“What should I do?” I asked Patrick. “It’s a great step up, and the pay is good, but . . .”
“But you’ll miss working with students,” he said. “Tell them the truth.”
So I did. The miracle was that they wanted me anyway and said I could still do part-time counseling at my old school. So I accepted, and the family decided I should have a party. It was weeks before we could all get together, but when it was time, Patrick’s parents even flew in from Wisconsin for the occasion. It seemed strange to be celebrating me for a change, not Patrick.
“Hey, Al,” said Les. “Nice going!”
“I’m so proud of you,” said Dad, hugging me. Sylvia hugged me next.
Tyler had made place mats for the table, with pictures he had drawn of me on each of them—as a mother holding a baby, another with a crown on my head—and Patricia made a pineapple upside-down cake, my mother’s recipe. Patrick, meanwhile, had grilled steaks for all of us, and it was a festive meal. Mine was a small accomplishment compared to Patrick’s many promotions, but I had so few that perhaps this is why everyone made such a fuss.
“I can’t tell you how many times I talked to a counselor about a student when I was teaching,” Sylvia said to me. “I always got such good insight and suggestions.”
“I probably learn as much from the students as they learn from me,” I told her.
When I’d found out that Les and Stacy had come in two days earlier and were staying at Dad and Sylvia’s, and then when Patrick spent most of Saturday over there, I suspected something was up.
And now, as we cleaned up the dishes, I noticed whispers being exchanged, and Patrick invited us all to the family room for a special presentation. I immediately looked around to see who was missing—if the kids were about to perform—but the children looked as surprised as I was. The chairs and couches had been turned toward the TV, so I sat down with Patrick on one side of me, Dad on the other, Patricia and Tyler at my feet, and suddenly the strains of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons filled the room. The screen lit up and we read:
ALICE KATHLEEN MCKINLEY LONG: THIS IS YOUR LIFE
As told by your brother, who is not entirely well
The roar of laughter served as prelude to what was to come. As the homemade video continued, I realized now what Lester and Patrick had been up to at my parents’ home—that someone had gone through all the old photographs on Dad’s shelf, the girlhood scrapbooks still in the attic, the boxes of photos waiting to be sorted here in my office—and I surrendered myself to the fun, as Lester’s recorded voice provided the commentary.
While one of Dad’s much-loved pictures of me as a baby asleep in a laundry basket, in nothing but a little shirt and diaper, appeared on the screen, Les intoned in his most dramatic voice, “Born on May fourteenth to a poor but honest musician and his wife, little Alice Kathleen McKinley had only the clothes on her back and a laundry basket to serve as her crib. But she was loved.” The children shrieked with laughter.
Lester’s voice continued: “Though the hardworking parents tried their best to keep the family clean, water had to be hauled in from the well, and there was no money for soap. Many times, unfortunately, it was difficult to keep little Alice clean.” And there I was in my high chair, trying to feed myself, with strained spinach and beets all over my face, my tongue sticking out one side of my mouth.
Tyler doubled over.
Next there was a picture of the four of us lined up to have our picture taken. I don’t know where or when this was—I must have been about three—but I was holding a limp doll over one arm, squinting at the sun, and my underpants were in danger of falling, dipping low beneath the hem of my dress. Lester intoned: “The family consisted of Ben, the father; Marie, the mother; Lester, the brother; and little Alice . . . the littlest.”
Immediately following was a photo the photographer must have shot the minute after the first one was taken, because my underpants had obviously given way and were down to my ankles. I was crying and trying to pull them up, and part of my bare bottom was visible to the camera.
“When at last the family acquired county water, they could not, alas, afford a bathroom, and so little Alice had to bathe outdoors the best she could.” And there I was, squatting over the water sprinkler in the front yard, hair bedraggled, looking very satisfied with myself.
