Katie shrugged her shoulders at me. She didn’t know if things were bad between her and Dorotea. She had fed Dorotea some story about the upcoming room change, saying she would need to get to know Alda better if she were going to room with her. Dorotea had agreed, but then just shook her head at Katie and kept repeating, “Bad.”
As Katie poured some water into the beaker, she lowered her head to read the level and whispered, “Dreams, Dorotea has bad dreams.” She looked around at the instructor and continued, “Dorotea has dreams about Alda’s father’s guns. She wakes up screaming, ‘Don’t shoot!’”
I shut the burner off and took away the beaker. I leaned down to pull out the centrifuge and rack of test tubes. I caught Katie’s eye and whispered, “Ma-fi-a.” We both looked over to where Alda was working across the aisle.
Katie told me to meet her in the bathroom where we continued to whisper. “Alda’s father” and “Mafia.”
“Men threatening with guns,” she said.
“Dorotea?” I questioned.
“Don’t know, but she saw something,” Katie answered.
We finished our lab, having produced some wonderful esters and some confusing glimpses into more emerging secrets. The aroma of mystery shrouded in banana, mint, and orange trailed after us.
Surrounded by other students, we couldn’t do much more than sign language. I flapped my ears at Katie to signify “Listen up to Dorotea.” Katie flashed a brown paper book cover on which she had written “Town—tomorrow.”
I would find a way to get some time alone with Katie tomorrow. While Alda shopped for makeup, we would figure out more of what had happened to Dorotea at Alda’s house or just let it be. We could just dream, not even grandmother dreams, just dreams of our past summer in Maine—the lake, the wanderings, the love.
Chapter Thirty-three
Shopping
Gray. My eyes encountered a cold New England gray. I awoke early after turning in very early. The emotional events of the previous day with its early dusk made eight p.m. seem late.
My future—with Alda, daughter of who knew what hoodlum, with Katie, love of my life; with Dorotea, handmaid of Craney or so I thought; with Craney, scourge of love and decency. All aspects of my future seemed gray and bleak.
For the immediate future, I had to get out of bed, dress, and go shopping with Katie and Alda. I had to fill Katie in on the details of Alda’s father. Again, no shades of rose here.
As I dressed, I heard Alda humming Great Balls of Fire. I wasn’t up for a striptease or charades today, just some calm. I longed for my tranquil, vagabond days in Maine this past summer.
Alda took one look out the window and one look at my face. “You need a break, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Sorry I added to your pile of crap with my family history.”
“Shush.” I sighed. “Let’s just grab Katie and walk to town.”
“We okay?” she said as an apologetic smile crept across her face.
I patted her on the shoulder and ushered her through the door. She stumbled and barked, “Merda.”
Oh lord, here we go again. I just wanted some peace.
Alda crawled back to the door. She braced herself against the wall and pushed herself halfway up. Mumbling “Minchia,” one of her colorful ways of saying the f-word, she grabbed a package from the floor, which she attempted to hurl.
I caught her hand. I deciphered part of my name on the brown paper bag wrapping. From the shape and feel of it, it was a slim book.
“Crap!” I spat out as I helped Alda the rest of the way up.
Katie was tiptoeing down the hall to meet us when Alda grabbed my arm, dumping the book into her satchel and commanded, “Let’s get out of here.”
We sped down the hall, our eyes a lighthouse beam sweeping to the left and right. I told Katie with a sidelong glance I would explain as soon as we were in the clear.
Once past the main gate, we disappeared behind the bandstand on the green. I took the book from the satchel and studied the label, typed. I held it up and shook it. “Another Craney gift?”
“She over her disease?” asked Alda.
“Unless it’s a present from the grave,” said Katie.
“From the netherworld,” added Alda.
“Stop it. Enough! I’m sick of this crap.” I pounded the grass.
“Sweetie,” soothed Katie. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I ripped the thin grocery bag as if I were flaying Craney’s flesh. The Children’s Hour.
“Huh?” was the consensus.
“Well, it’s not pornography or a love story,” said Katie.
I flipped through its seventy-five pages: no name, no inscription, brand new. The playwright—we discovered it was a play—was Lillian Hellman.
