The Way Back to Happiness (10 page)

What had Glen been up to back there at the gas station, anyway ? Was he trying to panic her? That stuff about the choir might not be official.
She
hadn’t heard anything. All Lon would have to do was pick up the phone and call her to let her know. Of course, that’s all he would have had to do to invite her to his birthday picnic, and he hadn’t done that, either.

“
Death Wish
was an okay movie, though,” Alabama said. “I watched that with Mom.”

Irritation growing, Bev tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She didn’t want to discuss Derek, so she switched topics. “When we get home tonight, you and I need to have a little talk about money.”

“Why?”

“I know you’ve been sneaking money out of my purse.” Before Alabama’s protest could reach full throttle, she added, “And back there at the gas station, you should have asked me first before buying all that junk in the store.”

“It’s food. I have to eat.”

“Not that, you don’t.”

Alabama looked like she was going to put up an argument, then stopped and twisted her lip. “So why wait?”

Bev tilted her head. “Wait for what?”

“Why wait till tonight to talk about it? We’re sitting here in a car with nothing to do. Do you think by waiting till we get home I’ll have had hours to become trembly and sorry for stealing your money? Or do you need more time to think of something to say?”

Bev’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Sass like that would have earned her a swat or even a sharp slap when she was young—but she didn’t believe in raising her hand to other human beings. Also, she was staggered by the sheer crust of Alabama’s retort. She’d admitted to stealing, then added the distracting flourish of an insult at the end.

“I realize that you’ve been getting by without an allowance,” Bev said, pressing forward reasonably. “We should have addressed this earlier. I was thinking I could give you five dollars a week.”

Alabama practically crowed. “Wow! Five dollars. Thanks, Auntie Bev! I might be able to go to a movie every once in a while on that.”

The sarcasm riled Bev. “I’m not going to give you more money so you can throw it all away. And you have all your food and clothing paid for.”

“I do?”

“I was going to make you a few things next month,” Bev told her.

Alabama groaned.

Bev stiffened. “Acting ugly is not the way to get what you want.”

“You have no idea what I want!”

The outburst blew Bev back a little in her seat. “How could I? You never tell me.” Her glance shifted from the road in front of her to her niece’s face contorting in incoherent rage.

Finally, Alabama bit out, “I don’t want anything. I didn’t ask to be here. I’m only staying with you until Gladdie gets better. So you can keep your money—and your dorky clothes. I’m not starting high school wearing insect appliqués and Peter Pan collars. If I need anything, I’ll ask Gladdie.”

Bev supposed that was supposed to hurt her feelings. Well, an insult only hurt if you let it. She wouldn’t let it.

Anyway, she’d already decided she was tired of that ladybug shirt.

In Dallas, she stopped at the fabric store.

“What are we doing here?” Alabama’s voice brimmed with exasperation.

“I need batting. I thought I would make you a quilt.”

“I have a quilt.”

Bev held back a shudder. The “quilt” was some horrid thing Diana had slapped together. Not that she liked to speak ill of the dead—even when it came to their woeful crafting skills—but the thing was atrocious. Diana had taken old clothes and sewn them randomly onto a blanket—old pants and shirts, pajamas, and even one of Alabama’s little coats from when she was a toddler. Not
scraps
of the clothes, mind you, but the garments themselves—buttons, zippers, and all. The result was a lumpy mess, and when Alabama threw it over her mattress, it looked as if someone had upended a dirty clothes hamper on the bed.

“I mean a real quilt,” Bev said.

“I like mine.”

“Well, fine. I have some other things to pick up, too. Meantime, you should look through the pattern books and see if there’s anything you’d like.” When Alabama opened her mouth to protest, Bev stopped her with, “You may not want anything now, but you’ll be whistling a different tune once school starts. You can’t wear shorts to school.”

Alabama got out of the car and started to trudge toward a convenience store. “I’d rather play Space Invaders.”

“I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I might have a quarter left.”

Bev smiled tightly and held out her hand. “Then you owe it to me.”

Alabama blinked. “Seriously?”

“You took the money from my purse. Anyway, you said you didn’t want my money.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

But Bev’s unmoving stance forced her to believe. Alabama finally shook her head, dug her hand into her shorts, and slapped the change she came up with into Bev’s palm.

It was a small victory, but it felt sweet.

After she’d finished at the fabric store, Bev drove to a florist to buy a little something to spruce up her mother’s room at the health center. Flowers would brighten Gladys’s mood, and also give them something pleasant to talk about, if only for a minute or two.