We were all enjoying ourselves immensely. An almost continuous chuckle came from Dad’s throat as he recognized old-time photos and we listened to Lester’s droll, but theatrical comments: “As a widower, Ben McKinley did his best to show his children the world. There was North Chicago . . .” (a photo of us by the Wrigley Building with Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt), “South Chicago . . .” (a photo of us by Lake Michigan), “and West Chicago . . .” On and on the photos went.
“Little Alice had to endure the taunts and teasing of her older brother, but finally, in a brave show of retaliation . . . she broke his leg.” And there was a picture of Lester looking forlorn with his leg in a cast, propped up on a chair.
Tyler turned around and stared up at me. “Did you?”
“No, but there were plenty of times I would have liked to,” I laughed. “And it was only his ankle. Don’t you kids believe anything in this movie.”
“At last a fairy godmother came into the family to bring peace and joy,” said Lester’s voice, and we saw a photo of Sylvia, to which someone had added a pair of fairy wings, and the kids cried, “Nana!” turning toward Sylvia, who was sitting with the Longs on our second couch.
The video continued with a picture of me at sixteen with obvious pimples sprouting up here and there: “To supplement the family income, little Alice, now a teen, was poster girl for Noxzema,” the commentator’s voice went on.
“Euuu, Mom, you looked awful!” Patricia gasped.
“But we all did. We were all going through the same thing,” I assured her.
And when a photo of a pickup truck came on the screen, loaded down with all the stuff going to my dorm room the first day of college, someone had taped a chorus singing, “She’s off to see the wizard, the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.” And then Lester’s voice dramatically shouting, “She’s off to college, folks, and we’re free of Alice! Free at last! Thank God, we’re free at last!”
A wedding picture, a honeymoon photo, a picture of a squalling Patricia at three days old, with the announcement that she was elected Loudest of the Newborns; a close-up of Tyler in an enormous yawn and Lester commenting that there was an admissions fee to enter the cave, which sent both Tyler and Patricia leaning and howling against each other. A photo of me at my desk at school, to which someone had added a star above my head as my promotion was noted. And finally the concluding announcement, “Alice Kathleen McKinley Long, this is your life.”
We all clapped and laughed and clapped and laughed some more. The kids, of course, wanted to watch it again.
I looked lovingly over at Les. “This must have taken a lot of work.”
“All I did was put it together and add some sound,” he said with uncharacteristic modesty. “Dad and Patrick supplied the photos.”
I squeezed Dad’s hand and leaned over to kiss Patrick. “Thank you, all of you,” I said. “That was one of the funniest things I ever saw. And yes, it’s been a wonderful life.”
“Mom! You’re not dying or anything!” Patricia scolded.
“I’m still allowed to say how much I’ve enjoyed my life,” I told her, laughing.
* * *
Later, when I was sitting out on the porch with the Longs while my family did the dishes, Mrs. Long said, “I think you and Patrick were meant for each other, Alice.”
I smiled. “So do I.”
And Mr. Long squeezed my arm. “You’re the daughter we never had, and now we have grandchildren, too. You’ve made us both very happy.” I noticed his hand was shaking, and then I remembered the slightly forward gait he used when he walked and realized with a pang that he probably had early Parkinson’s disease. I wondered if Patrick knew.
>
Mrs. Long set a little box on my lap. “Perhaps I should have given this to you sooner, dear, but it’s been in the family a long time, and I thought you might pass it along to Patricia someday.”
I opened the box. There was a bracelet—obviously valuable—but I knew I’d seen it before.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “It’s very old, isn’t it? I feel I’ve seen it before. Maybe you were wearing it once.”
“Perhaps,” she said, and smiled. “I don’t know if you remember, but a long time ago when Patrick first became your boyfriend, he gave that to you for your birthday. Or maybe it was Christmas, I can’t remember.”
I stared at it, then at her.
“He didn’t steal it, exactly. He just thought that since I didn’t wear it often—the stone seems too big for my wrist—he figured I wouldn’t mind if he gave it to you.”
I burst out laughing. “I do remember now!” I said.
“When he told me later,” she went on, “I had to call and explain and ask for it back. It was so embarrassing.”
