The End of Alice

by A M Homes

  I lay little Alice across the backseat of their car.

  Gwen raises the edge of the tablecloth and covers Alice’s exposed breast. “She looks too old to be skinny-dipping.”

  “I’ve brought her back,” I say as the mother comes running out. She looks at her daughter and flies fast into the front seat.

  “Do you need a doctor as well?” the mother asks. I shake my head, oblivious to the fact that my feet are bleeding.

  I could have taken her home, kept her for myself, but I brought her back to them, is that what she would have wanted? “She banged her head on the bottom of the boat.”

  “Damned lake,” the mother says, turning the ignition. The engine grinds, is slow to turn over. “Damn it to hell.” Gwendolyn pulls the door closed. I am out on the side of the road. The car backs away.

  I don’t know what to do. I go back to the lake, the boat has disappeared, the current has carried it off along with the remains of lunch, her clothing, all of it evidence.

  A bath, a drink, another drink, dry clothes, bandages for the feet, and I drive into town, parking at a pay phone across from the hospital.

  “Good condition,” the nurse says.

  “Good?” I say.

  “Yes, that’s right. Admitted for observation, concussion.”

  “Yes, she bumped her head. But she’s in good condition?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And you say you’re the father?”

  “Yes, that’s wonderful,” I say, hanging up. Good is like better or best, it’s hopeful, promising. It means everything will be all right.

  Alone at night, I don’t sleep at all. I lie on her side of the bed, my head against the pillow where she usually rests. I turn my face into the pillow and breathe the scent of a little girl who bathes infrequently, sweet dirty sweat. Still hooked to the bed frame are strands of her hair; I take them into my mouth, sucking them. What to do? What to do?

  Pain. Pain wakes me. My arm. My chest.

  “Breathe,” the sergeant is telling me. “Breathe.”

  I am being divided, cleaved in half, a sharp searing pain splits my chest.

  Salts are passed under my nose. I am at the sea, I am at the shore. I am in a doctor’s office, there is the smell of a doctor’s office.

  “Breathe.”

  I am awake, upright. I am in the chair, still in the chair, in the committee room. The members of the committee have disappeared. I see their backs as they are leaving, passing through the second door. Guards surround me. My chains are undone.

  “Are we finished? What happened? Did I scare them away?”

  No one answers me. Did they hear the question? Did I even ask it out loud?

  “Are you all right?” the sergeant asks.

  “I think so.”

  “You must have fainted. These hearings can be very stressful, and at your age…”

  I am lifted to standing and then led, half-carried, through the very door through which I arrived. No door number three today.

  The key doesn’t unlock the cell. The sergeant goes halfway around his chain, trying to find the right key. The guards, my escorts, pass me back and forth between them, taking turns fiddling with the keys.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  Growing increasingly nervous, the escort guards ask, “Is this the right room?”

  “Ah,” the sergeant says, fitting the key into the lock, opening the door.

  It is my cell, my same old cell. Home.

  Everything is as it was. Deeply relieved, the guards push me in, undo the belly chain, the shackles, the handcuffs.

  “Is that all? Is there more?”

  “Tomorrow,” someone says. “It’ll be finished tomorrow.” And then the door is closed, locked, and I am left on the shreds of my mattress.

  My belongings are still on the bed frame, ready to go. Seeing them there still waiting is an insult. It is as though my own things have turned on me. The glass on the Schmitt box is broken. When I left this morning, I could have sworn it was intact. But it is broken now, pressing in on my ancient butterflies. I lift the lid, the glass falls away.

  From my sewing kit, I take a spool of thread and tie thin white lines around the bodies of my butterflies. Holding them high above my head, I fly them like kites, whipping them through the air, whirling round. Hoary Elfin, Painted Lady, Common Blue. Old and infirm, they break apart, the wings easily come away from the head. Between my fingers, they crumble to dust.

  Dinner comes, a tray slipped through the slot in the door, Henry’s hole.

