Missing Sisters -SA (7 page)

Alice had watched her leave. Mr. Harrigan had carried the suitcase to the car; he was so short it almost dragged on the sidewalk. Mrs. Harrigan had fluffed and plumped and kissed the air around Naomi, as if terrified yet to come in real contact, in case Naomi would change her mind before the getaway car had a chance to roar into the sunset. It seemed like a living nightmare to Alice, watching from the window on the stairs. Naomi looked more embarrassed than anything else.

She’d sent back a couple of letters to say she missed everyone. “Even Alice!” she’d added in a PS. “Can ya believe it?” She’d told of a life of great luxury. Her own bedroom. A new school. Freedom to call up friends on the telephone. Most enviable of all, her own alarm clock with a
transistor radio
in it. “Pop music is fab,” she’d reported. “Ya should hear it! Ya’d love it.”

“Her grammar is deteriorating,” clucked Sister Francis de Sales. “You girls would do best not to envy poor Naomi too much. There’s no equaling the kind of advantages you have, believe me.”

On the whole, the girls did believe her. Naomi Matthews was the kind of girl things happened to, that was all. She’d probably grow up to have a cooking show on TV or something professional like that. But there could be deep sorrow in the future, ready to snare her when she got too happy. Especially if she forgot she’d started out in a girls’ home like the rest of them.

The girls left behind were patient. They could wait for fate or the devil to trip Naomi up. The more joy she had in youth, the worse it would be for her later. They pitied her, really.

At the opening barbecue, Alice was astounded to be lassoed with a pair of sunburned arms, to have her face burnished by an ebullient crisp structure of hair. The permanent wave was a novelty, but the color could only be Naomi Matthews. And there she was, acting like a long-lost best friend. “Alice Colossus!” she was shouting. “What’re you doing here!”

“You know,” said Alice, mumbling more than usual in her surprise. “The girls of Sacred Heart get to go to Camp Saint Theresa. You did, too.”

“My parents thought I’d love to do something from my old life,” Naomi babbled on, “and I said, well, why not Camp Saint Theresa? I hoped somebody I knew would be here! Are you around for more than one session?”

“No,” said Alice.

“Me either,” said Naomi. “What a gyp. It’s not as if they don’t have the money. They just love me so much they can’t bear for me to be gone for more than two weeks.”

“Oh,” said Alice. “How’s the lady? The lady acting like a mother, but she don’t do it so good?”

“My mom,” said Naomi severely. “She’s fine. She’s a little—uh. Well, she’s not exactly Donna Reed. I mean, she cries a lot. She’s okay. How’s Sister Vincent de Paul? She back yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Anyone else here from home? I mean from the home?”

“Ruth Peters and some of her dormitory friends are in the junior camp.” And just then Ruth Peters had run up, having sighted Naomi from across a couple of picnic tables. She burbled like a water cooler. With a shriek of joy she climbed into Naomi’s lap and began to suck her thumb for all it was worth. Ruth hadn’t liked Naomi much, but she was already homesick and glad to see another familiar face. After a couple of minutes she switched to Alice’s lap.

“Well,” said Naomi, “better go back to my table. See you around, Alice.”

“No—don’t go!” protested Ruth, who was capable of having a screaming fit at the slightest separation from anyone she knew.

“Only over there,” said Naomi. “Honestly. She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?” She winked at Alice. Alice felt faintly affronted by the wink. It had only been six months. How much was a now-five-year-old supposed to change in six months? Yet Naomi seemed to have become a certified teenager. Even her breasts seemed more confident.

Naomi had figured out who was who and latched on to a squadron of slightly older girls, who sneaked lipstick on at night though it wasn’t allowed. Alice made the mistake, only once, of trying to hang around with them during a free period. They’d arched their eyebrows the first time she spoke and exchanged glances with Naomi. Alice had wandered away then, down to the lakefront, to immerse herself in a lake that didn’t express any objection to her. And her spirits righted themselves there.

So for a week she stayed more or less on her own. With her long legs, she was an asset on a basketball team and enjoyed the evening game when the supper slop and after-dinner announcements were done. In the skirmishes between the eight girls on each team, a faint gray dust was raised from the bare soil on which they played. The dust hung in the sloping light, and Alice lunged through it dribbling and dodging, but not so engaged that she didn’t suddenly remember the strange light in the kitchen on the morning when the retreat center burned down.

Alice made a basket. Maybe the wreck of the retreat house was around here somewhere? It had been in the mountains, a couple of hours by school bus, like Camp Saint Theresa. “Way to go, Naomi!” screamed her teammates, who seemed to have confused Alice with her more glamorous acquaintance. How they did this was a mystery, as Naomi was giving Alice a wide berth now.

