Finding Alice (12 page)

“This was my first peace rally,” he confesses as he moves from the fast lane to the center lane. I am slightly relieved that he’s slowing down a little.

“Yeah, mine too.”

“What did you think of it?” Then he slaps his forehead. “Sorry, I was going to lay off the questions. Okay, I’ll tell you what I thought of it. But first I have to confess that I only came out of curiosity. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to be socially conscious, because I do. In fact, it bothers me that so many people—like my parents for instance—are materially wealthy when millions of others are literally starving.”

He turns the wipers on fast as a huge semi splatters us with greasy spray, but he continues driving at the same speed, as if he can actually see through the streaky window. My fingers dig into the upholstery of the seat as I focus my mind on listening to his words.

“Like my dad is this big executive at Nike and really rakes in the money. Man, he and I have gone around dozens of times about labor practices in China and human rights and all that stuff, but it just never does a bit of good. He and his executive buddies have their own special theories about why it’s perfectly fine to force children to labor for just pennies …”

My mind begins to wander, and I can no longer follow his thread of reason. Oh, it’s not that I don’t care about Mock Turtle’s story, because it actually sounds rather interesting, but it’s too hard to make my brain focus on his multitude of words, much less digest what they mean. I try to string his words on a cord, like brightly colored beads, but I keep dropping them and mixing them up. Somehow they just don’t want to hang right.

Not only that, but the sound of his voice going up and down is giving me a headache, and the swish-swish-swishing of the windshield wipers is making me so tired and sleepy. I think Mock Turtle is actually a hypnotist, and for some reason he is telling me, “You are getting sleepy. You are very, very sleepy.”

I try to resist, but it’s useless. I am going under. I wonder what Mock Turtle will do to me when I’m completely within his hypnotic powers. Maybe he’ll whisper the magic words that will make me all better.

It seems more likely that he will transport me back to Forest Hills where Dr. Thornton will reward him for my recovery. Then I will be strapped down, and the nurses will put wires into my brain and extract all the hidden messages that I have collected since escaping from there. Or else give me electrotherapy or perhaps a lobotomy. I’m not sure which would be worse.

I know I should try to fight this thing, to resist. Maybe I could make some sort of plan to leap from his car the next time he slows down, but the wipers have taken control of my brain, and I am so tired I don’t even care anymore. I think I can hear Amelia whispering to me. I think she is telling me that it’s time to go now. But I’m under the Mock Turtle’s spell. I cannot move. I may never wake up again.

chapter
FIFTEEN

Neither Here nor There

I
feel a gentle nudge on my shoulder and open my eyes, unsure of where I am or why I am here. I feel the motion of a moving vehicle and hear the sound of wet pavement hissing beneath the tires.

“Where do you live?” asks Mock Turtle as he exits from the freeway.

It takes me a moment to remember how I know this guy, or if I even do, but I can tell we’re in Portland now, and this is a relief. Finally it comes to me. The peace rally. Salem. I see that we are heading downtown now, toward campus, but I have no desire to tell this person where I live. So I just ask him to drop me at the coffee shop on the next corner. He complies. I think he is relieved to be rid of me. I wonder if perhaps he wasn’t the enemy after all. I just wish I were better at telling the difference.

I can’t remember if I thanked him or not as I climb out of his car, so I simply duck my head out of the rain and pretend to be going into the coffee shop. I am hungry and would like to get a bagel breakfast sandwich there, no meat of course, but then my pockets are empty. I pull my sweatshirt hood over my head and hurry along
toward my apartment building. I long for the dry warmth and safety of my bed even more than I long for food. I think I will sleep all day. As I turn the corner, up ahead I see that Amelia is already there. She is waiting for me by the front entrance.

“It’s about time you came back,” she says as she leans against the wall by the door, hooking her thumbs into her jeans pockets. “So how do you plan to get in?”

I reach for the door handle, then stop. It suddenly occurs to me that I have no key. I have no purse, no backpack, nothing. I peer at Amelia. “Can I stay at your place?”