  “There must be a mistake,” I call to the guard, pushing the tray back through the slot.

  The guard pushes the tray through the hole again. “No,” I say, pushing it back once more. “A mistake, there must have been a mistake.”

  “Think again,” he says, keeping the tray, moving off down the hall. “Fucking lunatic,” I hear him mumble.

  Not to worry, I tell myself, not to worry.

  My room is a mess, dotted with debris, remnants of my packing party. Pushing everything off to the side, I find paper and pen. I write a letter, a letter to my love, a precious poem, pouring it on, syrupy thick. This is it. I’m begging, pleading that she come back.

  Henry beckons me to the door. “I have something for you. A gift, a little nightcap.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, suddenly depressed, worried about my budding addiction.

  “I cooked it just for you, it’s special,” Henry says. “You didn’t eat your dinner, so try my little concoction. Taste, just take a taste.”

  And again I cast myself into the curves of a contortionist and fit my mouth into the slot in the door. Henry’s old glass works go through the hole, the needle pokes my cheek. “Raise your tongue.”

  “Is it sterilized?”

  “I clean it with Clorox every time.”

  I lift my lickety licker. “Hold it,” Henry says. The needle is in position under my tongue. Drug in, needle out. I pitch forward, instantly asleep.

  In my dream I drive a yellow truck.

  FIFTEEN

  Despite my best efforts I’m always the one who gets fucked.

  Going, going, gone. She lies in bed. Yesterday, she tried to kill herself, today she is a little tired, groggy, under the weather.

  Her mother carries in a breakfast tray, bowl of farina, burned toast, cup of tea.

  “Are you all right? It’s after noon. You slept like a log. How do you feel?”

  The girl doesn’t speak.

  The mother sits on the edge of the bed, sprinkles brown sugar on the cereal, and stirs it around. “When you were a little girl, sometimes I used to bring you breakfast in bed for no reason.”

  A fresh flower is on the tray. The mother tries hard.

  “Butter or jelly?” the mother asks, picking up a piece of toast.

  The girl makes a face. The mother hands her the bread, dry. “I spoiled you. Maybe that’s what I did wrong. That’s what this is all about, you’ve had it too easy. But what could I do, you’re my only girl, you’re all I’ve got.” The mother dips the spoon into the cereal and holds it up to the girl.

  “You’re not going to feed me?”

  “Of course not,” the mother says, putting down the spoon. “You’re perfectly capable of feeding yourself.” Getting up off the bed, she picks up clothing from the floor, folds it, and puts it away. “Eat your toast. I burned it on purpose, the charcoal is good for you, very absorbent.”

  The girl’s passport is on the breakfast tray. “That’s the thing about Mommy,” the girl’s father said late last night. “She keeps the details in order. She’s always got us ready to go at the drop of a hat.”

  The girl gets out of bed, dresses. She feels thin like paper. Her head is hollow.

  “If we hurry, the hairdresser can squeeze you in,” her mother says. “Mush, mush, let’s go.”

  Theirs is an uneasy peace, a reconciliation based on near tragedy.

  At the beauty parlor the girl puts a pink robe on over her
clothing. The shampoo woman turns on the water, tilts her head back, and massages shampoo through her hair. On the shelf in front of the girl are glass vials, serums, special treatments.

  “How come I never get one of those?”

  “You’re not damaged enough,” the shampoo woman ,says. “Just a little dry. This’ll straighten you out.” She pumps a few squirts of conditioner into her hands, smooths her fingers through the girl’s hair, then brings the girl to the hairdresser’s chair.

  “She’s going to Europe tomorrow,” the mother says to the hairdresser.

  “So, you want something easy that you don’t have to think about?” the hairdresser says.

  The girl nods. The hairdresser begins to cut. Chunks of hair fall to the floor.

  “You’re being made over,” the mother says. “How do you feel? Do you feel all right?”

  The girl feels dulled, as if she’s been hit in the head with a brick. She secretly wonders if she doesn’t have a little bit of brain damage. “Tired,” the girl says.

