Saving Alice (7 page)
In the meantime, I’d just put it together.
Donna’s birthday party
.
Paul raised his hand and, once again, snapped his fingers for Jennifer to refill his drink. I closed my eyes in self-disgust.
How could I have forgotten?
Jennifer chose this moment, with big Larry hovering by, to cut Paul off.
Paul glared angrily at her. Suffering humiliation in front of Larry didn’t help.
“Let it go, Paul,” I said. I leaned forward over the sick feeling in my gut.
A suddenly riled Jennifer gave him a warning look, unwilling to budge an inch. “I think you’d better leave.” She turned to me, caught my eye, and I immediately picked up on it.
Without further remarks, I grabbed my coat. “I’m driving you home.”
Larry grinned down at him, but Paul made no effort to move. “No thanks. I’ll stay until they throw me out.”
I expelled an angry breath and bounded for the door. Larry called my name, but I ignored him. Outside in the cold, I jumped into the car, twisted the ignition key, then paused. What was my rush? Obviously, the party I’d forgotten to attend had long since disbanded.
I sighed into the excruciating silence, and it all came back to me. Two nights ago, Alycia had reminded me to pick up the cake after work and then hide it in the garage. “And don’t forget, Dad.” One of the few complete sentences she had sent my way in the recent past.
Who picked up the cake?
I wondered.
I mentally retraced my steps back to the last minutes before leaving the office. I’d even gone to SuperCity to select Donna’s last-minute gift.
How could I have forgotten?
I imagined the entire party scenario—what Larry might have said to smooth things over and how Donna would have pretended nothing was wrong. At some point, Alycia would have begun sulking, and in a roomful of Donna’s closest friends, the uncomfortable silences would have grown. “Where’s Stephen?” someone would eventually ask as if they didn’t know any better.
Perhaps Donna was relieved when I didn’t show,
I thought as pride gave way to the supremacy of rationalization. The last few months had been particularly difficult for us.
No,
I corrected myself.
The last few years…
I sighed again.
Face it, pal, the last fourteen years haven’t been a picnic for either of you….
But the idea of my poor wife suffering through the embarrassment of my thoughtlessness crowded out every other self-serving excuse.
“You can’t hurt me anymore,”
she’d told me three weeks ago, and at the moment, I actually hoped this was true.
I was still sitting in the parked car when Paul finally shuffled outside, huddled within his winter gray parka. He didn’t notice me. Larry followed shortly after, hunched within his long black overcoat, heading in the opposite direction to his own car. At last, I pulled out of the parking space, following Paul as he ambled down the sidewalk. When I honked to get his attention, he nearly fell over from the noise. Recovering his balance, he shuffled over. I thumbed toward my passenger seat. “Get in, and I’m not asking.”
Removing keys from his pocket, Paul dangled them. His warm alcohol-saturated breath plumed into the frozen air. “I got my own car.”
“You’re in no condition.”
He shook his head. “I’m only seven blocks away.”
He tapped my car door, gave me a sloppy salute, and stumbled with the effort. When I opened my mouth to protest, he was already lurching away.
Sighing angrily, I briefly considered physically wrestling the keys from his possession. Instead, I shifted the car into drive and headed home.
W
e lived in a tiny three-bedroom shutterless rancher close to the corner of Twelfth Avenue and Northview Lane. Shortly after Donna and I married, we’d scoured the newspapers and found the newly built dark brown house advertised for a song. It was located a few blocks north of the trailer court, also just north of where Susan once lived, but less than a mile from Uglyville.
After the winter snow melted, we discovered that only one half of the yard had been sodded, lending a rather lopsided look to the front. We would also learn later that the house had been misbuilt, the plans erroneously flipped, which meant that not only was our side door a mere five feet from our neighbor’s garage, but their property line actually went through the cement steps. The builder, acknowledging his mistake, threw in enough money to pay off the neighbor and push back the property line.
Across the street, to the east, the railroad tracks snaked behind similarly styled houses. It was a treeless neighborhood destined for more of the same, since few owners planted much more than the absolute minimum of marigolds and pansies, as if acknowledging the futility of improvement, or perhaps praying for temporary residence and refusing to think long-term. To the north, empty fields extended for miles.
Presently, I stopped in the vacant driveway in front of the seven-year-old one-car garage, set back from the house. Parked inside the garage was our “good” car, Donna’s Dodge minivan, a discolored navy blue scabbed with a cancerous rust, the interior light blue vinyl faded and dull. The windshield was pockmarked with tiny fractures no larger than a dime, yet destined to become long jagged slivers. When operated, the wipers gapped over half the windshield, and the lights to the radio display had long since extinguished. But the tires were relatively new, and the refurbished engine was still alive and kicking.
Noting the darkened house, I grabbed the earrings box and got out of the car. Pushing the car door closed instead of slamming it, I slinked up the sideways-sloping sidewalk. A sudden winter wind erupted, pelting granules of frozen snow against my face. Gripping my jacket tighter, I turned away from the offending gust.
