Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five

by Constance C. Greene

  My grandfather gave her a copy of You Know Me Al, a book by Ring Lardner, which he’d mentioned to Al the first time he met her. She loved that. Her mother gave her a birthday card with a check inside. “Oh, Ma, you already gave me the dress,” Al said. Al’s mother busied herself with a handkerchief, careful of her mascara. The long thin package done up in brown paper with Al’s name and address on it turned out to be from Louise and Al’s father and the boys. It was a needlepoint picture Louise had done of the farm, with the family members lined up: Al’s father, Louise, Nick, Chris, and Sam. And Al.

  “See! That’s me, on the right, the tall one,” Al said gleefully. “Louise did it all by herself.” She read the enclosed note. “Isn’t that clever of her! It’s all of us in Ohio. Isn’t that too much!”

  I think that needlepoint picture was her favorite present. Al’s mother was a good sport. If Al’s obvious enthusiasm for the picture hurt her, she didn’t let on.

  Polly not only made Al’s cake, she also gave her a length of material from Africa, which, Polly said, could be worn as a dress or a sarong or anything you chose. She’d show Al how to wind it around herself, Polly promised.

  We put fifteen candles (one to grow on) on the cake. Al blew them out in one breath as we sang “Happy Birthday to You.” Her wish will come true. We had vanilla, as well as mocha chocolate-chip ice cream. I took vanilla because I was afraid we’d run out of mocha chocolate chip. Al ate slowly. Eating slowly cuts down on caloric intake, she told me.

  After, we played charades. My grandfather was hysterical acting out the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Al’s mother stood staring at the ceiling, hands clasped, supposedly Joan of Arc. No one guessed her. My mother acted out Charlie Chaplin as the Little Tramp. My father got to do Marilyn Monroe. He walked around with his mouth half open and his eyes half closed. He was a riot. Polly acted out Julia Child. I guessed her right away. I was Abraham Lincoln. I pretended I’d been shot, and staggered around quite a lot. Al said I should’ve given the Gettysburg Address. I hate know-it-alls, I told her, even if it was her birthday.

  Al got a tough one to act out: the Wizard of Oz. She gazed into an imaginary crystal ball. I was the only one who knew what she was doing. Nobody guessed her.

  My grandfather took Polly home in a taxi. Al and her mother thanked us many times. “I’ve never enjoyed an evening more in my life,” Al’s mother said, pressing cheeks with my mother.

  “All I can say is,” Al said, “this party makes the Rainbow Room look like the Automat.” Then they left. My mother slipped her shoes off and lay down on the sofa. The bell rang. “Who on earth is that?” my mother said, slipping her shoes back on.

  “She forgot this.” Al handed me a tray with a large stuffed pineapple reclining upon it. “The horses doovries. My mother says forgive her, she’s so embarrassed she forgot it. Good night and thanks again.”

  “What’s that?” my father asked, coming out of the kitchen, pointing at the pineapple.

  “It’s Al’s mother’s horses doovries,” I explained. “She forgot them.”

  “Too bad,” said my father, circling the pineapple as if it were a live hand grenade.

  “Say what you will,” my mother said, “those little boys were wonderful. Not a peep out of them.”

  Speak of the devil. Wearing pajamas and a fuzzy look, Hubie staggered in. “I think I’m walking in my sleep,” he mumbled. “Where’s the cake?”

  “Where’s Teddy?” my mother said. “Asleep?”

  “He’s sick. He told me to bring him a piece of cake. So here I am.” Hubie dug at his eyes with his fists.

  “Sick?” My mother and father looked startled.

  “He’s got spots.”

  “Where?”

  “All over.”

  My mother and father rushed toward Teddy’s room.

  “It’s probably early acne,” I said.

  “Either that or measles. Probably measles.” Hubie shrugged. He didn’t give up easily. “Where’s the cake?” he said again.

  chapter 14

  “Teddy has chicken pox,” I told Al the next day. “Talk about timing. Just before school starts. The kid’s a genius.”