  “I forgot to tell you, Matt called this morning. He wanted to make a tennis date. I didn’t think you’d be in the mood for tennis today. I told him you’d call him later.” Her mother continues to talk. She is able to talk for hours about nothing at all.

  The hairdresser turns on the blower, momentarily drowning the mother out.

  “Much improved,” the mother says when the dryer is off. “A good cut, it brings out your face, and you have such a pretty face.” The mother hands the girl two dollars and says, “Go, give them to the shampoo lady.”

  All down her shirt she can feel little sharp pieces of hair, a hair shirt; she squirms.

  “You’ll need a few things,” the mother says, talking as she drives. Motion. The girl must be in motion. Moving against the world, it is the only thing that’s calming now, soothing. She doesn’t care where she’s going, just as long as she keeps moving.

  The mall is nine stories. “We’ll just do a little bit,” the mother says. “I know you’re tired from all that vomiting last night, but you absolutely need a suitcase.”

  A single bag. She will pour herself into a single bag.

  “Something light,” the mother says. “You don’t want to be carrying lots of heavy baggage all over the world.”

  It is ninety-two degrees outside and the stores are filled with fall clothing. Sweaters are on display.

  “A suit,” her mother says. “Every young woman needs a beautiful suit.”

  Her mother picks things out and she tries them on. She sits in the dressing room while her mother and the saleslady run back and forth, hunting and gathering, collecting clothing like nuts and berries, bringing it all back to the dressing room, the den.

  “Oh, that’s it,” the mother says, clasping her hands together. “That’s it, that’s it.”

  In the shoe department, the mother picks out a pair of pumps, the girl tries them on.

  “How are they?” the mother asks.

  “Crippling. I’ve had them on two minutes and already my heels are bleeding.” The girl turns to the salesman. “Do other people’s feet bleed from their shoes?”

  The salesman looks at her.

  “Who knows anything about what happens to other people,” the mother says.

  “I just wonder.”

  “Shoes aren’t supposed to be comfortable. You look grown-up, that’s what counts. People will take you seriously. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want them?” the salesman asks.

  “Whatever makes her happy,” the mother says. “I want her to have whatever makes her happy.”

  The shoes won’t make her happy. Just the idea that they’re supposed to make her happy makes her hate them. She takes them off and hands them back to the salesman.

  “I’ll think on it,” she says, knowing she doesn’t want them, but thinking it impolite to say so.

  Her mother buys her a camera, ten rolls of film, a folding alarm clock, two travel books, and an empty journal. “For your thoughts.”

  My head is banging, my brain knocking against the walls, all the padding is gone.

  “Daddy’s picking up your tickets,” the mother says when they are home. “It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” The mother is in her room packing the girl’s bag. “I’m excited, aren’t you?” The girl shakes her head.

  “It’ll be such fun. I wish I could go.”

  “You can,” the girl says. “Just go.”

  “I can’t. Who would take care of your father?”

  “There’s something I need to do,” the girl says after dinner. “An errand I have to run.”

  Matt. She goes to Matt’s house. As she walks up the driveway, she instinctively, reflexively gags. She spits bile into the bushes. Matt is upstairs in his room. His mother is in the kitchen, cleaning up. His father, working late.

  “I called you,” Matt says.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m going to Europe and then back to school. My father bought me a ticket.”

  “I love you,” he says. “I didn’t say it before because I thought it would gross you out.”

  “We all love something once,” she says, her first effort at being philosophical. “That’s how it starts.”

  “Will you come home at Christmas?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  She has brought her new camera and a roll of film. She photographs him.

  He gives her a small white jewelry box. “I’ve been saving this for you. It’s from my elbow.”

  She smiles.

  “Should we fuck farewell?”

  “I should go,” she says, getting up to leave.

  “Stay.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her parents drive her to the airport.

