Junonia (5 page)

“Can't Mallory talk to her mom on the phone?” Alice asked.

“I don't know all the particulars,” said Alice's mother. She continued, her tone milder. “But it seems complicated, and it makes me feel sorry for Mallory.”

“Yeah,” said Alice absently. She was thinking how annoying Mallory could be. She was also thinking that if the details of her life and Mallory's life were interchanged, she, Alice, would be miserable. “You would never do that,” said Alice.

“What, honey?”

“Leave me.”

Her mother shook her head. “But I
am
going to leave you temporarily. I need to take a shower before we go to the Wishmeiers'.”

Alice leaned into her mother to make her stay. In response, her mother leaned into Alice. At that very moment, Alice loved her mother so completely she thought they might fuse together and melt away.

Smiling, Alice's mother rose. She crossed the tiny living room toward the tiny bathroom.

“Are Kate and Ted and Mallory coming?” Alice already knew the answer.

“Yes,” her mother called. “Mr. Barden, too. Dad's already there. You can go over.”

“I'll wait for you,” said Alice. She ended up sitting on the floor in the cramped hallway, her back against the closed bathroom door, until her mother was ready to leave.

Mr. Wishmeier greeted Alice and her mother as they approached the Wishmeiers' patio, which was not much bigger than a large quilt. Behind him, Alice's father, Ted, and Mr. Barden were circling a small grill spilling over with fire. Mr. Wishmeier was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt, plaid pants, and his straw hat. “Now the party can start,” he said.

Alice glanced around quickly, wondering if this was some sort of surprise for her. Prickles of excitement broke out along her neck. “It's not my birthday yet,” she said, her voice high and expectant. “It's not till the day after tomorrow.” Her eyes widened and she glanced around again, grinning, waiting.

There was no reaction, except a nod from Mr. Wishmeier, and Alice realized that he hadn't been referring to her birthday but had simply been using a figure of speech. There was no surprise.

Alice blushed. She wanted to vanish. Just forget it, she told herself. No one noticed. No one cares.

But her mother noticed. She patted Alice's shoulder and said, cheerfully and calmly, “We've got birthday on the brain.”

Mr. Wishmeier smiled. “Well,” he said, “the women are all inside.”

Alice moved closer to the grill. The fire was hypnotic. It was like a snarl of orange scarves caught in a frantic wind. Mr. Wishmeier checked the flames from all angles. The way he did this—craning his neck left and right, moving forward, then backward—caused his wide-brimmed hat to take on the appearance of a platter he was trying to balance on his head.

Alice was torn—she was drawn to the fire, but she thought her lingering embarrassment might go away faster if she went inside. After a slight hesitation, she followed her mother into the Wishmeiers' kitchen.

Mrs. Wishmeier was trying to get Mallory to smile. She was fixing lettuce for a salad. She tore a long, thin, ripply piece and held it up to her face as if it were a green mustache.

Mallory barely responded. Her lips twitched—that was all.

Mrs. Wishmeier tried harder. She continued to hold the lettuce under her nose, and made funny faces—first, arching one eyebrow, then flaring her nostrils. When neither of those attempts worked, she crossed her eyes.

Alice erupted with pure, joyful laughter. So did her mother, and so did Kate.

Remote as the moon, Mallory sat stiffly on a stool at the kitchen table with Munchkey on her lap. Before her, on the table, was a small mound of kitten's paws. “Can I draw?” she asked, fingering the shells.

Mrs. Wishmeier sighed. “Yes, you
may
,” she said pointedly. She tossed the piece of lettuce into the sink and rummaged about the crowded kitchen counter. “Here's a notebook,” she told Mallory. “And something in here should work for you.” She plopped an old chipped mug down onto the table within Mallory's reach. The mug was filled with pens, pencils, and markers.

It seemed to Alice that Mrs. Wishmeier was losing her patience with Mallory, but she was as sweet as ever to Alice. She asked Alice to arrange crackers on a plate and to put potato chips in a bowl.

