Whispering, Idaho

by Nancy Canyon

  “Some friend you are, Gena.” Alice picked up her sketchbook and scrambled to her feet.

  “Hey, where’re you going? You look sexy.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Alice sputtered, wringing her hands. “It’s sickening.” She ran for the beach trail.

  “Alice, come back.”

  Gena caught Alice’s arm, jerking her around. Alice fell to her knees, covered her face with her hands. Her sobs came fast and hot.

  “Alice, talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

  Alice couldn’t answer. She just rocked until the world disintegrated around her. Gena’s muffled words mixed with the buzzing cicadas, the rushing water, the slowing of time.

  “Jeez Louise, Alice, stop rocking like that. You’re scaring me. I’m getting Pastor Smith.”

  Alice floated off into an empty void, her heart thrumming, a scream wailing deep inside her mind. The sun burnt her skin, her eyes puffed, her nose stuffed up. What seemed like an hour of time elapsed when she jumped at the touch of warm hands pulling at hers, lifting her through the watery dream.

  “I got her,” Stephen said.

  “My cars parked at the top. If you can get her there, I’ll take her to my house. My mom can help her.”

  Gena pulled up in front of the small pink house. She pulled on the emergency brake, saying, “Here we are.”

  Alice opened her eyes. She gasped, frantically looking around for her sketchbook.

  “It’s there on the seat. Come on. Mom’s going to help you.”

  Alice opened the door, her body moving stiffly as if just waking from a deep sleep. She felt numbed by her tears, drained of all energy. Her eyes focused on the pink siding, shutters, window boxes and bird bath.

  “Everything’s pink.”

  “Gross, isn’t it? Mom’s gone all weird on me. Wait until you see the inside,” Gena said.

  “I’m scared,” Alice said, feeling the tears well up again.

  “Of Pink Girl? Nothing to fear.”

  Wiping her nose on the back of her hand, she asked Gena, “Do I look awful?”

  “Your eyes are a little puffy. But hey, look at me,” Gena said, leaning close to the rearview mirror. “My mascara is smeared big time.”

  “You should take me home.” Alice clutched her drawing book to her chest, watching as Gena wet her finger with saliva and wiped away the smears. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told.”

  “Over a slap? I doubt it. By the way, sorry it didn’t work out last night, but three’s a crowd. You can stay tonight, if you want.”

  “Too late now.”

  The air inside the Anderson house was cool and smelled of Frangipani. The interior walls were pastel pink. Plush carpet spread from baseboard to baseboard, green and spongy as a moss-covered forest floor. At the top of the stairs, Audubon’s birds decorated the wall. Gingerly, Alice stepped up one stair at a time until she stood, gripping the banister for support.

  Mrs. Anderson peeked around the door from the kitchen, startling Alice.

  “Hello, girls. Looks like you’ve been swimming. How was the water?”

  Alice looked at the floor. “Cold,” she said, drawing her sketchbook tighter against her chest.

  “We were being spontaneous,” Gena said, laughing. “My mascara is smeared. Wait here while I wash up, Alice—then your turn.”

  “Is something wrong?” Mrs. Anderson said, reaching a hand toward Alice, her silver bangles jangling around her wrist like chirping finches.

  “No,” Alice said, smiling weakly, picking nervously at her bandaged finger. “It’s the sun. Too hot! Audubon is one of my favorite illustrators.”

  “But you look like you’ve been crying.”

  Alice looked up, catching Gena’s mother tucking a strand of silver hair behind her ear, her eyes full of concern.

  Gena came down the hall from the bathroom. “Alice’s sort of upset. She wants to talk to you.”

  “I thought so. Come with me, Dear.”

  “I’m bothering you—” Alice’s voice cracked, tears blurring her vision. She swallowed and twisted her bandaged finger.

  “Don’t be silly. What’re friends for? Gena, why don’t you make us some iced tea?”

  Alice stomach sank as she watched Gena’s back disappear into the kitchen.

  “You’ve injured yourself.”

  “It’s nothing. Cut myself on one of Dad’s butcher knives. Happens all the time.”

