Allison O'Brian on Her Own

by Melody Carlson

  She watched as the serene countryside of upstate New York slowly melded into suburbs. Before long, the buildings became denser, then taller. Suddenly, she wondered how she would survive an entire summer of city life. Already she felt the beginnings of claustrophobia. She checked her billfold for money again. Somehow seeing the bills neatly lined up was reassuring to her. It was allowance money that Marsha had sent to Allison each month. It was always much more than Allison needed, and she usually just stashed it away in her sock drawer. It sure would come in handy now.

  The train pulled into Grand Central Station, and Allison grabbed her one small bag and waited nearly an hour for a taxi. At last she climbed in wearily and wondered if she had made a serious mistake. New York City was a very big place!

  “What’s a young’un like you doing out on her own?” asked the grisly old taxi driver.

  “Well, my folks would’ve met me from boarding school, but you see, my mom’s having a baby and my daddy had to get her to the hospital this morning. I’m on my way to stay with my grandmother.” She marveled at how easily that whopper rolled off her tongue.

  “Well, congratulations, young lady. That’s quite an event!”

  Allison sighed and leaned back. She was getting pretty good at this.

  The cabby wished her family well as she climbed out in front of the gleaming high rise. The doorman eyed her curiously, and she lowered her head and scurried past his open door. His suspicion seemed to follow her across the polished lobby floor.

  The elevator soared to the seventeenth floor and, as usual, made her stomach sink and her head spin. She staggered down the carpeted hall and began the search for the right apartment. All the doors looked exactly the same. Finally at the end of the hall, Allison stopped in front of a glossy red door—number 1748. She knew that Stanley had accompanied Marsha to Istanbul, but suddenly she wondered if someone else could possibly be inside. What about the maid? What if the locks had been changed? Or what if it was the wrong apartment number? She held her breath, slipped in the key, and turned—it worked!

  Not knowing what to expect, Allison cautiously opened the door. It was dark and the blinds were down. Footsteps sounded behind her in the hallway, and she quickly stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she fumbled for the light switch. The furnishings were covered in ghostly white shrouds with no sign of occupants.

  Zipping through the apartment, she jerked open shades, flipped on more lights, and undraped the furniture. This was great! She flicked on the radio and collapsed on Marsha’s enormous burgundy couch. Rich tones of Duke Ellington floated through the room, and she absently scanned one of Marsha’s fashion magazines. This sudden new freedom was almost overwhelming—what should she do next?

  Food! Would there be anything to eat? Allison went to the refrigerator—empty. A few staples in the cupboards, but certainly not enough to last the summer. Oh well, she’d think about that later. She opened a tin of sardines and ate them on soda crackers. A tiny can of fruit cocktail and some shortbread made a dessert that she topped off with tea.

  Next she explored the bookshelf for reading material. Although Marsha had never been much of a reader, it appeared Stanley enjoyed a good book because there were several to choose from. She picked an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Miss Snyder wouldn’t approve, but then Miss Snyder would hardly approve of any of this. Allison soon became lost in the steamy novel.

  When she finally glanced at the clock, it was after nine and dark outside—at least as dark as it gets in the Big Apple from the seventeenth floor. The incredible New York skyline looked like a glittering fairyland—dazzling, spectacular, and almost enticing. What was it really like down there? Did a fourteen-year-old dare venture out after dark?

  Allison chided herself—there was still so much to explore in the penthouse. She wandered aimlessly through the elegant rooms. Stanley had a separate bedroom connected to Marsha’s with a two-way locking door. His room was dark and serious-looking, and it smelled faintly of stale cigars. In Marsha’s luxurious bedroom, Allison freely snooped. She started by opening a set of gilded double doors to discover another miniature room, which was actually an enormous closet filled with rows of dresses and gowns, suits and coats, stacks of sweaters, and dozens and dozens of shoes. It reminded her of a department store. How could one woman ever begin to wear all this stuff?