Alice's mother and Kate kept busy with Mrs. Wishmeier, finishing the salad and preparing vegetables and fish for the grill.

Everyone asked Mallory if she wanted to help, but Mallory only wanted to draw.

When Alice completed her tasks, she sat on a stool in the corner. She sniffed the backs of her hands. They had the wonderful, warm sunscreen smell. Then she pulled up her right knee and bent over and breathed in deeply. Her knee smelled even better than her hands. Alice hugged herself.

From where she sat, Alice could see that Mallory was tracing around kitten's paws with a black marker in the notebook. Mallory would cover a page—row upon row—then fill another page. “Meow,” she'd say softly every few minutes.

Watching this made Alice sad for some reason, so she watched the women instead. How could she ever be as old as Mrs. Wishmeier? she wondered. It seemed impossible. What would she look like when she was her mother's age? It was all as mysterious as anything in the world could be.

Suddenly Mallory shrieked. The sound was piercing, the plaintive cry of a wounded animal. Mallory let herself fall to the floor in a heap. She'd dragged Munchkey down with her. The black marker rolled under the table and several kitten's paws scattered around the room. “It's permanent!” she wailed. “It's permanent!”

Everyone came to her side as if pulled by ropes.

Ted rushed in from the patio. He scooped her up and took her to the couch. He cradled and rocked and hugged her.

Between huge gasps and sobs, Mallory could be heard to say, “I wanted Munchkey to be a kitten”—gasp—“so I gave her whiskers”—sob—“but I hate it”—gasp—“and it's a permanent marker”—sob—“and now Munchkey's ruined.” Then came hysterical crying and nose-blowing into Ted's shirt. Mallory shook uncontrollably before settling into Ted like a sleeping baby.

It all seemed so private to Alice, and yet she couldn't keep from staring at them. She felt relieved when Ted carried Mallory and Munchkey away. Alice quietly said good night to them. When they passed by her, she caught a glimpse of Munchkey. The whiskers were jagged dark streaks on the pale blue corduroy.

“We'll be back or we won't,” Ted said on the threshold, turning to face them. “Don't wait for us.”

As Ted walked off, Mallory lifted her head and gazed over her father's shoulder at Alice. Mallory's hair was mussed—a flurry of yellow. Her eyes were red rimmed and empty. She looked lost.

 

“The storm has temporarily passed,” Mrs. Wishmeier whispered to Alice as everyone sat down to eat. But Alice found herself thinking about Mallory throughout dinner. Ted and Mallory never came back, and Alice wondered what they were doing. Had Ted fixed Munchkey? Did Mallory eat anything? Was she sleeping?

After dinner, Kate left to check on Mallory and Ted, and the rest of the group played cards. Alice's favorite was Crazy Eights.

“I'm going to see how things are with Mallory,” Alice's mother said at the end of their third game.

“Can I go with you?” asked Alice.

“No, play without me,” her mother replied.

“Well, I need to go to bed anyway,” said Mr. Barden. “I'm tired.” He grabbed his cane from where he'd hooked it on the back of his chair and pushed himself up slowly and awkwardly.

“I should start cleaning up,” said Mrs. Wishmeier.

“I'll help you,” said Alice's father.

“I'll walk you home,” Mr. Wishmeier said to Mr. Barden.

Alice was feeling deserted.

“Alice,” said her father, “why don't you collect the cards, then help in the kitchen.”

“
Or
,” said Mr. Wishmeier, “walk Mr. Barden home with me. If it's all right with your parents.”

Both Alice's mother and father nodded.

Alice decided to go with Mr. Wishmeier.

“Oh, good,” said Mr. Barden, “the quiet one is coming with us.”

They walked at a turtle's pace. The night air was cool. Stars littered the black sky like crushed ice. No one spoke most of the way, so Alice listened to the palm fronds rustling overhead and the rhythmic pounding of the waves.