As she and Alabama headed down the hall to Gladys’s room, the health center nurse stopped them. “Mrs. Putterman is back in her room.”

Bev experienced a moment of confusion. “That’s where we’re heading now.”

The nurse shook her head. “I meant, she’s back in her apartment. She said she didn’t want to stay in the health center anymore.”

“But she needs help,” Bev said.

“She said she
has
help.” The nurse added apologetically, “It was her decision.”

As they made their way back to the main building from the health center, Alabama grinned. “Gladdie escaped!”

Bev couldn’t share her glee. “Why didn’t she tell me when she called to talk last night? I told her we were coming, and she didn’t mention a thing.”

“Maybe because she knew you’d react like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like a wet blanket.”

She could read Alabama’s thoughts. If her grandmother was well enough to leave the health center, maybe she was feeling peppery enough to want to move out of The Villas altogether. She would start up that stupid scheme again, and bring Alabama back to Dallas.

Bev frowned. She was so tired. Why should she care anymore? Alabama obviously hated her—hated her even when she was offering her a home and an allowance. Living together had been a disaster. Alabama was no company, and Bev suspected Derek was staying away now because of all the friction. The school year was about to start up again, and if Glen’s hints were any indication, that wasn’t going to be a picnic, either. She should just let Alabama go. It would be one fewer thing to worry about.

But then those words repeated in her head.
I’m giving her back to you.
Diana’s last wish.
I’m at the end of my rope, Bevvie . . .

At Gladys’s apartment, she knocked and settled in to wait for Gladys to make the journey from the bedroom to the door. The last time she’d visited, her mother was getting around slowly with a walker.

But the door was yanked open immediately—by Wink, wearing a light plaid sports jacket, kelly-green pants, and white shoes. He beamed an outsized smile at them. “Well, hi! C’mon in!” he turned and called back, “Hey, Glad-Rags—come have a look! Greeks bearing gifts. Should I let them in or not?”

“Oh, why not?” she called back.

He laughed and ushered them in as if they didn’t know the way.

Wink had been a visitor at the hospital and the health center, but for some reason, Bev was surprised to see him in the apartment. Among her mother’s things—the sea-foam green velvet furniture, the china cabinet, and shelves of bric-a-brac—he seemed too large, too brash.

“Can I get you young ladies anything?” he asked, playing host.

“I’d like a root beer,” Alabama said.

Wink grinned. “Comin’ right up.”

Frowning, Bev headed back to Gladys’s bedroom, and met her coming out of it. “Mama,” she whispered, “what are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m back home. I’d have thought you’d be glad.” She eyed the flowers Bev had brought. “Oh, thank you. You can put those on the table next to Wink’s.”

Bev eyed the arrangement of bright summer flowers topped with Mylar balloons with cartoon birds on them. Oversized and in questionable taste, just like Wink, Bev thought as she set her modest little spray next to them.

“Mama, how are you going to manage on your own?” she asked in a low voice. “We’ll have to hire a private nurse.”

“Wink is helping me. He’s quite the housekeeper.”

“But—” Bev listened to Wink and Alabama talking in the kitchen and lowered her voice to a whisper. “What about helping you with . . . private things?”

Her mother leveled a cold stare on her. “I can go to the toilet on my own. Although he did run a bath for me the other night.”

Oh God. He was helping her in the bathroom? “But—”

“Don’t be such a prude, Bev. I can manage.”

“It’s just—”

At that moment, Wink came in with a tray of Gladys’s crystal stemware—which Bev had always assumed was merely ornamental, since she’d never seen it used. The toasting flutes were all topped off with root beer. He passed them around. “I thought everybody could use a libation,” he said. “Come on, Bev. Take one.”

Bev did, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d slugged it back.

Wink laughed. “That’s it—down the hatch!”

Gladys settled into her favorite chair, and Alabama sat down on the ottoman next to her. Gladys patted her hand. “Is everything all right with you? How are you getting along?”

“Okay, I guess,” Alabama said. “But what about you—don’t you need me back here, to take care of you?”

“Oh, I’m managing all right.”

“But if you should be in the health center, maybe you need someone like me around.”

Gladys leaned toward her. “Between you and me, I wasn’t getting much value for my money over there. They charge a twenty-dollar surcharge per day, you know. And that’s not counting all the extra costs I’ve had since the operation.”

Alabama frowned, obviously doing calculations. “I guess I cost money when I was staying here, too.”

Gladys squeezed her hand. “Worth every penny.”

“This is temporary, though, right?” Alabama asked. “I mean, I’m still coming back to Dallas when you’re better.”

