The telephone rang. I jumped. So did Al. I’ve never been so glad to hear the telephone in all my life.
“Maybe it’s the doctor,” Al said.
I got to it first.
“Hi,” a familiar voice said. “It’s me.”
“Where are you, creep!” I shouted.
“I’m home. I got home last night.”
“It’s Polly!” I cried. “She’s home. Get on the kitchen phone. We can both talk to her.”
I heard Al pick up the extension. She didn’t say anything, but I knew she was there
“I thought you were staying until next week,” I said.
“Nope. Here I am. I have a surprise for you,” Polly said.
“You’re getting married,” I guessed.
“Almost right. I’m engaged. But we can’t get married until he unloads his wife and eight kids. Come on over, why don’t you? Is Al there?”
I waited. Al didn’t make a sound.
“Yeah, she’s here. We can’t come right this minute. Al has to go see her mother this afternoon.”
“Where’s her mother?”
“In the hospital. She has pneumonia.”
“That’s too bad,” Polly said.
“Speak up, Al. It’s Polly,” I said.
“Hi,” Al said in a thin, watery voice. That was all she said. “Hi.”
“What’s your surprise?” I asked Polly.
“I’m cooking you guys a lobster dinner,” Polly said excitedly. “I brought them down from the Cape. They’re so fresh I can hardly believe it. They’re delicious when they’re fresh like that. When can you come?”
“I’m not sure,” Al said in a monotone.
“Well,” I said in a loud, positive voice, “I’ll be there. Pronto.”
“O.K. I’ll expect you both,” Polly said. “I have scads of info for you. I met this really cute boy. He didn’t ask me out on a date or anything but I thought he was going to. Then it turned out he was eleven years old. Can you believe it? He was the tallest eleven-year-old I ever saw. I’ve gotta go. My mother’s standing over me with a whip.” And she hung up. I did too. I sat and waited for Al to come out of the kitchen.
“You go,” she said. “If I went, I’d put a damper on things. The way I feel now, I’d be a real drag.”
“Why don’t you wait until after you’ve seen your mother,” I said, “and talked to the doctor. Then you’ll feel better.”
Al cast a dark look in my direction. “I doubt it,” she said. “I have serious doubts that I will feel better.”
Sometimes I think that Al likes to wallow in her emotions. I really do.
CHAPTER 16
Al kept pacing, waiting for the doctor to call. I decided to give myself a facial. That way I’d improve my appearance, clear my clogged pores, and hide under a towel to keep the steam in and Al’s pacing out. The trouble with a facial, though, is that I always seem to look the same after. Sometimes I look worse.
I ran hot water in the basin and leaned over with the towel draped over my head. Nothing worthwhile is easy, I told myself. Al passed the bathroom. I heard her. I also heard her come to a stop. She was watching me. I lifted the towel and checked the mirror for the results.
“Holy Toledo,” she said. “Is it catching?” My face did sort of look as though I had measles.
“This is what is known as a schoolgirl complexion,” I said. “Why anyone wants one is beyond me.”
Al started to wring her hands. I could almost see the moisture coming from them. “Why doesn’t he call?” she wailed. “I bet something’s gone wrong. I feel it in my bones. Something terrible has happened. My mother has had a relapse.” One thing about Al is she watches a lot of those hospital soap operas. They give her all kinds of ideas.
The telephone rang.
“You answer,” Al said. “Please.”
I wiped off my face and picked up the phone.
“Hello, dear,” a voice said. “Is Alexandra there?”
“It’s your mother,” I said, handing Al the receiver, not even stopping to ask Al’s mother how she was. I figured if she was well enough to use the phone, she was good for a few more years yet.
“Ma!” Al shouted. “How are you?” She listened. I could hear her mother’s voice. She sounded fine.
“Yeah. O.K. The blue one?… Sure. Top right-hand drawer.… O.K. You want anything else?… No, I was planning on coming up this afternoon. O.K. See you.” She hung up.