“Good night, good night,” Mr. Barden said at his door. “Thank you for the evening. That little blond one sure is a screamer, but she is the prettiest girl I ever saw.”

The words stung. Tears welled up in Alice's eyes.

Alice knew that she wasn't the prettiest girl in the world, and who cared anyway? But Mr. Barden was supposed to be
her
friend, not Mallory's. He'd been disloyal and had hurt her feelings, and she thought that by the time you were his age, you'd know better.

She was convinced that Mr. Barden wouldn't have made his remark if she didn't have her speck. She had forgiven him when he'd tried to wipe it away yesterday, but this was different.

Alice raised her hand to her face, near the corner of her mouth, and covered the little brown spot.

The short walk back seemed miles long.

Mr. Wishmeier broke the unbearable silence. “In the areas of charm, wit, grace, and beauty, you have no match,” he said.

Kind as it was, Mr. Wishmeier's comment did little to lessen the effect of Mr. Barden's. Alice couldn't even say thank you because she knew that if she opened her mouth to speak, she'd cry.

Alice successfully fought off tears until her family was in their cottage getting ready for bed. She could feel herself weakening.

“What's wrong, sweetie?” her mother asked.

Alice shrugged. If she told her parents about Mr. Barden, she knew what they'd say. She'd heard it too many times before. They'd say how pretty she was and how her speck made her who she was and that it wasn't called a beauty mark for no reason.

“Is it the whole Mallory thing?” asked her father.

Alice nodded. She couldn't tell them what was really bothering her, but she couldn't contain her emotions any longer. She nodded again, then started to cry. She'd been all knotted up, and now, alone with her parents, she felt like a fist unclenching.

“Let's sit down,” said Alice's father.

They shuffled over to the couch and huddled together. Alice's father had grabbed a handful of tissues from the kitchen table; he gave it to Alice. She wiped her eyes and cheeks and blew her nose.

“Mallory's having a difficult time,” said Alice's mother. “And I know it can be upsetting to see someone so unhappy.”

“Is she okay?” asked Alice.

“I think so. When I checked next door, she was sleeping. She must have been exhausted.”

Alice's breathing soon became regular again. She tried to match her breathing to her parents'.

After a few moments of quiet, Alice's father said, “Would you like a little bed supper tonight?”

“Yes,” whispered Alice.

The three of them sat on Alice's bed and shared crackers with peanut butter and a glass of milk.

Alice's father said what he always said when they had bed supper. Alice knew this mini-speech by heart and sometimes chimed in. “When I was a boy,” he began, “and was upset at bedtime for whatever reason, your grandma always gave me something small and good to eat, in bed, and I always felt better.” He paused. “Do you feel better?”

“I do,” said Alice. She was remembering some of her other Florida bed suppers. There was the night she had stepped on a shell and cut her foot when she went out to look at a full moon. And there was the night she was jumping on her bed after the lights had been turned off; she'd jumped right off the bed and hit her head on the corner of the dresser. She'd had a lump the size of a lime and the color of a blueberry.

“Tomorrow,” said Alice's mother, “you and Dad and I will go off by ourselves. We'll do something fun—just the three of us.”

“Promise?” said Alice.

“Promise,” said her mother.

“And then the next day is your birthday,” said Alice's father.

Alice flashed a quick smile, then her mouth turned downward. “What about Munchkey?” she asked.

“Munchkey still has whiskers,” said Alice's mother. “And Ted and Kate were still trying to figure out what to do. Who knows? But that's not for you to worry about.”

It suddenly struck Alice that she and Munchkey shared a trait. They both had something on their faces that didn't belong.

Her parents kissed her and left her alone in the silvery dark. Already, the dresser, the chair in the corner, and the floor lamp were fuzzy shapes, well on the way to dissolving completely. Alice walked her fingers across her bedspread; it was too murky to see the streets of the Chinese village, but she knew they were there.