  The closet was saturated with the familiar scent of Marsha’s overpowering perfume. That smell had always given Allison a headache and made her stomach queasy, and tonight it was no different. She flopped across Marsha’s big bed and analyzed this bedroom with perplexity. Just who was this woman who lived here, anyway? This famous Marsha Madison—this stranger. How was it that she could really be Allison’s mother?

  Allison sat on her mother’s bed and smoothed her hand over the mauve satin bedspread. She studied the roses on the wallpaper. They were peculiar flowers outlined in black, cold and rigid as if chiseled from stone. They climbed up the wall to an ornate molding that outlined the high ceiling. The huge chandelier, with its long slivers of crystal, hung menacingly over the gilded four-poster bed. It looked like it would kill her if it fell. Some might have called Marsha’s bedroom gorgeous, but Allison thought it was garish and overdone—a lot like her mother.

  For the first time in her life, Allison had a compelling interest in this woman who’d conceived her. But it was almost a morbid curiosity, like the time she and Patricia found the dead cow in Warner Greeley’s field. The smell was sickening and they knew they should leave it alone, but they couldn’t resist poking its bloated carcass with a stick. She shuddered as she remembered the results.

  Allison examined her mother’s dressing table with its many fancy bottles of perfume, makeup, combs, and creams. So much was still here that she wondered if Marsha had taken anything to Istanbul. She twisted open an engraved silver lipstick tube. It was an orangish shade, not the deep scarlet Marsha usually wore. Allison pretended to apply some lipstick, making the same face Marsha did, but the massive mirror took her by surprise and she laid down the tube. She wasn’t used to seeing her entire reflection at once. Back in the dormitory they had two tiny square mirrors for twenty girls to fight over, but she rarely bothered. She had little use for primping. Marsha’s acidic remarks about her hair and freckles had imprinted themselves in her brain.

  She studied her reflection. Her wavy red hair was divided in two straggly braids that never hung straight. Her skin was too pale and freckled, and her eyes seemed oversized for her face. Nanny had said they were hazel eyes that changed like the sea. Allison stared but didn’t see any changes. Just flecks of blue and green and brown, almost like someone couldn’t decide which color to use. Her blue school uniform did nothing to enhance her appearance, either. Marsha may have been right about her looks, but Allison knew there was more to life than being pretty. After all, no one at school could pitch as well or run as fast as she could.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted an old photograph of Marsha. Allison moved over to the chest of drawers where it stood and picked it up in amazement. She’d never seen it before. It was her mother and yet it wasn’t. She looked different. She was younger and strangely void of makeup. Allison slipped the photo from the frame and examined the back. Marsha, 18 was all it said. When Allison was asked, she never described her mother as beautiful. Maybe glamorous, elegant, or sophisticated, but in this photo Marsha did look beautiful. Allison stretched across Marsha’s wide bed and stared into the photo as if some secret message might be hidden there.

  She knew her mother had been only eighteen when she first came to New York to study drama. Nanny Jane had told Allison all about it. Acting was Marsha’s passion—her only dream. Her parents strongly opposed the idea at first, but they finally gave in. Marsha usually got what she wanted. It was the heart of the depression then, but the Madison family’s wealth was barely affected. According to Nanny Jane, Marsha’s parents sent her a generous monthly allowance, quite an adv
antage for a struggling young actress. They paid for her acting lessons and introduced her to their “connections.”

  Somewhere along the line, Marsha hooked up with James O’Brian, an aspiring and talented artist. Nanny Jane had said he was a handsome young man, tall and straight, with clear eyes that reminded her of the ocean. Actress and artist married, and what might have been a storybook ending went against Marsha’s parents’ wishes. The allowance was terminated. That’s about all Nanny had said.

  Allison returned the photo to the dresser and slid open the top drawer. She knew she shouldn’t snoop, but she was fed up with all the mystery in her life. She was tired of unanswered questions.

  There was nothing of particular interest in the first few drawers, just lacy lingerie and silk stockings. Finally, buried beneath some negligees in the bottom drawer, she found what looked like a small, plush jewelry box. It was covered in faded blue velveteen and worn on the corners. It could’ve come from Woolworth’s and stood out like a beggar amidst Marsha’s costly things.

