by Nancy Canyon
“Hello,” Alice said, smiling.
“What do you want?”
“I’m here to see the vacant apartment.”
The woman cocked her head to the side, and edged along the railing. “Got enough damn hippies around here. Don’t need no more.”
Gena tugged Alice’s arm. “Just ignore her. Focus on the music. We’re almost there.”
“Go on, get out of here before I call the police.”
Alice stuck her finger in her mouth, biting sharply into the edge of her raw cuticle.
“Hellions. All of ya,” the woman shrieked. She slammed the door.
“She’s a freak,” Alice said, wiping her finger on her cutoffs.
“You can say that again!” Gena reached to knock on Sunstar’s door just as it fell open. Smoke and sitar music rolled into the hall.
“Hey, hey, hey! Look who's here,” Sunstar said, shouting and grinning. He swung his carrot-red braid over his shoulder as he grabbed Gena up in a generous bear hug. “Come in, come in. Hey, Alice, you old snake-in-the-grass. Back from the dead, I see.”
“Hachoo! What's that smell?”
“Rose incense from India,” Sunstar said, scrambling across the room to turn down the stereo. “Like Ravi Shankar?”
“Never heard of him,” Alice said, covering her nose with her hand, looking around the smoky room. Sun streamed through dusty west windows, pitching beams of light through the snaking smoke. Across from a red paisley-slipcovered couch, record albums crowded the wall. Purple heated wax undulated sensually inside a glass lamp. Alice grabbed onto the back of the couch to steady herself.
Laughing, Sunstar hurried into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. Shit, must have known I was having company. Coffee’s ready to serve.”
Alice felt the urge to sneeze again. She pinched her nose, wandering over to Gena who was thumbing through Sunstar’s record collection. Shortly, their host hurried back into the room, gripping three mugs of steaming coffee between his suntanned hands.
“Fuck, my fingers are burning. Save me!”
“Kind of hot for coffee,” Alice said, overwhelmed by the incense and Robbie-what’s-his-name. Taking the hot mug, she sat on the couch.
“Shit, a cold drink on a hot day just makes you fucking hotter. Drink up, Alice cutie.”
Alice took a sip. The dark liquid was hot and bitter. It somehow soothed her frazzled nerves. “It's good.”
“Throw in some egg shells. Oh, and only use cold water, Missy,” he said, grinning. He sat on the arm of the couch near Gena, who was reading the back of an album jacket.
“Led Zeppelin, Hendricks, Jefferson Airplane, you name it, I got it. I even have weird shit like Chocolate Watchband and Strawberry Alarm Clock.” He put his cup down. “They’re around here somewhere.”
“Put this one on,” Gena said, pulling out a flowered album-cover that matched her T-shirt.
While Sunstar rattled on about Donovan and Jimmy Hendricks, Alice’s thinking grew fuzzy. The music faded; her body felt loose, drifting into transparency. She thought of Alizarin Crimson oil paint and of the day on the beach when she smoked pot. If she hadn’t, she probably wouldn’t have gotten hurt. It was her fault. She shook her head. The music and voices returned to full volume.
“Could I see the rental now?”
Sunstar laughed. “That’s why you’re here? You’re renting the groovy little pad with the balcony? Shit, cutie Alice to be my renter. Far out.” He patted down the pockets of his patched-up jeans. “Round here someplace.” He riffled through a stack of papers piled next to an aquarium. “Fuckin’ A, where’d the key go?” He raised his eyebrows as he slapped the single pocket of his tie-dyed T-shirt. “Got ya! Follow me, ladies. Little puppy rents for fifty bucks a month. Shit, you’ll love it.”
Alice followed Sunstar’s dirty bare feet up the steps two at a time. She wanted to love it, or at least like it enough to call it home. She could hear Gena's moccasins padding close behind her, then the sound of the nutty woman’s door squeaking open again.
“Nothing to see here, Miss Green,” Sunstar called over his shoulder.
The door slammed shut and Sunstar giggled. He leaned close to Alice’s ear and whispered, “Utilities and Miss Green, no extra charge.”