  “It’s not deep, is it?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Mrs. Anderson folded her arm around Alice’s shoulders, guiding her down the hall. “Around here, the knives barely cut butter. It’s so good to see you. Did you know I turned the extra bedroom into an office? What do you think?”

  Alice stood in the doorway and looked around the pink room. Behind a pink love-seat, a green and pink sampler quilt decorated the wall. On the far wall, a splash of pastel floor pillows washed over the carpet like pink clouds outrunning a storm. A vanilla candle burned amongst crystals and strings of beads on the corner table. The room smelled as sweet as it looked.

  “All pink.” Alice stared at the pillows, longing to curl up on them, sleep forever.

  “They’re to sit on. Go on. You won’t be sorry.”

  Alice collapsed into the soft nest. Mrs. Anderson sat down next to her.

  “Pink is soothing, don’t you think?”

  Nodding, Alice avoided looking into Mrs. Anderson’s unfaltering hazel eyes.

  She patted Alice’s arm and said, “Why so sad?”

  The heat of Mrs. Anderson’s palm quickly thawed the ice holding back Alice’s emotions. She swallowed against the onslaught of tears, imagining Gena’s black Mustang parked out in front of the bungalow. She saw the beach shack with the headless doll. The muscles in her legs contracted. She was about to leap up and run out the door when Mrs. Anderson spoke softly, “You’ve been drawing? May I see?”

  Alice gulped, keeping the tears at bay. “No, yes. Not today,” Alice said, opening the book to the drawing of the beach shack. The darkened window looked like a cavernous mouth about to speak. “I take it wherever I go, just in case there’s something I want to draw or write down. I saw a broken plastic doll inside the shack. I think some little girl must have lost it.”

  “Poor thing,” Mrs. Anderson said, squeezing Alice’s arm.

  Alice flipped through the pages, stopping at the sinking boat.

  “Tell me about the boat.”

  Alice pulled away from Mrs. Anderson’s touch. She twisted her fingers together until they hurt. “Nothing to tell,” she said, speaking over a knot the size of an egg lodged inside her throat. As she attempted to swallow, her eyes filled with tears again.

  “Tell me what’s wrong?”

  Alice blinked and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “A bad thing happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Last night,” Alice sobbed, “Dad . . . he came into my bedroom and hurt me.”

  “How?”

  Alice sobbed her words, “What if I’m—pregnant?”

  “Good God! He raped you? Have you told your mother?”

  “She’s not home. She went to Joy to see Grandma.” Alice dug her fists into her eyes, sobs sweeping her into the rapids, tumbling her downstream through icy water. Not everyone survived the submerged rocks, the pilings, nor the undertow at Carl’s Crossing. She felt the warmth of Mrs. Anderson’s hand on her back, smelled the vanilla candle burning.

  “Your mother needs to know. You must tell her. She’ll help you, Alice.” She pushed a tissue into Alice’s hand. “I’m sure she will.”

  “She won’t believe me,” Alice gagged, and then blew her nose fiercely. “He’ll cut me if I tell.”

  “I think she’ll believe you. She’s that kind of woman. But if she doesn’t, you call me. I’ll take you to the authorities myself.”

  Alice looked into Mrs. Anderson’s unwavering hazel eyes. She believed her.

  “Do you understand how important th
is is? You have to get help!”

  Alice nodded. Gena’s mother would have turned away from a whore. A feeling of trust filled Alice’s chest. Contrary to what Gena thought, there were people that Alice trusted. “What will happen to him?” she asked, growing sleepy, curling onto her side, into the mound of pillows.

  “Let’s not worry about that right now. What’s important is to get you the help you need. I’m here for you, and your mother will be too. But you must tell her, and right away. Do you understand? This is serious. Call me and let me know the outcome.”

  Alice nodded, resting her head against her arm. “I’m so tired.” She felt the weight of a crocheted throw drape across her bare shoulders.

  “Guess what color.”

  Alice didn’t have to open her eyes to know it was pink. She smiled.

  “I’ll just sit over here on the love seat while you rest.”

