Al(exandra) the Great: The Al Series, Book Four

by Constance C. Greene

  Our apartment is at the back of the building. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t see Al and her mother when their taxi pulled up in front. They’d have to take a taxi if Al’s mother was sick. Al said her mother wouldn’t take a taxi even in a blizzard and if she had a broken leg. This time she’d have to.

  Still no Al. I was tempted to go out for a walk. But sure as shooting, if I did that, the minute my back was turned, Al would come home and might need me for something. Maybe just to talk to. I stayed put.

  When I’d about given up, I heard the elevator door slide open. I looked out. It was Al. She was alone.

  She looked at me. I didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sucking in her cheeks or anything, the way she does when she wants to look older. But still, she looked older.

  She came inside. I figured I wouldn’t ask her any questions until she felt like talking.

  “You took so long,” I said at last.

  “I know.” Al began to pace the room. Around and around she went, like a dog settling down for a nap.

  “She had to go to the hospital,” Al said. She cleared her throat. “The doctor said she’d be better off there. I guess he’s right. It’s nothing serious, he says. It’s pneumonia. But not serious, he said.” She looked at me, and her eyes were filled with fear.

  “I mean,” she said, “it’s not as if she was going to die or anything.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Al resumed her pacing. I didn’t know what to do. I was tempted to pace with her. Anything to keep us both busy. My father came home. He was loaded with packages, and several cleaner’s plastic bags dangled from one hand.

  “Hi, Dad!” I shouted, as if he’d been away on a trip and I hadn’t seen him for ages. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded phony.

  “Oh, hello, Al. Everything go all right?” my father asked in a cheery voice. “Get your mother fixed up?”

  Al stood on a corner of the rug, looking at us. Her hands hung at her sides. Her face looked smooth, empty. Behind her glasses, her eyes were dull.

  “The doctor says Al’s mother has to go to the hospital,” I told my father. “She has pneumonia. She’s already there. In the hospital. It’s nothing serious, the doctor says.”

  The three of us stood there. Even my father seemed undecided as to what to do or say. And he was grown up.

  “Well,” he said at last, “they clear up pneumonia very quickly these days. With the right drug. You’ll stay with us then, Al, until your mother is well.”

  I have always loved my father. But never as much as I did at that moment. He had said exactly the right thing.

  Al’s face brightened. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know. I have to be near the telephone. The doctor said he’d call me about five to let me know how she was doing. He said not to come back to the hospital until tomorrow. He said he’d start treatment immediately. He said she needs rest, lots of rest. But he said he’d call me and let me know how she was doing.”

  “Help me with these things, will you?” We rushed to my father’s aid.

  “I tell you what you do, Al,” he said. “Call the doctor’s office and give them our number. Then you won’t have to worry about missing his call. Why don’t you go home now and get what you need. I’ll be here. If he should call while you’re gone, I’ll come down to your place and let you know.”

  My father had taken charge. It was wonderful. That’s what Al needed more than anything else. Someone to tell her what she should do.

  I went with her. Her apartment was clean and calm. It had a different smell from ours. I’m very aware of the way places smell. Hers smelled of her mother. Our apartment smells of my mother, but also of Teddy and my father. And me. Every person has their own individual smell. Al’s mother uses lots of bath oil and moisturizer. And perfume. Al’s mother is big on perfume. Also on staying moist. Being in Better Dresses is not easy, as Al tells me from time to time.

  Al stuffed her pajamas and toothbrush into her knapsack. Her suitcase sat on the bed. On top was the lavender sweater her mother had given her. Neither of us looked at it. We pretended it wasn’t there.

  She called the doctor’s office and left our number with the receptionist. Then she looked around. “I guess that’s it,” she said. “Oh, one more thing. I better make my mother’s bed. She hates her room to be messy.”