“She’s feeling fine. Much better. She says she’s ready to come home but that the doctor says she has to stay a couple more days.”
“Good. That’s great, really great,” I said. “That way you can go Wednesday … go to the farm, I mean … and Mr. Wright can bring her home. Or, if he can’t, my mother and I can go up and get her if you don’t want her to come home alone.” I bent over the basin again.
“I’m sorry I said what I said.” Al’s voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “About you being so lucky and all. I was so full of my own problems I didn’t think about you. You not going anywhere, I mean. That was selfish.”
“Hey,” I said, “here I am envying you and there you are, envying me. That’s life, I guess. The grass is always greener on the other side. Or something like that.”
Al twisted her hair into a tight knot. “What’s the matter now?” I said. “Your mother’s getting better, your trip’s Wednesday. What the heck’s the matter now?”
“I don’t think I can go. To the farm, I mean.” Al turned to face me, her eyes huge behind her glasses.
“Why not? Everything’s hunky-dory. Why can’t you go?”
“Because if I did, I’d be walking out on my mother. Even if she is better, she’s still in the hospital. Somebody has to take care of her when she gets home.”
“How about Mr. Wright?” I said.
“He’s not her family,” Al said angrily. “She’s not his responsibility. She’s mine. Besides, and this is what gets me, you know perfectly well if it was me that was sick she wouldn’t walk out on me. So how can I do that to her? Answer me that. How can I?”
I thought for a while. I knew she was right. Still, there was that barn dance and Brian and the three little boys and the homemade ice cream waiting there. Maybe her whole future was waiting for her on the farm.
“I can’t,” she said. “Can I?”
“Well”—I chose my words very carefully this time—“I don’t think you’d have a very good time. I mean, think of all the time you’d be thinking about your mother in the hospital. You’d probably have a super attack of the guilties, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “Guilt is a terrible thing. Guilt feelings do a lot of harm. People are always feeling guilty about something. I’ve read a lot about it. Guilt is very big these days. If you don’t feel guilty about something, you’re not really trying. For instance.” Al sat down. She was getting ready for a dissertation on guilt. When she sits down and locks her ankles like that, she means business.
“I’ve often wondered if my father suffers from guilt. Because he didn’t write to me for such a long time. Someday I’m going to ask him. Just sock it to him, say, ‘Dad’—I’m going to say”—Al gave me a piercer to show me how she was going to nail her father—“‘Dad, do you ever have guilt feelings about ignoring me for so long? Do you ever lie awake at night and feel guilty that you left me in the lurch?’ What do you think if I do that?”
“I think you’d probably make your father feel terrible,” I said. “At least he patched things up and now everything’s hunky-dory between you. You might spoil that if you asked him if he felt guilty about you. That’s what I think. I think you should let well enough alone.”
Al jumped up. She was smiling.
“You are right, O Skinny One,” she said. “Not for the first time and I certainly hope not for the last. You are wise beyond your years. Now I’m going to whip up to the hospital and take my mother a bed jacket she wants. You want to come?”
I said no, I thought
I’d stay home. “Tell your mother hello for me,” I said. “I’ll send her a funny get-well card.”
“Good,” Al said. “I won’t be long. Then we can go over to Polly’s.” She went to the door. With her hand on the doorknob, she turned and said to me, “That’s when I knew my mother would pull through. When she said she wanted a bed jacket, that’s when I knew the crisis had passed. See you,” and she was gone.
Boy. One minute she’s as low as a snake’s belly button. The next she’s flying high. I figure my forte is as an advice giver. I’m practically on a par with Ann Landers. Only she gets paid for it and I dish it out for free.
CHAPTER 17
When Al got back from the hospital, she was very subdued. She moved slowly, thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side as if she were listening to something. Or someone. I didn’t ask her what she’d decided to do about the farm. I figured she’d tell me when she felt like it.
“Polly said to come the minute you got home,” I said.
