The Second Wave

by Jean Copeland

  Alice glared at her. “If you’ve got something to say, stop beating around the bush and say it.”

  Kathy looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

  Alice’s face flamed like the towering inferno. “You’re out of your mind. You ought to lay off the gonga. It’s making you hallucinate.”

  “Okay. You don’t want to talk about it. I dig that. But if you ever want to, I’m a good listener and a discreet one.”

  “Is that right? How come you’ve never revealed your secrets? It’s not like anyone would be surprised.”

  “I was trying to be a friend to you. I’m sorry you were so offended by that.” Kathy grabbed the wine bottle and sulked off to the living room.

  Feeling like a grade-A heel, Alice went back in and sat next to Kathy, offering a pat on her shoulder as an apology. But she wasn’t able to shake off the funk dogging her that night and left early, feigning a headache from the cheap grass Kathy had brought.

  Instead of going home, she drove by Leslie’s house. At that hour, her husband was still out bowling with the guys. Maybe her children were sleeping over at their grandparents’, as they usually did on crochet nights. Would it be so bad to stop in and say hi? Time and distance were supposed to help her move on from their doomed love affair, but at that point the only sign of movement was her climbing the walls, missing Leslie to the infinity of her soul.

  The light in the living room was on as Alice drove by at a crawl. She spied in to see if she could spot Leslie—just a quick glimpse that might ease some of the yearning that had weighed down her heart for the past month. No sign of her. She turned around down the street in someone’s driveway and headed back toward Leslie’s, slowing conspicuously as she approached the house. She hit the brakes and stopped in the middle of the lane when she noticed a figure in the kitchen. It was only Billy. She kept her eyes on the window as he rummaged through cabinets. A moment later, Leslie padded into the kitchen and interacted with him before opening the refrigerator. Transfixed on Leslie’s every move, Alice hadn’t noticed the approaching headlights of a car behind her. The car’s horn blared as the driver maneuvered around her. Startled, Alice drove on, circling the block and heading back to the house again. Maybe if Leslie noticed the car, she’d come out and say hello. She rolled up in front of the mailbox, out of the main lane of traffic, and stared into the window again, her lights still on, car idling.

  The next set of headlights caught her attention as they slowly grew brighter in her rearview mirror. Her heart beat double-time as the car nearly came to a full stop behind her before turning into the driveway. It was Bill, home from bowling. She hit the gas and tore off with a squeal down the street. She focused on Bill’s car in the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t decided to follow her, but when she returned her eyes to the road, she jerked the steering wheel to avoid sideswiping a parked car in front of a neighbor’s house.

  She swallowed hard against the sandpaper in her throat and held the wheel tighter. She drove home in the dark silence, fearing not only the radio DJ waiting to ambush her with one of their songs but also who she was becoming.

  Saturday, February 25, 1978

  The next morning, Alice woke with a mother of a hangover, courtesy of the bottle of Asti Spumante she’d drunk before passing out sprawled across her sofa the night before. After putting on a pot of coffee, she visited the bathroom and had a prolific puke. In the kitchen, she found relief in a cool, wet paper towel against her face as the percolating coffee mimicked the sounds she’d made moments earlier in the tiled acoustics of her commode. Credit for some of her nausea went to her behavior after leaving Dolores’s, stalking Leslie’s house like a burglar and then her near run-in with Bill. If he’d confronted her, she would’ve needed a mystery writer to come up with a plausible explanation for why she was staked out by a snow pile in front of his house.

  Why had Dolores needed to announce to everyone that Leslie was going out for a romantic Valentine’s dinner with her husband that night? Wasn’t missing Leslie punishment enough? Now she could add to her agony the indignity of knowing Leslie would be “celebrating” the lovers’ holiday with her husband, not the woman she was supposedly madly in love with.

  As a quiet rage steamed inside, Alice threw on a pair of sneakers, hoping a run in the crisp morning air would settle the Valentine’s Day goblins taunting her with visions of champagne glasses, Jacuzzis, and velvet, heart-shaped beds from those offensive, beautiful Mount Airy Lodge TV commercials.

  Saturday Night, February 25, 1978

  Alice’s first mistake that night was turning down the invitations she’d received from her sister and one of her married girlfriends to occupy the sidecar on their dinner dates with them and their husbands. Even Cousin Phyllis, who usually railed against the capitalists’ shameless commercialization of love, had plans with a young, long-haired associate professor at the university.

  She sat Indian-style on her sofa slurping lo mein noodles her chopsticks pulled out of a carton. A glass of wine on the end table and the weekend edition of the evening news were her company. A more depressing evening she couldn’t have imagined. When the news and her third glass of wine were over, she determined she would have to leave the house or her lifeless body wouldn’t be found until Monday after she’d failed to show up for work.

  She could’ve easily gone for a brisk walk along the boardwalk in West Haven only a few miles from her house. That would’ve made the most sense, but instead she hopped on the Interstate toward Branford Point—or so she’d convinced herself. Of course, it was only a coincidence that she’d have to drive by the restaurant Leslie and Bill were dining at—well, “have to” in the sense that if she took the East Haven exit instead of the Branford one, she’d have to pass right by it.