That was the first week. Then the camp director announced a talent show to be held on the night before the session ended. Naomi cornered Alice on the way out of the mess hall and said, “I got a great idea! You and me could do the Eliza Doolittle thing! We already know our parts. You can sing ‘Wouldn’t It Be Loverly’ as ‘Life Would Be So Heavenly’ and then go offstage, and I’ll come on and sing ‘I Could Have Danced All Night.’ But we got to find someone who knows how to play the piano or something.”

“Nah,” said Alice. “Once was enough.”

“We’ll be brilliant,” said Naomi.

“It makes me feel stupid to be the dumb one.”

“First prize,” said Naomi, “is fifty bucks. We could split it.”

“Well,” said Alice. “We got to give some to the piano guy.”

“Deal,” said Naomi.

“Deal,” said Alice with a sinking feeling.

In the second week of the session Alice tried to become chatty with Sally the cabin leader. As a nun in training she might know something about Sister Vincent de Paul. But as far as Alice could figure, if Sally was aiming at being a nun she wasn’t going to make it. She smoked cigarettes and sang Beatles songs to herself while she pinned her hair around plastic rollers the size of beer cans. She said to Alice, “In this business I know as few nuns as I can get away with.” At least that’s what Alice thought she said. “Sister Vincent de Paul?” said Alice again faintly. “Never had the pleasure. What order is she?” asked Sally. “Redemption.” “Hah!” said Sally contemptuously, “Redemptions! The living end!”

Naomi had identified a piano player, a timid girl from Schaghticoke called Wendy Beasley. Naomi had threatened to pull off Wendy’s bathing suit in the lake if she didn’t agree to accompany them in selections from
My Fair Lady
. Wendy, suffering a nearly terminal case of modesty, succumbed to the pressure. Alice thought that family life wasn’t having a healthy influence on Naomi Matthews. “By the way,” she said one evening, “are you Naomi Harrigan now?”

“Ow oo Naomi Howwigan,” parroted Naomi. “Sorry, Alice, couldn’t resist. Really, you make a perfect Eliza Doolittle. I wonder if you will ever meet a real Henry Higgins to teach you how to talk?” She didn’t answer the question, and Alice didn’t have the nerve to ask it again.

Costumes! Sally found an old black-lace mantilla some lady had left behind in the rustic Chapel in the Pines, which was no more than a concrete floor with a roof and some banners made out of felt, saying PRAISE and REJOICE and BE GLAD. The black lace thing made a perfect shawl. Now all Alice needed was a basket of flowers and a crummy skirt. The kitchen help came up with a wicker picnic basket, and there were more black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace and daisies in the fields than a whole battalion of Eliza Doolittles could use. Sally also sacrificed a perfectly good gray skirt for Alice’s costume, which was nice of her, Alice had to admit, but the sacrifice locked Alice into having to go through with the performance. Sally cut holes in the skirt with a Swiss army knife and smeared ashes from the campfire all over it. “You look like a perfect wreck!” she exclaimed when Alice did herself up in shawl, skirt, and basket.

It was a bit harder finding ball gown material for Eliza, as played by Naomi. Wendy Beasley suggested a nun’s habit, but that was out of the question. In the end they rigged up something with a sheet from the infirmary and a gold belt that was really Sally’s necklace. Alice thought Naomi looked like the bride of Frankenstein with all that hair, but then Sally fussed over it with pins and hair spray, and it all stood on top of her head like a flock of birds densely packed together with glue, soft and hard at the same time.

“You know I hate this,” said Alice as they stood in the pantry, waiting for their turn.

“Twenty bucks,” said Naomi inspiringly. “Think what you can do with your share of the first prize. Twenty bucks.”

“And now Alice Colossus to perform
My Fair Lady
, as the Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle!” screeched Sally through the ancient PA system.

Wendy Beasley lurched over the keyboard as if she were having stomach cramps and battered the opening chords loud enough for Alice to catch the musical cue. She sang while squatting like an Iroquois and pretending to rub her hands before a fire. Actually my voice is pretty good, she thought. Nobody was laughing, which was an improvement over the time she’d done it with the boys from Saint Mary’s of Albany. “And life could be so heavenly!” Ruth Peters came up to the edge of the stage. “Alice!” she cooed. “Hi, Alice!” Everyone laughed.

