Saving Alice (26 page)
W
ith Paul and Susan gone, I couldn’t bear to spend another minute in Joe’s dingy establishment. Instead, I wandered to a corner greasy spoon and ordered a ginger ale. I sat there for hours, trying the money on for size, playing different scenarios over and over in my mind.
Two point four,
I repeated over and over.
I could begin again
. Again.
Long about ten-thirty, I slipped out of my chair and headed home. I discovered three messages from Alycia, one at seven:
Dad, are you coming?
One at seven-thirty:
Dad, I’m waiting, how could you forget?
And a tearful one at ten:
Call me, Dad
.
I kicked myself mentally and sighed into the darkness of the living room.
No excuse,
I whispered. I put my hand on the phone, but after some mental debate decided against it. By now Alycia would be in bed.
Tomorrow,
I told myself.
First thing
.
I sat on the couch and took another mental swipe at the money.
Two point four
.
Sleep was out of the question. I began walking through the house, mentally organizing it, planning for the near future—what to take, what to toss.
Two point four
echoed in my brain.
Eventually, I rolled up my sleeves and began sorting through the house, putting odds and ends into the few boxes Donna had left behind. Starting with the kitchen, I worked my way through the living room.
In the bedroom, I opened the closet and spied the box of photo albums on the shelf. I remembered Alycia’s gleeful pronouncement:
I figured it out, Dad!
I smiled. She’d thought she had solved the mystery of the ages. Reaching for the box, I pulled it down and set it on the floor. The last of Donna’s things.
Mom left it at the house … she wants it back … she all but admitted it
.
So was the secret contained in this box? Was it a photo? A letter? Fitting with Alycia’s
modus operandi
, her mother’s “admitting it” could have been nothing more than, “Honey, stop asking so many questions!”
Kneeling, I pushed the large albums from one side to another, examining the contents. Nestled on one section of the box were some of Donna’s college memories, her graduation tassel, a childhood music box that played “Moon River,” a beige leather diary, a firstplace award plaque she’d received for a short story she’d written. Ironically, it was after writing that story that she’d decided she didn’t like writing. She preferred to read literature, not try to emulate it.
Mashed between everything else were several stuffed animals scented with
Charlie
perfume, smaller picture frames, a couple of necklaces, and a few other knickknacks.
Even Sherlock was wrong once in a while
. I was placing the box back on the shelf when something struck me. I brought the box down again, placed it on the floor, and retrieved one of the framed photos.
A shiver shot down my spine. I’d forgotten this one. In the photo, the Three Musketeers were standing in front of the clock tower in the middle of campus, close to dusk. I’d arranged to have white rose corsages professionally dyed blue for the occasion. I was on the left, smiling like a puppy dog, wearing a tuxedo. Donna was on the far right side, her own blue rose corsage pinned to an elegant powder blue gown and Alice, photogenic and charismatic, was in the middle, holding her miniature blue rose corsage against her white gown.
The blue rose—a botanical impossibility—had become our metaphor, a symbol of our goals, especially since the three of us had aspirations that seemed unreachable. Alice’s goal was, of course, to star on Broadway. Mine was to trade on Wall Street, and Donna’s goal was to teach American literature at the college level.
I turned the frame over and removed the backing. There it was in Alice’s handwriting:
Remember our favorite song?
A melody slipped across my memory:
… sun is shining in the sky, there’s not a cloud in sight…
I smiled wistfully and traced her handwriting with my finger. How could I forget? “Mr. Blue Sky,” by Electric Light Orchestra. If the blue rose was a symbol of our dreams, “Mr. Blue Sky” was our anthem.
I carried the photo downstairs and scrambled through my old CDs until I found it. I placed it in my stereo, pressed
Play,
and sat down on the couch.
A static-charged radio signal, out of range, followed by the sounds of a repeated piano chord, rhythmic clapping, and a staccato drum rhythm filled the silence. I hadn’t heard this song in over a decade.
As the music played, I gazed at the picture. Donna smiled back at me, still full of hope. And Alice … dear Alice remained locked in time, forever beautiful, forever witty, and forever young.
For a moment it seemed as if I had gone back in time. The song finally transcended into a chorus, and then after ending on a final note, another reprise … a full-blown symphonic ending, with a final electronic utterance, barely perceptible.
I expelled a breath, physically spent, suddenly weak and tired. Overwhelmed with a strange sleepiness, I huddled into the couch and began giving in to the pull of unconsciousness.
I closed my eyes, thinking not about the money. Instead, for the first time in over a decade I let myself fully remember Alice, lost to me forever—
somewhere in time
.