  Together we went into Al’s mother’s room. It was a pretty room, with flowered sheets and pale, soft colors. We made the bed and Al put away a pair of shoes that lay disconsolately on the rug. Those shoes looked abandoned, like people waiting at a bus stop. I don’t know why it is, but people waiting at a bus stop always seem to look sad. And tired. And abandoned, as if they were waiting for someone who might never come. First, Al tossed the shoes carelessly into the closet. Then she went back and picked them up, brushed them off and put shoe trees in them so they’d keep their shape.

  “My mother’s very particular about taking care of her stuff,” Al told me proudly. “She says if you take good care of your things, they last a lifetime. Whatever a lifetime is.” Her shoulders drooped, as if they were weighed down with something invisible.

  For good luck, we punched up the pillows on the bed so they swelled to twice their size.

  “Now everything’s ready for when she gets back.” Al looked around. Her fingers started twisting her hair into a knot.

  “O.K.,” she said. “Let’s go. The doctor’s calling me in a little while. At your place.”

  “We better get back then,” I said. “In case he’s calling right this minute.” I wanted to get home. I wanted to leave Al’s apartment. It felt sad, deserted. We left Al’s mother’s room and zapped down the hall, fast. So we wouldn’t miss the doctor’s call.

  I guessed my father and I wouldn’t be going out to dinner after all. Not tonight, anyway. Not with Al staying with us.

  I’d never been out to dinner with just my father before.

  CHAPTER 12

  The doctor called almost on the stroke of five, as he’d promised. Thank God. There’s nothing worse than waiting for a phone call that doesn’t come. Especially when it’s from a doctor. He told Al her mother was resting comfortably and that she could have visitors tomorrow. Between two and four.

  “Don’t stay long,” he warned. “Five or ten minutes at the most. Your mother’s tired. The important thing is plenty of rest. She’s pretty run-down.”

  When she hung up, Al repeated what the doctor had said. “I kept telling her she should get to bed earlier,” Al said. “But she wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Then my mother called from Connecticut to say she and Teddy would be home tomorrow evening. “It’s been lovely,” she said. “We’ve had a wonderful time. But it will be nice to get home. I’ve missed you. Have you eaten anything but hamburger? I bet the house is a mess.”

  I told her the house wasn’t a mess and that Al was staying with us due to the fact that her mother was in the hospital with pneumonia. My mother said she was sorry to hear that. “I’m glad you’re looking out for Al. Don’t forget to give her clean towels,” my mother said. She has a clean towel fetish. Also a fetish about us eating nothing but hamburger. I ignored that remark. She sometimes thinks she knows everything we do, my mother.

  I got out some towels and arranged them carefully on the towel rack. “You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” Al said. “I could use a corner of yours.”

  My father peered around the corner of the bathroom door. “Pull yourselves together, girls. I made a reservation for six-thirty.”

  “We’re going out?” I said, surprised. “Al’s here, Dad,” I reminded him. I didn’t think he could afford to take both Al and me out for dinner.

  “I know she is. I’ve got myself all set for some thinly sliced cucumbers covered with sour cream into which has been snipped some fresh dill,” my father said, smacking his lips. “Get a move on.”

  Al’s eyes were huge. “I’m going out to dinner with you and your father,” she said softly. “I can’t stand it.
I simply cannot stand it.” She zapped toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” I called to her.

  “Home. To change,” she said. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  I had planned on wearing my new jeans and a clean T-shirt. Now I’d have to change into my dress, the dress my mother had bought me to wear to church on Easter. My only dress. Probably Al would wear the dress she had bought to wear to her father’s wedding. I hadn’t worn mine since Easter. It was blue with flowers on it.

  “Smashing,” my father said when he saw me. “You look ravishing.” He looked at my feet. “You think those sneakers do justice to the rest of you?” I went back and struggled into my shoes. They felt tight. When you’re accustomed to wearing sneakers, shoes always feel tight. I guessed I could stand tight shoes for one night.