Gladys didn’t seem to know how to respond. Bev knew her well enough to know that she’d already made up her mind about something and didn’t want to say. Her plain-speaking mother could be as craven as the next person when she dreaded disappointing someone.

“Mama’s still recuperating,” Bev said, unable to stand the tension. “Nothing’s certain. And soon school will start up and you’ll be making friends in New Sparta. You might never want to leave.”

Alabama slumped a little.

“Let’s leave it like this for now,” Gladys said.

“Okay,” Alabama agreed.

Bev could tell she was still clinging to hope, which broke her heart.

On the other hand, that hope wasn’t very flattering to herself.

“Hey!” Wink’s exclamation broke the tension in the air. “How about some canasta? Glad-Rags and I made fudge last night in honor of your visit.”

As he bustled around, bringing out the card table from the closet and arranging everything, Bev felt as if they’d fallen into the hands of a very ebullient cruise director. And that her mother had fallen under the spell of either a very nice man or a consummate manipulator. When Wink pulled his chair closer to her mother’s than necessary—or desirable in a competitive card came—and Gladys didn’t object, Bev and Alabama exchanged glances.

Of course, maybe Gladys was just using him. She’d wanted back in her apartment, and it was handy to have a person nearby to help out. He was someone to talk to, and eager to lend a hand, and tall enough to change lightbulbs. . . .

As these thoughts circled her head, she made bad decisions and lost a hand. Wink burst into a thirties crooner version of “With Plenty of Money and You,” and Gladys, bobbing her head joyfully, joined in.

“Y
ou have an appointment to see Dr. Land tomorrow,” Bev said, darting her head into Alabama’s room. “Ten thirty.”

Alabama, lying across her bed, frowned. Her one meeting with Dr. Herbert Land, psychologist—better known to her brain as Dr. Bland—had been underwhelming. The man did nothing but sit in a chair behind a desk and ask her boring questions.
How are you feeling? What do you miss about St. Louis?
Cleta the mail lady was more interesting to talk to, and more understanding. Plus Cleta didn’t have a distracting Gene Shalit mustache.

Dr. Bland seemed as bored by her as she was by him. When he listened to her, his face barely moved—not even the occasional twitch of the ’stache. After thirty minutes in his puffy suede armchair she knew her future objective would be Bland avoidance. So she’d declared herself fine, perfectly fine, and had walked out hoping never to be sent back.

Where had she gone wrong?

“I didn’t make an appointment,” she told Bev.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You need someone to talk to.”

“Yeah, right. Which is another reason not to go back to Dr. Bland. He doesn’t say anything.”

“He’s a respected doctor—”

“He’s a quack.”

“—and it’s not easy to get an appointment. He’s only in New Sparta once a week.”

“What’s the matter with this place? There aren’t enough lunatics to support a full-time shrink?”

Wrong thing to say. Bev rushed forward, her face all concern as she sat down on the bed. Then she winced and shifted off a toggle clasp of Alabama’s first-grade coat. “No one thinks you’re a lunatic, sweetie.”

Alabama rolled her eyes. “I know that.”

“I’m just concerned. You’ve been through so much, and you don’t seem to want to share your feelings with me. . . .”

“Where is Dr. Bland usually?” Alabama asked. Anything to veer Bev off the topic of feeling sharing.

“Dallas, I think.”

“See? Dallas is probably full of shrinks. When I live with Gladdie, I’ll have no trouble getting appointments with quacks.”

At the mention of Dallas, anxiety clouded her aunt’s expression, and Alabama was pretty sure why.

“You’re worried about Gladdie, aren’t you?” she asked. “Because you don’t like Wink.” During their last visit, Wink had been there the entire time.

Bev shrugged, perplexed. “I don’t know him. It’s . . . odd . . . that they’re so friendly all of a sudden. And I guess I’m a little jealous, too. She seems so . . .”

“Happy?” As far as Alabama was concerned, if Bev disliked Wink, he was doing something right. Besides, he’d always been a friend to her. “So what don’t you like about him?”

Bev frowned. “It’s like my mother’s life has been taken over by Rodney Dangerfield. They’re so different! And she’s vulnerable right now.”

“But she needed someone, and he promised to help,” Alabama pointed out. “Maybe that’s all it is. You should be relieved. She’s happier now than before she went in the hospital.”

Happier than when I was with her,
Alabama grudgingly admitted to herself.

“True,” Bev said. “I guess I need to work on my attitude of gratitude.”