When I fell asleep, I…
… I was back in my dorm room, staring into the mirror, frantically tying my tie. Chris Marino, my roommate, came wandering in.
“What time is it?” I asked him.
He laughed. “You’re late, lover boy.”
After starting over three times, I finally achieved the tie’s proper length.
Chris lounged on his bed, flipping through a magazine. “How do you rate?”
I stared at the mirror, checking my teeth. “Say what?”
“Two beautiful women. Lavish banquet. What’s the occasion again?”
I didn’t remember. Instead of answering, I searched for my phone.
“What are you looking for?”
I told him, and Chris looked at me incredulously. “
What
phone?”
Oh yeah
. We didn’t have phones in our dorm rooms—certainly no cell phones. There was one phone per floor, located at the end of the hall.
That’s when I knew I was dreaming.
Chris looked at his watch again. “It’s five, partner.”
I hesitated. “Where did I tell you again?’
Chris laughed and shook his head. “At the Clock Tower?”
I suddenly realized what I was about to do, and it didn’t seem like just a dream anymore.
It seemed …
real
.
I muttered good-bye, left the room, and began running down the hall, navigating my way to the first floor. I raced through the lobby, out the double glass doors, and began sprinting across the campus.
At the Clock Tower, a one-hundred-foot three-legged cast-iron structure, I slowed down, sweating profusely in the tux.
Where are they?
Emerging from the girls’ dorm, Donna’s blond hair caught me by surprise. And then Alice followed, as if stepping out of the shadows.
Approaching me, both women broke into smiles.
“At last,” Alice said, smiling. “Our date has arrived.”
I lost my ability to speak.
Alice?
She was standing in front of me, as physically real as the day I’d lost her, and I couldn’t help myself— I couldn’t stop staring at her.
She hasn’t aged,
I thought.
Of course not! She’s as young as the day I lost her
. Then I realized that in this dream world we were all the same age.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, struggling with the emotions that welled up within me.
Donna broke my reverie. “Where are the corsages?”
The corsages?
“Oh…” I stammered and slapped my shirt pockets, as if I might have found them in there. “I guess … uh … I forgot them.”
“Where?” Alice asked.
I didn’t know.
Donna put her hand to her mouth and giggled. “Flower store maybe?
Petal Pushin’
?”
I nodded, but the name didn’t ring a bell. I felt like an idiot. I hadn’t seen Alice in fourteen years, and her first impression of me was … that I was forgetful.
It’s a dream,
I reminded myself.
It isn’t real. You’re making this whole thing up from your memory
.
But it seemed painfully real.
“You’re such a goof,” Alice replied. “We’ve got time. We’ll get them on the way.”
Alice spun around, modeling her outfit. “Do you like?”
“Very … nice.”
Alice frowned good-naturedly. “Nice?”
“I mean…”
“Look at the boy,” Donna grinned. “He’s speechless.”
“Was it too dazzling for you?” Alice said. She winked at Donna.
Both girls laughed. In melodramatic fashion, Donna grabbed my left arm, and Alice slipped hers through my right.
“Hey, Stephen,” someone yelled from behind us. It was Chris. Smiling, and out of breath, he ran up to us, holding out his hand. Instinctively, I accepted what he was offering: car keys.
“You forgot these, ol’ sport.”
Donna chuckled with his usage of her Gatsby appellation. Alice touched my chin, lifting it gently before nodding with satisfaction. “The head is still attached, folks.”
“Good thing,” Donna said, catching my arm again. “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”
I turned to see Chris waving good-bye, then giving me the thumbs-up.
“Do you know where the car is parked?” Alice giggled.
“
I
remember,” Donna replied. “Even if he doesn’t.”
I responded to her lead, and somehow we found the light blue Volkswagen. Donna crawled into the backseat, and Alice sat in the front with me. As I started the car, I began thinking furiously.
Where is Petal Pushin’?
It came to me. Forty-eighth, just down the street. I turned left at the next intersection, heading south. Two blocks away, I double parked and told the girls to wait. I burst in the door, startling the young lady in a green smock behind the counter. “I need two corsages. Under Whitaker.”
The lady searched a notebook and shook her head. “Are you sure you ordered them?”
Oh no. This wasn’t the place
.
“You’re in luck, partner. We’ve got extra.”
She disappeared into the back and returned holding two white boxes, each covered with clear cellophane. She rang them up. “That’ll be twelve-forty.”
Twelve-forty?
I was confused with the price. “Did you ring ’em both?”
She nodded, and then I remembered. Things were cheaper back then … now … whatever.
