by Edward Lee
Yes, she would go home now, get off the road and go to bed. But first…
One more try, she decided, and swigged the last of the Dewar’s.
She came back into town, drove up to Church Circle, and turned off onto Federal Street.
As she got closer to Alice’s house, she slowed...
Her heart sunk.
The car wasn’t there.
And that meant neither was Alice.
She stopped right there, idling with her foot on the brake. Her earlier resolve fell to pieces, and again she lost her grip. A hitching came to her chest, her throat grew thick. She opened her window to let in the fresh air, but that didn’t help in the least.
She couldn’t help it. She leaned her forehead against the padded wheel and began to cry.
Then—
“My God. Holly?”
Holly looked up, horrified.
Alice was standing there, in shorts and an oversized T-shirt, a sweatband around her head.
“What on earth is wrong, Holly? Why are you crying?”
Holly opened her mouth to speak but could only sob.
“Turn off the motor,” Alice said very softly. “You’d better come inside.”
— | — | —
30
Alice only looked at her for the first few minutes after they’d gone into the house.
It was not an approving look.
She didn’t say a word. Instead, in silence, she got Holly a glass of water, some Kleenex, and then sat back down on the opposing Edgewood couch.
Holly’s stomach pitched from the day-long infusion of alcohol. The buzz turned brutal, nearly sickening. How quickly the comforts of alcohol turned ugly. And as for Alice, Holly wouldn’t have known what to say to her in a million years, she was so embarrassed.
But, eventually, the silence broke, and it was Alice who broke it.
“Something’s really wrong here, Holly. I need you to tell me what it is.”
All Holly could do in reply was dab at the tears on her cheeks with the Kleenex and gulp.
“Why are you so upset?”
Another thick gulp and nothing more.
The silence felt heavy as lead. It felt like a hundred-pound block of lead sitting right on top of Holly’s head.
More minutes ticked by; Holly, in fact, counted each and every one by the sound of the finely finished grandfather clock in the foyer, which ticked in unison with the mantel clock. Tick-tick-tick. The sound seemed harassing, a distant mockery that only highlighted how pathetic she felt, how asinine. For a moment she thought about leaving. Just getting up and leaving, leaving the house without a word, without an explanation. Getting into her car and driving away. Renting a U-Haul tomorrow and moving, going to some other town, some other state.
Some other place where there was no one she was so desperately in love with.
Because there was no explanation, was there?
No explanation but the truth, and the truth, she felt certain, simply could never be uttered. She’d sew her lips shut first.
Holly’s voice sounded like a death rattle when she finally spoke. “I-I was worried. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“Worried about what?” Alice asked sincerely.
“I-I haven’t seen you for days. I was worried. You didn’t show up for your session.”
“But, Holly, I called you that morning and left a message. Didn’t you get it?”
“No. My office answering machine?”
“I called you at home. You weren’t in so I left a message there.”
Could this be true? Maybe she just hadn’t noticed the blinking light on her machine. And maybe I was too drunk to hear the phone ring, she wondered. Certainly that was possible.
“Well,” she admitted, “maybe I forgot to check, but-but, what about all the messages I left here? You never returned any of them.”
“Holly,” Alice explained, “I only just got back a few hours ago.”
Holly sniffled, looking up. “Got back? Got back from where?”
Alice shook her head. “From the summer antique show at Mt. Vernon College.”
“An—antique show?”
“If you’d checked your answering machine, you would’ve known. I explained it all. For the last three days I’ve been out-of-state, an antique-seller’s convention. And when I got home a few hours ago I got your messages, so I called but you weren’t in at either number.”
My God, Holly thought. How could she have been so wrong, so blitheringly stupid? Once again she’d made a complete ass of herself for nothing.
But, wait. There was something else, wasn’t there? Something else that didn’t fit—
“Then how come—” Holly began, pausing to wipe her eyes again. “Then how come your car isn’t out front? Just now when I drove by, it wasn’t there.”
Alice smiled. She got up, walked over, and sat down next to Holly. “I told you weeks ago that I was planning on having the carriage house out back converted into a garage. The day before I left for the convention, the work was done. And that’s where my car is now—in my new garage.”
Holly wilted a bit more. One mistake after another. One careless, haphazard conclusion after the next. A drunken alcoholic lesbian fuck-up is all I am, she condemned herself. An idiot…
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, because that was, absurdly, the only thing she could think of.
Alice put her arm around her, still smiling. “Holly, you don’t have to say anything.”
But just feeling Alice’s slim arm tight around her distracted Holly so much, she could scarcely think. She noticed that Alice was wearing shorts, her prosthesis obvious. But it wasn’t ugly at all. It just looked a little different.
“How come you’re wearing shorts? You’ve always been so—”
“I know,” Alice cut her off. “I’ve always been very inhibited about the prosthesis. Well, that was the old me, and this is the new me. The prosthesis is part of me now. There’s no reason for me to be inhibited or ashamed.”
“That’s-that’s a good attitude,” Holly tried to say without sniffling.