Alabama studied the room, the posters on the wall—her mom’s old concert posters. Most everything was Diana’s stuff that she’d saved from the apartment. The things in Alabama’s old room in St. Louis hadn’t seemed worth the trouble of boxing up, but she couldn’t imagine leaving behind her mother’s belongings, which she’d been looking at since she was tiny. Her mother had always emphasized the worth of it all—the quality of her turntable, left behind when an old boyfriend had been sent to jail; the fact that her Janis Joplin poster would be worth a fortune someday; the incredible value of a metal lamp that had been a lucky find at Goodwill.

Securing places for all these things had been Alabama’s first order of business after moving to New Sparta. They were like voodoo tokens to keep the evil Bevnicity from seeping into her space.

Bev stood up. “I’ll drop you off at Dr. Bla—Dr. Land’s in the morning on my way to school, but you’ll have to make your own way back home. It’s not far to walk.”

“So why can’t I walk
to
the appointment?”

“I want to make sure you get there.”

“You mean you don’t trust me.”

“I simply think it’s super-important that you have someone to talk to. Don’t you want to talk to somebody?”

No doubt she harbored some hope of Alabama having a big breakthrough with her shrink, like Timothy Hutton in
Ordinary People.
Bev probably envisioned a few sessions with Dr. Bland would get rid of all Alabama’s unpleasantness and transform her into a normal teen who wanted to be a cheerleader and do easy-sew projects on weekends.

Alabama crossed her arms. “I’m not going to turn into a zombie teen for your benefit.”

“A what?”

“Some kind of personality-less Stepford kid.”

Her aunt lifted her shoulders in frustration. “Who said I wanted to take your personality away?”

“Why else would you send me to Dr. Bland?”

“Because you’re unhappy.”

“Of course I’m unhappy! Mom died.
Mom.
”

Bev flinched, but her voice stayed maddeningly steady. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be unhappy, but you shouldn’t have to feel you’re alone.”

“I didn’t, until I came here,” Alabama muttered.

Bev’s arms were rigid at her sides. “There’s no excuse for acting ugly.”

“I’m only telling the truth.
You
dragged me here. I didn’t want to come. And now that I’m miserable you’re acting as if it’s all my fault or something.”

“I didn’t say it was all your fault. I just think Dr. Land will be able to help you.”

“Maybe
you
should see him, then. You’re the one who’s been living with a headless dummy and dating a creepy guy.” She couldn’t help an additional dig. “And now you’re jealous of your mother’s boyfriend—that’s totally screwed up.”

Bev’s mouth opened and closed, like a guppy’s. Then she turned and stalked away, calling out, “The appointment is at ten-thirty” over her shoulder.

Alabama sank down onto her back again with the vague sense of disappointment she always felt after a tussle with her aunt. No matter how rattled Bev became, it never quite felt to Alabama that she’d scored a true victory.

The next morning, she was ready—on time—to go to the doctor’s. Bev, who was beginning her in-service week at school before all the students started, bustled around nervously, and repeated three times that she was going to be late on her first day because of Alabama’s appointment. Alabama reminded her that she’d volunteered to walk, and that in fact she hadn’t wanted to go to the doctor at all.

Not that it mattered. Bev was in her own world of worry. “Lon has already been giving me the cold shoulder all summer. I hope this doesn’t start me off on the wrong foot for the school year.”

It was bizarre to see school from behind the scenes, from a teacher’s perspective. Before, Alabama had barely thought of teachers at all. Once, when she was in elementary school, she’d run into her teacher at the grocery store and felt stunned at the idea that teachers bought things like normal people. To see the angst, preparation, and politics involved with school was eyeopening. It was even strange to hear these people referred to by first names—Lon, Cindy, Glen—when she knew that in a few weeks they’d all be Mr. and Ms. to her.

They drove up to the squat building on the edge of town where Dr. Bland’s office was. Alabama climbed out of the car and wished her aunt luck for her first day back. Bev seemed surprised, then suspicious. Alabama headed up the walkway to the front door of the office, waved, then stood there with her hand on the knob until she heard her aunt drive off.

She watched the Toyota disappear around a corner, and then she did an about-face and headed back toward downtown. New Sparta still didn’t impress her. The courthouse was about the best-looking building in town, and was the hub of all the action . . . such as it was. A block away from the courthouse stood the movie theater, which was showing
Witness
—a movie Alabama had seen with her mom ages ago, back in April. Back in another lifetime. That was the last movie she and her mom had gone to together. The last ever, and they hadn’t known it.

