Intensely Alice

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  I remembered his fingers touching me and felt myself growing wet just thinking about it. Then, miraculously, I fell asleep.

  When I woke, the blanket was up around my ears, and there were voices and noises out in the hall. I tried to remember where I was, what room I was in, what bed… . I opened my eyes and peeped out. The bathroom door was wide open, but the room was empty. Both bedroom doors were open, but there were no sounds from either one. Sunlight poured through one window.

  I sat up and ran one hand through my tangled hair. Listened some more.

  “Patrick?” I called softly.

  No response.

  I threw off the sheet and got up.

  “Patrick?” I called again, louder. No answer.

  I peeked in Kevin and Spence’s room. No one was there. I looked in Abe and Patrick’s room. Everyone was gone. There were no sheets or blankets on Patrick’s bed. Just a bare mattress, a couple of jackets he must have used as cover, and a rolled-up sweatshirt for his head.

  What was I supposed to do now?

  I had to go to the bathroom and found my towel on the floor. Someone had used it for a bath mat.

  “Argggghhh!” I wailed, and plunked myself down on the toilet.

  It was when I padded back to the living area that I noticed an envelope propped up on a chair. It read:

  Alice,

  Couldn’t bring myself to wake you. Figured

  you must have had a pretty restless night.

  Either that or a fight with your blanket. All

  of us have nine o’clock classes, so we had

  to leave. Tried to do it quietly. I’ll be back

  a little after twelve to see you off and have

  ordered a cab to take you back to Water

  Tower Place. I’ve drawn a map to Bartlett,

  where you’ll get a great breakfast. Enjoy

  your morning. Wish I were with you.

  P.

  I collapsed again on the couch and tried to think, my arms dangling between my knees. The clock read 10:13, and I was sitting here in a deserted male dorm, my towel on the bathroom floor and a map to a place I had never been.

  There was a mini fridge at one end of the couch, and I realized that the weird noise I’d heard in the night was the fridge shutting on and off. I leaned over and opened the door. A half can of Coke, a couple containers of vanilla pudding, one piece of moldy cheese, and a ham and cheese sandwich still in its deli wrapper, with a scribbled initial on top.

  I studied the initial. It could have been an S, could have been an A, could even have been a K. It certainly wasn’t a P. I knew that one of those three other guys had used my towel as a bath mat. It would not have been Patrick. I figured that whoever used my towel deserved whatever happened to this sandwich, so I ate it, and topped it off with a vanilla pudding. That was breakfast.

  10

  Boots and Butts

  I took a shower, washed my hair, and could single out Patrick’s towel by the scent. I used that. Any moment I expected one of the roommates to come back and rattle the doorknob, but Max P. was quiet. Everyone, it seemed, had gone to class.

  When I’d fixed my hair, I wiped up the stray strands I’d left in the sink and spread Patrick’s towel over the shower rod to dry. Then I took the sheets and pillow and blanket from off the couch, went in Patrick’s room, and made his bed up neatly. For a brief moment I thought of leaving the black lace pants I’d bought beneath his pillow, but then I checked myself. What we’d shared on the bench by Botany Pond was so personal, so intense, that it couldn’t be summed up in a pair of pants. “Alice,” he had murmured. And, “Patrick,” I’d replied.

  By 11:10 my stuff was packed and I had close to an hour before Patrick was due back to see me off. I walked around campus, memorizing each street name, every turn, so that I could find my way back to Max P.

  It was obviously going to be another hot July day in Chicago, but I was enjoying the breeze on the Quads. Eventually I came to a huge stone cathedral, so I followed the curving driveway and found myself at the entrance to Rockefeller Chapel. One of the doors was propped open, and I breathed in the dark coolness that enveloped me when I stepped inside.

  There must have been a wedding the night before, as there were still white satin bows at the ends of the pews near the front. A custodian was loading two large potted palms onto a cart for delivery somewhere else, I imagined.

