Althea and Oliver

by Cristina Moracho

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Althea Carter.”

  The girl smiles tightly and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong place.”

  The narrow hallway behind her is filled with piles of shoes and newspapers, and a row of coats and jackets hangs on hooks sunk into the wall. Althea’s puffy down vest is among them. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I do,” he says.

  “Look, there’s no Althea here,” she says, and starts to shut the door.

  Oliver braces it open with his hand. Leaning in, he looks down at the girl. “I know she’s here. I know because her car is parked across the street and her favorite vest is hanging three feet behind you. I just want to talk to her. And I know she wants to talk to me.”

  A girl with curly brown hair and bright red lipstick swoops in from the end of the hallway, quickly flanked by two guys and followed by a pissed-off-looking cat. “Matilda, what’s going on?” the other girl says, looking at Oliver, wedged in the doorway. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Oliver?”

  Oliver turns and there’s Althea, standing on the sidewalk with some guy in glasses. She’s carrying a folding table like a suitcase, wearing a worn leather coat and a ridiculous green hat, her cheeks bright red with the cold. She looks the same, but completely different.

  They stand there, staring at each other. Oliver forgets about their audience, forgets he even had anything to say. He just wants to look at her. She’s so beautiful and it’s really confusing but she’s here and he found her and he’s stupidly proud of himself.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “How did you find me?” she asks.

  “Remember outside Lucky’s at Halloween? When I said I felt like solving a mystery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wasn’t fucking around.”

  She takes off the frog hat. All that black hair is gone; she’s a blonde again, her angular face laid bare in its surprise at his arrival. She looks wonderful, even if the haircut is shocking. He thinks she’s grown an inch or two taller, until he realizes she’s just standing up straight. Slowly, her bewilderment fades, and one corner of her mouth turns up in a half-cocked smile. He searches that expression, trying to divine it, determine if she’s self-conscious because of all these people or just overcome at the sight of him. Every second that passes with neither Althea nor Oliver crossing the few feet between them serves to call more attention to the fact that they have not yet embraced.

  “What happened to your hair?” he asks her.

  She makes a face, pretending to be hurt. “What?” she says, fluffing the shorn blonde locks movie-star style. “Don’t you like it?”

  She’s flirting with him. In front of an audience. It’s Oliver’s turn to be astonished, and that electricity he felt on the street last night returns, that sense of possibility that only happens when you strip away everything familiar. Althea and Oliver are at the center of this spontaneous porch assembly, and it’s strangely excellent. These people he doesn’t even know are watching this scene unfold like they are actually invested in what happens, and of course that’s why Althea and Oliver are paralyzed. Because what happens next matters. So Oliver forfeits and starts to reach for her.

  “Jesus jumped-up Christ,” says the guy with the glasses, angrily grabbing the table from Althea and making for the door. “Matilda, you’re letting all the heat out. And who the shit is that?” he shouts, pointing at the far corner of the porch where, curled in the fetal position and shivering violently, Will is asleep.

  Althea gives Oliver a deadpan look that evokes Garth so vividly, Oliver can almost hear the ice rattling in his glass.

  “Let me guess,” Althea says. “He’s with you.”

  • • •

  When Oliver imagined getting his wish, to return to his rightful place in the world, to ride shotgun in Althea’s car once more, this is not exactly what he had pictured.

  “Will! Come on!” he shouts, hanging over the back of his seat and shaking his friend’s limp arm. “Wake up!”

  “It’s too late,” Althea says. “His plug’s already pulled. Trust me, I can tell.”

  “He has to stay awake until we get him to the hospital.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I can’t take him up to the clinic myself. I don’t know what’s waiting for me up there.”

  “Then I’ll take him in.”

  “No!” Oliver shouts. “You’re supposed to be in New Mexico. Will and I left yesterday without telling anybody. They called our parents. If Nicky flew up, she could be there. And if she sees you—”

  “Why did y’all run away from the hospital?”

  “Althea, focus!”

  “Okay, okay, I understand, we have to send him in under the radar.” She punches the gas and changes lanes without signaling. The other driver gives her the finger, which she matter-of-factly returns. “So get back there and wake him up.”

  “Your driving’s gotten worse.”

  “No, it’s just that everyone in this city drives the same way,” she says, leaning on her horn. “It’s actually kind of amazing. Now get back there.”

  Oliver squeezes himself between the two front seats and hunches on the floor near Will. Slapping his face lightly, he tries to coax him awake. “Hey, Will, wake up. Stella’s here and she’s naked.”

  Will groans softly but doesn’t open his eyes.

  “You’re being too gentle,” Althea says impatiently.

  “You have any suggestions?”

  “Try pinching him. That always got your attention.”

  Oliver reaches up Will’s sleeve and pinches the soft, tender skin inside his elbow. Without opening his eyes, Will hauls off and slaps Oliver across the face.

  “Fuck!” Oliver cries.

  “Stop it!” Will says, and rolls over.

  “Ol, are you okay? That sounded bad,” Althea says, watching him in the rearview. The car bounces, hard, tossing Oliver around on the floor. “Sorry. Pothole.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s too late,” he says.

