Junonia (3 page)

 

Alice didn't believe that God was an old man in flowing robes with a white beard and a temper to beware of. An old man who didn't come to the rescue during wars or when kids got picked on at school. Lying in bed on the first morning of her vacation, Alice decided her perfect, personal god was female. She would live in the ocean because water covered most of the earth, and her name would be Junonia because a junonia was such a rare shell, the one Alice coveted more than any other.

It had taken Alice a moment to remember where she was when she woke up. And after she had, a range of emotions passed through her—from happiness about being in Florida to lingering disappointment about Helen Blair and Colin, Chad, and Heather.

Alice heard the muffled voices of her parents coming from the kitchen and she could smell coffee, but she remained in bed a few minutes longer, considering Junonia, as the small room filled and brightened with sunshine.

Junonia would be old, but not too old, beautiful, but not too beautiful. She would be kind and wise and gentle.

All of a sudden Alice erupted from bed, before the morning hurried by without her. She reminded herself that her mother's friend Kate would be arriving today. Aunt Kate, Alice sometimes called her.

Oh, Junonia, Alice said in her head, will today be a better day?

The imagined voice replied, Yes, yes, indeed it will.

In the kitchen the sunlight cast an unexpected watery pattern on the table and on part of one wall. We're under the sea, thought Alice, smiling.

Because this was vacation, there were doughnuts for breakfast, and milk in one of the thick cobalt blue glasses from the tall, tilting cupboard. The glasses made the milk look different, and taste different, too.

Alice was working on her second doughnut when her mother's cell phone rang. At first Alice didn't pay attention because the doughnut and the milk tasted so good, but she took notice when she heard her mother say, “Kate! Oh, Kate, you're still coming, aren't you?”

Alice's listening sharpened. Her half-eaten doughnut was poised in the air near her opened mouth. Powdered sugar freckled her lips; a clump of powdered sugar fell onto her lap.

“Is he nice?” continued her mother. “You did? Oh, good. What? How old? Well, Alice was feeling lonely. . . . Okay. We'll see you later. Bye.”

“What?” said Alice.

“Wow,” said her mother.

“What's up?” asked Alice's father.

“Kate has a new boyfriend with a daughter. They're all coming. Kate called the office, and she reserved Helen Blair's cottage.”

“That Kate,” said Alice's father. “She's always good for a surprise.”

“The girl is named Mallory,” Alice's mother told them. “She's six.” She paused. “Kate sounds happy. Oh, and his name is Ted.”

Alice blinked back tears.

Colin, Chad, and Heather. Gone.

Helen Blair. Gone.

Kate. Aunt Kate. Not gone, but nearly as awful. Coming with a boyfriend and his daughter.

Kate was the closest thing Alice had to a relative. It would be different this year. Every other year, Kate had stayed with Alice's family in their pink cottage, sleeping on the sofa in the living room. Every other year, Alice had had Kate to herself; she hadn't had to share her with anyone except her parents.

The doughnut turned to dirt in Alice's mouth. The playful pattern of sunlight on the wall, which had elevated her mood just minutes earlier, now seemed frenzied, as if it were laughing at her misfortune. She swallowed hard. She licked her lips, then pensively gnawed her lower one.

Alice's parents exchanged a look, and Alice could tell that they were speaking in the secret, silent language of parents.

Questions raced through Alice's mind: When will they get here? How long will they stay? Will I get to spend any time alone with Kate?

The sun was suddenly obstructed and the room became noticeably darker, and seemed, too, to be thinking of what to do or say next.

Alice's father had placed his hands flat on the table. He wiggled his fingers methodically, as if he could sense words, the proper response, rising up through the painted surface. He suggested that, after breakfast, he and Alice go to the shell shop in town.

Her father's suggestion confused Alice. She loved going to the shell shop, but it was well known that he did not. He was making the offer, most likely, because he also thought this new development would not be a good one and he was trying to lift her spirits.

“Okay,” Alice said quietly.

“I have a feeling,” said her mother, “that everything will turn out beautifully.”

“It usually does, Pudding,” said her father.

Alice didn't get anything at the shell shop, no shells, that is. She'd greedily eyed the junonias that lined a glass case, looking like chocolate-sprinkled croissants in a bakery. There were buckets of banded tulips and alphabet cones, too. Shells of all kinds. Some from Florida and some from places more exotic.

Her father followed her up and down the aisles. He remained silent, but Alice remembered his comments from years past: “Why pay for something you can find on the beach? The shells seem fake here, all clean and polished. Like plastic.”

Last February, when Alice had whined and pressed on and said, “But they have shells I've never found. Rare ones,” he'd responded by saying, “But if you buy them, it's cheating.”

Recalling these remarks (particularly the one about cheating) was enough of a deterrent. She tightened her lips and picked out a small wooden frame to which one could attach little shells. She bought a bottle of glue, too, both with her own money.