I stamped my feet on the concrete step, then cringed at the noise I made, and opened the door to the living room. The Happy Birthday banners and party decorations Alycia had made on the printer in my downstairs office glared down at me. I slipped off my wet shoes, hung up my beige topcoat on a tree hanger, and placed Donna’s gift on the dining room table.
Without further ado, I took a deep breath and headed down the short hallway to our master bedroom. The door was closed, so I steeled myself and turned the knob.
Locked
. I knocked softly but no answer.
“Donna?” I whispered.
I checked my watch. 9:30. Surely she wouldn’t have retired so early. Instead of knocking again, I retreated to the kitchen, where dirty dishes were stacked on the counter. After thumbing through the mail, I discarded the junk and opened the bills. Then I rolled up my sleeves, filled the sink with hot water, and began a small measure of penitence, painstakingly avoiding any clanging of pots and pans.
Fifteen minutes later, when I could put it off no longer, I headed downstairs to the partially finished basement. The cement floor was cold and moist against my stockinged feet. At the far end of the room, a sliver of light was visible along the edge of Alycia’s partially open bedroom door. No sounds.
Gingerly I pushed her door fully open. Hunched up on the carpeted floor, she leaned against her bed, surrounded by crumpled bed sheets. Although she must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, she refused to look up. She was wearing her headphones, something I had forbidden, then lectured, then pleaded, and now pretended didn’t exist. Lately, those things I forbade only became her gauntlets.
According to her sixth-grade teacher, and in spite of the historic “Shrek-a-lina ear episode,” Alycia had been the most popular girl in her class. On the other hand, seventh grade was now proving to be an adjustment. Her choice of friendships, not to mention her confidence, had deteriorated. Sometimes her melancholy—what her teachers and counselor have labeled as nothing more than pre-adolescent mood swings—seem to descend out of nowhere and last for weeks.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge me, taking in her room décor: postmodern teenage rebellion. I looked for a place to sit, then gave up. Her clothes littered the floor, where “they’re easier to find.” The dresser was cluttered with bottles and sprays, potions and perfumes, and a menacing-looking blow dryer. One of the walls was covered with posters of rock groups— who looked more like axe murderers—and the opposite wall was covered with shirtless adolescent boys. I’m not sure which was worse.
Mixed among this devilish crowd were banners with slogans, irreverent statements of youthful defiance, including the poster of a gorilla holding his ears and closing his eyes:
Pardon me? Who you ARE speaks so loudly, I can’t hear what you’re SAYING
.
Catching her eye, I gestured “phone” to my ear.
“Sorry,” I said, after she scowled the headphones from her head. “I meant … I wanted to talk to you.”
“So you lied,” she muttered.
“Guess I blew it,” I said, hoping to slide over the first accusation. She frowned, probably wondering what I was referring to—either the tricky way I’d gotten her to remove her headphones or forgetting the party.
“I mean … about tonight,” I clarified.
“Oh.” She paused for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning. “So … you’re assuming anyone actually thought you’d show up?”
Unsure how to respond to her sarcasm, I said nothing.
“Too bad you reminded me. I’d already forgotten.” She put her headphones back on, giving me a quick headshake as if I was not worthy of consideration.
I hadn’t expected her to make it easy for me, but I was surprised by the depth of her disrespect. Reaching over, I committed my second indiscretion within the space of one minute and pulled the headphone jack from her stereo, effectively removing a starving tiger from her mother’s milk. The room was suddenly filled with screeching guitars. I frantically pressed the off button and stark silence replaced the musical anger.
Alycia came uncorked, ripping off her headphones and glaring at me.
“Alycia, I’ve asked you—”
She wound up, unfurled, and I flinched, but she wasn’t throwing them at me. The headphones hit the wall above her sound system, disintegrating into an assortment of pieces, leaving a generous dent in the plaster. My first thought, following the shock, was to wonder if Donna had heard it.
Calmly, Alycia slapped her hands together as if removing residual dust, then gave me a mockingly innocent look. “All done, Dad. Sorry … I must have forgotten.”
Let her get it out,
I thought, deliberately choosing not to answer anger with anger. Frankly, I viewed it as a victory of sorts. The eardrum-puncturing headphones were gone. I suppose that’s how skewed my parenting had become, how marginal and incomplete the victories.
Months ago I had lectured her with my own headphone horror story—how I’d sacrificed twenty-five percent of my hearing on the altar of Sergeant Pepper. But instead of being horrified, she’d been impressed, viewing it as a symbol of commitment, a scar of dedication. I’d argued my point—
notice how I have to turn the TV so loud you always complain?
—but she was too busy estimating her own dedication. To lose one’s hearing over music that defines your social alienation seemed the appropriate sacrifice.
The hearing doesn’t come back,
I’d finally said, to which she’d presented her soundest argument:
“That’s the point!”
At a loss for anything else to say, I decided to cut to the chase and risk total alienation. “I love you, Alycia, and I certainly didn’t mean to—”
She raised her index finger.