“I better not go.” Al washed her face and combed her hair. Then she changed into clean jeans and a clean T-shirt. “I’m in the pits. Mr. Wright was visiting my mother this afternoon. He’s so cheerful,” Al said scornfully. “I don’t think he realizes how serious pneumonia is. I mean, all kinds of things can go wrong. Just when you’re not expecting it. He’s so cheerful he depresses me.”
I wasn’t going to argue with her. “It’s not the first time you’ve been in the pits,” I said. “Polly won’t mind. Come on. Anyway, Teddy’s visiting a friend and my mother and father are going out for dinner so you’d be all alone. Besides, you don’t want to miss a lobster dinner at Polly’s.”
She came with me. I knew she would.
We sat and watched Polly as she zapped around her kitchen. She looked like a small, skinny Julia Child. Polly is very graceful. She sort of skimmed over the floor like a bird wrapped in a huge white apron. She told us not to help her, we’d only be in the way. Which suited me fine. We sat there on the high kitchen stools and told Polly about everything that had happened while she was away. Then she told us a bunch of stories about the weirdos up on the Cape.
“There are more weirdos up there than there are in New York, if you can believe it,” Polly said.
I guess both Al and I looked doubtful because Polly said, “It’s true. There are. I don’t know why, but it’s true.”
“How’s Evelyn?” I said. Evelyn’s Polly’s twenty-year-old sister who is always living with some guy without being married to him, or thinking of marrying some guy her mother doesn’t think is right for her. Polly’s mother doesn’t think Evelyn is ready for marriage. What I think is that Evelyn probably will never be ready for marriage. It’s none of my business, I know, but I’m entitled to my own opinion.
“Evelyn’s throwing pots these days,” Polly said.
“Who at?” Al said.
“That’s what you say when a person is into pottery, making pots,” Polly said. “Evelyn’s also a vegetarian. She eats mounds of tofu and bean sprouts every day. She’s thinking of writing a vegetarian cookbook. I’ll say one thing for Evelyn.” Polly sighed. “She doesn’t let the grass grow under her feet, but she’s an eternal child.”
Polly went and peered into the lobster pot to see how they were doing.
“How’s your mother, Al?” she said.
“Much better, thanks,” Al said, smiling.
“When are you leaving? On your trip to the farm?” Polly said.
Talk about timing.
The smile fell off Al’s face. I could almost hear it drop.
She looked at me.
“I’m not sure.” Al said the words slowly, as if reluctant to let them go. “I might not go at all. I can’t leave my mother in the lurch.”
“Her mother wouldn’t do it to her,” I said.
Polly nodded. “Good for you, Al,” she said. “They’re done,” and we each got a plate and stood in line for our lobsters.
When we got home, Al said, “You go on in. I’ll be over as soon as I call”
“Call who?” I said, although I knew who she meant.
“My father. And Louise. I’ve stalled around long enough. I’m going to call and tell them I can’t come. I’ve been kidding myself all along, telling myself it would be all right if I went. I can’t. I just can’t go.”
“I thought you said the doctor said she was coming along fine,” I said feebly. “Your mother wanted a bed jacket. You said the crisis was over if she wanted a bed jacket.”
She turned and looked at me. There were two spots of color high on her cheeks.
“The crisis has just begun,” Al said, baring her teeth at me in what passed for a smile. “Besides, what’s a lousy old trip and a barn dance anyway?”
She did a very small belly dance, and then her arms fell to her sides. “All it is is my life,” she said. And she unlocked her door and slid noiselessly inside.
I went home. I wouldn’t have stuck around to hear that phone call for anything. Not for anything in the world.
CHAPTER 18
I opened the door even before Al had a chance to ring.
“What’d they say?” I asked her.
Silently we zapped into my room and shut the door. There was no one around to eavesdrop. It was just better that way.
“I called,” Al said slowly. Her eyes looked red. Maybe she’d been crying. Maybe when she was by herself in the apartment that smelled of her mother, she’d cried.