  She pulled into the restaurant parking lot and scanned the rows of cars for theirs. Maybe they’d had an early reservation and were gone now. She clenched her teeth at what they’d have time for if they finished dinner so early. Or maybe they’d changed plans and were at a different restaurant. Her knuckles stiffened from her grip on the steering wheel as she grew more anxious. And then she’d spotted their car parked along the side of the restaurant. She’d contemplated parking near the dumpster so she could see them when they left, but who knew what time that would be? She drove to the opposite side of the lot and found a space. Just one drink at the bar, she thought. Maybe she’d meet other singles alone on this storm-delayed Valentine’s Day and end up spending the night steeped in scintillating conversation.

  She walked into the foyer, twisting her neck like an owl’s as she inspected every face and the back of every head for Leslie’s.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the maître d’ said. “Are you waiting for your party?”

  “Huh?” she said, startled. “Uh, no. I’m just heading into the bar.”

  “Very well,” he said, sizing her up as if searching for an explanation as to why she was unescorted on a Saturday night before returning his nose to the reservation book.

  As she shuffled toward the bar, she spotted Leslie’s face partially obscured by the back of Bill’s head. She froze and stared into the dining room like a French peasant through a bakery window. Leslie positively dazzled her with her golden, feathered hair, sparkling hoop earrings, and black scoop-neck dress. She was smiling, eating what appeared to be dessert, cheesecake, maybe—her favorite. As Alice leaned against the frame of the entryway, a persistent breeze from passing wait staff and couples coming and going chilled her to her bones.

  Suddenly, as if sensing eyes on her, Leslie looked over Bill’s shoulder and noticed Alice standing there. Although flight was Alice’s first instinct, her shoes remained planted as her heart sank into them.

  Leslie approached her and, without speaking, led her down the hall toward the restrooms. “Alice, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m meeting someone in the bar,” she lied.

  “Oh,” she said, seem
ing relieved. “That’s nice.”

  Awkward silence. Alice feasted on it. Leslie was jealous.

  “Anyone I know?” Leslie asked.

  “No, just a guy a friend set me up with,” she lied again.

  “Okay. Well, I won’t keep you,” Leslie said but didn’t budge as her eyes inventoried the crowd in the bar.

  “Are you enjoying your dinner with him?” Alice said, dripping with antagonism. “Looks very romantic.”

  “Alice,” she replied with sad eyes.

  “No, no problem,” Alice said, excavating phony cordiality from within. “I’m having a romantic dinner later, too, so, you know…”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes, their unspoken language louder and clearer than ever.

  “Well, I should, you know…” Leslie said. “Bill thinks I went to the restroom.”

  Alice studied the bar area as the weight of her sorrow threatened to crack her façade. She’d already revealed more than she’d wanted.

  “It was good seeing you again,” Leslie said as she started for the dining room.

  “You, too,” Alice said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Leslie stopped before turning the corner. “You don’t either.”

  Was that a glimmer of allusion in Leslie’s eyes or just illusion?

  She wandered into the bar, imagining that she’d grabbed Leslie by the hand and whisked her out of the restaurant bound for some romantic locale like Paris or Barbados or Alice’s bedroom. She positioned herself at the corner of the bar with a direct line of sight to the restaurant’s entrance.

  “Martini, three olives,” Alice said, holding up three fingers to the bartender. Might as well start lubricating herself to make the screw job of watching Bill and Leslie walk out together go a little smoother.

  As she drained the last drop of martini number one, she caught sight of Leslie walking ahead of Bill as they exited the dining room. He brushed his hand across the back of her overcoat, leading her toward the foyer. Good thing, too, or she never would’ve found her way out.

  “Anyone ever tell you, you look just like Jaclyn Smith?” asked a man with a charming smile.

  “Get the hell out of my way,” Alice barked. She shoved him aside in time to see the back of their figures float out the door and out of sight. She stared at the vacant space by the entrance as though Leslie’s hand had just slipped through her fingers and some dark water’s surface had closed around it—permanently.

  “Hey, what’s the big idea?” the man said. “You spilled my whole drink.”

  The whine in his voice towed Alice back to shore. She felt bad for him with his wet hand and bottom lip quivering with sadness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, let me get you another one.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I’ll get another one for both of us.” He signaled the bartender over as he patted his martini-drenched shirt with a napkin Alice handed him.

  “That’s not necessary,” she said politely. “I can cover my own tab, thanks.”

  “We have a law in Connecticut. Dynamite-lookin’ ladies aren’t allowed to pay for their own drinks on a Saturday night.” His mustache spread across his face as he slipped a crisp five from his wallet to hand the bartender.

  “I wasn’t aware of that law,” Alice said dryly. “Did it pass on a referendum?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Alice smiled meanly to herself as she lifted her fresh martini to her lips. “Thank you so much…”

  “Brett,” he said, his square, manly jaw accentuated by a friendly smile. His hair, a poof of brown cotton candy, seemed to stay entirely still even when he moved.

  “Thank you, Brett,” she said.

  “By the way, what did you shove me out of the way for?”

  “I thought I saw my husband walk in,” she said casually and sipped her drink.

