Alice on Board

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  Flavian was next, and it was hard to imagine that the guy with the movie-star looks would be embarrassed about anything. But then he told us about going to this fabulous water park with his friends when he was nine, and out of seven boys, he was the only one who wasn’t tall enough to go down the huge slide.

  “Awww,” the girls all said in unison.

  Then it was my turn. I sat in the chair, my back to the door.

  “I don’t remember where I was,” I began. “Georgetown, I think. It was summer, I was wearing a tank top and full skirt. I’d used the restroom somewhere and was going back down the street when three guys walked past me from behind, and one of them said, ‘Nice butterflies.’ Then I discovered that in pulling up my underpants, I’d accidently tucked the hem of my skirt in the waistband and was exposing my bottom.”

  “Encore! Encore!” Mitch said, laughing. And they decided I was telling the truth because my cheeks had flushed. There was a loud knock at the door, and I literally leaped out of the chair. The room fell silent.

  “Who is it?” whispered Pamela.

  I leaned over and peered out the peephole. The woman with the pink hair was looking right back at me. I turned to the others and pointed to my hair and then my bicep.

  “Uh-oh,” said Gwen.

  People were sliding off the two beds, some heading for the next room, some the bathroom, but suddenly a key turned in the lock, and there she stood, taking in the whole situation.

  “Well,” she said as we froze in our tracks. “I didn’t think that even six girls could make quite so much noise. We’ve had a complaint about the noise down here, and I see the population has doubled. Do you know what time it is?”

  We looked at the bedside clock. Two forty-five, and our game was just beginning.

  “We’ll keep it low,” Barry promised.

  “The rate just doubled, due immediately, and you knock it off or you can pack up now—no refunds,” Pink-Haired Woman said. “I don’t like sneaks.”

  Josh got out his credit card. “Okay, you’ve got a right to be pissed. The truth is, we just got off that ship—”

  “This is a seaport, buddy. People get off ships all the time.”

  “Well, we’ve been stranded out on the bay for three days without food or water.”

  The woman’s face softened a little. “That seasick ship? That’s what the newspaper called it. The one where the toilets wouldn’t flush and the air-conditioning went out?”

  “Yeah. You wouldn’t believe …”

  We thought of joining in, but Josh was doing a good enough job on his own.

  “No lights, no hot water, food spoiling, passengers yelling at us, babies wailing, and we didn’t even get paid for three weeks.”

  “The weather’s been so hot and humid,” Tattoo Lady said.

  “Right. No breeze, not even on the water. We had to stand up all night at each stairway with flashlights to escort people up and down. Took two days to tow us in, the generator is shot, the cruise line defunct, and we’re out of a job. We just wanted to have one more night together before we say good-bye.”

  The woman looked us over warily. “How do I know this isn’t a bunch of bull?”

  Barry picked up the flashlight key chain with Seascape printed on the little metallic anchor and handed it to her.

  The pink-haired, black-bra lady studied it, and her forehead lit up. “Part of history,” she said. “Okay, if you quietly sack up now, I’ll keep the registration to six and you can say your goodbyes at breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Deal,” said Josh. “Thanks a lot. We appreciate it.” She put her finger to her lips as she went out and closed the door softly behind her. We looked admiringly at Josh and Barry.

  “Truth!” we said. “You win.”

  And so to bed. We girls headed to the next room. We were so tired, I’m not sure who slept where. It wasn’t until the next morning that we discovered that Gwen and Flavian had spent the night wrapped in a blanket on our floor.

  We managed to be out of the hotel by eleven thirty and had breakfast at a pancake place. We could have slept for five more hours, but we were hungry, too, and when we’d finished eating our strawberry-pecan-banana-chocolate-chip concoctions, we took cabs to the cruise line’s branch office on Charles Street. We found Quinton and Frank talking in a small reception room with posters of ships on the walls and one-page information sheets with photos of both the Seascape and the Spellbound.

  We gathered around as Quinton passed out our paychecks.

  “So what’s the word?” Mitch asked. “They going to make that final cruise?”