She leans her head back and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Alice.” Then she points over to the brick wall and up to my second-story window. “Why don’t you just scale that wall and break in through the window? Don’t worry, I’ll keep watch for you.”

“I’m not much of a climber,” I admit to her. “Besides, I’m a little scared of heights.”

She looks exasperated by my lack of bravery.

“Maybe Mr. Scoggins will let me into my apartment,” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes doubtfully. “You know he can’t be trusted, Alice. Have you forgotten the day he let your mother in?”

I consider this. And I must admit that it bothers me to think that this guy can simply pull out his magic key and walk right into a private apartment. There should be a law against that kind of intrusion.

“But I’ve got to do something,” I tell her.

She nods to the wall again. “Just climb, Alice. It’s simple.”

I shake my head and go into the building and down the hallway toward the apartment that has the Manager sign. I take a deep breath as I knock quietly on the door. When it opens, I can tell that I woke
him up. His gray hair is sticking out every which way, and his normally beady eyes look bleary and bloodshot. I forgot that it is still early, and according to the newspaper on his doorstep, it’s Sunday. I had no idea.

“Huh?” He scratches his head and looks at me as if he’s seen me somewhere before but doesn’t quite remember when or where. I politely tell him my name and my apartment number, apologetically explaining that I forgot my key. He begins to chuckle as if this is some kind of a joke.

“Sorry, but you don’t have an apartment no more. Your mama settled with me last month when she arranged to have all your stuff put into storage.” He begins to close the door, but I keep talking, hoping I can get him to understand my problem, but he just looks through me.

I plead with him. “But I need to get back in there—”

“Look.” His voice grows firm now. “You stay away from this building, or I’ll call the cops. You understand?” Then he narrows his eyes at me. “Does your mama know where you are right now?”

I step away from his door and move down the hall. Now I hear him calling after me, telling me to wait. But I keep going. When will I ever learn?

Amelia is standing by the front door with a dark scowl. “I told you so,” she says.

I chastise myself for being so stupid, then look at Amelia. “What should I do?”

“Why should I tell you? You never listen to me anyway.”

I look back to see Mr. Scoggins quickly approaching.

“Run, Alice,” urges Amelia.

And so I do as she says, and I run.

I head down Burnside, down to where the homeless people hang out. I know there are missions and places where people can get food and maybe a bed. And yet this frightens me. Everything is so dirty and gross along those streets, and I can’t imagine myself sleeping on a cot in a room filled with strangers. Instead I go to the waterfront park, down by the river. The rain has let up and is just a steady drizzle now, and I sit on a damp bench and look out toward the gray river and the maze of bridges that crisscross it. It looks like a giant spider web, and I wonder how anyone can ever find her way across without getting stuck like a fly that’s waiting for its predator.

I am cold and tired and hungry now. I ask myself what is the point of existing like this. Why should I even go on? Who needs to live in such desperation? I lean forward and put my head in my hands.

“You’re absolutely right,” says Amelia. I look up to see her standing in front of me. “You might as well call it quits, Alice. Before things get worse.”

“What do you mean?”

She narrows her eyes. “I think you know what I mean.”

Her answer surprises me a bit because I always thought she was the one looking out for my best interests.

Then she smiles. “It’s easy, Alice.”

Perhaps she still cares about me.

“Look over there.” She gestures toward the river and the tallest of the bridges. “There’s your ticket out of this mess.”

“You mean I should walk across that bridge?” I ask. “Is there something on the other side that will help me?”

“There’s something
over
the side.”

I don’t know the name of the bridge, but I think I’ve heard of people who have jumped to their deaths below. I wonder how long it would take me to walk over there, to make my way across the bridge until I reach the middle and climb over the railing—that’s assuming the height wouldn’t overwhelm me—and then simply jump off. What would it feel like to fall? Would it be like going down the rabbit hole? Down, down, down? And then what?

“Then, nothing,” she answers. “The end of your troubles.”

I’m not so sure I can trust Amelia right now. She seems to be acting strangely today. Something about this dismal scenario of leaping from the bridge is quite unsettling. The age-old question that begs for an answer, What will happen next? Once I hit that cold gray water, breaking my neck or plunging to the depths of the tugging icy current until I finally run out of air and drown. But once I’m dead, what comes next? It’s the not knowing that stops me.