  “The kid’s also gonna itch like fury,” Al said. We were walking to Rockefeller Center to watch the tourists hang out and to talk to Rudy.

  He had told us holidays were a perfect time to play his violin in tourist haunts. “Strolling violinists are in short supply back in Keokuk,” he said. “Those of my caliber, anyway. They love me, they think I’m Mr. New York. Little do they know I was born in Jersey City.”

  “You said you were born on a roller coaster at Coney Island,” I reminded him. “Right,” he snapped his fingers. “It was my twin brother was born in Jersey City.” There’s no way to keep up with him. He’s a card.

  “The dinner was delicious,” Al told me, stomping along. For once she left her red shoes home. She wore her running shoes, instead. “My mother had a super time. I’ll remember that party until the day I die. Maybe longer.”

  “It was fun,” I agreed. “We had a great time.”

  “First let’s check out the place we saw that woman,” Al said. “I have some money today. I can’t cash my birthday check on Sunday, but my mother gave me an advance on it. I’m giving that poor soul five dollars to buy food for her family.”

  “Let’s find Rudy first,” I said. I didn’t want to see that woman again. I was afraid of her. I don’t know why, but I was. I have a bad habit of postponing things I don’t want to face.

  “What’s with you?” Al asked, puzzled. “You want to forget her, don’t you?”

  “Not forget exactly,” I said. “I can’t exactly explain. She scares me.”

  “Then you must be scared a lot. There’re a lot of starving people around these days. You might say it’s an epidemic. She must be weak as a cat.” Al scowled at me. “What could she do to you?”

  “I’m not scared of what she might do.” I tried to explain. “I’m scared of what she might say, how she’d look at me.”

  Al set the pace. We walked briskly at first, until the heat got to be too much. Then we slowed down, pacing ourselves.

  “I love the city on holidays. It’s almost like the country.” Al flung wide her arms, indicating the almost deserted streets, the absence of traffic. “All we need are a few cows and a couple of pigs and we’re in clover.” Then she cried, “Look, isn’t that Rudy?”

  “Where?” I squinted and couldn’t see anyone who looked like Rudy.

  “There. Sure that’s him. Hey, Rudy!” Al hollered.

  A young couple in front of us, each walking hand in hand with a small child, jumped and looked back at us apprehensively. They must’ve thought we were New York weirdos.

  “Come on, let’s cross. I’m sure it’s him.”

  When we got to where Rudy should’ve been, he wasn’t there. “I told you it wasn’t him,” I said crossly. “It’s too hot to run. Let’s sit down, if we can find a place.” But the benches lining the walkway to the skating rink were filled with people eating Italian ices or sandwiches from home.

  We never got a seat, and we never found Rudy. After a long while we headed east to find the woman. Al wouldn’t let me off the hook.

  “You’re an escapist,” she told me sternly. “You don’t want to face reality.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I snapped.

  There was no one standing under the clock at the bank. The temperature was 81°, the time 11:32.

  “Let’s go home,” I started to say.

  “There she is,” Al told me. “Coming toward us.”

  “That’s not her.”

  “Sure it is.” Al fumbled in her pocket.

  The woman approached, head down, shuffling, looking at the sidewalk. A kid about Teddy’s age was with her. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. It didn’t matter. The kid’s hair and clothes were matted with filth. They both wore pieces of shoes tied with string. The kid stopped, picked something out of a trash basket
, looked at it, tossed it aside.

  Her skin was the same ruddy color. I couldn’t see the eyes. The hand came out, as if by accident, as we came abreast; the fingernails curved, the fingers bloated and swollen, as the other’s had been. I put a quarter timidly in the hand. And swiftly moved on.

  “Hssst!” The sound commanded me to stop, to turn, to look at her. It wasn’t the same person. I had known all along. These eyes were dark and full of hate. I had never seen so much hate. She spit at me, mumbled something terrible. I made myself forget what she said. I began to walk fast. Then I was running.

  I ran until my beating heart forced me to stop. I leaned against a building, waiting for Al. If she didn’t show, I’d go home alone. If she didn’t show, maybe something bad had happened.