  Alice drifted off to sleep, dreaming she was stretched out in the belly of a boat, gently rocking to and fro. The water lapped against the wooden sides, splashing out her name: alice-alice-alice. She woke suddenly, bolting upright. “What time is it?”

  Mrs. Anderson looked at her watch. “Five o’clock.”

  Alice threw off the cover, and grabbing her sketchbook, clambered to her feet. “I got to fix dinner.”

  Freshly showered and dressed in clean cutoffs and a green tank, Alice yanked the hot pan of blackened onions off the burner. She switched on the clanking fan, the racket searing her nerves like lightning flashing in the night. Wiping her hands on the terry cloth apron, she clamped the can opener over the edge of the tomato sauce.

  “Damn, burnt onions again,” her mother’s voice broke from behind.

  Alice wheeled about. “You scared me. You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be.” Alice averted her puffy eyes. She wished she and Gena where sisters, living together in the pink house.

  “Better check that,” she said, raising her voice over the fan.

  “They’re burnt. What’s to check?”

  Her mother frowned as she kicked off her black pumps. She pulled a bottle of bourbon out of the cupboard, sloshed the amber liquid over popping ice cubes.

  “Well, here’s to you,” she said, bringing the glass to her pinched lips, tossing it back. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward Alice.

  The smell of booze and nicotine evoked the image of her father’s sweating face, his weight and sour scent smothering her. Alice’s head spun; the kitchen light dimmed. She grabbed for the counter—a Formica life preserver to cling to. “Mom—”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It’s the heat,” Alice said, regaining her bearings, straightening, remembering to smile.

  “You take after your Grandmother. She gets the vapors too. You’ll be happy to know that she’s all settled into her little place, happy as a clam.”

  “I’d like to see her.”

  “The bus ride is horrible. Only seat I could find was between a sweaty construction worker and a jammed window.” Alice’s mother took a drag off her cigarette and rested the burning stick in the ashtray. “Couldn't wait for a cold cocktail. What possessed me to wear a black suit in this heat, I’ll never know.” Turning away from Alice, she refilled her glass.

  Alice slid the pan back onto the burner. Poking randomly at the blackened onions, she waited for the next wave of dizziness to suck her feet out from under her, pull her downstream into the rapids. She let her hand drift over her belly, certain it would feel like Christie’s pretend pregnancy. It was time to tell her mother. She switched off the fan and turned back.

  Her mother stepped forward, cigarette pinched between her fingers. She adjusted Alice’s tank-top, covering her errant bra strap with fastidious fingers.

  Alice pulled away. “Don’t.”

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “Onions made my eyes water.”

  “Still mad because I left?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d you get those bruises?”

  “Christie, who else?”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows and took a final drag off her Viceroy. She snubbed it out in the ashtray, exhaling smoke through her nose. “You two will be the life of me.”

  “Mom—?”

  “Where’s your cross?”

  “I lost it,” Alice said, dumping a package of ground beef into the frying pan. She hacked it menacingly with the spatula.

  “Should never wear jewelry to bed.”

  “Mom, I’ve decided to leave home.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  Alice closed her eyes, forcing back tears. “I need privacy. Christie is driving me crazy.”

  “Shut your door. Save your money,” her mother said, lighting up again.

  “You could be a little more supportive.”

  “I’ll talk with your sister. She doesn’t have your artistic temperament. I know you need peace and quiet. But the timing’s bad. You’re not even engaged.”

  “Dad’s worse than Christie. He won’t leave me alone.”

  “The secret to getting along with your dad is to treat him with kid gloves. Try harder.”

  Alice felt a surge of anger rush from her belly to her throat. She stepped to the sink for a glass of water.

  “I left home when I was fifteen. It's no picnic out there, believe you me. Why live in a hellhole when you can live here?”

  Alice’s log jam of anger was about to break. “You’re not listening to me!”

  “Don’t use that tone of voice with me. Your father will be beside himself. This is how you repay him for everything he does for you? Turn around while I’m talking to you.”

  Alice turned back to her mother. “All he does is yell,” she said, dumping the red sauce over the meat and whacking the mess with the spatula. Red sauce splattered everywhere. She dropped the utensil, stepping backwards.