  I stood in a back pew looking up at the high arched ceiling, at the light filtering through the stained-glass windows, and wondered whether Patrick and I would ever be here together. Standing at the altar, perhaps? I guess it was just a weekend for wedding thoughts, with Carol’s still fresh in my mind.

  By the time I got back to Max P., Patrick was standing there on the steps, looking all around, my bag at his feet. There was a cab waiting at the curb. I was about four minutes late.

  He looked relieved when he saw me. His shirt was damp, and I guessed he’d run all the way from his class.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I just wanted to walk a little. I saw Rockefeller Chapel, and it’s beautiful.”

  “That was on my list to show you,” he said. “Glad you saw it. Things go okay this morning?”

  “Yes, I’m all set. Will you have time for lunch?” I was worried it might have been Patrick’s sandwich I ate after all.

  “Class starts again at one. I’ll get a burger on the way back,” he said, and bent down to kiss me. I reached up and touched his cheek as our lips met. Lingered.

  “Thanks so much, Patrick,” I said. “It was a lot of fun. I’m glad it worked out.”

  He squeezed my arms as he held them firmly in his grip. “So am I,” he told me, and it was like we were having a conversation with our eyes. And then, “I’ve already taken care of the cab … you don’t need to tip.”

  He walked me over to the curb and opened the door for me. After I slid in, he leaned down again and kissed my cheek. “Bye,” he said. “It was great having you here. I’ll remember it all summer.”

  I smiled back at him. “Even longer,” I said.

  Patrick closed the door, and the cab moved away—past the Gothic buildings with the gargoyles that silently howled at the sky; past the ivy-covered arches and the students lounging on benches, sipping their coffee. We seemed to be heading toward the lake, because I could see only sky up ahead, and then, there I was, riding in the backseat of a taxi along Lake Shore Drive. Past the Museum of Science and Industry, past the rocky boulders along this stretch of Lake Michigan, past the parks and fountains, the uptown skyline looming ahead.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes for a minute, wanting to make an indelible image of it all in my mind. Alice … Patrick …

  Uncle Milt picked me up at Water Tower Place, and Aunt Sally had a lunch prepared for Dad and Sylvia and me before we left for the airport.

  “Well, how was your trip to the university?” she asked as soon as I sat down and picked up my BLT. “Did you meet some nice girls? I remember when Carol went off to visit colleges in her senior year.”

  “It’s a great university, but I doubt I’ll apply here,” I told her. “I just wanted to visit a friend and meet the people he hangs out with.” Ooops.

  Aunt Sally stopped chewing. “You were visiting a boy?”

  I nodded, and Dad quickly interceded for me. “I’ve heard that the university’s had some new buildings going up, Al. What are the dorms like?”

  “Really nice,” I said. “The one for summer school students, anyway. The dorm rooms are in clusters of three each—two bedrooms, a bath, and a living area. Two students per bedroom.”

  “Were there girls in the bedrooms?” asked Aunt Sally.

  “Only in the girls’ suites.”

  “And you slept with the girls?” Aunt Sally’s not shy about asking questions, but I knew that Dad and Sylvia were waiting for my answer too.

  “No, actually. I slept in Patrick’s suite,” I said, and before she could choke, I added, “On the couch.” And the
n I added, holding back a smile, “Alone.”

  But that didn’t satisfy Aunt Sally. “You mean you slept on a couch in the middle of four boys who could have walked in on you during the night?”

  “Nobody stepped on me that I remember,” I said.

  Aunt Sally shook her head. “In my day, boys didn’t visit girls in their dormitory rooms, and girls certainly didn’t go to theirs. If a boy had to come upstairs for some reason, a girl would call out, ‘Man on second!’”

  “Sounds more like a baseball game,” said Uncle Milt, and we laughed.

  “Well, that gave us a chance to duck into our rooms and close the doors,” Aunt Sally explained.

  Dad couldn’t help himself. “If a girl had come to my dorm and a boy yelled, ‘Woman on second!’ every guy in the place would have come running.”