  “Do you want me to pull over so we can switch? Because I will bet you anything that if I get back there, I can wake him up.”

  “Everything has to be a competition,” Oliver mutters.

  “Seriously, I can do it. I did it for you, remember?”

  “No, thanks, I don’t like the idea of being the only driver on the road who feels invested in getting to his destination safely.” Oliver slumps against the door. “Maybe we can just leave him outside the hospital with a note pinned to his chest or something. Or pay some homeless guy ten bucks to take him to the clinic.”

  He watches Will sleep, envying his oblivion. Althea keeps driving like an eight-year-old behind the wheel of the race car game at the arcade. “You can slow down, you know. It’s not like there’s any rush,” he says. He is no way eager for this ride to end, since when it’s over, he’ll either be contending with his irate mother or alone in the car with Althea, a prospect he suddenly finds as scary as her driving.

  “Maybe I’m in a rush,” she says.

  “To get where?”

  “Um, back to the place where I live?”

  “Oh, you mean Wilmington, North Carolina?” he says archly.

  She’s quiet for a minute. Oliver silently cheers, knowing he’s scored a point. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she says softly.

  Will’s foot twitches in his sleep. Inspired, Oliver unties Will’s tennis shoe and pries it off, then removes his sweaty sock.

  “Christ on a cross, what is that smell?” Althea says, opening her window.

  “Just drive,” he says. Holding his breath, Oliver lightly tickles the bottom of Will’s foot.

  The effect is instantaneous.
Will opens his eyes and starts screaming. His limbs jerk wildly, his bare foot catching Oliver directly in the face and slamming him back against the door. Althea nearly loses control of the car, swerving momentarily into the adjacent lane and inciting the significant rage of every other driver on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. She hastily rolls up her window again to block out the honking horns and colorful profanities.

  Will sits up and clutches his chest. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  “What the fuck just happened?” Althea screams. “Is he having a heart attack?”

  “Will, are you okay?” Oliver cries. His eyes are filled with water, and Will is too blurry for a visual assessment.

  “McKinley, I’m going to fucking kill you,” Will says, panting.

  “I’m sorry, I needed to wake you up.”

  As Will’s breathing becomes less panicked, he reclines across the backseat again.

  “Keep him awake, Ol,” Althea says.

  Oliver pulls on Will’s arm. “Will, listen to me. We’re almost there. We’re taking you back to the hospital. Just—please. You have to stay awake until we get you there. Please.”

  “Holy shit,” Will says, sitting up gingerly. “We found her.”

  “We did,” Oliver says. “We found her.”

  “Your nose is bleeding.”

  Oliver swipes at his nose with the heel of his hand and, sure enough, it comes away red. “Yes, it is.”

  Will gives Oliver an apologetic look. “Did I do that?”

  Oliver pats Will’s bare ankle reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll live.”

  When they pull up in front of St. Victor’s, Will is still conscious, but barely. Oliver opens his door, spilling himself out onto the pavement, silently marveling that they’ve arrived unscathed. Leaving the engine running and her hazard lights on, Althea leaps out of the car. Two women are smoking cigarettes on the sidewalk. One has pink hair and a nose ring; the other sports a sleek black bob and an IV. They stare openly, curious and amused. Oliver nods at them. “Evening,” he says, then turns back to the car. “Come on, Will,” he says.

  “She put too much relish on my hot dog and now I can’t eat it,” Will says mournfully.

  “He’s dreaming,” Althea says. “We need to get him on his feet.”

  Reaching into the backseat, he takes Will gently by the waist. “I know, but it’s okay, we’re going to get you another hot dog. Just get up.”

  “Cookies?”

  “Hot dogs and cookies, yes. All you can eat.”

  Together, Althea and Oliver coax Will out of the car, balancing him precariously on his feet. “Will, do you know where you’re supposed to go?” Oliver says. “Do you remember how to get back to the clinic?”

  “I don’t want any sprinkles on mine,” Will shouts.

  “Put his arm around your shoulder,” says Althea. “He’s not going to make it on his own.”

  Oliver shakes his head. “I’m not going up there.”

  “We can’t leave him out here.”

  “Fine. The elevator, then.”

  “Leave him in the elevator?”

  “We’ll put him in the elevator and send him up to eight. It’s the best we can do.”

  The girl with the pink hair finishes her cigarette, grinding the butt under the heel of her combat boot. “Where does he need to end up?” she asks, gesturing to Will.

  “The sleep clinic,” Oliver says. “Eighth floor.”

  She looks at her friend and shrugs. “We can get him there.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You guys look like you’re having a rough night.” She runs a finger along her upper lip, and Oliver remembers his is covered in blood.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  Althea and Oliver hand Will over.

  “Wait,” Will says as the strangers arrange his arms around their shoulders.

  Everyone pauses. Will looks at Oliver with eyes that are half-closed but suddenly lucid. “Tell her about the lithium,” he says. “See what she has to say.”

  Althea and Oliver watch as the two women steer him inside the lobby, toward the elevators. Once the strange trio has disappeared, there’s nothing left but for the two of them to turn and face each other. Althea awkwardly adjusts her frog hat.