  Allison opened it slowly, and tinkling music box tones escaped. She snapped it shut, then remembered she was alone. Opening it again, she listened to the sad melody of Swan Lake and puzzled over the odd contents. A bent spoon, ticket stubs, a faded rose, an old, frayed ribbon, and a key. Old mementos—fragmented pieces of a fragmented life. Yet Allison felt certain they related to her father and an earlier time.

  The stubs were dated in the war years. Allison remembered asking Marsha about her father during that time. Marsha had answered stonily, “He’s overseas—in the war.”

  Later Nanny Jane had confirmed it. “That’s what I heard, too, darling. Now each night when you say your prayers, you must say a special one for him. War is a horrible thing. . . .” Nanny’s sweet old face had looked sad and gray. She’d lost her only son in the first big war. That was long ago, before she’d come overseas to be Marsha’s nanny. Allison never could imagine Marsha as a little girl, let alone with her Nanny Jane. She closed the music box and returned it to the drawer.

  In Marsha’s bathroom, the huge marble tub seemed to beckon her. Allison turned on the water, then dumped in a generous amount of French bubble bath. This would be a treat! She went to the spare bedroom, supposedly “her room,” though it never felt like it, and peered into “her” closet. Empty! Where were her clothes? Did Marsha have everything sent to Wannatonka? She pulled open a bureau drawer—also empty. All she possessed were the clothes on her back! How could she traipse around New York City in her school uniform all summer? That would sure draw some attention—just what she didn’t need.

  Allison dashed back to the bathroom in the nick of time and shut off the gold-plated faucet. Bubbles cascaded down the sides of the tub and onto the shiny black tiles. She giggled mischievously. This was a luxury she seldom enjoyed. The shower room at school was drafty and noisy with a cold cement floor. She sank slowly into the suds, careful not to splash the water. “Ahh,” she sighed, “I suppose I could get used to this. . . .”

  She dried off on Marsha’s thick Egyptian towels, creamed, powdered, and pampered herself, then slipped into a peach satin robe that hung on the bathroom door. She passed Marsha’s full-length mirror and stared in disbelief. Her damp hair curled loosely around her shoulders, and her cheeks were pink from her bath. The clingy robe exposed some new feminine curves. This didn’t look like the Allison she knew. Rummaging through Marsha’s drawers, she searched fruitlessly for a warm nightie. All she found were silk, lace, and satin—hardly what she considered warm and cozy.

  After fixing herself another cup of tea, Allison was ready to call it a night. She headed for her room, which felt cold and uninviting. The starched white bedspread was so stiff it crackled when she sat on it. She figured Marsha had decorated this room purposely to discourage visitors from overstaying. Well, Allison intended to make herself at home this time.

  She marched into Marsha’s spacious bedroom and threw back the covers on the oversized bed. “It figures,” she laughed. “Satin sheets!” She slid in, sipped her steaming tea, and recovered her place in the book. Finally her eyes refused to focus, and the silky sheets absorbed her last shred of strength.

  Warm morning sunlight filtered through the filmy lace curtains. Allison stretched luxuriantly, but her stomach rumbled discontent. “I’ve got to get some real food, and that means leaving this apartment.” She remembered the doorman’s suspicious glance. He was probably unaccustomed to uniformed schoolgirls in his highfaluting high rise. How could she slip past him without notice?

  She looked at Marsha’s closet and remembered Stanley’s comment at Christmas, “By golly, Marsha, your baby sister is as tall as you!”

  “That’s it! I’ll become a grown-up!” Allison scrambled out of bed and rummaged through the closet. She’d need just the right outfit. It had to be convincing—not too old or sophisticated. Most of Marsha’s clothes looked like they belonged on a movie set with their feathers, sequins, and fur. At last Allison tossed a few possibilities out on the bed. She tried them on, and miraculously they fit! A little loose in spots, but nothing obvious. Now what about shoes? Would she be so lucky? She slipped her silk-stockinged foot into a green suede pump. Perfect! She felt almost like Cinderella.