  Quinton shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  We looked at Frank. “The generator won’t be replaced by then?” I asked.

  “Oh, the generator could be replaced, but they couldn’t get it on credit. Their credit rating right now is about zero. By the time they send out those last checks and give refunds for cruises eight and nine, they’ll have dug a hole so deep they can’t get out.”

  “Wow,” I said, and fingered one of the color brochures there on the desk.

  “Yep. A shame,” said Frank. “Big dreams, little cash. A small company trying to get going too soon. Should have waited till both ships could go out at once. But they just didn’t have the cash to wait. Figured the summer cruises on the Seascape would pay the bills for fixing up the Spellbound, but things didn’t turn out that way.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Josh asked him.

  “Oh, I’ll hang around Baltimore a day or two, talk to more shipping companies. See what’s available. Something will turn up. Always does.”

  We looked at Quinton. “Dianne and I have a sailboat up in Maine. We just might take the autumn off. Sail around. Visit friends. Line up something for January. Frank knows he’s welcome anytime.”

  I went back outside with the rest of the crew, and we sat on the steps of an office building, delaying our good-byes.

  Liz called her dad, and he said he’d pick us up that afternoon. After a forty-seven-second kiss, Flavian said good-bye to Gwen and took a cab to the Amtrak station, and Josh and Natalie joined him. The rest of us wandered down to the harbor. We stood on the dock and looked at the Seascape, just as we had done the first day we came here in June.

  It wasn’t in the same berth, but farther down in a more out-of-the-way place where the mechanics could get at it. No crowd of people gathered on the dock, no activity. What would become of it? I wondered. All the planning, remodeling, the buying and hiring. All those dreams flying off like the swoop of a gull overhead.

  Barry saw a friend of his and wandered off, and then it was time to say good-bye to Mitch.

  “How do we do this?” he asked, smiling down at me. “Should we shake hands?”

  “Not a chance,” I said, and threw my arms around his neck for a long hug and then a kiss on the cheek and then another hug for good measure.

  “Say hello to Patrick for me,” he teased. And then he walked away.

  19

  HOUSEKEEPING

  Yolanda had an aunt in Baltimore and had decided to visit her for a few days, so it was just Gwen and Pamela and me riding home with Liz and her dad.

  Mr. Price was a willing listener to all the stories about the ship and its passengers. We didn’t mention Pamela’s mom—there were enough tales to tell without that.

  “Everyone’s a sailor at heart,” he said. “And if he doesn’t have his own boat, he likes to hear about people who do.”

  “So what’s been happening in Silver Spring?” Liz asked him, leaning over to run her hand across his cheek. “Not thinking of growing a beard, are you?”

  From the back, their hair color looked remarkably the same, except that we could see a spot on her dad’s head where the scalp was beginning to show through.

  “Just bumming around this weekend,” he said. “And it’s one way to get Nathan to bed—threaten to rub my grizzly cheek against his, and he goes screeching up the stairs.” Liz laughed. “He’s lost hi
s first tooth. He’ll want to tell you all about it.”

  Because we reached my street before the others, Mr. Price offered to let me off first, so we could at least dislodge some of the luggage. “Your dad know you’re coming?” he asked.

  “He knows the ship got in, but I’d thought I might be staying on for the final cruise.”

  “Yeah, that was a shame,” Mr. Price said. “Messed up a lot of plans, I imagine.” He got out and went to the trunk for my bag, then took Pamela and Gwen on home. I said I’d call them later.

  I went up the steps to the porch, letting my duffel bang against my leg, thinking how much thicker the foliage seemed on the trees than when I left.

  It was good to be home. I was thinking about Mitch and how he would be feeling walking into his house in Vienna, Maryland. I didn’t know what it looked like. Didn’t know a lot about his family at all. But I knew how much he liked the idea of home—the trees, the marsh, the muskrats, his boat. I couldn’t identify with some of that, except that it was his idea of home, and that’s what made it special.