The skeleton key turned in the lock with a loud clunk. As the door swung open, a wall of stale hot air hit them in the face. Alice took a step backwards, sneezing again.
Gena waved a hand under her noise. “Pugh! Smells like mouse-turds. You don't have to rent this one, Alice. We can look around some more.”
“We’re here now,” Alice said, walking across the worn linoleum. She peered through sagging window glass at dinner-plate-size maple leaves growing so close to the window she could probably reach out and touch them. A squirrel chattered, bouncing from limb to limb before bounding down the fat tree. She smiled as she ran her hand over the rusty, chipped radiator, and then plopped down on the old-mare of a davenport. A cloud of dust puffed out around her. “Hachoo!”
Sunstar threw open the window. “Get some fucking fresh air in here before the lady sneezes to death.”
“Where’s the bedroom?” Gena asked.
“Right here.” Sunstar pulled open closet doors. “Voila! A Murphy bed.”
A ragged, gray and white-striped mattress dropped to the floor on a metal frame. Dust bunnies whisked aside as a mouse skittered across the floor, disappearing behind the radiator.
“Does he pay rent?” Gena asked.
Sunstar laughed. “A joke instead of a scream? What kind of chick are you?”
“A fast one. If it had been a snake, I would have been out of here by now.”
“Stay out of the river then.”
“There aren’t snakes in the river.”
Dull thudding interrupted Gena and Sunstar’s lighthearted banter. Alice looked around for the source of the noise.
“Great,” Gena said. “Thunder!”
“Nah, just old Miss Green. She’s nuts when it comes to hippies. Shit, you know that harmless sort of nuts. Always banging on the wall. Always yelling, Poliiiice.”
“All the time?” Alice asked.
“Well, just when you’re noisy, Cutie Pie. But to Miss Green, the three of us talking is noisy.”
Alice smiled at Sunstar’s grinning face. “I’m the quiet type.” She sat down on the Murphy bed and squeaked the bouncing springs, laughing out loud. “Great bed.”
“Goes without saying, no secret nookie in this pad.”
“What?” Alice questioned.
“You know,” Gena said, flicking her eyebrows up and down.
“Lost on her,” Sunstar said, grinning at Gena. He turned back to Alice. “This way to the balcony, Sweet Pea.”
“Name’s Alice,” she said, following the hippy out the screen door.
“Alice in Wonderland?” Sunstar said, leaning on the balcony rail. “Got any mushrooms?”
Alice ignored him. She imagined sketching maple leaves from the broken-down wicker chair. The apartment was dirty and rundown, but it would get her away from home and she could afford it.
“I love this balcony.” Sunstar smiled. “I drink suds and watch the storms from here. But shit, now it’s all yours. If you want it, that is.”
Alice reached a shaky hand into her handbag. “I'll take it,” she said, pulling out two twenties and a ten. She handed him the money and snapped her purse shut. “When can I move?”
“Anytime. Hot damn, got me a cute new renter.” Sunstar handed Alice the key. “At your service, Alice Sharp.”
Alice slipped the key into her pocket; she imagined her Father’s face twisting into a rage when she told him she’d rented a place of her own. Her stomach sank like a basalt rock.
CHAPTER 8
Alice stood outside the front door, listening through the screen to slamming cupboards, clattering dishes and her father’s voice booming above the racket.
Like ice forming midwinter, she slipped inside the entrance. Her heart craved t
he bravado to walk into the bustling kitchen with a smile on her face and back her father down, but her fear froze her to the spot.
Mrs. Anderson had advised Alice to tell her mother. She would, but not while he was around. It was going to take all the courage she could muster just to look him in the eye and announce her plan to move into an apartment of her own.
Christie looked up from setting the table. “Alice is home!”
Alice willed blood into her feet. With her heart leaping against her ribs like a caged bird, she walked into the kitchen.
“It’s your night to set the table, Stupid. I’m doing you a favor, you know,” Christie said, slamming plastic dishes onto the dinner table.
