The Town Crazy

by Suzzy Roche

  “How’s it going?” said her father.

  “Not good,” Alice whispered.

  “Not good? Why?”

  “Dad, can I come home?” said Alice, clutching her hand around the receiver.

  “Not quite yet, sweetie. Soon.”

  “Is Mom there?”

  “She’s asleep. She loves you. We both do.”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Very soon.”

  But Clarisse came back into the kitchen and gestured for the phone.

  “Jim,” she said. “We’re having a grand old time. Don’t you worry. Alice is settling in, and we adore her.”

  After the call, Alice stood in the kitchen staring at the wall phone wishing that instead of the nightly good night from her father, her mother would call. Clarisse seemed to think she was still hungry.

  “No more food for you! You must have a tapeworm. Come on, go play with the girls.”

  But playing with the girls was not that easy. Her initial hopes that her stay would be fun had dwindled quickly. Behind their mother’s back, they teased her relentlessly, just like in the playground, excluding her from their private games and making jokes at her expense.

  At lights out, she lay straight and still in her foldout cot, rubbing her lips on the edge of the wool blanket, reciting times tables one after another, until the numbers scrambled. Petrified in the tiny bed, afraid to move a muscle, Alice barely breathed listening to the radiators clank all over the house. As the night progressed, her thoughts went wild with visions of thieves sneaking through the downstairs; she thought she could hear them banging into tables and chairs, and what if one of them discovered her beneath her blanket?

  Things would brighten with the morning light. The twins’ attic bedroom, cluttered with every kind of stuffed animal and board game, had more toys than the five-and-dime, and Dawn and Fawn were not expected to keep their things in order. Alice loved the ruffled butterfly-speckled bedspreads that matched their curtains, and secretly she wished she could have a room like theirs at home. It wasn’t so bad to be around those pretty things.

  But trouble loomed everywhere. Several days into her stay, the girls were together getting ready for bed, and the twins were engaged in a game they called KILL. It involved leaping from bed to bed and jumping up and down as if the beds were circus trampolines. Fawn pretended to be a flamingo, and Dawn, a rabid wolf on the chase.

  “Don’t watch us!” ordered Dawn. “Face the wall!”

  Alice felt bad about this, but did as she was told, turning toward the wall, and she didn’t even cry.

  Dawn, especially, disliked her, and it only got worse whenever Alice received attention from Mrs. McCarthy. But Fawn could be more kind when pulled away from her sister.

  One night, when Dawn was taking her turn in the bathtub, Alice and Fawn played a game together. Alice got down on all fours and let Fawn ride her around like a horse. Fawn held on to the collar of Alice’s pajama top shouting Woo-hoo! and they both had a good time. When they tired of that they started a round of old maid.

  “You’re funny!” said Fawn when Alice made a face like Flirtina Fairytoe, one of characters on the cards. “Do it again!” cried Fawn. Alice made the face three times and Fawn laughed louder each time. They settled into the game and Alice was relieved that Fawn played so nicely, but as soon as Dawn came back upstairs in her monkey pajamas, she kicked the card game that they had arranged on the floor and it scattered into a mess.

  “You’re not allowed to touch our cards!” said Dawn.

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Alice.

  Dawn got a stick horse out of the closet and poked Alice in the stomach.

  “I’m telling Mom if you don’t stop it,” said Fawn. “You’re being mean.”

  “No, it’s okay,” said Alice, sensing there’d be further consequences from Dawn if her mother got involved. “They’re not my cards.”

  Alice couldn’t get mad at the twins. They were special and everybody knew it. They had to be pardoned for any bad behavior, an unspoken rule that no one questioned.

  By Wednesday morning, when Alice was in the kitchen having breakfast with Mrs. McCarthy and the twins, her stomach felt so bad, she had to do something.

  Alice raised her hand as if she were in school. “May I go to the bathroom?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course, and you don’t have to raise your hand. Really, Alice! Do you have to ask at home?” said Clarisse.

  “Stupid,” said Dawn, crunching down on a piece of toast.

  “Dawn, stop it already,” said Clarisse. “Can’t you be nice?”