Instinctively, I reached for my back pocket, then slapped my shirt pockets again.
Nothing
. My heart dropped. I’d forgotten my wallet. Someone touched me from behind, and I heard a whisper in my ear. “I thought you might have forgotten.” It was Donna.
“Here,” she said, offering the woman a credit card. She winked at me. “Our little secret.”
Embarrassed, I muttered, “Thanks.”
Back in the car, I gingerly pinned the corsages on my dates—first Donna, then Alice. My eyes glistened as I manipulated my girlfriend’s dress, the feel of silk reminiscent of the day she died.
“Beautiful,” Alice replied. “You have good taste, Mr. Man.”
I leaned back, stared at Alice’s corsage and shuddered.
What have I done?
“What?” Alice frowned. “Crooked?”
I looked over at Donna’s corsage.
They were white.
“We’re running late,” Donna announced. “I don’t want to miss the opening remarks.”
This was Donna’s evening, I remembered. We were her “entourage” attending the lecture of a famous author, whose name I couldn’t recall. In the car, on the way north—heading somewhere I couldn’t recall—I remember hearing the song “Blue Sky.”
“Our theme song,” Alice announced.
“Turn it up,” Donna said, leaning forward.
Alice did so, and the moment she did, time seemed to speed up, then slow down. My peripheral vision wavered. Like many dreams, one minute we were sitting down in a large auditorium, the next we were standing up, clapping. Then suddenly back in the car. Later, after we’d arrived on campus, Alice grabbed an innocent passerby. He snapped a picture of the three of us in front of the Clock Tower.
I remember thinking through my pasted-on smile:
You can’t take this picture! The corsages aren’t blue!
More vague images followed as the dream shifted in and out of clarity. I remember hugging Donna briefly in front of the dorm, watching her enter the building, leaving me alone with Alice, then kissing her good night. I remember walking back to my dorm room, then reciting the evening for Chris’s benefit. The “wavering” of my vision increased until I sensed a kind of flickering light as if a light bulb was about to go out.
Everything finally went black, and when I awakened I was lying on the couch in my house. I looked at the clock. It was seven forty- five in the morning. The
next
morning.
R
ubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I pondered the strange quality to last night’s dream—so real and vivid, as if I’d actually
lived
it.
I stumbled to the phone and dialed Sally’s number. Donna answered and I asked for Alycia.
“She’s off to school,” Donna said.
I glanced at the clock.
Of course
. I inquired of Alycia’s mental state, and Donna sighed. “Blacker than I’ve ever seen. I almost didn’t let her go.”
Donna asked about my mother again, and I told her what little I knew. Encircled by close friends, Mom was doing as well as could be expected.
“How are you holding up?” Donna asked.
I gave her the usual assurances, then hesitated, wondering how much to say. Eventually she would know everything about Larry and probably ask me why I hadn’t been up front. The authorities would likely question her and wonder the same thing.
Our conversation turned back to Alycia. We discussed other options, such as counseling and medication, and Donna agreed to make an appointment with a local psychiatrist and I agreed to pay for it.
“In the meantime,” Donna replied, “call Sara’s cell phone.”
“Sara?”
“Her best friend,” Donna said. “Sara lets Alycia use it during school. They have nearly every class together.”
We hung up, and I dialed Sara’s cell, getting the voice mail. Most likely, the girls were in class and the phone was switched off.
After leaving a message and hanging up, I took a shower and grabbed a quick bite of toast. I drove to the corner grocery store and picked up an assortment of boxes. Back at the house, I continued organizing. With Donna’s and Alycia’s things gone, there wasn’t much to pack.
Images from last night’s dream continued to pick away at me, but at the moment, I had more important considerations. I needed to focus my attention on the matter at hand:
the money
. Two point four million phantom dollars sitting in an offshore account with my name on it.
Alycia called at nine-thirty. “Where were you?”
I apologized profusely and promised to pick her up after school. She didn’t even bother to object.
“Three o’clock, Dad. Right in front. You promise?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and we hung up.
I went to the living room, picked up the phone and dialed Donna’s number again, hoping to alleviate her worries, but she didn’t answer. Maybe she’d left the apartment.
I spent the remainder of the morning organizing and packing. At noon, I stuffed some more cereal into my mouth, and at about one o’clock, I tried the apartment again. This time, Donna answered on the third ring. I summarized my conversation with Alycia, and Donna seemed relieved.
After we said good-bye and hung up, I received the call that changed everything.
Cary Epstein, another high school buddy and the jewelry store manager across the street from the office, was concerned. There were two men rifling around in the office … and Cary wanted to alert me.