“I know, it’s what you’ve been telling me all along. It’s only that it took all this time for me to realize that. I mean, tonight, right before I saw your car, I was out jogging—well, brisk walking is more like it—I’d have to get a special leg to actually jog. But the point is, I was out exercising. Me. Can you believe it? I’ve worked so hard to lose weight, I want to make sure I keep it off.”
Holly stole a glance just then, and realized just how good Alice looked. She looked even better than the last time she’d seen her: trimmer, more toned, healthier still.
Beautiful…
“The funny thing about the fake leg is,” Alice began, “I don’t even think about it anymore. It’s like…it’s like it isn’t even there. It’s like it’s real. Does that sound strange?”
“No, not at all,” Holly said, but part of her—a very large part—was still reveling at Alice’s touch, the feel of Alice’s arm around her. Of course, she knew that to Alice it was nothing, it was solely as friends, a comradely gesture. But, still, she couldn’t help but marvel at it.
Just being touched by her felt…so wonderful.
“You’re shedding your initial inhibitions.” Holly filled in the gap. “You’re beginning to acknowledge yourself as yourself, if you know what I mean. You’ve gotten out of your shell, and that’s an incredible sign of progress.”
But then Holly scorned herself. She couldn’t imagine how ridiculous she sounded, rendering therapeutic advice, and here she was, drunk and crying. Just shut up, you asshole, she told herself. Don’t make any more of an idiot of yourself than you already have.
“Well, I know that, Holly,” Alice said next. “And I owe it all to you. You’ve helped me so much. And I love you for it.”
Love you for it, Holly recited. Wrong word. Love. Just another heartbreak. Because she knew what Alice really meant. It was just a word, just a gesture—lik
e her arm draped about her shoulder.
She knew it didn’t mean what she wanted it to mean, what she wanted more than anything else in the world, what she wished for almost perpetually…
“Well, again, I’m sorry about all this,” she said. “I was worried for no reason. I’ll go now.” And with that, she stood up, much too quickly, and suddenly that little bottle of Dewar’s hit her right in the head. She wobbled on her feet, wavered, and nearly fell.
Alice rose, put an arm around Holly’s waist. “You’re not going anywhere,” she informed her. “You’re too drunk. I want you to stay here.”
Part of this news exhilarated Holly. Alice wanted her to stay here again. But then she thought, Great, another night in the guest room.
“Come on,” Alice said. “In here. Over here.”
And it wasn’t the guest room she was leading Holly toward.
It was the watch room.
Alice’s bedroom, Holly realized.
She was so taken aback, so shocked, she was almost afraid. What would she do? How should she react?
But she didn’t even have to think about it.
At once they were in the watch room. Twilight glimmered beyond the veranda, through the French doors. “Take this off,” Alice said, meaning her dress. “You can’t sleep in your clothes.” Holly tried hard not to waver as she stood. Alice’s hands skimmed off the dress. “It’s late now,” she said gently, and then just as gently she sat Holly down on the edge of the high, posted bed. “Do you want a blanket or a nightgown? Are you cold?”
Holly shook her head. Dizzy, buzzed. Again, thoroughly disgusted with herself.
I’m a… drunk, she thought.
The watch room was cool and quiet. And dark. Alice knelt, took off Holly’s shoes, lay her back on the bed.
Then the bed jostled as Alice lay down beside her.
Holly felt frozen, paralyzed.
“Do you feel better now?” Alice asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Holly said hoarsely, but she really didn’t. How could she feel better? How could she feel good at all? This was the second time that Alice had essentially hauled Holly out of the gutter. Just a week or so ago, and for the months preceding, it had been Holly picking up Alice’s pieces, but now—oh, so quickly—it was the other way around. Who’s the basketcase now? Holly asked herself. Who’s the one in pieces?
Alice, lying right beside, facing her, raised her hand, then innocently began to stroke Holly’s brunette hair. “Do you feel as if you might be sick again? Do you feel nauseous?”
“I’m okay,” Holly replied in a peep of a voice. But she was so distracted, she was nearly trembling at the touch of Alice’s fingers running through her hair.
And then, all at once, everything came crashing down, like a heavy building collapsing. Only the building, in this case, was everything that Holly felt in her heart.
At once, her eyes squeezed shut—
“Holly? What’s wr—”
—and she began to sob.
Beyond that, Alice didn’t even ask. Instead, she hugged Holly, comforting her, and Holly continued to sob and sob and sob.
“It’s all right,” Alice whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Holly choked. “I just can’t help it. I’m so confused.”
“There’s something you want to tell me, isn’t there, Holly? Isn’t there something you need to tell me?”
Holly’s throat seemed to throb shut; it seemed immobile, locked up in her sobs.
“I—” she began. “I—”
“You don’t need to say it,” Alice whispered. “I already know. I guess I’ve known for a while.”
More subtle terror locked Holly where she lay, in the arms of the woman she loved. She knows…
“We’ll make love sometime, okay?” came Alice’s next whisper. Her hand stroked Holly’s cheek, brushed at the tears. “But not now, not tonight. It wouldn’t be right for us to do it now. You’re too upset.”
Holly’s mouth opened, quivered.
“Shhh,” Alice said. “Don’t say anything. Let’s just go to sleep. Okay?”