Alice just went on with the next line. Ruth remembered the words, too, and sang along as she scrambled up the steps. She held Alice’s hand, and they sang to the end of the song. The little dance Alice had planned was ruined, but it was okay. Ruth was having such a good time.

When she finished, the girls began to shout and cheer. They were a very enthusiastic audience. They hammered their feet on the floor and called in rhythm, “NA-O-MI! NA-O-MI!” Alice would have preferred their calling “AL-ICE, AL-ICE,” but as long as her part was done she didn’t care. She swept off stage and Sally intoned, “Eliza Doolittle makes friends with a speech therapist named Henry Higgins, who teaches her how to speak clearly and then takes her to a fancy ball. Naomi Matthews as Eliza coming home from the ball.” So her last name
was
still Matthews. Hmmm. Alice wondered why. She watched Naomi twirl in from the dark shadows in her silly-looking bedsheet. The audience oohed and aahed.

Wendy Beasley slaved away at the crisp runs of the introduction, and Naomi began to shrill out her part. When she got to the final line, she improvised a cancan kick by picking up her sheets and jackknifing her legs out like a single demented Rockette. The crowd shrieked—praising, rejoicing, and being glad. Naomi warbled out her last note, squeezing every second she could out of it, and even Alice in the mercy of her deafness could tell Naomi was a half-tone sharp. The girls of the 1968 second summer session of Camp Saint Theresa weren’t, on the whole, as discriminating as Alice. They went wild.

They stamped. They wolf-whistled. They called, “NA-O-MI! NA-O-MI!” Naomi beckoned Alice back on stage for another bow. Alice and Ruth Peters came out. Ruth bowed more times than anyone.

Third prize went to Cabin Saint Dymphna, for singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” in harmony. Third prize had no money attached. Naomi and Alice got second prize, which was worth only twenty-five bucks—ten bucks each and five for Wendy Beasley. Then Wendy Beasley walked off with the first prize of fifty dollars. Without so much as a word of friendly warning, she had entered herself as a separate act. She had played “Malaguea,” all eight pages of it, in just under ninety seconds, even the slow part. The traitor.

But Alice hadn’t ever expected to have as much as twenty bucks, so it wasn’t too big a disappointment to pocket ten. Naomi was so thrilled with cleaning up what she called the popular support of Camp Saint Theresa that she didn’t even mind Alice trailing along afterward when she met her glitzier friends. “You know you have a good voice,” said Naomi, not too grudgingly. “I mean you can’t understand much, but it has a pretty sound.”

“You’ve got a
great
voice, Naomi,” said one of the other girls in an enthusiastic tizzy, bouncing and beaming fatuously at Alice.

“I’m not Naomi,” said Alice.

“She didn’t say Naomi,” said Naomi. “She said Naomi.”

From time to time, Alice found herself in a hearing dead end. Usually she just shrugged and accepted the fact that she couldn’t figure out what was going on. But Ruth Peters was still clutching Alice’s left hand. With her higher voice she clarified for Alice what was being said.

“She’s calling you Miami, Alice,” said Ruth. “Not Naomi.”

“Miami?” said Alice.

“That’s what they were all shouting when you finished,” said Naomi. “I didn’t get it, either. What’s Miami got to do with the price of beans?”

“Isn’t that her name?” said Pam, one of the glitzier girls.

“It’s
Alice
,” said Naomi. “Everybody knows that.”

“No,” said Pam. “Why’d you tell everybody it was Miami?”

“I never did,” said Alice.

“You did too.”

“Nobody don’t talk to me,” said Alice. “So, like, when?”

“When you won the basketball competition, most dunks from a standing start,” said the girl in an aggrieved voice. “Stop pulling our legs, Miami. Just because you can sing.”

“
What
basketball thing?”

“Last session, the basketball thing.”

“I wasn’t here last session,” said Alice.

“She wasn’t here last session,” said Naomi. “You’ve got a screw loose, Pam.”

“You were too,” said Pam. A couple of the other girls nodded and shrugged in a single motion. “Don’t give me that.”

“I was not,” said Alice. “I was home.”

There were marshmallows over an open fire. Most of the camp had flocked there after the talent show. Alice, Naomi, Ruth, and the older girls stood aside, mired in their misunderstandings. Tiny red sparks went zigging up, burning out before they got even eight or ten feet high. Above, the stars were salty white, and the wind rushed through the trees with the sound of water. “All I know,” said the challenged Pam, who could be as energetically offended as she could be delighted, “is that I was here for both sessions, and Miami won the basketball jump award. And there were enough girls there then who can back me up on this now. That’s why people were chanting Mi-am-i! when you were finished singing.”