“Where’s Larry, anyway?” Cary asked.
I promised to get back to him and promptly hung up. Sitting in the living room, I put my head into my hands and tried to think. My heart galloped like a gazelle being chased by a cheetah. The paper in my pocket had the account number and password. What if the authorities came now? What if they searched me?
Up in smoke,
I realized. Two point four, gone, just like that.
Yet I still hadn’t determined for sure if the money truly existed. Before I decided anything, I had to discover for myself the reality of the accounts. Then, and only then, could I plan my next move.
“They’ll be here in days,”
Larry had said.
Missed it by a weekend,
I countered.
If I used any of my computers, and if the money was real, I’d be finished. They’d find the evidence on my hard drive and seize the contents. Only one alternative remained. I reached for my cell phone and tried to call Alycia through Sara’s phone, but neither answered. I put the phone in my shirt pocket.
For her sake,
I told myself again, heading out to the car. In minutes, I was on Highway 12, heading east out of town. I glanced at my watch. In two hours, I’d be in Milbank, where no one knew me.
Minutes later, I called Alycia again. Still, no answer. As I drove, I kept trying. About three thirty-five, Sara finally answered and handed the phone to Alycia. My daughter’s voice was ragged. “Where
are
you?”
I had to go out of town,
I almost said, thinking better of it. “Something came up. Can we talk on the phone?”
“You promised, Dad.”
“How ’bout seven? Can we talk then?”
“I’m meeting
him
at seven!”
Him?
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Then right after?”
She didn’t reply.
“Alycia?”
Silence. I almost hung up, convinced I’d lost the connection. Finally, she whispered into the phone, her voice flat and emotionless. “I’ll call you.”
“Where will you be?”
Again, silence.
“Alycia, please…”
No answer.
“Alycia?”
She was gone.
I’m doing this for her,
I argued against the clamoring inner voices.
I can be back to see her before she leaves at seven.
When I got to Milbank, I found the library, commandeered the corner public computer, and nervously typed in the address to the international bank Web site.
When the information flashed, my mouth literally dropped open.
The account truly existed. Swallowing hard, I navigated through a series of screens and located the account total. My body shuddered again.
Larry was wrong. There wasn’t two point four million in this account. There was nearly two point
five
million dollars. More precisely: Two million, four hundred ninety-eight thousand, twenty-nine dollars, and seventy-two cents.
I stared at the number for a minute or two, waiting for it to suddenly disappear.
Stolen money.
Money earned by giving tax advice
. Illegal tax advice.
Money earned fair and square
.
I quickly closed the screen. On my way out, the gray-haired librarian smiled cheerfully. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, averting my face.
I drove back to Aberdeen on Highway 12, my thoughts whirling.
Two point five million dollars
.
I grabbed the phone from my pocket, redialed that cell phone number. No answer. I tried Sally’s apartment. No answer.
I stepped on the accelerator, checking the rearview mirror. I had to get to Aberdeen and find Alycia.
As I drove, I created a mnemonic string of exaggerated mental images to help me remember the account number and password. I rehearsed it for nearly an hour until satisfied that I wouldn’t forget, and then ripped the paper into tiny pieces and threw the evidence out the window. For the rest of the way back, I imagined every possible interrogative question, and then formulated and practiced reasonable responses.
I tried to contact Alycia again but still no answer. When the apartment phone rang without anyone picking up the receiver, I knew there was no point in going there to find Alycia.
I turned onto my street at six forty-eight, and my worst fears were confirmed. A nondescript white sedan was parked in the street, and the front door of my house was standing wide open. I parked on the street, took a deep breath, and got out. I strolled up the sidewalk, wondering,
Do I pretend surprise? Do I feign anger?
Two men in dark suits—one was blond of average height, the other balder, shorter, stockier—appeared to be stunned when I walked in.
Having decided on a response, I did my best to appear aghast.
“Stephen Whitaker?”
“What have you done here?” I demanded.
“Would you please come with us?”
“You can’t just walk into my house—”
One of the men flashed a piece of paper. A search warrant.
I glanced at the clock. 6:50. They watched me carefully, and I struggled for what I hoped would appear to be a believable length of time to recover my composure.
“May I make a quick call?” I asked.
The blond-haired agent in a black suit and striped blue tie smiled. “You’re not in a position to be making requests.”
He ordered me to raise my arms. I did so and submitted myself to the first legal search of my life. While he patted me down, I badgered him with questions to which I already knew the answers. Without responding, he removed my wallet, my keys … and my cell phone, and placed them in his pocket.
“They’ll be safe with me,” he said.