We laughed together on the porch, and I told the story again when the others came out to enjoy the air.
* * *
Now that her girls were fairly self-sufficient as far as getting themselves off to school each day, Liz and I had this mad desire to go somewhere, do something—if only for a few days.
“You could always fly to London for the weekend,” I joked as we shared a cup of coffee one Saturday afternoon after I’d dropped off a book on bed-wetting for her youngest child.
“I’d settle for the International Reading Association Conference in New Orleans,” she said. “I’ve never been to an IRA conference. In fact, I’ve never been to New Orleans, and it would be fun to just take off and do it.” She put down her cup. “Why don’t you come with me?”
I blinked. “When?”
“The week before Thanksgiving. You suggest books to teachers. You keep up with what kids are reading. And now that you supervise other counselors, it’s even more important!”
I was allowed to choose two professional conferences a year, and I hadn’t attended any yet. I put down my cup. “I’ll do it!” I said, and we gave each other a high five.
“What about Pamela?” said Elizabeth. “Would she go?”
We immediately called her, but she didn’t think she could get off work. But the big, huge surprise was that Gwen wanted to go!
“You can take off work?” I asked incredulously.
“One of the doctors in our practice asked if I could cover for him between Christmas and New Year’s, in exchange for Thanksgiving, and I said I’d let him know. So I say, let’s DO it! I missed that trip out west that you guys took, and—except for my honeymoon—I haven’t had a real vacation in years.”
Liz made the hotel reservations, I made the plane reservations, and two weeks before we were to leave, Pamela phoned: “I can’t stand the thought of you three down in New Orleans without me. I’m coming too,” she said. We whooped.
The Sunday before Thanksgiving found the four of us eating beignets and drinking lattes in the French Quarter. Elizabeth and I had each marked off the seminars and lectures we wanted to attend while Pamela and Gwen went on an airboat tour of the swamps and had a Cajun culinary lesson, but we set aside a few of the evenings and all day Sunday to hang out with each other.
We’d been sitting at a table in Jackson Square for about a half hour when a man of fifty or so in a pale yellow suit got up from a neighboring table, introduced himself as Marcel, and said that he was French-American, though his accent seemed a little off. He asked if he could join us.
I was on the verge of telling him politely that we were old friends, cherishing our time to catch up on each other’s lives, but Pamela, of course, scooted over to make room and invited him to sit down. Gwen and I looked at each other with concealed amusement. It was so Pamela! Men seemed to gravitate to her like paper clips to a magnet.
“I’ve been watching you enjoying one another’s company, and I’m curious as to how long you’ve all known each other,” Marcel said. He had thick graying hair, elegantly trimmed, and piercing gray eyes to match. “I’d almost guess you were sisters, except for”—what a line; we were sure he was referring to Gwen, but he turned, smiling, to Elizabeth—“the dark-haired one.”
“Almost sisters, but not quite,” said Pamela. “We feel like sisters, though.”
Marcel said he was a writer and that he needed a scene between a group of adult women. Having grown up with only brothers, he didn’t quite have a feel for intimate female conversation, and he would love to observe and listen.
“To eavesdrop, in other words,” I said, amused at his boldness and curious as to why a middle-aged man would not have picked up the cadences and rhythm of women’s voices by now, sisters or no sisters.
He talked a little of his life, of a few articles and short stories he had published, but it became quite clear that the focus of his attention was Elizabeth, who did look ravishing in a teal knit top and linen pants.
I needed a restroom, and when I got up to find one, Elizabeth came too, leaving Pamela and Gwen to entertain our gentleman friend, which they seemed quite happy to do. As soon as we were out of earshot, we started to giggle and bent over double after we’d rounded the corner.
“Hey! We’re still babes!” I laughed. “You are, anyway.”
“Pamela will probably have a date with him by the time we get back,” Elizabeth joked. “I’m going to have to tell Moe about this.”
“Is this guy for real?” I asked. “He actually thinks we’re going to have intimate conversations with him around?”