  When Al returned, she was breathing hard. Sure enough, she had on the red-and-white check dress her mother had bought her to go with the red shoes with the clunky heels she’d worn to the wedding. The dress was a little tight around the waist, Al said. “I’m going to have to take it easy tonight or it might give way,” she confided to me. “Just as well. I don’t want your father to rack up a big bill at the restaurant on my account.”

  “With all this youth and beauty I certainly hope I run into someone I know,” my father told us. Al’s cheeks got bright red. On the way down in the elevator she kept giving me and my father piercers, as if to make sure this was really happening to her, that it wasn’t a dream. She got off the elevator first so I could tell her if her behind wiggled. I told her no, although I thought I detected a tiny trace of a wiggle. It was the shoes. They made her wiggle. But I didn’t tell Al that. I knew it would spoil her evening. Besides, no one but me would notice.

  My father took us to a French restaurant called La Bonne Femme. There were flowers on the table and linen napkins also. That’s a true sign of a classy restaurant: flowers plus linen napkins. I slid a glance over to Al to make sure she was taking everything in. She was.

  The waiter pulled out both our chairs with a flourish. He had a terrific mustache, thick and curly, and big brown eyes. His teeth were beautiful and white. He looked more like a rock star than a waiter. He flirted a little bit with Al and me. Probably he thought he’d get a bigger tip if he did. I didn’t mind. Al pretended she wasn’t aware of him, but I knew she was. I was glad I’d changed into my shoes.

  “Would mademoiselle like to try the pâté?” the waiter said. He was talking to both of us.

  “Yes, please,” I said. Al frowned at the menu, probably checking out the prices. “I’ll have the pâté too,” she said. My father had vichyssoise. They didn’t have cucumbers with freshly snipped dill on the menu.

  “The sole véronique is superb tonight,” the waiter whispered to us, his eyes sparkling, his mustache quivering. “Superb.”

  We both chose that. My father said he’d like the boeuf en daube. When the waiter had gone, I said, “What’s ‘véronique’ mean?” My father said, “With grapes.” Al nodded as if she’d known that all along. She sat with her hands folded primly in her lap, not missing a trick. Me too. One of the things I love best about going to a restaurant to dinner is the people. Watching them is half the fun. And catching snatches of conversation is fun too. My mother does that. Eavesdropping, some call it. I glanced over at the next table.

  “Hi!” a voice said. “I thought it was you.” It was the girl from school who’d gone skiing with her father and his girl friend.

  “Oh, hi,” I said. Al didn’t know her. She was in my science class and Al wasn’t. I checked the girl friend. She looked about twenty-one. Probably she was. My friend had told me that since her mother and father got divorced, her father had had about ten different girl friends. Each one, she said, was younger than the one before. “Pretty soon he’ll latch onto one who’s the same age as me,” she’d said gloomily. “And that’ll be yucky.”

  My father asked to see the wine list. Boy, he was really going all-out.

  “The mademoiselles will have a glass?” the waiter asked, hovering over us and smiling. He was really very cute. Al took a piece of French bread, broke it in half, and daintily buttered it. She took small bites and chewed with her mouth closed. I did the same.

  “Don’t fill up on bread, ladies,” my father said. “Save yourselves for the pièce de résistance.”

  While my father was studying the wine list, I leaned over to Al and said, “He means the sole véronique.”

  She glared at me and said, “I know that.” She didn’t like for me to imply her French wasn’t as good as mine. I could feel my school friend at the next table watching us—me and my father and Al. Then our pâté came. It had tiny pickles on the plate with it—cornichons, they call them. They were sour. I saw Al’s hand go toward the bread basket, then pull back. After every bite we both patted our lips genteelly with our napkins. We were going all-out too. Once it crossed my mind that I would’ve liked it better if I’d been alone with my father. Just once. Then I felt ashamed of myself. I knew how much Al was enjoying herself. That was selfish of me, to want my father all to myself. But I couldn’t help it.