“Look, Alice, if you’re not going to listen to me, I’m not going to keep talking to you.” Then she walks away.

So for today I will ignore Amelia’s suggestion. We’ll see about tomorrow. The truth is, I don’t want go to that horrible place where the flesh will melt from my bones. Where the howling and gnashing of teeth never stop. Then I ask myself, Which is worse? To live like this or to die like that? I really don’t know. I don’t even know if all the things I’ve heard since childhood are true. Not too long ago I felt certain they weren’t. Now I’m not so sure. It’s those unknown answers alone that keep me affixed to this cold, damp bench.

It’s as if I am stuck, just like that fly in the spider web. I am caught between two confusing worlds, yet belonging to neither. I am
neither alive nor dead. Between here and there. Perhaps Amelia is right. Maybe I do need a bridge to take me across.

I am a bridge
.

I turn around to see who said that, but no one is there, and I know it’s not Amelia’s voice. I sigh as I compare this voice to all the other voices in my life. It’s not like the voices that are always trying to destroy me. The unnamed voices that spew profanity at me and accuse me of all sorts of horrible, unspeakable things. And it doesn’t sound condemning like Pastor John’s voice or Dr. Thornton’s or even my mother’s when she is coming down on me. No, this one feels different. I sense no threatening tone in this voice. I don’t think it’s trying to harm me or even control me. But I have been tricked before.

chapter
SIXTEEN

Tweedle Dweeb and Tweedle Dumb

I
sit on my bench so long that my hindquarters grow numb with cold. I stand up and move around, trying to decide what to do next. My mind seems to be running in circles that get only tighter and tighter, like a ball of yarn being pulled backward. I have no doubts that I am talking to myself as I pace back and forth in front of my bench, but I don’t care. I need to solve this problem.

“Hey,” calls out a guy who is walking toward me along the path beside the river. I look up to see that there are two of them, or maybe I’m just seeing double. Two round orange blobs. I blink my eyes, then squint, but as they get closer, I realize there are indeed two of them. They are both wearing those puffy down-filled parkas that make them look like the Michelin tire man times two. Both parkas are this obnoxious shade of orange that’s a shocking contrast to the gray, watery scene of the Willamette River in November. I imagine that they are chubby twins, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum,
but as they approach, I can see that their heights vary, and they look nothing alike. I also notice that their almost neon-colored jackets aren’t quite as vivid up close. I can see now that they’re streaked with the kind of dirt and grime that suggests a daily life on the streets.

The taller guy’s baggy jeans are soaked along the frayed hems, and his dirty blond hair is stringy and wet. But his smile is bright. The shorter guy has a black knit cap that’s pulled low on his brow, giving him a rather dark and intimidating appearance. The two of them stop at my bench, and the big guy pulls out a dog-eared box of Camels and asks if I have a match.

I glare at him because for some reason this feels like my last straw. “No!” I shout. I pull out my jeans pockets so that they are hanging inside out like two limp ears. “I
don’t
have a match. I
don’t
have a penny. I
don’t
even have a stinking key to my freaking apartment. I have absolutely nothing. So if you want to mug me, you are totally out of luck!”

The taller guy holds up his hands and steps back as if he thinks I’m about to rush him. “Hey, sorry. I just wondered.” He tucks his Camels back into his pocket, then smiles again. “Looks like you could use a friend.”

I shrug and glance uncomfortably over my shoulder, then turn back and carefully study these two guys—the Tweedle twins.

The taller guy sticks out a grubby hand. “I’m Martin, and this is my buddy Cal.”

I reluctantly shake his hand, but the other guy just stands there without saying a word. I can tell he doesn’t like me. I don’t tell them my name. I’m not totally stupid. I attempt to act nonchalant as I
return my inside-out pockets back to their former state, taking care to wipe any grubby germs from my hands as I do.

“We were just about to go get us some lunch,” says the friendly guy as he wipes his damp nose on the already stained sleeve of his parka. “You want to come?”