  I opened the door, then stopped and sniffed the air. What was that odor? I wondered. Something familiar. Closing the door behind me, I set my bag down and heard a noise upstairs. Voices. I had just started up when Sylvia appeared in the hallway above, her hair piled on top of her head, a paintbrush in one hand.

  She stared. “Alice!” she cried.

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “I live here. I think.”

  “You’re back!” She turned. “Alice is back,” she called over her shoulder and Dad appeared behind her.

  “Well, well!” he said, smiling and wiping his forehead. “Thought you were staying on! Cat’s out of the bag, I guess, and here we wanted to surprise you.”

  “What?”

  “We’re painting your room,” said Sylvia. “You said that it was time to get rid of the jungle look and that if you had a choice now, you would go with ocean blue, so …”

  I ran up the stairs. “You remembered?” Sylvia and I had been looking at colors for the powder room last spring, and I’d fallen in love with a color called ocean blue, though she’d picked something else.

  “We’re not done yet. We still have two walls to go,” Dad said as I whipped pass him.

  “Oh my God!” I gasped. “I love it.” I turned and looked at them bewildered. “But … I’m leaving for college.”

  “Well, we thought maybe this would lure you home from time to time,” Sylvia said. “A new bedspread and curtains go with it. Crate and Barrel has some wonderful stuff, but we’ll let you pick them out.”

  I started to throw my arms around her, but she held me off. There were paint spots all over her, so I hugged Dad from behind.

  “Listen, kiddo,” Sylvia said with a laugh, “the immediate problem is where you’re going to sleep tonight.”

  I assumed Lester’s old room, then realized they had moved all my stuff in there: headboard, mattress, dresser. A lightbulb went on. “Easy,” I said. “Lester’s. He still hasn’t rented that room in his apartment, right?”

  Dad chuckled. “He’ll be delighted,” he said.

  “Yeah. Right. I’ve got a ton of laundry to do, so I’ll do it there. He owes me one anyway.”

  “For … ?” Dad asked.

  “On general principles,” I said.

  Dad gave me his car keys and I was off.

  I called Les on my cell to tell him I was coming, but he didn’t pick up, and I just drove on. If he wasn’t home, I’d stay at Gwen’s.

  I decided I loved my home too—Silver Spring, I mean. The shady streets—that was something I’d missed this summer. Trees. Tall trees. The closer you get to the shore, the shorter the trees. Could I ever live on Tangier Island, without any really tall trees? I didn’t think so.

  As I drove, Silver Spring became Takoma Park, and the trees were even taller, the houses older, larger—relics of big families and bygone days. I pulled up to the yellow Victorian house with its wide porch and brown trim, the staircase at the side leading up to Lester’s apartment. Lester’s car was there and so was Paul’s. I took my bag out of the backseat, went up the staircase, and rang the bell.

  “Well, look who’s back!” Les said when he opened the door. He was wearing an old pair of shorts and a torn tee and had a Dr Pepper in one hand. “Thought for a while we’d have to call the Coast Guard.” I grinned and walked on by him.

  “Guess who’s going to be sleeping in your spare room for the next week,” I said.

  “Whoa, whose idea was that?” he cried, but I think he was still smiling.

  “Dad and Sylvia are painting my bedroom. They thought they still had two more weeks. Surprise, surprise.”

  “Well darn, there goes the girlfriend,” said Les.

  “What girlfriend?”

  “There isn’t one yet. Naw, it’s okay. We’ll put you to work. How are you, anyway? You’re looking good. Got some sun, I see.”

  “What you see are freckles,” I told him. “It was an experience and I’m glad I went. Got any more to drink?”

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  I went to the fridge and got a 7UP. “I really will help around the place, “ I said. “I’m not just here to crash.”

  “That’s good, because Paul and I have a little project: girl bait.”

  “Girl bait? I’m supposed to be girl bait?”

  “Not you. Come out and see.” He led me back outside. We went down to the backyard, and there on cinder blocks was a sailboat. And Paul.

  I stared. “You’re serious? You guys bought this thing to attract women?”

