Saving Alice (19 page)
Halfway home, my cell phone rang. It was Alycia and she sounded ecstatic. “They didn’t suspect a thing!”
“Living on the edge,” I laughed.
“Thanks for the tacos,” she said softly. “But next week, just to be safe, we should eat them in the car.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “So … should I come at eleven, then?”
“Probably,” she answered, and then hung up.
I rode the rest of the way home on a cloud.
Unbelievable
.
Three months of sitting in front of that apartment with nothing to show for it, and suddenly my daughter appears out of nowhere.
Wanna grab something?
I’d asked.
Why not?
she’d said. Simple as that.
I cringed.
Hold on, Kemo Sabe,
I told myself.
You’ve only crossed the first bridge. Don’t be counting none of those proverbial chickens
.
There was still plenty of time and opportunity to blow it, and blow it bad. First things first.
When I pulled into the garage, I took a quick look at my surroundings, and as the garage door rattled down behind me, I kicked myself. Why was I still driving around this rattletrap? I had the money, didn’t I? No wonder Alycia could barely stand to be seen with me.
I needed to prove to Alycia that dear ol’ dad wasn’t a bum. I pressed the remote and the garage door rattled up again. I drove all the way downtown to the Ford dealership, where I promptly traded in my bucket of bolts for a new convertible fire engine red Mustang.
Wait’ll Alycia sees me in this!
D
uring the next week, the market continued to settle down. The breakout fractals were getting closer together, and I continued placing stops just above them. Within this narrow range, how- ever, there occurred a series of high-volume days with little market movement. This indicated a volatile standoff between the bears and the bulls, an ominous sign. The market was poised to explode— either higher or lower.
On Wednesday, I redoubled my resolve. If Donna wouldn’t accept child support, maybe she’d accept a house. Somehow, at the time, the inconsistency of this new line of reasoning didn’t strike me. Sure, I could have bought a nice big fancy house for myself and impressed my daughter’s friends and increased Donna’s respect, but I couldn’t see it, not with Donna and Alycia living just above squalor.
Secretly, I hoped that after a reasonable separation—whatever time Donna needed—she’d invite me back. And then, we’d sell the Northview Lane house, and be done with the past. It seemed like the perfect plan. Excitedly, I called a Realtor acquaintance, Ned Glazer. Over the phone, he clued me in on several areas and offered his services. “I can take you out looking tomorrow.”
The next day, it didn’t take us long to find something that fit my specifications: an attractive eighteen-hundred square foot trilevel recently refurbished—new windows, carpeting, and kitchen appliances—in the southeast part of town, a well-established neighborhood. Most important of all, it had four bedrooms, three up and a private one on the lower level for Alycia.
I wired myself a ten-thousand-dollar check from the trading account, enough for a down payment, and on Saturday I arrived for Alycia at ten forty-five. While I tried to modify my expectations again, my insides were bursting with anticipation. Alycia came out five minutes later, her petite form lost in her giant gray parka. I shouldn’t have been so surprised to see her—after all, Alycia never broke her word.
Halfway down the sidewalk, she stopped in her tracks. She frowned. I leaned over and smiled through the passenger window. A confused smile erupted on her face. I pushed the door open. “You’re not dreaming. Get in.”
Hopping into my Mustang, she pulled her hood off, and glanced about the interior. She wiggled in the leather seats. “Cool!” She ran her fingers across the glove compartment. “Cool!” She stared up at the sunroof. “
Too
cool!”
My plan was working to a T. Like the Trojan horse, my car had melted her heart. Inside the Trojan horse was dear ol’ dad, waiting to pop out and reclaim his daughter’s affections.
“You like?”
“Can I have it?”
“Sure. When you’re sixteen.”
“Too cool!” She put on her seat belt. “Where to, James?”
“McCromwell’s, for a slice of cayke, and a spoh a’ teh.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A spoh’ of teh, you sahy?”
So we drove to a burger joint. Before turning in, I handed her a pair of sunglasses. “You might feel safer in these.”
She giggled, taking them into her hands, trying them on. She modeled them for me.
I laughed. “As cool as my car.”
She removed them and placed them on the dashboard. “You know what?”
“What?”
“Everyone has parents, right?”
“Technically.”
She turned to me with a mischievous expression. “I mean, were you afraid to be seen with
your
dad?”
“Deathly,” I replied. “Still am.”
“Then maybe you need counseling,” she giggled again.
At the drive-through window, she ordered a burger with extra pickles and a strawberry shake.
“We’re out of strawberry,” said the voice over the intercom.
“Oh, man,” Alycia announced. “I had my mouth shaped for strawberry.” She ordered chocolate instead. “Do you like pickles?” she asked me as we turned back onto Sixth Avenue.
“Only with vinegar.”
“Here,” she said, leaning over and stuffing three into my mouth. “They all come with vinegar, and I have too many.”
“Fwank woo.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Sworry …”
We drove into the country, and the farther away from town we were, the more relaxed she became. I revved the engine at the appropriate times, took a couple of hairpin curves, looked around, and pushed it to ninety on a straightaway.
The difference between last week and this week was like the difference between winter and summer.
“Too cool!” Alycia exclaimed.
Later, after the demonstration was over, I made my only error and accidentally pushed an oldies CD into the player. “Waterloo” broke the silence.
Alycia wrinkled her nose. “Ick.”
I pressed the eject button. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
“Dad, you display an alarming predilection for prehistoric bubble-gum pop.”
“And the problem with that is?”
“Self-explanatory.”
“Is predilection even a word?” I asked.
“You’ve damaged the car.”
“Huh?”
