Alice Bliss

by Laura Harrington

  It’s growing dark by the time she finishes. She knows she should just head indoors and start dinner like her mother asked, but there’s something about the busy-ness of working out here that is keeping her going, in spite of both shirtsleeves being soaked, in spite of feeling really cold.

  She sits in the lawn chair and makes a list of what she needs to get from the house. Of course there are sharpened pencils in an old peanut butter jar and pads of paper right on the workbench. She uses block printing just the way her dad does:Air mattress

  Sleeping bag

  Pillow

  Fleece jacket

  Milk crate

  Bedside lamp

  Extension cord

  Flashlight

  Books

  Rocking chair

  Maybe she can pop Jiffy Pop on the woodstove. And heat water for instant hot chocolate.

  As soon as the rain lets up she will start moving stuff in. She’ll fill the wood box next to the woodstove, and the kindling box, and she’ll ask Uncle Eddie to find her a wooden pallet or two, so she can keep her air mattress off the floor.

  She looks around at Matt’s power tools, shrouded in canvas tarps, arranged carefully along the east wall. The way he cleaned up and organized, it’s almost like he knew she was going to want to be out here. There’s all this space in the middle of the workshop that is usually cluttered with lathes and power saws and sawhorses.

  There’s something nagging at her, she’s not sure what, until she looks up in the rafters she’s just dusted and sees a shoebox stuck up there. She gets the stepladder out again, climbs up, and pulls out the box. It has her name on it.

  She steps off the ladder and sets the box on the workbench in the watery light coming through the rain slick windows.

  What has he left for her? Sand dollars? Shells? Seed packets?

  She lifts off the top and looks inside:

  Dear Alice,

  I wrote you a few letters. They’re not really for right now. They’re for just in case I have to miss anything important.

  I love you, sweetheart. Never forget it.

  Dad

  Inside, there’s a stack of envelopes, each with his precise writing, each with a date or an event: Graduation from high school, from college, the first time she falls in love, the first time she gets her heart broken, her wedding day, the birth of her first child, the death of her mother.

  There’s a series of letters with the heading “the little moments that make up the big moments, that might get forgotten.” The subheadings in this group are: “the moment you realize you want this boy to kiss you,” “the moment you realize you don’t love this boy anymore,” “the moment you realize you’re going to leave home and never really live there again,” “the moment you realize you’re more like your mother than you want to be.”

  Alice puts the lid back on the shoebox and centers the box in her lap and puts her hands on top of it. Then she carefully climbs the ladder again and stows the box in the rafters.

  There, on the top rung of the ladder, she hears his voice: Don’t look down. Look up, Alice. Look up. And hope—where does it come from, she wonders, just the sound of his voice?—stirs to life inside of her.

  Maybe, she thinks, maybe he’ll be home in time for cucumbers, and if not cucumbers, then for tomatoes, and if not tomatoes, then surely in time for corn. Maybe they could go camping in Maine in August, like they always do; maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

  She’ll take care of the workshop; everything will be ready for him when he gets home. And if he needs help, or needs more time to recover, Alice can be his assistant, she can be his right-hand man, she can be his girl Friday; she can be anything he needs her to be.

  April 25th

  Taking advantage of her suspension, Alice sleeps in, tries to catch up on some homework, and then shows up at Uncle Eddie’s garage for her first lesson in basic car maintenance. Today: the oil change. She has plans to surprise Angie by changing the oil and filters in their Camry.

  Uncle Eddie already has somebody else’s Camry up on the hydraulic jack.

  “Okay, here’s what you need for this job,” Uncle Eddie says as he gathers the necessary tools. “Socket wrench, oil filter wrench, drain pan, four quarts of oil, car filter, and a drain plug gasket. Your dad will have the wrenches, and I can give you the drain pan, filter, gasket, and oil.”

  Just as he starts to walk Alice through the job, Janna’s mom drops Ellie off. Ellie, who has no interest in cars or car maintenance, waves hi and heads straight to what passes for a waiting area: one bench seat from some old car, a derelict coffee pot, and a mini fridge.

  Alice is struggling with the socket wrench and the drain plug and hoping she’s not going to have oil pouring down on her head. But Uncle Eddie is right there with a bucket to catch the oil. She pulls out the old gasket with her fingers and watches as Uncle Eddie removes the old filter with the oil filter wrench. Alice installs a new oil filter under Eddie’s watchful eye, and replaces the drain plug gasket. All of this is so messy and absorbing that neither of them notice when Ellie leaves the garage.

  “Tighten the new filter hand tight. Just use your fingers. That’s it. You don’t want to overtighten it.”

  He hands her a rag to wipe up any spilled oil, she puts their tools away, and he returns the car to earth so she can pour in four fresh quarts of oil.

  “That was easy.” Alice is grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s not rocket science.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Eddie.”