  “Uck,” said Dawn. “Who raises their hand at breakfast? It’s dumb.”

  “Mom,” said Fawn. She hopped off her chair and whispered into her mother’s ear. “She doesn’t seem old enough to be in second grade.”

  “Just eat your egg, will you?” said Clarisse.

  Alice rushed to get to the bathroom, but as she started up the stairs, she saw Mr. McCarthy standing on the top step. Frank McCarthy had just been passing from the bathroom to the bedroom, figuring the kids were eating breakfast. He paused to inspect a burnt-out light bulb in the ceiling, and when he looked back down the stairs he came face to face with Alice.

  He stood in a white T-shirt, naked from the waist down, and what Alice thought she saw was something like a toy elephant trunk hanging between his legs. He immediately pulled his T-shirt over himself and yelled, “Whoa!”

  “What now?” called Clarisse, as she hurried out of the kitchen to discover Alice at the bottom of the stairs. Clarisse looked up at her husband and shrieked, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Frank! Put some clothes on!”

  IT CONTINUED to be tougher than Clarisse had expected. Alice didn’t seem to be happy. The twins were showing their worst side, and Clarisse realized that she had underestimated the strain of having Alice in the house. She didn’t really care for the girl, who was plain in a way that irritated her, polite to the point of annoyance.

  On Sunday at church Clarisse thought she sensed a judgment from some of the other women. Ginny Rice didn’t say hello. So what. But it wasn’t just Ginny; she had the feeling that conversations stopped when she approached, that public opinion had shifted, as if she was somehow showing off by taking Alice in.

  Alice wasn’t used to going to Sunday services, and although Clarisse bought her a shiny blue dress—for which Alice hadn’t thanked her—Alice looked sullen as they filed into mass. Upon seeing her, Steph Conte got down on one knee and whispered into Alice’s ear, giving her a hug, which infuriated Clarisse. “We’re good people!” Clarisse felt like screaming.

  She’d already tired of the constant vigilance; all she wanted to do was put her feet up on the couch and take a nap. Alice’s presence had made her grumpy and amplified her annoyance about other things as well. Those little green eyes peering all over her home revealed things about her life that under normal circumstances she could ignore, like the fact that her girls lacked … what?

  It pained her to see how they ganged up on Alice.

  And then there was her husband. That Frank was successful, having climbed up to a high rung at Henkel Paint, always seemed like part of a bigger plan. If you want to be charitable you have to have money. She wondered if she’d fooled herself into believing that their two cars, her elaborate wardrobe, the high-end appliances that hummed so smoothly, were meant to set the stage for respectability, not envy. “Get the most expensive one,” Frank always said. She and Frank shared a certain sensibility about success; people had to respect you, otherwise how would they be inspired to follow your example? The Kennedys were wealthy. They had wonderful and expensive things. They had taste and style. Nothing to feel bad about. Not that she compared herself to the Kennedys, except that she did.

  And, of course, there was nothing wrong with Frank. Everybody loved him. He had a joke for each occasion; he shook hands and slapped backs. He’d do anything for anyone. He threw his money around, buying too many Girl Scout cookies, giving extr
a in the church envelope.

  Frank, larger than life. Powerful. But the way little Alice O’Brien looked at him, as if he were a bad, repulsive man, made Clarisse feel unsure. She sunk into a private, hellish mood of hating herself and her family, questioning every choice she’d ever made.

  These nights Clarisse dreaded getting into bed. She’d skip her nightly ritual, no more dabbing either side of her neck with perfume as she slipped into her nightgown. Instead she preferred her flannel pajamas.

  Thoughts crystallized, like, face it, it had been years since she actually desired him. Frank was a huge man in every way. There was a time, before the twins were born, when she’d enjoyed their remarkably athletic romps in bed, the way he’d lift her up and pin her down.

