “Hi, I’m Andrea,” a young woman with a painted-on face greeted her. “I’ll do your makeup.”

  Allison stared at Andrea’s face in horror. “Uh . . . okay, but I don’t really wear makeup, so can you go easy . . . please?”

  Andrea nodded, then quickly slapped a mud facial mask on her and vanished.

  Allison leaned back in the chair and tried to relax, but the curlers were starting to make her head hurt and her face felt like it was encased in quick-drying cement. Just when she feared she couldn’t take it anymore, Andrea appeared with a tall glass of cola and a straw.

  “Sip carefully so you don’t crack your face,” Andrea warned. Allison almost laughed when she considered how she might actually look with a cracked face. Andrea leaned over close to Allison and whispered, “Don’t look now, but that’s Bette Davis over there. I think she still looks pretty good for her age. She must be around forty.”

  Finally the mask and curlers were removed, and Andrea applied step after tedious step of cosmetics. Allison felt certain she’d end up looking exactly like a clown when she was done. Her one consolation was that, aside from Marsha and Lola, no one in California knew her. Andrea spun the chair around, and Allison looked timidly into the mirror. It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d expected, and the colors were softer, but it felt like a mask and she longed to scrape it off. Just then Marsha strolled up wearing a purple robe like Allison’s.

  “Not bad, Allison. Makes you look older.” Then Marsha’s brow furrowed slightly as if maybe that wasn’t a good thing. “Let’s get dressed and have some lunch. Lola’s made reservations at Verve’s.”

  They dined at the popular Beverly Hills club, and Allison recognized several famous faces. She spotted Mickey Rooney and was amazed at how short he really was. And there was the elegant Lauren Bacall in a tan dress. Allison did admire Miss Bacall’s hair; she wished she could get hers to stay that smooth and silky.

  People streamed past their table chatting with Marsha without really saying anything, their only concern to make a good show. Most of the faces were not familiar to Allison. They were probably lesser-known actors or worked behind the cameras. Allison sat quietly in her chair like a spectator watching a peculiar parade, where everyone struts around without any genuine interest in anyone else.

  The highlight of lunch was when Katharine Hepburn walked in. Now here was an actress that Allison suspected might have more depth to her. Maybe it was the roles Katharine played, or maybe just the way she carried herself with such sweet dignity, but Allison had to admit that Katharine Hepburn might be different—at least different from Marsha Madison.

  After lunch they shopped along Rodeo Drive. Allison wondered why Marsha didn’t just go to a department store instead of all these little expensive shops. They perused Mario’s and Vivianno’s and on and on until Allison lost track of the names. In one shop where almost everything seemed to be some shade of blue, Allison spotted Doris Day selecting a pale blue evening dress.

  Allison flopped down in a chair that had just been vacated by a bald, portly gentleman who must’ve been wearing half a dozen big diamond rings. He’d been waiting for a young, pretty woman who was apparently his wife but could have passed for his daughter. Allison leaned back and tried to remember all the things they had already purchased—didn’t they have enough already? Marsha probably wanted to make sure that Allison’s appearance didn’t embarrass her in front of all her movie friends.

  “What do you think, Allison?” Marsha asked, spinning around in a sapphire blue sequined evening gown.

  Allison stared in amazement. Marsha’s eyes matched the gown perfectly, and her skin glowed creamy white against the rich jewel-tone color. Her black hair gleamed in competition with the glittering gown. “It’s fantastic, Marsha,” Allison answered truthfully.

  “I’ll take it,” Marsha announced to the smiling little man.

  He clasped his pudgy hands together and gushed, “Yes, yes, you’ll love it! An original. Very good, Miss Madison.”

  “We’ll have a big party when Stanley gets here, Allison. And I’ll wear this gown, and I’ll invite everybody who’s anybody in Beverly Hills.”

  As they drove to Marsha’s new home, Allison experienced a tidal wave of guilt. What was she doing here, sitting in the back of a plush limo, decked to the nines? She belonged in Oregon with her father and her real friends. All day she had been telling herself that she had no use for this glitzy, shallow movie-star lifestyle. But if that was really the truth, why was she enjoying it so much?