  “You feel okay doing this on your own at home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Jacking the car up? Sliding under there?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Be careful with the jacks. You ever done that before?”

  “Dad taught me how to change a tire when I was twelve.”

  “Figures. I could come by on Saturday if you want. Just to make sure the jacks are safe and everything.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Next time I’ll show you how to rotate your tires and check the brake systems.”

  “Cool.”

  He tosses her a grimy rag. She wipes her hands.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “You’re doin’ it.”

  “Ha!”

  “Hey, Mom said you might have met somebody.”

  “Angie and her big mouth!”

  “I heard her talking to you on the phone last night.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “She from around here?”

  “I’m not ready to share details.”

  “Oh, c’mon—”

  “She’s a teacher. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Not at my school—”

  “No, not at your school.”

  “You promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How many dates?”

  “Two.”

  “And she still likes you?”

  “No accounting for taste.”

  Alice looks into the empty waiting room.

  “Where’s Ellie?” Alice asks.

  “She was right there.”

  “Ellie . . .?”

  “Did she walk home?”

  “No, her backpack’s still here.”

  “Ellie . . . !”

  “The bathroom?” Eddie suggests.

  “You know how Ellie feels about that bathroom.”

  Alice starts to panic, and then closes her eyes.

  “I think I know where she is,” she says and heads for the door.

  Eddie follows Alice to the parking lot out back where Matt’s truck is up on blocks. Sure enough, the tarp has been loosened next to the driver’s-side door.

  “I’ll get her,” Alice says.

  Crossing the parking lot, just those few feet to her dad’s truck, Alice almost can’t feel her feet touch the ground. When she opens the door and finds Ellie asleep on the seat, relief washes over her and
threatens to spill over into tears. She waves at Eddie to let him know they’re all right and climbs up into the cab.

  Ellie has a snapshot under her cheek and her thumb in her mouth. Alice looks at the photo: it’s a picture from Ellie’s birthday party last year, the one with the princess theme. Only Ellie doesn’t look like one of those perfect little princesses, she looks slightly possessed. She’s wearing a pink tutu and bright yellow tights and her red Dorothy shoes that Uncle Eddie gave her. And a fluffy white sweater and crooked homemade angel wings and long white gloves and a striped ski hat with a long, pointy top and a pom-pom. It’s a photo to make you laugh. It must have been in Matt’s visor. What else is up there?

  Alice pulls the visor down and finds a whole collection of birthday photos. The year he and Angie made the dragon cake, the year they made the volcano cake; the silly hats and the candles and the wishes.

  She pulls down the other visor and there’s a photo of Matt and Angie in bathing suits, with a Frisbee, laughing. Before kids, it looks like. She opens the glove compartment. A mini road atlas, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, a level, a tape measure, a packet of gum. She pulls out a piece. Not too stale.

  Ellie opens her eyes, jerks her thumb out of her mouth, sits up, and grabs the photo from Alice.

  “You okay?” Alice asks.

  “I like it in here.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I wish you could drive it.”

  “That would be cool.”

  “Maybe one day.”

  “When Dad gets back.”

  “I heard on the radio, in the car, with Janna’s mom . . .”

  “Don’t listen to the radio.”

  “Car bombs and casualties. They give the numbers but not the names.”

  “That’s in case the families don’t know yet.”

  “Do you know, Alice?”

  “Do I know what?”

  “Is Daddy still alive?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “You’re just saying that. Like if I asked you is there really a Santa Claus.”

  “Ellie . . .”

  “But you don’t really know, do you?”

  “Nobody knows. But that’s what I believe.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I wish we could just drive over there and pick him up.”

  “Yeah! A couple of oceans and nine thousand miles, but yeah . . .”

  “Today. Right now. I wish we could—”

  “Me, too.”

  Alice puts her arm around Ellie.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just close your eyes,” Alice says, closing her own eyes. “Now breathe in,” she says. “What do you smell?”

  “Oil.”

  “Try again.”

  “That nasty tarp.”

  “Yeah. What else?”

  Ellie wrinkles her nose. Alice waits.

  “Daddy.”

  April 26th

  Angie had not been as freaked out by Alice getting suspended as Alice thought she would be. She even talked to the principal, she even defended Alice, and they agreed to reduce her suspension from two days to one. Alice has had to write a lengthy apology to Jennifer White and her parents, and Mr. Brooks, and Mr. Fisher. She is also now a provisional member of the track team. Sort of like being on probation. If she has another infraction, she’s off the team.

  So she’s back in school. Not so great. And back on the team. Much better. Ginger, Alice now knows, is the team’s long-distance star, and for some unknown reason she has taken Alice under her wing.

  At the start of practice, Ginger hands her a polypro T-shirt.

  “This will keep you warmer. And cooler. And drier.”

  “Wow. Thanks,” Alice says, pulling the T-shirt over her head.