  We laughed some more, and Aunt Sally looked about the table in exasperation. But this time Sylvia came to the rescue: “Isn’t it great, Sally, how people are more relaxed with each other now? I’d never have let a guy see me in curlers or an old bathrobe. Now guys and girls hang out together in old baggy sweats, step right out of the shower with stringy hair, and don’t think a thing about it.”

  “But … with a towel, I hope?” Aunt Sally said, knowing she was outnumbered.

  “Most definitely a towel,” I said. But not necessarily her own.

  Back in Maryland we got in Dad’s car at the airport, and I’d not been home for thirty seconds—hadn’t even gone up the front steps yet—when Liz called to me from her driveway.

  “Alice! You’ve got to come with me! Dad’s letting me have the car. You’ve got to see something!”

  “We just got in!” I called. “It can’t wait?”

  “No! Really!” She was obviously excited about something.

  I looked at Dad and Sylvia.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get your bag.” He waved to Liz, and he and Sylvia went on inside.

  I walked across the street. Whatever it was, Liz was in a hurry. She hadn’t even asked me about Chicago or Patrick or Carol’s wedding.

  “This better be good!” I said, getting in the passenger side. “They didn’t give us so much as peanuts on the plane, and I’m starved. What’s going on?”

  “I won’t tell you. You’ve got to see for yourself, but it was on the six o’clock news.” She giggled, a silly kind of giggle.

  I looked over. “You okay?”

  “Yes! Of course! How was Chicago? The wedding? How’s Patrick?”

  “Great, great, and great, but watch out for that Jeep,” I said. “We’ll talk after we get wherever we’re going. This is rush hour, you know.”

  It was five of seven when we got to the Metro parking lot, but as lots of cars were leaving, we found a space right away.

  “Hurry up!” she said, getting out of the car.

  “I don’t have any money with me!” I said. “I left my bags with Dad.”

  “You don’t need any,” she called over her shoulder.

  I followed her through the crowd toward the entrance to the Metro. I couldn’t imagine!

  As we got closer, I heard music. It sounded like “Country Roads,” and when we rounded the corner, there they were near the bottom of the escalator: Keeno and Mark, wearing nothing but Jockey shorts, painters’ caps, and work boots. Painted on the seat of their tightie-whities were the words NAKED CARPENTERS.

  “What?” I gasped, and my mouth dropped open. “WHAT?”

  A boom box provided the piano accompaniment, Mark played the harmonica, and Keeno stood with a long saw between his knees, and was playing it with a bow.

  I could only stare.

  With the handle of the saw gripped firmly between his legs, Keeno grasped the tip end of the blade between his thumb and forefinger, bending the blade almost ninety degrees, moving it slightly up and down, and with the other hand, he stroked across the straight edge of the saw with a bow as though he were playing a violin.

  “When did … where did … why the … ?” I cried, looking incredulously at Liz.

  But she had converted to a giggly eight-year-old, and our laughter was joined by the shrieks of young women coming down the escalator from the train platform, who had just caught sight of the two guys making music in their skivvies, a scattering of dollar bills in the open saw case at their feet.

  “How did they think this up? Why the underwear? Why the saw?” I asked Liz.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the guys, and I’ll admit they were well endowed. “Didn’t you ever hear about the guy in Times Square, the Naked Cowboy, who plays a guitar in his underwear? Well, Keeno figured if it worked for the Naked Cowboy in New York, then maybe it would work for him and Mark,” Liz said. “That’s the way Keeno explained it to me. They’re trying to earn money to buy a car. Isn’t this wild?” And then she told me how Keeno’s great-uncle had taught him to play the musical saw, so he figured maybe he could cash in on that—he and Mark together.

  I guess you could call it “wild,” but it was also sort of weird. The way she described it, the Naked Cowboy in New York strutted about as he played, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson and playing frat rock; but Keeno had to stand perfectly still to keep the saw in place. And the kind of music he played on the saw was nice, but it wasn’t exactly hip or cool—“Moon River,” “Summertime,” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

  “Why are they playing this stuff?” I asked Liz.