  Day after day, Allison checked the mail pile on the entry table. After two weeks with absolutely no responses from anyone in Oregon, she became concerned and hurt. Were they so absorbed with life that they’d completely forgotten her? Were they annoyed with her for going with Marsha? She had faithfully written letters to Dad, Andrew, Grace, and Heather, explaining to them where she was. She’d even written to George and Muriel and sent a postcard to Winston. And still nothing.

  “Ready to go to the country club?” Marsha asked brightly. So far almost every day had been packed with events: luncheons, picnics, teas, tennis parties, and whatever else came up. Marsha devoured the attention, claiming she’d been socially starved in Istanbul. Besides, she had to maintain her very influential connections to her career.

  “Marsha, I think I’ll beg out today,” Allison said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just hang around the house.” Marsha looked at her with suspicion, then agreed.

  Marsha had continued to be congenial and pleasant—at least for Marsha. She’d only lost her temper a couple of times, but not anything serious. And although self-absorbed, Marsha actually showed a fragment of interest in Allison. Still, she never allowed Allison to discuss her father or their upcoming custody squabble. But Allison bided her time and hoped that someday she would penetrate the invisible wall that Marsha seemed to have erected around herself. The scary thing was that Allison had begun to care for Marsha. Though she hated to admit it, she hoped perhaps Marsha cared about her as well.

  Allison took her stationery box out by the pool and wrote letters describing how unhappy she was with the way that no one had written to her. After almost an hour, she sealed and addressed the last envelope. It was to Andrew. She stretched back in her lounge chair and wondered what he might be doing right now. She imagined him out in the rowboat fishing with her father. But instead of comforting her like it used to, the image only frustrated her. She should be out in the rowboat with them! And as much as she cared for Andrew, in her mind’s eye she tossed him overboard and took his place, then snickered out loud at her own silliness.

  “Private joke?” Lola asked as she strolled out onto the deck. Allison glanced over her shoulder and shook her head, resenting Lola’s intrusion into her daydream.

  “Been writing letters?” Lola nodded to the obvious pile of stationery. Lola pulled out a silver case and retrieved a cigarette.

  “I wonder why I bother,” Allison complained. “No one seems to care. I haven’t heard a word from anyone. I can’t understand it, Lola. I thought at least Dad would write.”

  Lola looked out across the pool without answering, then put her cigarette back in the case and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Allison. But I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” She stood up and went back into the house.

  Allison had thought it strange at first that Lola lived in Marsha’s house, but then Lola had explained that it made it handy for handling Marsha’s personal and professional business, plus Marsha didn’t have to pay Lola as much salary. Allison figured that Lola was enjoying this small slice of Beverly
Hills pie, something she would surely not have been able to afford on her secretary’s budget.

  “Care for some iced tea, Miss Allison?” Adam asked.

  She looked up at the butler dressed as usual in his neat black uniform and looking so out of place by the pool. She nodded and thanked him as he handed her a tall, icy glass with a lemon slice wedged on the rim. But he didn’t turn to leave.

  “Would you like me to see that those letters get mailed?” Adam offered, eyeing the neat stack of envelopes.

  “Sure, Adam. Thanks.”

  He remained on the deck, casting a cool shadow upon her and fiddling with the silver tray in his hands. “You have friends in Oregon, do you, Miss Allison?”

  “Yes,” she answered eagerly. “How did you know?”

  “Well, I—uh,” he stared at the letters and she followed his gaze to the envelopes lying face down, giving no clue as to their destination. She studied him intensely. How did he know they were bound for Oregon?

  “Adam?” she questioned, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Who brings in the mail every day?”

  “I do, miss.” He looked over to the garden and shifted his feet. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow as the sun beat down with no mercy on his dark wool suit.

  “And then you put the mail on the stand in the entryway—right?”

  “Well, no, not exactly . . .

  “Not exactly? What do you mean—where do you put the mail?”

  “I’ve been instructed by Miss Madison to give all mail to Miss Stevens so she can sort it.”

  Allison scratched her head. It didn’t take a genius to figure this one out. She stood up and looked him in the eye. “Adam, have you ever seen any mail addressed to me from Oregon?”

  “I may be putting my job on the line here, Miss Allison, but I think the truth is more important. Yes, there’s been a lot of mail from Oregon. I suppose you haven’t seen any of it.”

  Allison sighed and slumped into the lounge chair. Adam pulled up another chair and sat beside her. “Do you want to tell me about it, Allison?”