“I called them and told them I couldn’t come. I told them my mother was sick and in the hospital and I couldn’t leave her alone. And Sam—Sam answered the phone, if you can believe it—Sam kept saying, ‘Whazza matta, Al? Whyn’t you coming?’ That’s the way he talks. He’s only seven, you know.
“‘Whazza matta, Al? Whyn’t you coming?’” she repeated, as if Sam had said something brilliant for a seven-year-old. Sam is Al’s favorite. Sam is special, Al says.
“So then my father got on and he wanted to know all about my mother and what the doctor had said and what hospital she was in so they could send her flowers. How do you like that?” Al gave me a piercer. That was a good sign. She only gave piercers when she was herself.
“And you know something?”
I shook my head.
“I think my father still has some feeling left for my mother.” Al’s eyes were big and round and solemn. The spots of color on her cheeks had disappeared and she was pale. “I think in the deepest recesses of his heart he still cherishes her a little.” When I first knew Al she told me her mother and father had a very friendly relationship. Even though they were divorced. The reason they got divorced, Al said, was that her father was a perfectionist.
“Just a little,” Al went on. “I don’t mean anything romantic, you understand.” She stared hard at me. “I don’t think that for a minute. I think he and Louise are very much in love with each other. I mean I think he might cherish her a little because she’s my mother, if you know what I mean”
I wasn’t sure I did, but I didn’t let on.
“She was his first love,” Al said. “That’s something you never forget—your first love.”
I almost said, “How do you know?” but I kept my mouth shut.
“It must be nice to be someone’s first love.” Al got up and went to the bathroom. She does that a lot when she’s in the middle of a story. I’m used to it now, but it used to bother me. One thing about Al, she never loses the thread of what she’s saying.
“Anyway,” she said, coming back, “I gave my father the doctor’s name and the hospital room number. He wanted to know what kind of flowers my mother likes. I told him anemones. And you know what he said?”
I shook my head.
“He said, ‘Of course. Those red and purple flowers. She always did like those.’ Well, of course, all I hope is that Louise didn’t hear him say that. I mean, she might not like that if she knew my father remembered my mother’s favorite flowers. Not that Louise is the jealous type. Because she’s
not. Still.” A little smile played over Al’s face, like a gentle breeze over still water.
“Then I talked to Louise. She said they were sorry. They were all so sorry, about my mother and about my not coming right then. She said I should let them know the minute I could come. Then you know what she said?”
I just sat there and didn’t even bother to shake my head again.
“She said she knew Brian would be sorry too, when he found out I wasn’t coming. Well, I think she was making that up. How’d she know he’d be sorry? But that’s what she said. How could she know he’d be sorry when she hadn’t even told him yet?” Al stopped talking. I think she wanted me to give her an argument. Or to reassure her. Something. I sat there. I’m a good listener.
“So then,” Al said, “Louise said they could always have another barn dance. I asked her if they’d made the homemade ice cream yet, and she said no. I’m not sure she was telling me the truth. I think they probably have a freezer full of homemade strawberry ice cream right this minute. She just didn’t want me to feel bad. Any worse than I do already, that is.
“Then you know what she said?” Al’s voice trembled.
“No,” I said.
Al lowered her head and smiled sadly at her feet.
“She said she would pray for my mother.” Al looked up at me, and her face was very serious. Behind her glasses her eyes glinted. They looked almost as if they were made of glass. She got up and went into the bathroom again. She stayed there quite a long time. I was beginning to get worried. I thought maybe I ought to see if she was all right. Then she came out.
“Nobody ever said that before,” Al went on, as if our conversation hadn’t been interrupted. “That they’d pray for my mother, I mean. I thought that was sweet of Louise to say that. She doesn’t even know my mother. It’s one thing to pray for someone you know,” Al said sternly. “It’s quite another to pray for someone you don’t know. Someone who was your husband’s first wife. Someone who is the mother of your stepdaughter. That’s what I am, Louise’s stepdaughter. Did you realize that? Isn’t that amazing?”
Al glanced at me and quickly glanced away.
Al(exandra) the Great: The Al Series, Book Four Page 7