“Hey, take it easy with those plates,” her father said.
“Make Alice do it.”
Alice turned to her father and smiled, “Sorry I’m late.”
He leaned farther back against the counter, eating around the core of a Transparent. Beyond him, Alice could see her mother tasting Sloppy Joe from a spoon.
“Where’ve you been?” her father grunted.
“Apartment hunting with Gena.”
Christie scattered a handful of silverware onto the table with a crash. “Gena’s getting an apartment? Far out.”
Alice’s mother turned to her, clutching the red stained spoon, a smoking cigarette between her fingers. “Gena’s moving away from home, too?”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” her father said.
Alice reached into her pocket and pulled out the key. “Actually, I’m the one moving away,” she said, dangling the key from shaking fingers.
“You got a hole in your head? You live here,” her father said, jerking his index finger at the floor.
“I rented my own place. I’m moving.”
“Like hell you are. Give me that key.” He lurched forward.
Alice dodged his grabbing hand, stuffing the key back into her pocket. “I already paid for it,” she said. “Gena’s helping me move tomorrow.”
He balled up his fists. “You leave over my dead body.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jim. She’s of age. Let her go,” Alice’s mother said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back.
He flung her away, knocking the sauce covered spoon to the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done.”
“Clean it up, Vi. And you, get the hell upstairs. We’ll talk there.” He jerked his arm toward the kitchen door.
Alice saw the red welt of the stab wound on his forearm. Her heart lurched. What had she been thinking? She swallowed over the lump in her throat and said, “I'm eighteen now. I can do what I want.”
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he hissed.
Alice’s mother looked up from sponging red sauce off the lap of her white dress. “Dammit, Jim, leave the girl alone.”
“Stay out of this, Vi. Now, give me that goddamned key,” he shouted, raking aside chairs, coming toward Alice like a mad dog.
Alice flattened herself into the corner. “Mom said I could leave.”
He wheeled about. “You put her up to this, Vi?”
“That’s ridiculous. I said she has a nice home and she should save her money.”
“That’s twice,” he growled, grabbing his keys off the counter. “What I say goes, do you understand?”
“What about dinner?”
“Screw dinner!” He stormed out of the house. The screen door cracked like thunder.
Alice's mother drained her drink. She lit another cigarette and took a hard drag off of it. Blowing smoke out her nose, she slammed the glass onto the counter and splashed it full of bourbon.
Christie wiped tears from her eyes. She whimpered, “I hate you, Alice Sharp. You ruin everything.”
“Guess you don’t want my bedroom!”
“I get your room?” Christie said, leaping for the phone. “I’m calling Belle.”
“Sit down, Dear,” her mother slurred, carrying a tray of Sloppy Joe smothered buns to the table. She stumbled, slamming the tray down onto the table. “Time to eat.”
“But Mom, I need to call Belle.”
She staggered back for her drink and cigarette. “Sit down.”
Christie dropped into her chair. “Where did Daddy go?”
“To work,” her mother said, taking her seat at the table. She rolled the tip of her cigarette around the glass ashtray. “Serve yourself, Alice.”
“My stomach hurts.”
“Just do it.”
Alice pushed her plate away. “I don’t feel like eating.”
“Ungrateful child!” She grabbed the spoon and slopped the food onto the plates.
Alice said, “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
Her mother wrinkled her forehead, again taking a hard drag off her cigarette.
“You made it sound like you didn’t approve. But you said I could go. You know you did.”
Her mother dismissed her with her hand. “You’re stubborn, Alice. Not worth arguing.”
Alice opened her mouth to defend herself when Christie jumped in.
“Yeah, Stupid. You always get what you want. Now Daddy’s going without dinner because of you.”
“Great, I’m always to blame.” Alice stood to leave. “I’ll be in my room packing.”
Alice’s stomach churned like water backwashing around the cement bridge pilings at Carl’s Crossing. She sat on the floor before her dressing table, remembering the rumor she’d heard about putting in above the bridge: the current would sweep a raft into the pilings, toss the occupants into the water, carry them around the column and dash them back against the cement a second time. And if that wasn’t enough, their limp bodies would be pulled under and never seen again.