Holly nodded, still shocked, drunk, embarrassed; yet at the same time she felt a lot better, a monumental burden raised, the truth released.
Alice knew the truth, and it was okay.
The darkness and quietude draped them.
A few moments later they both lay asleep in each other’s arms.
— | — | —
31
Never, she thought. Never again.
But it was almost funny now, funny in that it was so piteous. Holly had made the promise every day for a week now, the promise to never drink again, and look what she’d done?
Acute dehydration had woken her at a little past three in the morning. Cottonmouth, she thought blearily in the moon-stained dark. Isn’t that what drunks call it? And that’s exactly what you are, Holly. A drunk. A weak, raving, pathetic alcoholic.
When she turned in bed, her head blaring the steady, familiar ache, she noticed immediately that Alice was not there. At least this time Holly hadn’t been so drunk that she couldn’t remember everything. Alice had put her to bed—in the watch room this time, not the guest room— and she’d gone to bed with her. And before they’d fallen asleep Alice had very clearly inferred that she understood, that she knew Holly loved her. These were good things, weren’t they?
So why didn’t Holly feel good?
She groaned at the headache.
And where is Alice? It’s past three in the morning, and she isn’t in bed.
Where could she have gone at this hour?
Holly placed her hands on Alice’s side of the bed, felt around. At once it was obvious that Alice had been out of bed for a while: There was no trace of warmth amid the sheets and pillows.
Holly slid her feet out of bed, sat up. First things first, she thought. Water. She stood up slowly, still slightly drunk, and then even more slowly she walked to the bathroom, still wearing only her panties. The moon was enough to light her way; there was no way she was going to blind herself by turning on the light. She turned on the tap and took a long drink, nearly gulping it.
Then she went back into the bedroom. Where could she have gone this late? she wondered. The door was cracked and she saw light, peeked out, but it was only a single lamp glowing in the living room.
“Alice?” she called out quietly.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised when Alice did not reply.
Well, I’ll just go look for her, she decided. She has to be in the house somewhere. But just as she’d thought that, her hand came down and touched the antique dresser by the door, her fingers touching paper.
The notes, she remembered, jealousy rekindling. But she’d already seen them several nights ago: the notes left by Alice’s recent lovers—the plumber named George, and some other man named Micah. But—
Holly squinted.
There were three notes there now.
She couldn’t resist.
Back into the bathroom, with the notes in her hand. She closed the door, then flinched against the glare when she turned on the fluorescent light. The first two notes were the ones she remembered: George, Micah. But the third…
More inner rage, more jealousy.
Holly’s face hardened when she read the third handwritten note:
Dear Alice:
What a great time we had last night! I didn’t want to wake you— I have to meet with my editor for the final layout on the article. But I’ll be sure to call you soon. I’d really like to see you again.
John
Holly’s eyes nearly crossed in her anger. John? she thought. Who in the goddamned HELL is John? How many guys does she sleep with per week, for Christ’s sake!
Of course, the note wasn’t proof that Alice had slept with him, but Holly knew it was naive to believe otherwise. The note shook in her hand as she stood there staring at it. I’d really like to see you again, her thoughts mimicked in a mousy peep of a voice. Eat shit, John, whoever the hell y
ou are!
She reread the note, tried to quell her feelings. But what was this stuff about “my editor,” and the final “layout for the article?”
And then it dawned on her.
The photographer from the paper. Alice had mentioned it, hadn’t she? Several days ago, the morning after Holly had stayed the night in the guest room. Something about the newspaper doing an article about historic homes in the city.
Holly’s jealousy, then, nearly took her into a fit. The guy came over here to take pictures of her house and he wound up fucking her! Just like that! What scumbags men are!
She flicked the light back off, stood there for a minute to let her eyes readjust and to let her emotions subside, but when she went back out and put the notes back, more bitter, hostile thoughts pecked at her. Goddamn John! Probably some geek camera nerd, coming over here and fucking her! Fucking my Alice!
These feelings, of course, were juvenile, unreasonable, and Holly knew it. But somehow that didn’t matter. Love wasn’t objective; it was rife with feelings that were selfish and ineffable. Some psychiatrist you are, Holly. You’re acting worse than most of your patients…
She tried to forget it all as best she could, refocusing her previous attentions. She still couldn’t imagine where Alice was; at this hour it didn’t make sense for her to be anywhere but in bed.
Holly walked out into the living room, not particularly concerned now about her lack of attire. The single lamp glowed, coating the room in gentle amber light. By the back wall, the bar sat like a mascot in wait. Just one sip of Scotch would calm her. Just one sip, she told herself. And to hell with my promises. Next thing she knew, she was sipping out of the lead-crystal decanter. She noticed at once—and with relief—that Alice had obviously poured out the Scotch that Holly had watered down the other day, replacing it. Just the scent of the aromatic liquid seemed to comfort her, like an old friend; the several sips left a warm trail down her throat to her belly. It fortified her, took the edge off the headache and her hot mix of emotions. And not once did the desperate image of herself occur to her: a successful clinical psychiatrist, wearing only panties, nipping hooch out of a decanter at three-thirty in the morning in the house of a patient she was in love with.