“It’s been tainted by your music.” She giggled. “Hey wait! You know what we should do?”
“Before you speak, remember I’m a grown-up. I don’t tee-pee houses anymore.”
“Oh, man,” she said with mock disappointment. “I know! We should see one of those movies my friends wouldn’t be caught dead in.”
“Surely, you don’t mean…” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “… a
Disney
movie?”
Her eyes widened in silly horror, and she suddenly reached out, covering my mouth with her hand. “You must never, ever, use the ‘D’ word in teenage company.”
“I pwomise ne’er to ou i’ a’in.” I muttered through her hand.
“What?” she asked, removing her hand.
I repeated it.
“That’ll do, Pig,” she laughed.
“Pig?”
“Yeah. Don’t you remember
Babe
?”
“Oh.”
On the way back into town, she picked up the sunglasses from the crevice in the dash. “Just in case.”
“Chicken,” I taunted.
“Daa-aad,” she whined good-naturedly. “Please don’t enumerate my inconsistencies.”
“Sorry.”
Half incognito, my daughter and I attended an afternoon Disney film. She thoroughly enjoyed it. While she had removed the sun- glasses when the lights went out, she put them on the moment we hit the lobby.
Afterward, we rode home in contented silence. When I pulled up to the apartment, I touched her shoulder. “I have another surprise for you, Piglet.”
Her eyes lit up. “Another one? Piglet
loves
surprises.”
I considered unleashing the house surprise but suddenly lost my nerve.
Take it slower
, I thought. I’d just startled Alycia with my new car. Next week was soon enough for the house. “But you have to wait till next week.”
“Huh?”
“I have to wrap it up, or something.”
She crossed her arms and harrumphed. “I gotta wait a whole week?”
I shrugged, affecting my best apologetic expression.
“I’m thinking it doesn’t come in a package, does it?”
“How did you get so smart?”
“Hours and hours of mind-numbing, life-wasting, social life- destroying homework.”
Our eyes met, and for a moment the old knowing passed between us. I’d forgotten what it was like.
“Did you have a good time with your annoying, prehistoric father?” I asked.
She turned contemplative for a moment, putting a reflective finger to her temple as if to ponder an impossibly difficult question. “Hmmmm. Can I get back to you on that?”
“Ouch.”
“I’m kidding!!” she exclaimed, leaning over, puffing out her cheek. I kissed it gently. Then she jumped out of the car and headed up the icy sidewalk, twirling once to wave. She appraised the car again and gave me the thumbs-up. My heart swelled with pride. Alycia no longer considered me on the same level with pond scum.
For the second time in a week, I drove home on a cloud. I breathed out a sigh—my daughter still loved me—and I mentally counted my money again. I was now sitting on over a quarter of a million dollars.
I’d clawed my way to success, little by little, but just as surely, and in the end, all I’d needed was a little kick in the pants. Of course, I had Donna to thank for that.
And if you’d said to me, “Hold on a minute, pal, something doesn’t smell right,” I would have said, “Sure, I’m familiar with the old saw: Money can’t buy you happiness, but let me tell you from personal experience, the lack of money can make you miserable.”
On Sunday afternoon, Donna called me. “What have you done to our daughter?”
A small stutter caught in my throat. “Come again?”
“Alycia actually smiled at me today. You know how long it’s been since she actually looked at me without disdain?”
I breathed out a sigh of relief. “We went to a movie, that’s all.”
“Well, whatever it was, please keep doing it. Things are a lot easier around here.”
After I described our visit in generalities, she chuckled softly. “Stephen?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful with her.”
I promised and Donna accepted my reassurance.
Thinking of the money sitting in my brokerage account, and the house I was about to spring on them, I decided to break the ground with another attempt.
“Child support?” she asked, hesitation creeping into her voice. “Oh … that’s right. Alycia told me about the car.”
“It’s paid for,” I volunteered, feeling like a fool. “I mean … I can afford it now.”
Donna went silent. I was about to fill it, when she spoke: “I appreciate the offer, Stephen. Perhaps we might talk about it later?”
“Well, I just wanted you to know, I’m willing.”
From what I could pick up over the phone, I thought she seemed both pleased and tentative. I couldn’t wait to show her the house.
That evening my father called. “Your mother is convinced I have to see a doctor.”
“Then see one,” I said.
“I’d rather poke my eye out.”
“Then
don’t
go.”
Dad paused. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“I can’t,” I fudged. “I’m—”
“Busy. Of course you are,” he said agreeably. “Dumb idea.”
“Have Mom go with you,” I added.
“You bet,” he said.
We made excruciating small talk for a few minutes.
“Hey, you know what?” Dad exclaimed.
“What?”
“We should hang out sometime, you know, watch some ball on TV, maybe play catch like we used to.”
Hang out?
I almost smiled at my father’s clumsy attempt at hip lingo. Then a lifetime of annoyance got the best of me. “When exactly did we do that?”
“Do what?”
“Play catch?”
My father hesitated, then chuckled softly. “Oh yeah, good one. Got me there.”
I swallowed my frustration and another lull filled the silence. My father finally broke it. “Well … don’t be a stranger, Stevie.”
Just before we said good-bye, I said, “See the doctor, Dad. Make Mom feel better.”
“I heard ya there.”
On Saturday, Alycia came bouncing down the sidewalk. “Where to, James?” she said, getting in and slamming the door shut. “Did I tell you how much I love this car, and by the way, where’s that-them-there surprise of yors, pardner?”
“You’re mixing your accents,” I said.
“Cough it up.” She held out her hand. “Don’t make me hurt you. I can, you know. Pay no attention to my size. I can hurt you
bad
.”