  “Keeno says you can’t play anything fast on a musical saw or it loses its vibrato or something. At least these numbers are better than ‘Ave Maria’ or ‘Silent Night,’” she answered.

  Whatever, they drew a crowd—or their underwear did. Mark jazzed up each piece with his harmonica as best he could, and you couldn’t help admiring their muscular backs and hot butts. Also, Keeno had been letting his hair grow, and by now it just touched his shoulders. So they made it a sort of comedy routine, smiling flirtatiously at the girls who laughingly dropped a dollar or two in the saw case and nodding and smiling at the men who cautiously stepped closer to study the saw as Keeno played.

  When they took a short break, Liz and I moved in closer.

  “You guys are hilarious!” I said. “Keeno, I never knew you could do this.”

  “Neither did I—not in front of anyone but family. But, hey! If the Naked Cowboy can do it … !”

  “Mom and Dad were here about an hour ago and thought it was funny, though they didn’t care much for the underwear,” Mark said, and we laughed.

  “I wouldn’t try it in January,” I told them. “Wow. I come back from Chicago and find out you guys are celebrities! You made the evening news!”

  “Yeah, maybe we’ll skip college and retire early,” Mark joked, checking the money in the case. And then, as we heard another train come in overhead, they took their places and began another song.

  Liz and I stayed forty minutes or so. Then I said, “Listen, I’m starved. I haven’t had any dinner. I need to get back, but let’s watch to see if they put the guys on the ten o’clock news.”

  “Huh? Oh … well, I suppose it’s time I went home too,” Liz said. “I think they’re going to do the Glenmont station tomorrow night. See how it goes.”

  She still didn’t move, and I realized she wanted Keeno’s attention one last time. Keeno was playing “Love Me Tender,” and when he looked over at her, they exchanged a lingering smile.

  As we walked back to the car, Liz was still humming the song. I stole sideways glances at her, and she had a peculiar smile on her face.

  “Liz?” I said. “Is it the underwear?”

  She startled and flushed a little. “What?”

  “The attraction.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I grinned. “The muscles? The boots? The saw? The butt? What?”

  She grinned too. “All of the above,” she said.

  11

  People Care

  Liz told me that another local station included a shot of Keeno and Mark on t
he early news after they started showing up at Metro stops in the District and Virginia. A week later a brief story about them came out in the Gazette. If people weren’t inspired by the music, they were at least amused, it seemed, and enough dollars accumulated in the saw case to persuade the guys to keep at it.

  We were busy at the Melody Inn as fall orders began to come in from schools for choir music, band music, and rental instruments for orchestra. Dad was also looking for someone to hire to replace David, who’d be leaving around the middle of August. He’d be going back to college full-time and entering a seminary after he graduated to study for the priesthood.

  “I’ve been wondering why you’d choose Georgetown over Catholic U?” I asked him.

  “Georgetown’s a little more open to controversy. Faith that’s not challenged can grow dull, you know,” he said.

  “If you say so,” I told him.

  The first week back home for me went by in a blur of activity. A lot of paperwork had piled up the few days we were in Chicago, and I was tired in the evenings from just running around the store, glad to eat my dinner on the back porch, e-mail Patrick, or read the last of the assignments on my summer reading list, Crime and Punishment. Liz went to Metro stops with Keeno and Mark sometimes to help carry stuff, and Pamela was visiting her cousin in New Jersey.

  My e-mails to Patrick were brief and to the point. I’ve known him long enough to understand that he doesn’t much like small talk. He doesn’t e-mail just to be doing something. He hates texting unless it’s something important. Ditto for phone calls. I can see Patrick as CEO of some major corporation someday. But when I’d told him that on our walk along Lake Michigan, he’d looked surprised.

  “That’s about the last thing I’d ever want to do with my life,” he’d said.

  “Some get paid millions,” I’d said.

  “My point exactly,” he’d answered. “Who needs millions?”

  Miss u a lot, I e-mailed once. Loved your scent on the pillow.