“Hey!” Alda snatched the book. “We’re going to the bookstore.”
Katie was trying to caress me with her soft gaze. Alda was on a mission. I was beat.
Setting a swift pace, Alda grabbed both of us by the arm and told us not to worry. She would look after Katie and find ways for all of us to rendezvous when I switched rooms in a few days. Her eyes twinkled as she divulged news of her secret plan to give me yet another birthday present, a sequel to the first. “Remember,” she said, “woman doesn’t live by bread alone.” She planted a friendly kiss on each of our cheeks and had us skipping along to the Andover Bookshop.
Alda’s birthday gift, another romantic tryst for Katie and me, sounded enticing, but not without complications. I was dragging, and I didn’t have to think very far in the past to remember how all my problems began, but also all my blissful yearnings for Katie. We would have to be truly crazy or desperate to risk that again.
The bookshop was famous and familiar. Its wood-burning fire welcomed us into its comfy two floors lined with mahogany stained bookshelves and beamed ceilings. Alda disappeared into the section on drama.
Katie steered me into a tight niche, more like a warren sunken below the normal floor level—the section on murder mysteries. “I’ve got to tell you about Dorotea’s nightmare,” she whispered. “And maybe, just maybe, ravish you a sec.”
“Shush. First things first,” I said.
Katie started to pull a face when Alda returned, eyes darting. She crawled into the mini-cave and closed the hatch door a fraction.
Alda bit her finger. Her eyes apologized to me before she could even tell me she knew I wanted peace. “It’s bad. It’s a play about lesbians, well, supposed lesbians.”
“Man, enough!” I bared my teeth. Katie slumped and breathed heavily. I expected to see fire bursting forth from her nostrils.
“Listen. I know you don’t want to hear this. Maybe we could contact Lillian Hellman. I mean she must know something about lesbians.” Katie had put on her lecturing voice.
“Duh?” was all I said.
“Well,” Alda said. “Maybe my father…” She turned her palm outwards as if to ask why that wasn’t a reasonable and rational option.
Katie and I exchanged a killer look.
“Yeah, right,” said Katie.
I poked her with my elbow since Alda had sworn me to secrecy.
Katie recovered quickly, coughed, and stood, head-bowed to avoid the low eave.
“Look,” Katie said. “We’ve got to figure out whether it’s Craney or Dorotea or both. Let’s get out of here and go to that crummy luncheonette no kid would be caught dead in. Even the drunks won’t be there now.”
We slithered out of our pit and crept over to Eunice’s Cafe. Slopping waves of hot chocolate from our somewhat stained mugs, we made our way to the dimly lit stall with the formica table in the back. We sank onto and into the cracked phony leather cushion, which had given up the ghost a long time before. Molded into our individual forms, we each prepared a case for the demon of our choice: Craney, Dorotea, or both.
While Dorotea was a current thorn in my side, and come next week, she would be my personal prison guard of a roommate, I didn’t think s
he knew recent American playwrights. Katie was also leaning toward Craney, but…
“Listen.” Katie had blanched. She touched Alda’s hand across the still-wet table. “Dorotea might think we’re all having a thing, and she’s picking on Pina because she’s the most vulnerable. You and me, Alda, we’re, well, you know, privileged, uh, protected.”
“Picking on me?” I jumped up.
“Shush. Go on, Katie,” said Alda. “You said ‘protected.’ You know something else, something about me.”
“Okay, Alda. Dorotea has bad nightmares. She was screaming last night that Al Capone was at your house. She was wailing and ranting about kneeling down to say her prayers, convinced she would be executed with a bullet to the base of her skull. I heard her get up and rattle some pills. Then I fell asleep. Alda, she’s petrified of your father. There, I’ve said it.”
“Hmm,” said Alda. “Al Capone? Couldn’t have been. He’s dead.” Alda chuckled.
“Dammit!” whispered Katie and me at the same time.
“Well, maybe my father could fix all of them.”
“What? Well, maybe just Craney.” I laughed.
Katie gaped at me. “Are you crazy? Is it an Italian thing? Pina!” She looked around to see if the local hoods leaning into a nearby booth of big-haired girls had heard her.