  With a huge surge of relief, I saw her coming at last. I took long, deep breaths to calm myself until she caught up. As we headed up Lexington, we were both shaking. I made myself look straight ahead, neither to the left nor the right. For fear of what I might see.

  “Listen,” Al said, “it could happen to anyone.”

  “It wasn’t the same woman,” I said flatly. “And you know it.”

  We cut across Seventy-second Street. The digital clock on the corner said it was 12:06.

  Almost time for lunch.

  chapter 15

  “So you were right. Big deal.” Al stomped her way around the rug. “So we’ll try again.” She meant try to find the woman, give her the money.

  “Count me out,” I said. “Last night I had a horrible dream. It was night and I was walking down a scrungy little side street, with garbage cans lining either side. It smelled. There was no moon, no stars, nothing. Only me. I thought I heard someone following me, so I walked faster. Just as I got to the end of the street, I was surrounded. They were all women and they all looked alike, just like the woman we saw yesterday. They were making dog noises low in their throats, mumbling terrible things. Then they closed in on me. I hollered and screamed, and nobody came.” As I told Al my dream, my heart started to pound, it was so real.

  “So then they caught me and tied me to a post. And boy, did they smell!” I grabbed my nose and pinched it to illustrate how bad they smelled. “They started throwing rocks at me. Then they lit a fire.” I felt the back of my nose getting scratchy and knew I was going to cry.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and fled to the bathroom. Al pulls that one on me all the time. Now it was my turn.

  When I came back, Al hadn’t moved.

  “Know something?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Your grandfather asked my mother out.”

  I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Al’s face got red.

  “Nothing. It’s just that it was such a drastic subject change.” I couldn’t stop laughing. Al’s face got redder.

  When I got hold of myself, I said, “You’re kidding!”

  Al drew herself up haughtily.

  “Why would I kid you about something as serious as that?” she demanded. “And why do you find it so impossible that your grandfather would ask my mother to go to the ballet? My mother has men ask her to go all sorts of places. She never lacks for dates, as you well know.”

  “Come off it, Al,” I said. “I think my grandfather showed very good taste asking your mother out. It’s just that I’m surprised. Is she going?”

  “She thinks your grandfather’s a charming man. She told me she’s seldom met a more charming man. Of course she’s going. She loves the ballet.”

  “How about Stan?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Oh, well,” Al waved her hands in the air, “Stan’s still in Europe. Anyway, they’re just good friends.”

  I almost reminded Al that she said her mother might marry Stan and they’d move to a mansion in the suburbs. But I didn’t. No sense in rocking the boat.

  “I think that’s cool,” I told her. “Your mother and my grandfather going on a date. Maybe we could go along as chaperones.”

  “Two people of their age hardly need chaperones,” Al said, in an icy tone.

  “Hey, I was only kidding,” I said.

  “How old is your grandfather, anyway?”

  “Sixty-six. How old’s your mother?”

  “I’m not sure. Either forty-four or forty-five. Sometimes she forgets what year she was born.” Al looked at the ceiling, doing a little arithmetic in her head. “He’s old enough to be her father,” she said.

  “Sure. He’s my mother’s father, and she’s forty-one.”

  Al thought that one over and found nothing there to quibble about. She got up, pulled herself together, and made for the door.

  “Gotta split now,” she announced. “I have to write a letter.”

  “To Brian?”

  “No, to your mother. To thank her for the super party. See you.”

  I could hardly wait for my mother to come home to tell her about Al’s mother and Grandfather. I was brat-sitting, carrying shooters of Coke to Teddy as he lay swilling them down on his bed of pain.

  “I’m thirsty!” he bellowed for about the twentieth time. And although it was the middle of the day, I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower, hard, so I couldn’t hear Teddy or anyone else, and took a long, hot shower to cool myself off.

  chapter 16

  “Do you realize,” Al spoke deliberately, pronouncing each word with great solemnity, “that when Joan of Arc was little more than our age, she was leading the armies of France against the English and raising the siege of Orléans?” I felt her giving me a piercer and thought, Oh, boy, it’s going to be one of those days.