  Ginger hands her a pair of socks.

  “Try these. They’re the best I’ve found.”

  “Hey, I can’t take all this stuff.”

  “My mother’s a little compulsive in the shopping department. I have dozens.”

  Alice hesitates.

  “Really. Try ’em.”

  Alice sits down in the grass to put on the socks.

  “Hurry up!” Ginger is dancing around on the grass.

  “Okay!”

  “Let’s go!”

  And Ginger is off with Alice in pursuit.

  “Do you know the route?” Alice shouts at Ginger’s back.

  “Pretty much.”

  “And if we get lost?”

  “It’ll be fun.”

  Keeping up with Ginger is a tall order, but Alice is determined not to lose her as they make their way around the course through the Mendon Woods. Alice’s endurance is improving and so are her times. Running is the only place where she can forget what’s going on in the rest of her life. She loves falling into a rhythm, starting to know her reserve, and pushing it, the steady driving forward. She sings inside when she runs, sings like an airplane, like a motorcycle, like some kind of powerful engine, humming along.

  She gets home after practice to find Gram in the kitchen, standing on the top step of the stepladder.

  “Gram, I don’t think you should be on that ladder.”

  “Well, look who’s here!”

  Alice drops her backpack on the floor.

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “Where’s Ellie?”

  “She’s coming a little later. They had band practice.”

  “Band?”

  “Yup.”

  “She plays an instrument now?”

  “The recorder. They all have recorders. You remember. You bought it for her.”

  “I did?”

  “In the fall.”

  Alice hangs her jacket over one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Hand me that piece of shelf paper.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning out your mother’s shelves. They were . . .”

  “A big mess. I know.”

  “Lots of people don’t care about cupboards. Close the door, forget about it. I like to know they’re fresh. It’s a simple thing. A little lift in the spring.”

  “I’m worried about you up on that ladder.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You could cut the pieces and I could lay them down.”

  “I am actually very skilled at this. After all these years. Good old Con-Tact paper.”

  “Are you implying I’d make a mess of things?”

  “Not at all. I could show you. Experience, however, is the best guide.”

  “We were going to bake cookies.”

  “I know! I’m almost done. I’ve got the butter softening. Did you pick what kind you want to make?”

  “I say molasses; Ellie wants chocolate chip.”

  “We can do both. Get some more butter out of the fridge.”

  “Gram!”

  “What?”

  “You went shopping!”

  “I did.”

  “You cleaned out the fridge.”

  “I did.”

  “Have you been here all day?”

  “Ginny’s covering for me at the cafe. I went to the market at eight, got here by nine, which left me plenty of time to clean out the fridge.”

  “Wow! And the freezer—you can tell what’s in there!”

  “A little organization goes a long way. What has your mother been doing?”

  “Take out. Breakfast for dinner. If we’re lucky. Or I cook.”

  “Okay, so she’s had other things on her mind. Now you can have some real food. It’s not so hard. Take some mental notes. These are useful things to know. Not like I could ever get through to your mother.”

  Gram’s got the radio tuned to the country station and every now and then she hums along, or sashays her hips a little. She’s wearing slacks and an old denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sandals. “Just giving my feet a little vacat
ion,” she’d tell you, if you asked.

  Alice pours herself a glass of orange juice.

  “I had to throw a lot of stuff out,” Gram continues.

  “Good move. I’ve been trying—”

  “Easier for me, I think. I’m not worried that your mother might really want that two-week-old spring roll.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gonna tell me how things are?”

  “Gram, you seem a little hyper.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m thinking about spending a few nights here each week. I could get things squared away, prepare some meals, do some laundry . . .”

  “Gram, you don’t have time to run the restaurant and take care of us, too.”

  Gram gives Alice a look over the top of her glasses, like, are you kidding me?

  “Okay, let’s get the bread started. Then we can make the cookies while the dough rises.”

  “There’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Mom’s not big on bread.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since about two months ago.”

  “The staff of life!”

  “I know, Gram.”

  “It’s not normal to be afraid of food!”

  “Just one food group.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not normal.”

  “Gram . . .”

  “Okay. No criticism. But you like bread.”

  “Yes!”

  “And Ellie . . .”

  “Loves it.”

  “Let’s see how long your mom can resist toast. Let’s make toast till she can’t stand it. Hand me that big bowl, would you?”

  “Where’s the recipe?”

  “You don’t really need one. This oatmeal bread is very simple and very forgiving. And when we start toasting slices? Your mom is gonna go nuts.”

  With the yeast proofing, Alice beats butter for the first batch of cookies. Gram chats about this and that and lets her be. Gram knows how to wait for Alice to talk, how to be interested but not too aggressive. She doesn’t ask the same old same old questions either—like what’s your favorite subject, who’s your favorite teacher? She asks where you sit at lunch, what you’re reading, what you think about when you’re alone.