  “Settle down.”

  “Sorry,” Alice said, watching smoke pour from her mother’s flaring nostrils over the straight line of her lips.

  Her mother grabbed the dishrag and jabbed it at the red spots on the stove and the floor. She growled, “Your father works hard to keep a roof over our heads. You'll show him respect, do you hear me?”

  “I’m leaving! You can’t stop me!”

  “Where do you think you’ll find this so called apartment of yours?”

  “Sunstar has one for rent. Down on the bluff.”

  “That hippy boy from your high school?”

  “Uh huh, he manages an apartment house.”

  “You’re as stubborn as your father. If ends don’t meet, don’t come crying to me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Alice had been saving her wages in the top drawer of her dresser for over a year. She reached beneath her underwear until her fingertips touched the bulging envelope of bills, enough money to pay her way for several months. She stuffed it into her handbag and hurried downstairs.

  “Later, Mom,” she yelled, slamming out the front door. Outside, the heat was Alice stifling. She ran across the brown lawn to the idling Mustang. “Let’s go before Mom changes her mind.”

  Gena continued preening in her rearview mirror. “You need to learn to drive, Alice Sharp. I can’t be your driver forever.”

  “Why should I? The town’s so small I can walk wherever I need to go.”

  “Flying down the open road is out-of-sight. Trust me, learn to drive and you’ll be free.”

  “Right now, I think a place of my own will make me free.”

  “Maybe,” Gena said, shaking out her slinky mane.

  “What did you do to your hair?”

  “Pressed it with Mom’s steam iron. It's the latest thing, you know.” The Mustang pulled away from the curb and raced off.

  “It's so straight. And what’s with the purple tie-dye? Trying to impress Sunstar?”

  “It’s the style.”

  “Rod call?”

  Gena rolled her bottom lip down into a pout, shaking h
er head. “At least I have a date for the celebration.”

  “Sunstar? Can’t keep track of your guys.”

  “Whatever. Look at that sky. Storm’s rolling in. I hate storms. Lightning scares the bejesus out of me.”

  Alice looked in the direction Gena was pointing. Brilliant white crowns topped midnight-blue thunderheads. Her stomach sank. “I used to like storms. Gena, am I making a mistake?”

  “Moving out? No way. Guys can come over anytime you want.”

  Gena swung the car onto Clark Street, bouncing hard over the pitted dirt road.

  “Wait until you see Sunstar's apartment. It's so cool, any doubts you have about moving out on your own will go up in smoke.”

  Alice shifted her weight off her soreness. She really did believe she’d be safer living on her own. Looking over at her best friend, ready to query the safety issue, she noticed Gena’s necklace. “Is that a flower necklace?”

  “So?”

  “You’re a flower child now?”

  “That’s groovy-flower-child to you. Here we are,” Gena said. “These places close to the river are rat infested.”

  Alice ignored Gena’s comment. She took in the two-story apartment house with the sagging wraparound porch and broken trim. The yard was dotted with seeding dandelions, the faded clapboard peeling, the windows smudged with dust. A For Rent sign hung, lopsided, in the second floor window.

  “There,” Alice said, pointing. “A balcony for sketching during the summer months.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Gena said, jumping out of the car and hurrying off ahead of Alice.

  Alice followed Gena’s moccasin-clad feet up the cracked and weedy sidewalk. “I think you like Sunstar more than you’re saying.”

  “You’re imagining things,” Gena said, reaching for the door.

  “You’re in an awful big hurry. Shouldn't we knock first?”

  “It's an apartment house. You just walk in.”

  Inside, the hallway smelled of river mud, coffee, rose incense. Alice wrinkled her nose. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Dingy wallpaper and electric sconces made the place look old-fashioned, not rat infested. At the back of the hall, muffled music sifted through the cracks around the closed door.

  Upstairs, another door squeaked open as the floor groaned. Alice looked up at the second floor where a gray-haired woman stood, peering down over the rail. She wore a billowing muumuu the color of summer apples; heavy earrings stretched her earlobes like bread dough.