“Why didn't you get a shell?” he asked.

She couldn't find the right words to cobble together an explanation; she shrugged.

Driving back to the cottage, Alice was angry at her father, Kate, the world. She felt the pull of something beyond her control, something unseen and unfair. Just to make noise, she said, “I named the car Eric.”

“Good idea,” said her father. “Eric is a fine car.” He tapped the steering wheel. “Eric is a gem.”

Despite herself, she was already forgiving him. Her father's jolly voice had broken the dark spell she was under, but only for a moment. She bounced lightly on the seat and hoped he'd say something funny or tell a joke. When he didn't, she sat upright and asked, “Do you know anyone named Mallory?”

“No,” he said. “But I will soon.”

 

Alice waited for Kate. She ran up the driveway to the main road and back, repeatedly, until her new flip-flops hurt her feet. Then she sat on the front steps with her arms crossed, knocking her knees together gently and clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She decided that this kind of waiting—waiting for something good and bad tangled together—should be given its own special name.

Alice imagined that Kate's phone call during breakfast had been part of an elaborate prank, yet to be revealed. Although she knew it was next to impossible, she still wished that Kate would show up alone. No Mallory. No Ted. She closed her eyes and started counting to one hundred slowly, hoping that by doing so magic would be set into motion and Junonia would materialize and intervene. Alice's face was so tightly scrunched, spots and sunbursts pulsed across her eyelids.

She was at number seventy-three when she heard a car approaching. Her heart drummed in her chest. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her eyes shut.

“Kate!” Alice yelled. “Aunt Kate!” She raced to the car. Kate was sitting on the passenger side of the front seat. For a moment Alice blotted out the fact that there were two other people in the car with Kate. Alice opened the door before the engine had been turned off.

“You've grown three feet since the last time I saw you,” Kate said, rising.

They hugged. Kate! thought Alice happily. Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate! When they broke their embrace, Alice's parents and Ted and Mallory had joined them. Introductions were made. And just like that, there were two new people in Alice's world, and her excitement evaporated into the swampy air.

Ted Rumbelow was a tall man with a bushy mustache and a slow, deep voice. His handshake was so firm Alice thought her fingers might break as he gripped them.

And Mallory. Mallory Rumbelow had a round face, round cheeks, round eyes, round knees, and a round nose. When Alice looked at her, she saw circles.

Mallory was clutching a limp doll made of pale blue corduroy, worn and dirty. The color matched her eyes perfectly. When she lowered her head and kissed her doll, Mallory's two yellow pigtails jiggled. One damp, loose ringlet clung to the skin above her left eyebrow like an upside-down question mark.

“Munchkey wants to see the ocean,” were the first words Alice heard Mallory say. And that's how Alice learned the doll's name.

The group meandered to the beach together. Kate played with Alice's hair and held her hand part of the way. Alice could feel Mallory staring at her, but when she turned to look at her, Mallory either averted her eyes or covered her face with Munchkey.

On the sand, they took in the view, then formed a little knot. Alice's mother and Kate leaned into each other, whispering. Alice's father and Ted were laughing about something. Mallory stood on her father's foot, grasping his shirt with one hand, her other hand holding Munchkey. Alice was between her parents but felt disconnected. Invisible. She stepped away just a few feet from the group.

She watched the endless procession of long waves rolling toward the shore. The crests were white and foamy. The hollows between the crests were deep, like trenches scooped out by a huge shovel. After a while, she saw the crests as strips of lace laid out on folds of steel blue cloth.

Alice turned back. When she was close enough to be heard, she asked Mallory, “Do you like the ocean?”

Mallory glanced up, then burrowed her face into her father's shirt.

Alice tried again. “Does Munchkey like the ocean?”

Mallory let go of her father's shirt and approached Alice cautiously. They walked slowly together along the tide line.

“Munchkey's mother went to sea in a pot, and she's been missing for weeks,” Mallory said, her voice high and thin. “She might never come back.”

Alice didn't know how to respond. There was a lengthy pause. Into their silence entered the squawk of a bird, snatches of the adults' conversations, the pounding of the waves. “
I
like the ocean,” Alice finally said. “Aunt Kate—Kate—likes it, too.”

“I think the ocean smells bad,” said Mallory.

The warm breeze did carry a fishy smell, but to Alice it wasn't a bad smell, and it came and went lightly as the breeze quickened and lulled.

Mallory sniffed, jutting her head this way and that way. “I think it stinks,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “And Kate is not your aunt.” Her eyes grew wide and became blank and shiny; she looked as if she was about to cry. She swung around and went back to her father, her pigtails bouncing. She pulled at his pants.

Alice frowned. A spark of annoyance flared within her chest. She remembered that her mother had said that Mallory was six years old. Alice realized how lucky she was to be nine, almost ten. Six seemed so young.