  “We’d better get going,” she says.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess we’d better.”

  • • •

  It’s dark by the time they return. To Oliver, the inside of the house looks like someone took Nicky’s kitchen and wiped it all over Garth’s basement, lit the whole thing on fire, and then threw a party. An elfin guy with dark, spiky hair, wearing a plaid shirt and chewing a cinnamon stick, greets Althea warmly and asks what music she wants to hear; the luscious brunette with the red lipstick asks Althea if she needs a drink. Someone hands Oliver a can of Natural Ice, and he sips it automatically. Althea takes him by the hand and leads him through the filthy kitchen—the whole place smells like curry, wet cat, and burnt coffee—and out back.

  The yard is a narrow rectangle, about half the size of Oliver’s or Althea’s. Old rusty bicycles are propped up against the warped wooden fence, and the remains of a zip line stretch from a second-floor window to a lone tree tucked in the back corner. White Christmas lights are strung all along the fence, although several lengthy sections have gone dark, and in the spots where the snow has melted it’s apparent there’s no grass to speak of. The centerpiece of the whole thing is an enormous sculpture made of empty Natural Ice cans, currently being admired by Matilda and about thirty of her friends.

  “Who are all these people?” Oliver asks. “Do they all live here?”

  “Of course not. Some of their friends are in from out of town. They’re having a big New Year’s party tomorrow.”

  “So who does live here?”

  “The Warriors. Let’s see.” Althea shivers, and Oliver puts his arm around her. He’s a little surprised when she leans into him instead of pushing him away. “You met Matilda. The other girl is Leala; they’re, like, best friends from way back.”

  “Like us?”

  Althea laughs. “Not exactly like us, no. Kaleb is the really rambunctious one. At some point tonight he’ll probably take his pants off for no reason. He and Leala are together. The guy with the hair and the cat is Gregory. He’s sweet, kind of loud sometimes, but funny. He really loves that fucking cat.”

  Oliver nods toward the skinny guy with glasses who was shouting on the porch earlier. “Who’s the redhead?”

  “That’s Ethan. He’s okay.” She points at a heavily tattooed guy with black plugs in his ears, leaning over Matilda and lighting her cigarette. “That’s Dennis; he’s a tattoo artist. He’s good. I think he has a thing for Matilda. He crashes here a lot. So does the guy in the plaid shirt; he’s a drummer, between bands and apartments.”

  “I’m never going to remember all this.”

  “It took me a while.”

  “So who’s your favorite?” Oliver asks.

  “My favorite?”

  “Yeah.”

  Althea finishes her beer and smiles. “You are. Obviously.” She holds up her empty can. “I’m going to give this little guy a home and grab another one.”

  Oliver watches as she joins the group, looking for a place for her contribution in the ridiculous aluminum structure. Their ranks widen to make a space for her, then close around her again, absorbing her seamlessly. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Kaleb, surveying his work, talking to him with such ease, an effortlessness she’s never had with other people, ever. They like her. He’s ashamed of himself for even thinking that—of course they like her. Why wouldn’t they like her? If Althea’s never really had friends before, besides him, it’s only because she’s always looked at other people with derision. And the friends she did have were because of him, because he would never go wh
ere she was not welcome. It’s strange to see her surrounded by people of her own, people who have nothing to do with him. For all of his complaining about her petulance and sudden mood swings, it’s always worked to his advantage. He’s never had to share her, not with anyone, not really. And something else occurs to him, perhaps the most surprising thing of all: She likes them.

  “I’m sorry about before.” Matilda has slipped away from her friends and joined him by the back door. “I’m not usually that hostile.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry I showed up uninvited like that.”

  “Is your friend going to be okay?”

  “Will? Yeah, we got him back to the hospital. He’ll be all right.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your plans are, but I hope you’ll at least stay for New Year’s. We like to make a big deal of it.”

  “Althea mentioned you guys have some wild party.”

  “The Champagne Derby, yeah. I hope you’ll stay for it. It’s a good time.”

  Oliver just stands there watching his every frozen breath dissolve from a vapor cloud to nothingness. “Thanks for the invite.”

  “Anyway. I’m gonna go do my part for the Natural Iceberg. Tell Althea I said you guys should sleep in my room tonight. Everyone’s all riled up; you won’t get any peace in the kitchen.” Matilda leaves him and returns to the group, where she whispers something to Althea, who looks at Oliver like she had almost forgotten about him for a second, then reluctantly separates and comes back to him.

  “You look miserable,” she says.

  “No fucking kidding,” he says. “Look, I need to make a phone call.”

  “Nicky?” she asks.

  “I just don’t want her to worry.”

  “Sure. Here.” She goes inside and returns with a cordless. “Call collect.”

  Oliver ducks out the front door onto the porch and makes his call. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oliver, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  “Please don’t.” Sitting on the steps, Oliver’s entire body sags at the sound of his mother’s voice.

  “Where the hell are you?” she shouts.

  “Stop yelling, okay? I’m in New York, I’m totally fine.”