  “Husband?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s a retired wrestler—Bill the…Bill the Big Baboon.”

  He raised the one brow stretching over both of his eyes. “Super,” he said and checked his watch. “Looks like I gotta hit the highway. You have a good night, now.”

  “You have a fantastic night, too, Brett.” She finished her second martini, still disgusted by the events of the evening. She ate the olives off the toothpick and instructed the bartender to keep ’em coming.

  Some Time after the Martinis…

  Alice rolled off the couch, lurched down the hall to the bathroom, and sprayed the toilet with martinis, olives, and something faintly resembling lo mein. When she was sufficiently purged, she rested her head on the cold porcelain and moaned softly.

  “Alice.”

  Startled, Alice lifted her head and tried to focus on the figure producing the familiar voice.

  “Alice, can you get up?” Mary Ellen shook her gently to rouse her.

  “Mare, what are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” she said sternly. “The question I’d love an answer to is why Dave had to pick you up from that bar tonight.”

  “I didn’t ask him to.”

  “No, the bartender did after he scraped you off the floor.”

  “Say what?”

  “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.” She helped Alice to her feet and led her back to the couch.

  “Where’s Dave?”

  “In bed sleeping, where I should be.”

  “Aww, but you’re here with me instead,” Alice slurred.

  “Keep your voice down. You’re gonna wake the boys.”

  “Come and sleep with me. I miss my sissy,” she said, kissing Mary Ellen’s cheek repeatedly.

  “Never mind. Just get back on the couch and go back to sleep.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Now that I know you’re not going to die, I’m going to clean the bathroom and then go back to sleep. Honestly, Alice, I don’t know what’s come over you. You’ve been acting so out of character lately.”

  “I’ve got problems, Mare,” she said and scrunched up in the fetal position.

  “No shit,” Mary Ellen said, stretching the blankets up to Alice’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about this in the morning—late morning, that is.”

  With a grunt, Alice finally drifted off.

  *

  Alice threw another small log on the fire and jabbed it until it flamed. “That was the worst night ever. Thanks for refreshing my memory.”

  Mary Ellen took the wine bottle out of the bucket and stared suspiciously at Alice. “Promise me Dave and I aren’t going to have to deal with that again. He doesn’t like driving at night, and I’m too old to play nursemaid to a drunk at three a.m.”

  Alice smirked. “Oh, please. I know how to deal with my emotions in a healthy, productive way.” She glanced at the wineglass in her hand and then at Mary Ellen. “Well, nobody drinks hot cocoa around a fire on a gorgeous summer night.”

  Mary Ellen smiled. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Alice smiled too and continued poking the fire.

  “Answer me, damn it. You don’t need to lie or hide anything anymore. The cat’s out of the bag.”

  “Yes, it is, but I love the look on your face when I torture you.”

  “I should’ve made Dave leave you on the floor of that bar that night.”

  Alice chuckled. She put her feet up on the side of the fire pit and inhaled as if she had to dive to the ocean floor for the answer. “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Have you told her yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Mary Ellen shrieked.

  “Now isn’t the right time,” Alice said, excitedly, then calmed down. “It’ll only complicate things even more.”

  Mary Ellen scoffed. “You only waited almost forty years to be with her. Why don’t you just wait another forty? Maybe by then, every single minute detail will be exactly to your liking.”

  “Mare, I live in Boston. Leslie is recovering from a stroke. I’m still mourning my dead wife. Can you give me a chance to get my beari
ngs here?” She moaned in frustration. “I wish Phyllis was still here. Now that woman knew how to give her unsolicited opinion and make you think you’d begged her for it.”

  “She used to make me hide in the oven during hide-and-seek when she babysat us.”

  “Say what?” Alice said, laughing.

  “True story,” Mary Ellen said, then turned serious. “Ally, if you want me to keep my opinions to myself, I will. You obviously have a lot to think about. If you decide to sell that big house up in Boston, Dave and I will be glad to put you up until you find something around here.”

  “Yes, you’ve already said that, and I appreciate it. And I don’t want you to keep your opinions to yourself.” She reached over and pinched her cheek. “At your age it might be hazardous to break into something so new and out of character.”

  Mary Ellen swatted Alice’s hand away and gave her a playful shove, prompting a momentary sisterly slap fight.

  “Alice, listen,” Mary Ellen said, regaining order by subduing Alice’s hands. “I want so much for you to be happy. And I want to be part of that happiness. It still kills me that you went through such a sad, confusing period in your life on your own, even though I was here all along.”

  Alice tilted her head toward the stars. “Mare, it was a different time, and I was a totally different person. It’s ancient history, so let it go. I have.”

  Mary Ellen smiled and then gazed into the fire.

  “I’m going home for a few days to check on things,” Alice said.

  “You’re coming back, though?”

  “Yes, but first I need to put some space between myself and this situation. And make sure the neighbors didn’t set my cats free.”

  “I’m behind you whatever you decide,” Mary Ellen said. “But I won’t deny the selfish side of me wants you to move back here.”

  Alice tossed a stick into the fire. “Who knew that in my seventies I’d still be trying to figure out what I want?”