  “Do you have enough money?” her mother asks. “Whatever you want, just put it on the card. Enjoy yourself. You only live once.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” the father says. “It’s very expensive over there.”

  “Call us, let us know you’ve arrived.”

  “We hope you feel better,” her father says, kissing her good-bye.

  She passes through the metal detector. She has three weeks, twenty-one days, to reinvent herself, to metamorphose.

  Harrods. Victoria and Albert. Madame Tussaud’s. She is on a red bus riding down High Street. Sweaters for Mom and Dad at Marks and Sparks. Westminster, the Bloody Tower, the Florence Nightingale Museum. She has been drinking Orange Squash for six days straight, morning, noon, and night. Orange Squash and Kit Kat bars. The changing of the guard.

  Rome. The Teatro di Pompeo, Venice at the Serenis-sima, in Florence at the Morandi alia Crocetta. Everywhere she goes, she gives her camera to a strange man and asks him to photograph her, there, like that. At the II Campanile di Giotto, a girl she knows from school sees her. “Big world,” the girl says. “How funny. Last week I saw Sally Wilkens at the zoo in Prague.”

  24 6

  In Portofino, she is at the Splendido, looking out over the sea.

  I am with her, too, she carries me in her pocket, in her suitcase. She carries me wherever she goes.

  In her hotel rooms she makes notes, she writes, but doesn’t mail the letters. It is a journal now, hers, hers alone, private, personal, I have no idea what she’s really thinking.

  Once, she calls home once.

  “I didn’t tell you this before, but your father accidentally opened one of those letters,” her mother says. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, I’m not sure I want to know. Your father and I are very concerned. When you get home, you’re going to have to talk to someone about this.”

  Her heart stops for a minute, and then because she is young, because she is strong, it starts itself again.

  “Let’s not dwell on it now,” her mother says. “We’ll deal with it when you get back.”

  She doesn’t call again.

  She borrows a car and drives. In
a town in Tuscany, a madwoman runs down a street, grabs the girl, and kisses her. “A kiss is a kiss,” the woman says in English.

  The girl is tired. Sometimes she just stays in the hotel. The thought of going out, of figuring out where she is, where she wants to go, is exhausting. Sometimes she is perfectly content to sit in the room and look out the window.

  In the hotel in Paris, a blind man sits in the lobby with a dog. She befriends the dog. One night, she leads the man and his dog up to her room. When the girl brings the man to her bed, the dog grows excited and jumps up, joining them. “Couche, ” the man orders the hound. “Couche, ” he says, and the dog waits for his master on the floor.

  It is August. Paris is on vacation. She rides the boat on the Bateaux Mouches, shops for school clothes in the St. Germain, eats bouillabaisse, escargots, and blood sausages. Walking the Rue de Rivoli, Tuileries, the Bois de Boulogne, she is always moving, in motion. She has the quality of seeming to know where she is going. People come to her and ask directions. Oddly, she is able to tell them where to go. She makes gestures and draws diagrams. She has no language.

  There are no more letters. There is nothing to say.

  She is at the airport now. She is coming home.

  P.S. I’m not afraid of you anymore, I’m more afraid of myself.

  SIXTEEN

  Prison. Bells. Morning. The names are called; attendance is taken.

  “You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die,” the sergeant says, checking on grazier, who was returned to his cell late last night.

  “My Hohner is gone,” Frazier says, his voice raspy and weak. “My Hohner is gone.” Apparently in the effort to remove his harmonica from his larynx, the instrument was destroyed.

  “It’s not so easy to kill yourself,” the sergeant says. “The body resists.”

  Sometimes.

  The sergeant is at my door. I hear no jingling keys. “There’s a continuation,” he says. “It won’t be long. Get dressed. Get ready.”

  Round two.

  Again breakfast doesn’t come. Budget cuts?

  My pants are fitting better now that I’ve lost a few pounds.

  Henry arrives on his morning rounds.

  “Thank you for last night. It was lovely. Just what I needed. In due time your good works will be rewarded.”