  In other ways, Frank’s largeness worked for her. He was a good, kind man, and theirs, a healthy marriage. Right? She called him her big galoot; his raunchy laugh shook the house and made her smile affectionately. His solid, square body beside her, her hairy bear, often afforded her a sense of safety, and of course his fat wallet was a plus. Anything she asked for she got. But nothing came without a price. It wasn’t that she didn’t want sex; she just didn’t want it with him. Sometimes, when he was all over her, she felt as if an entire wall of the bedroom had fallen on top of her, flattening her like a pressed flower. She wanted, and wanted, and wanted, but what she wanted wasn’t Frank.

  Clarisse found herself daydreaming about Luke Spoon. He wasn’t a nice guy; but the heat between them was hard to ignore. She toyed with a little idea for a couple of days. At first it was a pinprick in the back of her mind, until it ballooned into a physical ache.

  On Wednesday morning she dropped the kids at school, skipped coffee with Steph, and went home to take a long, luxurious shower. Standing naked in front of the closet, she rifled through her dresses until she found the brown silk one that she’d hardly ever worn. She’d laid it out on the bed, deciding that—no—it wasn’t too much. From her underwear drawer she fished out some panties, a bra to match, tinted nylons, and a garter belt. After inspecting herself in front of the mirror from every angle, she sat on the bed and smoked cigarettes for an hour.

  THE DRIVE over to the Post Road was short. She pulled her car into a small abandoned turnaround, and made her way to the Old Ross house, staying just behind the tree line. Her heels sank in the dirt, and when the road was clear, she hurried across the street, and up to the front porch, her heart jumping crazily.

  Luke Spoon came to the door. He held a coffee cup and looked as if he’d just gotten up. He wore a loose, wrinkled shirt and pants, and a curl hung over one of his eyes. Without his glasses he squinted, and then smiled, as if he knew why she’d come.

  “Why, look who’s here,” he said. “A pleasant surprise.”

  “I …” She began to speak but thought better of it.

  “You came to see how I paint with my tongue?” asked Luke.

  “Something like that.”

  “Come on in,” said Luke.

  Clarisse was nervous now. The house seemed empty, as if he’d just moved in or out. Peeking into the living room, she had a moment of doubt. It was weird in there, but sensing her nerves, Luke put his hand up to her chin and turned her face toward his. He moved his fingers over her lips, and she closed her eyes, letting out a small sigh. Her mouth opened and she felt the tip of his finger against her tongue.

  She pulled back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting ready to adore you,” he said, amused.

  Clarisse crossed her arms and looked away. “Oh, come on,” she said. “It’s not like that.”

  “It’s not?” he said.

  “No, I thought you might show me a painting. You said … at the A&P …”

  “You said … at the A&P.”

  “I said?”

  “Your eyes and lips talk up a storm, Clarisse.”

  “Well, that’s … sweet.”

  “Shhh,” he said, touching his forefinger to his own lips now. “Why don’t we … I know … come upstairs.”

  Clarisse thought about protesting, about feigning outrage, but Luke took her by the hand, and she followed him up the stairs. They seemed to move in slow motion, and once in the bedroom, Clarisse was relieved that the shades were drawn. Some pants, shoes, balled socks, a couple of wet towels were strewn across the floor, and a big blue terrycloth robe hung on the door. An unmade bed took up most of the room as if Luke and his house existed for this purpose alone.

  He led her over to the bed and sat her down. “Is this what you had in mind?” he asked. “Sorry I forgot to make the bed today. It’s not easy to be all alone with the family chores.”

  Clarisse was silent.

  “I like your red lips,” he said.

  She trembled as he knelt down in front of her and slipped off her shoes, taking a moment to rub his hands along the edges of her feet and then move his hand slowly up her stockinged legs. He spread her legs slightly to unhook her nylons from the garter belt under the skirt of her dress, and she leaned back a little, her hands behind her.

  He began to kiss her knees. “Oh God,” she said. “Let me … my stockings …”

  “No, let me,” he said. He rolled them off one by one and flung them on the floor. Once her legs were bare, she lay back on the bed and Luke stood over her, unbuttoning his shirt. His torso was smooth and fit. He quickly stripped to naked and lifted her legs onto the bed. Climbing on top of her, his knees on either side, he reached under the skirt of her dress to run his palms along her hips. “That’s what I’d call an ass,” he said. “Holy shit.” He put his fingers between her legs, feeling the moistness on her panties.