Alice felt like she’d been dashed repeatedly against the pilings of her family. Usually her dad was more agreeable after a drink or two, but not tonight. She pulled a stack of clothes out of the drawer and threw them into an empty box just as her mother staggered into her room, a cigarette pinched between her lips.
She took the smoke between her fingers and slurred, “Any trash for garbage pickup?”
“When did they start picking up on the Fourth?”
“Ahead of yourself, Dear. Tomorrow’s—” She grabbed the trashcan from beside the dressing table, looking around the room. “What’s that?”
Alice glanced around quickly; she saw a bit of pink nightgown peeking out from beneath the dust ruffle of her bed. “What’s what?” She jumped up, and then sat down on the bed, her bare legs blocking her mother's view of the gown.
“There.” Her mother’s eyes stopped at the black sundress heaped on the floor beside sand-crusted flip-flops. She bent down, peering at the twist of weed tangled around the straps of the shoes. “You were swimming in the river!”
Relieved that she hadn’t seen the nightgown, Alice raised her eyes boldly to her mother’s disapproving glare. “Gena and I went swimming, yes.”
“You know how I feel…the river—”
“Yeah, you’ve told me a million times. It’s just water, you know. Nothing to fear.”
“People drown all the time,” she said, taking a drag off her cigarette. “There’s a public pool.”
“Chlorine dries out my hair.”
“There’s a lifeguard.”
“I know how to swim. You can’t tell me what to do any longer. You don’t control me.”
The front door slammed. Alice stiffened. She listened for her father’s footsteps, but instead heard the familiar sound of Gena’s moccasins running up the stairs.
Gena poked her head inside the doorway. “Hello, Mrs. Sharp. I brought onion rings, Alice,” Gena said, holding up a grease-stained paper bag, smiling her easy smile.
“You’re mother approves of you swimming in the river?” she slurred, smoke trailing after her words.
“Mom!”
Alice’s mother grabbed the trash can and started for the door. “Your hair’s so—straight, Gena. I liked it better the other w
ay.”
“It’s the style, Mrs. Sharp.”
Christie hurried past her mother into the room. “I smell onion rings. Can I have some?”
“Have at it,” Gena said. “That PG friend of yours pop yet?”
“Her name is Belle, and no.” Christie grabbed a handful of onion rings from the sack and stuffed them into her mouth.
“For heaven’s sake, Christie, you just finished dinner.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Sharp. There’s plenty.”
The smell of cigarette smoke and grease turned Alice’s thoughts to her father’s reek, his weight pounding into her over and over again. She grabbed hold of her stomach, feeling like she was about to wretch.
“Alice?” her mother said. “What’s wrong?”
Alice jerked her head up. “My stomach hurts. I already said so, remember?”
“Seven Up’s in…the fridge,” she said, weaving out the door. “It settles you.”
Gena plopped down on the floor, leaned close to Alice, whispering, “Drinking the spiked version, I take it?”
“She’s not either,” Christie said, kneeling down next to Gena, grabbing another handful of onion rings.
“Christie, you’re such a pig.”
“Shut up, Stupid.”
Gena raised her eyebrows. “It’s like you’re eating for two, like your friend.”
“You’re as stupid as Alice,” Christie said, opening her mouth to show Gena a wad of chewed food.
“Gross,” Gena said.
“Get lost,” Alice said.
“This is my room now. I can be here if I want.”
Gena rolled her eyes as she started digging through a box of books. “You ever look through Alice’s book of nudes, Christie? How about this one.” She opened the book to a massive stone sculpture. “Very stimulating, don’t you think?”
“You’re weird,” Christie said.
“That's Michelangelo’s David. Remember, he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Someday I'm going there. Every artist should see it.”
“I don't know much about art, but I know a good bod when I see one. How about you, Christie? You know Rod, don’t you? He’s got a great bod. He’s going to ask me out.”