“Hold on. I’m so tired of this crap. I’m joking. Alda, c’mon.”
Alda sighed. “Katie, you’ve got to believe me. My father didn’t do anything to Dorotea. There was a tough guy talking to my father, but—”
I butted in, “Wait. Alda, you said—”
“I was a bit drunk,” protested Alda. “But, Katie, can you convince her—”
“Who?” said Katie, rather peeved.
“Dorotea. That she’s confusing her Wild West stories. She can’t, do you understand, she can’t talk about that man. It would be suicide.”
“Aw, jeez, Alda.” Katie put her head down on the table. “Let me think. But, are we in danger?”
“Damn,” I interjected. “Craney and Dorotea aren’t danger enough?”
“Look. Silence is…” Alda began, playing with the greasy knobs on the miniature jukebox on the table.
“Yeah. Golden.” I wore my best sneering face. “Dammit, get Pat Boone off that thing.”
“Shut up! We make like nothing has happened, about the book I mean. My father swore no permanent damage was done. I’ve gotta split—need some lipstick.” Alda popped out an old slanted tube, applied some, and blotted her lips dramatically on her slightly soiled napkin. Red and brown lips remained on the crumpled paper.
She waved, “Ta-ta” after we agreed to meet in an hour by the clock tower.
The door took forever to shut. Blanche, the waitress with the grimy, short apron who had been draping her cleavage over the counter, finally noticed us. She tore herself away from the intense eye lock she had been sharing with the DA-hairdo endowed townie. We ordered melted Velveeta cheese sandwiches and Cokes. We were alone again.
I stared at Katie’s raised arm supporting her forehead. She sighed, closed her eyes, and shook her head. “I’m freaked out about the book. It’s creepy.”
“But…”
“And I like Alda, I do.” Katie was stalling. She played with the plastic Dutch boy and girl salt-and-pepper shakers. The girl slipped from Katie’s hand, it was so greasy.
“But…?”
“Dorotea was petrified. I don’t know if the pills were sleeping pills or…You know, she’s been saying weird stuff. She accidentally stubbed her toe and said, ‘verdammte fuss.’”
“I know, damned foot. So?” I rolled and twirled the straw wrapper. I was so tired.
“Well, then she said in English, ‘Off, off, gone. I could be gone. Good and gone!’”
“Katie, I’m exhausted. What the heck are you saying?”
“You think she might do something crazy?” Katie frowned.
“Like rooming with me? Or planting a book? Or stooging for Craney?” The smells of burnt coffee and bad beer were getting to me. I motioned to Blanche to turn on the exhaust fan. It was as if thunder struck and sucked out whatever life was left in this New England version of the OK Corral.
“C’mon, Pin,” Katie said over the roar of the fans. “I’m scared she might hurt herself. You don’t want that.”
“Course not.” I looked into Katie’s eyes. I, too, held my head up with my hand smashed against my forehead. I couldn’t finish my cheese sandwich, which was now dripping down my other hand.
“I think Alda is scared too. I have a feeling her family has been relocated.”
“Oh God,” winced Katie. “Wow. Her father must really be ticked off and scared—what with Alda’s big-mouth ways and Dorotea.”
Katie had said it all. I think both of us were wondering who was in the most trouble, who was causing it, and what to do about it.
“Lay low,” Katie said, suddenly looking super smart. Then, a bit less solid, she added, “You were joking about her father fixing stuff, weren’t you?”
Chapter Thirty-four
The Doldrums
I lay sprawled across my bed, lost in the fog on the other side of my window. Fog in my brain too.
From the appointed meeting time with Alda at the clock tower a few days ago until the scheduled break-up of our threesome three days later—because of my room change—a certain calm reigned. Well, maybe boredom, maybe depression. Even Alda’s new lipsticks seemed dull on her now droopy lips.
Katie walked around with her head in a book, her beloved science of course, or with sneak glances in my direction. She also reported on Dorotea’s increasingly bizarre behavior, throwing or giving away her once-treasured German keepsakes, as well as more vivid gangster nightmares.