  Al was all wound up. We were on our way to meet Polly. The three of us planned one last blast before school started the next day.

  “I’ve decided I lead a totally useless life. I mean, what do I do to help mankind?”

  I knew Al didn’t expect an answer from me. Which was a good thing.

  “You lead a totally useless life, too,” she told me.

  That was pretty nervy of her. It’s OK if she wants to say she leads a totally useless life. That’s her affair. But she doesn’t have to include me. I clean and cook and iron napkins. Now and then. This year I’m planning to write a short story and learn to make bread. As well as make the girls’ soccer team. I have goals. I just don’t go around shouting them out from the housetops, that’s all.

  Al never does things by halves. This morning, when we started out, she went to the bank to cash her birthday check from her mother. She put half in her savings account. The other half, she informed me, was to be distributed to the poor.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “If I’m going to be able to live with myself,” Al said, “I’m going to share what I have with others. I have to become a better person. I have to grow, to contribute to society.”

  So what’s Joan of Arc got to do with it? I thought, but did not say.

  As if I had said it, Al said, “Joan of Arc makes us look like a couple of twits, a couple of do-nothings. I mean, there she was, offering herself up to God and country, offering her life and all, when she was a mere girl. It makes you stop and think.”

  We stomped west on Eighty-sixth Street, thinking glumly about Joan of Arc. Then I spied Polly standing on the far corner, waiting for the light to change. I waved. Polly waved back and stepped out into the traffic. A taxi almost nailed her. I drew in my breath sharply. The driver shouted and shook his fist at Polly.

  “You have some kind of death wish, kid?” I said when Polly finally made it across safely.

  “My mind was elsewhere,” Polly said jauntily. Polly is frequently jaunty. She had on a plaid shirt and shorts and yellow running shoes. “What’ll we do to celebrate our last day of freedom?” Polly asked.

  “How about the South Street Seaport for laughs?” Al said.

  “Or the Museum of Modern Art?” I said. That’s long for MOMA.

  “We could always hang out on Forty-seventh Street,” Al s
aid. That’s the heart of the diamond district. Sometimes burglars perpetrate crimes there: break through walls, cut alarm systems, steal gems. Take off with a bag of swag, or loot. Al wants to be there just once, to foil an escape, she says. She plans to tackle the thief and sit on him until the police arrive. Then she plans on taking the perfect diamond she gets as a reward for her heroic act and having it set in her left nostril.

  We’ve spent some time loitering on Forty-seventh Street. The last time we hung around so long, a couple of cops told us to move along.

  Al was thrilled. “I bet they think we’re going to pull a B and E,” she told me. She watches a lot of cop shows. Not me. I like either Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire or Luciano Pavarotti at the Met. He kills me, that Luciano Pavarotti. He’s so cute.

  “How about renting a horse to go riding in Central Park?” Polly suggested.

  “You’re talking big bucks,” Al said, scowling. “Very big bucks.”

  “It costs twenty-two dollars an hour, but if all three of us rode the same horse,” Polly said, “it’d be only a little more than seven dollars each.”

  “Seven dollars would buy quite a lot of food,” Al told Polly in a stern tone. Polly blushed and looked at me. I just shrugged.

  “Besides,” I joked, “if all three of us got on the horse at once, he’d break down, probably. Those Central Park horses are not in their prime.”

  “I’m the only fat one,” Al said. “You two are skinny. It might work, but it costs too much, anyway.”

  I began to get mad. “Don’t be such a killjoy,” I told Al. “Everything we say, you put the kibosh on. It’s not fair. I thought we were going to have a good time.” And I did not say “You’re not fat,” as I’ve done so often. If Al wants to think she’s fat, let her.

  Polly laughed nervously. Polly doesn’t like Al and me to argue. “I think your grandfather’s very handsome,” she said, changing the subject. “I told my mother he’s more like an actor than a grandfather. He’s a regular bon vivant, a boulevardier. My mother said he sounded like a good extra man to have around for dinner parties.” Polly’s parents do a lot of entertaining, her father being in the diplomatic service and all.