  Allison stood before the full-length mirror. The color and line of the celery green linen suit were perfect for her. She turned this way and that, admiring the outfit. The pendulum jacket jutted out right above the hips, but something was wrong. Her hair! It was nothing like the coiffures she’d seen in Marsha’s fashion magazines.

  After several hopeless attempts with Marsha’s fancy combs and pins, she gave up. A hat might help. She searched several hat boxes before she discovered the perfect moss green hat. Better, but still not quite right. If she wanted to pass for a sophisticated young woman, she needed a bit of makeup. She applied a little of the orangish lipstick and a touch of rouge. She stared at the young woman in the mirror and smiled at the transformation. If only Patricia were here, wouldn’t they have fun?

  Now for some jewelry. She opened Marsha’s big rosewood jewelry box. It contained only costume and inexpensive pieces. Allison selected a mother-of-pearl pin and matching bracelet. As she put them on, the familiarity hit her. She’d bought them for Marsha a few summers ago on the Cape. For no special reason she’d wanted to do something daughterly. Marsha had smiled sweetly and thanked her, but Allison felt certain she’d never worn them.

  Allison slipped on a pair of smooth white gloves—she knew ladies always wore gloves in the city. She tucked her money into a green suede purse and headed out the door. As she locked the door behind her she noticed the place was a mess, but she’d deal with it later.

  After she stepped off the elevator in the lobby, the doorman tipped his hat and smiled as he opened the door. “Morning, miss,” he said politely. She felt certain he didn’t recognize her as yesterday’s schoolgirl. She squared her shoulders and walked by with fresh confidence. This was terrific! But now which way to go?

  She looked down the street. A cabby called out, “Need a taxi, miss?”

  She stumbled into the yellow and black cab, balancing her hat with one hand. This might take some work. It was like playing a role—creating a character and carrying it off.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said politely, then wondered if a lady should call a cabby “sir.” “Can you drive me to a nice restaurant? I’m not very familiar with New York City.” He drove her to Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of the elegant Grand Hotel. She paid him and climbed out, this time with more grace.

  Inside, she sat by a bubbling fountain and scanned the breakfast menu. She selected Eggs Benedict, grapefruit, and coffee. It sounded like a mature sort of breakfast to order. She didn’t normally drink coffee, but with sugar and cream it proved tasty and seemed more grown-up than tea. At a nearby table an older gentleman laughed loudly with a smiling young lady—probably his daughter. Allison wondered what her own father might have been like. Surely not like that portly man with th
e shiny bald head. No, her father would have been tall and handsome. . . .

  She remembered the day Marsha had told her that her father was dead. It was the end of October and the trees were golden. Allison had been eight and in her second year at Oakmont when Marsha visited on Parents’ Day—the only year she came. Just before Marsha climbed back into her chauffeured limousine she informed Allison of her father’s death. Said he’d been killed in the war—just like that. Allison cried for several days. She’d never really known him, but a corner of her heart grew cold and empty just the same.

  Allison left a dollar on the table for a tip just as she’d seen Marsha do. Her head grew hot and itchy beneath the contemptible hat, but she didn’t dare remove it for her hair was a sight. As she strolled down the sidewalk, she noticed an exclusive-looking beauty salon and decided to investigate.

  “May I help you?” asked a tall brunette woman with dangling silver earrings.

  “Yes, I’d like my hair done,” Allison stated. She’d never been inside a beauty parlor. Nanny Jane had always trimmed her bangs when she was little, and Allison had since taken over after that.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The earrings jingled as she spoke.

  “Well . . . no,” Allison stammered. “You see, I’m from out of town, and I . . . uh I needed—”

  “Normally we don’t take walk-ins, but I do have a cancellation at one. Will that work?”

  “That’ll be fine.” Allison wondered what she’d do for the next three hours.

  “Name?”

  Allison thought for a moment. “Sheila—” she blurted. Her eyes darted around the store, and she saw a sign behind the counter for LaVelle hair cream. “Sheila LaVelle,” she stated. The brunette eyed her with interest. Allison smiled and felt like an idiot. What a dumb thing to say, she thought.

  “Could you please tell me the way to Macy’s department store?” Allison asked, hoping to conceal her blunder.