  “This beats hamburgers and French fries, right?” my father said when the waiter cleared our plates and we waited for our entrées. I bet if it was just my father and me, we’d go out to a restaurant about six nights out of the week. It seemed to me that the whole room glowed. The sole was sensational.

  “I have never had a better dinner,” Al told my father. “Never.” She went out to restaurants a lot. With her mother’s beaux. That’s what her mother called the men she went out with: beaux. If Al called them boyfriends, her mother really freaked out.

  “My compliments to the chef,” my father said to the waiter. Just like in the movies.

  It was the kind of restaurant where they had a dessert tray. They pushed this little cart around to your table, and on it were bowls of whipped cream, fresh strawberries, éclairs, peach tarts—so many things, and each one of them looked better than the other. Al rested her chin in her hands and gazed at the desserts for a long while. She kept letting out these gigantic sighs.

  “I know what I’m having,” I said. “Profiterole.” That’s a cream puff stuffed with ice cream and covered with chocolate sauce. My father said he’d have a piece of cheese and some crackers.

  Al looked at him as if he were crazy. “For dessert?” she said. While she was trying to make up her mind, I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. I needed to stretch my legs before dessert. Also, I like to check out ladies’ rooms. There are ones that have saucers in which rests a quarter or two. That means you’re supposed to add some money to them. Usually there’s an attendant to hand you a towel if you wash your hands. This was a no-saucer-type ladies’ room, I’m happy to say. I leaned down to check the booths. No feet. I was alone.

  The door opened. It was my friend from school.

  “How come I never saw you here before?” she said. “That kid with you is Al, right? We come here all the time.”

  “Oh, we go lots of different places,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes. “My father likes to go different places. He gets bored going to the same restaurant all the time.” There is one thing about lying: the more you do it, the better you get, the easier the words slip out. This is sad but true.

  The kid washed her hands and stuck out her chin until it almost touched the mirror.

  “I’m getting zits,” she said.

  “Is that Clorinda?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your father’s girl friend Clorinda. The one who twisted her ankle when you went skiing?”

  “Heck, no. This one’s name is Taffy. Is that dumb or is that dumb?” She screwed up her face. “Is that your father?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where’s your mother? I thought you said they were still married.” She gave me a watered-down version of a piercer. Nowhere near as good as Al’s.

  “My mother’s in Connecticut.” When I lied, it s
ounded like the truth. When I told the truth, it sounded like a lie. I don’t think she believed me. She probably thought my mother was off getting a divorce somewhere.

  “Oh, well.” She sighed. “I better get back. They need me for relief. I play the straight man. They bounce their ideas off me. See you.”

  As she went out, Al came in. “Where were you?” she said. “I thought you drowned. Who was that?”

  “She’s in my science class,” I said. “She’s with her father and his girl friend. Her name’s Taffy.”

  “That’s a dumb name,” Al said.

  “That’s the girl friend’s name. My friend’s name is Mary.”

  Al went to the bathroom. When she came out, she washed her hands. “I was going to offer to pay for my dinner,” she said. “I brought some money and stuffed it under my pillow at your house. Then I thought your father might be insulted. If I did that, I mean. What do you think?”

  “I think he’d have a fit,” I said. “He wanted you to come. You’re his guest.”

  “It’s a neat restaurant,” Al said. “It’s the nicest one I’ve ever been to. Your father is a terrific man. He’s practically the nicest man I know. Outside of my own father, that is.”

  We went back to the table. The dessert was sitting there, waiting for us. Al had chosen strawberry shortcake. The reason I know is that she told me. I wouldn’t have been able to identify it. There was so much whipped cream on top that you couldn’t see the strawberries. As we ate, my father watched us. Al ate each bite slowly, lingering over every mouthful of whipped cream. I couldn’t finish my profiterole. I never can. I always think this time I might, and then I feel a little sick and have to leave some.