Preoccupied, she passed a lawyer’s office, a diner, the Western Auto, and a bank. Then she walked a block farther, hoping to hit a convenience store. Her weekly five dollars was burning a hole in her pocket. The bulk of it she intended to use to dye her hair. Red. Two days earlier, Cleta had told her that she had hair
exactly
like her aunt’s, and that in fact she was practically the spitting image of Bev. Obviously, this needed to change.

She’d also saved up quarters to play a couple of rounds of Pac-Man, if they had that here. Surely they did. The town might be a backwater, but it still existed in the twentieth century.

If New Sparta did have a convenience store, however, it was a very inconvenient one. She didn’t find it. Finally, she passed a newer, one-story sandy brick building that housed the New Sparta Public Library. It was already broiling hot out, and the idea of sitting in the air-conditioning lured her inside. She took a moment to adjust to the blast of cool air after dragging around in the heat, and then made use of the water fountain and scoped out a spot to sit down. It was early, so she was surprised to see a group of teenagers crowded around one table, talking in voices that were low enough to keep the librarian from swooping down on them. A few of them gawked at Alabama openly, as if she were a pelican at the zoo.

To avoid them, she veered back to a quieter section, near the magazine shelves along one wall. She heard the teenagers laugh, then get shushed by someone. Had she caused their outburst? She couldn’t think why. She was wearing a favorite crocheted vest of her mom’s over her tank top and shorts, but it didn’t look
that
weird.

Then, she realized what it was—she was a stranger. The new kid. She’d walked this gauntlet of curiosity and hostility in one form or another every time she changed schools, yet it always took her by surprise.

Only one week until school starts.
She dreaded it. How could she possibly go back to school now? She could barely think about anything. All she’d wanted to do since her mom died was sleep, listen to music, and watch TV. Those were practically the only things she was capable of. Now the world expected her to study and make friends and act like everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine and never would be.

Tears threatened, and she focused on the magazines.
People
caught her eye because of the cover story about Rock Hudson. She sprawled in a chair and started reading about Rock’s secret life . . . which, according to the people in the article, wasn’t all that secret except to television viewers. Her mom had been a faithful watcher of
McMillan & Wife
; she would have been wrecked to see how AIDS had reduced the commissioner to a bony shell, so sunken-eyed and vulnerable. Alabama was glad to read that Doris Day and Angie Dickinson were standing by him.

Not everyone was, apparently. The lady seated next to her, an elderly woman with a startling blue-green tint to her tight curls, squinted her eyes at the cover of the magazine and shook her head.

Alabama turned to her. “What?”

“You never know about people—that’s all I have to say,” the woman declared in a library whisper.

“He’s
dying.
”

“Of course he is.” She clamped her lips together.

Whacking the woman over the head with the magazine would have felt so good—that’s probably what her mother would have done. But Alabama’s nerve failed her. Instead, she got up, went to the desk, filled out an application for a library card, and hated herself for being a coward. She needed to be bolder. More like her mom.

The librarian informed her that she could check out books, but not magazines. Alabama put
People
back on the rack and was walking out when she noticed a boy about her age with curly brown hair passing by the noisy teen table. One of the guys stuck his leg out and sent the boy—and his armload of library loot—sprawling.

The curly-haired boy stayed splayed on the ground. Alabama couldn’t tell if he was hurt, assessing the damage, or gathering courage for a fight.

“Oh—I’m sooooo sorry.” The guy who’d tripped him didn’t even bother to move his leg back to hide the fact that he was the culprit.

Finally, the boy who’d fallen unfolded himself, stood, and methodically began to gather his stuff. When most of the books were wedged in his arms again, another of the clowns behind him aimed a sharp karate chop at the spines and sent them flying out of the crook of the boy’s elbow.

He spun, glaring at the guy who’d done it. Karate Boy grinned. “Do you really wanna hurt me, Stu-loo?”

The table exploded in laughter, and someone started singing the Boy George song, which brought the librarian over in a big hurry.

“You all are too old to behave like this in the library!” she scolded them. “Quiet down right now or you’ll have to leave.” She glared at the pile on the floor. “Stuart, library materials do not belong on the ground. If you can’t take better care of them, you won’t be permitted to check them out.”

“Pick ’em up, Stu-loo,” one of the boys drawled.

The curly-haired kid—Stuart—sighed and began gathering them up again.

On impulse, Alabama joined him. The books were large hardcovers, mostly—collections of plays, biographies, and one giant book about movies. The record was an original Broadway cast album—
Evita.
She picked it up and stepped back a safe distance away from the mean kids. Stuart’s big brown eyes—they had the thickest black lashes, like Bambi’s—blinked at her curiously, as if he didn’t understand why she was helping him.