  “Why, Clarisse McCarthy,” he said, and moved up to kiss her mouth, leaning into her. She felt his hard penis rest against her, and her breath quickened. He reached his hand into her dress, and felt for her breasts, and she cried out.

  “Let’s get rid of this dress,” he said, and they wriggled it off together. He smelled of soap and coffee, and as his hands explored her further, he growled, which embarrassed her, but pleased her, too.

  Luke pulled off her panties, and her body felt big and exposed in a way she was not used to. “Do you like me?” she said, breathless.

  “Sure,” he whispered, and then he nipped her ear, and kissed her cheeks, and moved down, pulling her bra to expose the nipple of her breast. There he lingered, sucking and exploring. Clarisse felt herself relax deeply. This was what she wanted, his tongue all over her. He moved up to her lips again. She put her nose against his chest and took deep, long breaths. The smell and taste of his sweat, salty and real, made her ache with some kind of hunger that she’d never had before, and she surrendered. Finally, finally, finally, it was what she needed, what she wanted, what she had to have. He handled her carefully, with authority, allowing her no hesitation or fear.

  She opened her legs around him and arched her back. “Please, please …,” she begged. She was coming … She was really … coming … and then, so was he. Clarisse McCarthy had never, never, never … “Yes,” she said, holding onto him tightly. They lay there for a short while. Clarisse’s bra was twisted halfway off her left breast and he idly ran his fingers over her nipple. She felt reassured by his long slow breaths and wondered if they might drift off to sleep. Oh, the exquisite laziness of lying in bed, the shattering of her dull routine. Something had happened, really happened.

  Soon, though, Luke rolled over and sat up on the bed, facing away from her. “Yowza,” he said, amused. “That was one fast fuck.”

  Clarisse was stunned. She drew her arms tightly across her breasts and curled her legs into herself. She stared straight ahead at the small of his back. What?

  He stood up and pulled on his pants. As he buckled his belt, he reached over and grabbed hold of her ankle, and gave it a gentle shake. “Hey. Not bad, right?”

  Clarisse closed her eyes.

  “You’ve got one hell of a body, Clarisse. You’re luscious in that way. You know what I mean, right? It
was fast though, wow, like instant coffee, a speeding bullet, something like that.” Luke laughed a little, but they both sensed his words falling flat, and a long silence ensued.

  “You really don’t like me, do you?” she said, slowly reaching for her clothes.

  He raised his eyebrows and spoke as if that question had never occurred to him. “Uh, gee, Clarisse. Are you kidding? I mean, I like you enough. But, is this really about liking? It’s an interesting question. Do you really think I could like you? I suppose. You and I have this strange thing. First, you slap my kid, then I pour chocolate milk on your rug, then you send me a stupid letter. I don’t know. So, you really think we like each other?

  “Who cares? No one. Sex is sex. Wasn’t it kind of great, in a sort of you-and-me type of way? You knocked on my door, right? I mean, do you like me?”

  Clarisse was crushed. She wanted to say: No! I didn’t mean to slap your son and maybe I was wrong to send the letter! It’s like there’s two of me. Can’t you see? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I thought … I thought…”

  But instead, she sat up, amidst the mess of her own clothes and the chaos of the sheets on Luke Spoon’s bed. It was as if a dollhouse had just collapsed around her.

  “It’s no big deal, Clarisse, trust me.” Luke said kindly. “Look, I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  She dressed, loathing every inch of herself, and when she came back downstairs their parting was awkward. As Luke opened the front door for her, Clarisse could not bring herself to look at him. They were strangers, passing through a hallway that was much too narrow.

  “Clarisse, honey, we’re both adults,” said Luke. “I’m glad you came by.” Though he was trying to smooth things over, it felt to Clarisse like a slap in the face. In that way she supposed he’d gotten even, but more than ruffling her pride, it hurt in a way that things used to hurt when she was five years old. She’d given him the best of her, and he didn’t seem to know it, and he didn’t seem to care.