Alda’s interest in her clothes waned, as did her curiosity about The Children’s Hour. She went through the motions of friendship with Dorotea, actually inviting her to eat with us. Dorotea obliged, but her gestures during that meal were so strained that she dropped several pieces of food.
I read The Children’s Hour without commenting on it to Katie and Alda. No one mentioned it, not them, not Dorotea, nor Craney. But I was becoming more and more depressed by the destructive power of gossip of any sort. I was now petrified of being called a lesbian—of being exposed.
How much of my current laying low was just being practical, and how much was hiding, maybe even hiding from myself?
What would happen if Dorotea or Craney uncovered the truth? Yeah. Goodbye Albert. Big deal. Well, it was. And Katie? Would my parents allow me to see her? Ha! After they died of embarrassment? Besides, I’d be a vegetable. They’d send me for shock treatments. I wouldn’t even know my own name.
Shoot. I couldn’t let that happen. I could try to date an Exeter boy. Yuck!
Oh. F-R-I-G! What am I thinking? Craney? What if she forced me? Holy crap! Why didn’t she die of that stupid pleurisy? Man. I can’t believe I’m thinking this way. Maybe I’m dead either way.
The knock on the door told me I was not dead, not yet. I checked to see that The Children’s Hour was under my mattress and yelled, “Come in.”
Alda and Katie came in, throwing sidelong glances at me. I’m sure they were trying to read my mood.
Katie approached me at my desk, lightly running her hand along my arm. I looked up and managed a feeble smile.
“Hi, sweetie,” Katie said. With something approaching enthusiasm, she continued, “Hey, we figured out a way to leave messages. I mean, if we don’t manage to see each other during the day. You know, once you move out.”
“Oh?” I said. “Carrier pigeon?”
“C’mon,” said Alda. “They poop.”
“You know the weird lava rock by the library? It’s real easy to lift. Presto: messenger service, note underneath.” Katie tried to catch my eye to create a twinkle.
“Look, you guys, that’s really sweet. Albert Hall isn’t that far from the library.”
“But?” said Katie.
“I’
m just…I don’t know what I am,” I said. “This can’t end well.”
“Hey. Who said anything about it ending?” said Alda as she pulled out a calendar. “I, for one, am arranging another birthday for you two. Here, in this room, unattended, unspied on. With Dorotea gone—who, by the way, will receive an invitation to her aunt’s, sent by me, of course, in one week. My father will summon Craney to discuss acceptance of a certain sum to the Albert Foundation. How’s that for no end?”
“Crazy,” said Katie.
“Your father, he’s all over the place,” I said.
“No ‘thank you’? You ingrates,” Alda said. “I told you my father could take care of the situation.”
“I wish he could,” I said, imagining a 1930s Thompson machine gun.
Katie shot me a look, mouth hanging open.
“Look, you guys,” I said. “I’m just friggin’ depressed.”
“Just say the word, and I’ll make magic. Abracadabra!” Alda attempted a fancy move with her hands. She looked like an eighty-year-old woman doing wrist exercises.
Katie gave me a sweet kiss on the forehead and patted my head. “Hey, love, we have a way to pass notes now. C’mon. We’ll help you move tomorrow. We’re not going to leave you stranded across campus all alone with Dorotea.”
“Yeah! And right next door to Craney’s sub-office.”
Alda said she was leaving to take a shower. I think she really wanted to give us a few moments together.
I just stared at Katie and clasped her hand in silence. She smoothed my hair with her other hand.
I heard myself say, “You know. I don’t have to do this. French can wait.”
Her eyes smiled back at me. “No, you do have to do this. It’s your chance.”
“But Katie, us?”
“We’ll survive the three blocks of separation. And you, you can tolerate Dorotea.”
“And Craney?” I was begging her to let me off the hook. Would she see my cowardice?
“I’m so sorry you have to deal with her. She really has been laying low. And I did tell my dad and Joe.” Katie lowered her head but continued, “I couldn’t stand it if you didn’t grab every opportunity like this French immersion program because of me. You’ve got to go for it. We’ll manage.”
Love and Lechery at Albert Academy Page 11