I sighed. “What do you want from me? I said I was sorry—”
“How ’bout the truth, Dad? See … what you should say is: ‘I pretend parental affection when it’s convenient.’ ”
That wasn’t true and she knew it, but I let it go. This had reached an impasse far quicker than I’d hoped, but I continued the futility anyway, hoping to veer the subject back to its origin. “Listen, I made a mistake,” I said. “I forgot…”
“You … forgot?” An incredulous snort. “I won’t even dignify that, Dad. But, you know, if you came home once in while, you might have been here by accident. But like I said, no one noticed. You should have kept your mouth shut. I mean, do you think we even care anymore when you break your promises? It’s expected. We plan our lives around it. It gives us a sense of stability knowing that you’re so easy to predict.”
Amazed again at her articulation, a trait she’d obviously inherited from her linguistically gifted mother, I had long since given up trying to compete with her verbally—like trying to fight a Samurai with a butter knife. I could have tried to argue that my late hours were usually spent at the office, hoping to make our lives better, but that wouldn’t have set any better. And since no one understood my determination to remain friends with Paul and Susan, I didn’t follow that route either.
As I began to back toward the door, Alycia leaned forward, adopting a more offensive posture. “So … have you talked to Mom yet?”
I hesitated.
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Alycia—”
“You came here to complain about my headphones?” Another snort. “This isn’t about me, you know? It’s
Mom’s
party you forgot.”
“I understand, Alycia—”
“Actually … you know what I really told everyone?” She was just getting warmed up.
“No, I don’t.”
“I told everyone, while they were eating the cake, you know, the one you forgot to pick up, that you were in the hospital.”
“I see,” I whispered, waiting for the inevitable punch line.
“You should have seen the look on their faces, Dad. And then when I had their attention, I told them we had you committed for multiple personality disorder. You know what I’m talking about? This strange ‘delusion of fatherhood’ that overtakes you about five minutes a week?”
“Very clever,” I whispered, resuming my retreat. Reaching back for the doorknob, I glanced back at her and glimpsed her on the bed, startled to see that her eyes had suddenly melted into tears, her thick mascara creating black streaks down her cheeks. When our eyes locked, her face contorted suddenly as if acutely disappointed in herself.
In spite of all that had just happened, I was tempted to rush to her side, take her into my arms, and make the hurt go away as if she were five and had merely scraped her toe.
“I’m very sorry, Alycia,” I repeated for the third time, my voice hoarse.
“ You’r e
always
sorry, Dad.” The tone of her voice was as anguished as the glossy look in her eyes. “I’m not giving you a clean slate anymore. This one stays up there.”
I made a small step forward, but she twisted her head sharply, her suddenly furious eyes boring a hole into me, giving me the unspoken warning that I had better stop in my tracks. When I did, she brushed her face clumsily with her sleeve.
With newfound flatness in her voice, she said: “Please lock my door on your way out.”
I complied, setting the lock. Pulling her door closed behind me, I headed for the stairs.
Shaking from the encounter, a small glimmer of hope broke through.
She was waiting for me,
I realized.
She would have locked the door otherwise
.
Upstairs, at the edge of the living room, I gazed down the hallway toward the closed bedroom door, wondering if Donna was asleep. I wandered down the hall and knocked on the door again. Still no answer. I checked the door. Still locked. I paused for a few minutes, then decided against trying again.
I turned out the lights to the house, then headed back downstairs, but instead of going straight toward Alycia’s room, I turned left into the furnace room area. My study was toward the back, bordering Alycia’s wall.
I’d spent nearly a year finishing this room, doing the work myself: framing the walls, wiring the electric, installing and texturing the sheetrock, even installing and seaming together the overstocked remnants of cut Berber carpet.
Opening the door to my inner sanctum, I smelled the musty dampness and closed the door behind me. Sitting at the desk, I looked at my metal bookshelf—an entire library dedicated to stock and futures trading.
Some of my trading books were new, others decades old. Some were reissues of the philosophies and strategies of long-dead market wizards; others contained ideas culled from recent analysis, complete with elaborate computer back testing. Some extolled the virtues of fundamental analysis, the study of company performance; others taught the art of technical analysis, the practice of interpreting stock behavior.
Although new indicators were created every day, all the old standbys were here: moving averages, stochastic systems, relative strength indicators, trend lines, support and resistance, etc.
Lately, I’d preferred to combine an old concept, buying stocks on dips—what I called my divergence system—with a relatively new concept: the fractal, something derived from chaos theory, which, ironically, gave Paul and me another topic to discuss.
All told, my shelves contained reams of information, and more information is what every trader is looking for—that final piece that will make all the difference: the unerring indicator. The magic bullet. The Holy Grail.
We’ll be fine,
I told myself, thinking of my plans for my family. Once I pulled it together financially, we’d all look back on these days and laugh.
The other walls were covered with cheap posters of serene landscapes—places far from here: the giant boulders on the Oregon Coast, spring flowers in the Colorado Mountains, autumn hills in Vermont. And my favorite: a sunset pewter bay in Mystic, Connecticut. The tiny basement window, just below the ceiling, was covered with a heavy curtain, designed to eliminate not only any proof of local surroundings but also the annoying webs of spiders who built them faster than I could brush them out.