  “Actually, it belongs to Paul, but I get sailing rights if I help fix it up. A Flying Scot.”

  Paul beamed. “A nineteen-footer,” he added.

  It was in need of … well, everything. They had scraped off the paint about ten inches down all the way around, and I couldn’t tell if some things needed tightening or replacing altogether. My tactless remark didn’t seem to dampen their enthusiasm any. Paul ran his hand fondly over a smooth area.

  “Well,” I said, backpedaling as best I could, “I guess it would attract me. I mean, I’d be curious about the kind of guys who would put all that work into maintaining a sailboat. Like, it shows commitment, and if there’s anything a woman loves—”

  “Wasn’t exactly what we had in mind,” Paul said. “But, hey, welcome back, Alice. Heard you had quite a trip. Grab a sander there and a scraper, and we’ll let you tell us all about your fateful adventure.”

  What was there about boats, anyway? Or was this just the month for painting, for refurnishing, for getting ready? Then I thought that I could invite the girls over here to help sand and paint, so I picked up a scraper and began.

  Patrick: So how does it feel to be home?

  Me: Super terrific, except I’m not at home. Dad and Sylvia are painting my bedroom, so I’m crashing with some guys for a week.

  Patrick: Twenty questions or what?

  Me: Ha. I’m staying at Lester’s. They don’t have a third roommate yet. Paul bought an old sailboat, and I’m helping fix it up. Says he’ll take me out in it sometime as payment.

  Patrick: You haven’t had enough of the sea?

  Me: Hey, he’s tall, handsome, has his MA . . .

  Patrick: Uh-oh. She goes for older men.

  Me: So what are the female students like so far in Barcelona?

  Patrick: All babes.

  Me: Any in particular?

  Patrick: All of them.

  Me: I’ll think of you when I’m out on the bay with Paul, the wind blowing my hair.

  Patrick: Gotta go. The lovelies await.

  Monday at Lester’s was maybe the most beautiful day of the summer. It wasn’t supposed to be. We were only days away from August, and August in the nation’s capital, anywhere near the capital, is usually beastly—meaning that everything living, except at the zoo, takes off for the beach or the mountains. But on this day the humidity dropped along with the temperature, and I decided to
play housewife while Les and Paul were at work. I started with the refrigerator.

  I’d hung around Chef Carlo enough when I’d been on galley duty to see how he came up with the wonderful soups and stews he made for the crew dinners. He made them from whatever extra food he’d cooked for the passengers that never made it into the dining room. From these, he extracted meat and veggies, rice and noodles, and created these amazing concoctions, different every night.

  I pulled out every leftover I could find and set it on the table: an ear of corn, some Wendy’s fries, a dab of Popeye’s red beans and rice, a McDonald’s burger minus the bun… . I chopped and shredded, added two cans of V8, a chicken bouillon cube, some sautéed onion, a little minced garlic … Stop! Stop! I told myself, when I found a breaded pork chop in the back of the fridge and discovered it wasn’t breaded at all, just moldy.

  When the guys got home that evening with fish and chips, I had the beds made, a load of laundry done, the bathroom scrubbed, the table set, and a pot of soup on the stove.

  They were clearly pleased.

  “Maybe we should be looking for a live-in chef and butler, not a grad student,” Paul said, his glasses fogging as he leaned over the soup pot to savor the smell. He strolled through the living room and looked around. “The apartment straightened up and—what’s this? Laundry? Folded, no less?”

  “Except that I didn’t know what was whose, so you’ll have to sort the underwear,” I told him. “And I’m missing a yellow sock of my own, so if you find it clinging to your boxers, let me know.”

  “So they taught you to be useful?” Les said, opening a beer as we sat down to dinner.

  “I’ll say. Cracking crabs, man overboard, Seascape gripper …”

  “What’s that?” asked Paul. “Fishing tackle?”

  “No. It’s the way you grip a passenger’s arm and he grips yours when he’s going up or down a step, getting into a lifeboat and stuff—gives you a steadier grip.”