We found a restroom, and when we returned to the table, Marcel was still there. In fact, he sprang to his feet when he saw us and gallantly pulled out two chairs at once, waiting to push them in after we sat down.
Pamela caught Elizabeth’s eye and had that mischievous set of the mouth that meant she was up to something: “I told Marcel about your husband dying so young,” Pamela said, an expression of concern on her face, “and how we’re here trying to get your mind off things, Liz. I hope you don’t mind.”
Before Elizabeth could protest, Marcel reached across the table and put one hand over hers. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and kept his hand there.
I expected Elizabeth to say, What are you talking about? but she fell right into the role. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It’s been very difficult.”
Pamela, who was sitting between us, bumped my knee with hers and probably bumped Elizabeth’s, too. I decided to go along with the joke.
“This is the first time Elizabeth has been without a man in her life,” I said sympathetically.
“I understand,” said Marcel, and it looked to me as though he gave Elizabeth’s hand a squeeze. “Perhaps if you would allow me to show you the sights of the city . . .” He paused, wondering, I suppose, if he was going too far, too fast, and added quickly, “The four of you, of course!”
Gwen took over this time. “We just don’t know yet how we want to spend our time here,” she said. “I think we’ll take Elizabeth back to the hotel to rest, then make plans for the afternoon.”
“I am at your service,” Marcel said, and pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket. He jotted down his phone number, then tore out the sheet and thrust it in Elizabeth’s hand. “Rest,” he said. “And then I will show you the city. Not enough to tire you, only delight you.”
Pamela got up. “You’ve been so kind.”
“I am at your service,” Marcel said again, bowing ever so slightly in his pale yellow suit.
* * *
Back in our room we howled like hyenas. But Elizabeth stopped suddenly and gasped, “He knows where we’re staying!” We remembered that Pamela had mentioned it. This sent Gwen and me into spasms again.
“Naturally,” said Pamela. “That’s part of the fun.”
We sprawled out across the two beds. “Gosh, it’s good to be with you guys,” Gwen said. “I
t’s like old times.”
Elizabeth looked at Pamela. “How did you explain my wedding ring?”
“I told Marcel you couldn’t bear to remove it—that you vowed it would stay on your finger until you went to bed with another man.”
“What?” cried Elizabeth, and that set us off again.
We got out a map of New Orleans and decided we really wanted to see one of the “cities of the dead,” the aboveground cemeteries where bodies are buried in small crumbling mausoleums, one of them containing the body of a voodoo queen. The concierge told us what bus to take, and we rode through the city until we came to the walls of the cemetery.
Gwen was especially fascinated, because she liked to guess what the children in a family might have died of when the gravestones indicated that several died at the same time. We were walking among the tombs, reading inscriptions, looking for the voodoo queen, when suddenly Elizabeth said, “Oh . . . my . . . gosh!”
We looked where she was looking, and there was the man in the pale yellow suit at the far end of the cemetery, looking around. I grabbed both Pamela and Elizabeth and yanked them back behind a tall mausoleum with a lamb sculpted on its door, and we clapped our hands over our mouths, eyes wide with laughter.
“How did he know we were here?” I asked Pamela.
“I told him we wanted to see one of the cemeteries, and he recommended this one,” she said.
“You didn’t!” I peeked around the wall. “He’s coming this way!” I said, and we darted over to the next tomb, and then the next.
“Oh, my gosh, I think he saw me,” Elizabeth said as we zigzagged our way along the back row of grave sites.
“Elizabeth!” came Marcel’s voice. “Ma chère! Let me show you New Orleans!”
Pamela slipped on a piece of masonry and fell, letting out a little shriek. We yanked her up just as Marcel came around the corner a few tombs down.
“Elizabeth!” he called again.
But we were running back out to the street where, miraculously, two cabs were cruising by. We managed to flag the second one and pulled away from the curb just as Marcel came out of the cemetery, his arms spread dramatically in a gesture of despair.
Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice) Page 29