The Evolution of Alice

by David Alexander Robertson

  “I’ll text you a list,” she said and hung up.

  It wasn’t until just before he reached the Salter Bridge that he received a text notification but decided to ignore it until he arrived at the grocery store at the very earliest, and possibly even later than that, if at all.

  Traffic was slow; it took an eternity to get to the bridge’s apex, and it was there, as he looked this way and that out of sheer boredom, that he noticed an Aboriginal woman standing on the walkway. He thought she was Aboriginal anyway, judging by her black hair, brown skin, and the distinctive features that were familiar to him from the news. He chuckled at the description he would have given of her if he were a reporter: Aboriginal in appearance. Those were common words to hear. She was of medium height, with blue jeans, Converse sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt. He noticed these things only because, for one reason or another, the slow traffic had now stopped entirely. What caught his attention most was the young woman’s eyes: big and brown, almost cartoonish, but striking all the same, and sad, most of all. It seemed that wherever she looked she was searching for something that was far out of reach. And, when she looked over at him and their eyes met, it was as though he had caught the sadness, as people catch each other’s yawns, because he instantly felt a slight ache in his heart.

  His windows were rolled down slightly, not because it was a particularly beautiful day out, but rather because he liked that others could hear the music he was playing. It made him feel relevant (he was listening to a hip, alt-rock band called The National). But the fact that his windows were rolled down gave him a passing thought that he should say something to the woman, and his lips even moved, but there wasn’t anything he could think of saying. He was never good with strangers. His inability to say anything to the woman only solidified his feelings in that regard. Still, the sadness in her eyes was hard to ignore, and it was hard to look away from him. It was strange, too, that she was just standing there, as though caught in her own little traffic jam. He thought of Jasper (or whatever) on his fence, never ceasing to move, and compared that to the woman, who was stationary, and Henry could understand neither of them. What could she be doing? When the car in front began to inch forward, and Henry did in turn, he felt an impulse to ask her just that before it was too late. And why was she looking at him, out of everybody else? But he asked no such thing, and, as he gathered momentum, images of his grande double chocolate-chip frappuccino supplanted thoughts of the woman standing sadly at the side of the road.

  Not that he had to, because there were only a handful of things in his basket and he was sure he’d got everything he was required to buy, but for his sanity’s sake—because when he failed to do something just as Bev asked, there were subtle repercussions—he proudly looked over the groceries he had been sent for and was certain he’d not missed one thing. He made his way to the self-checkout aisle and fumbled to get the bar codes scanned. The fumbling was due to the proximity of the Starbucks and the rush to get there, but also the fruit tray, which was the most awkward thing to scan. He eventually paid for the groceries and excitedly walked up to the Starbucks counter with an abnormally large smile. The cashier, a pretty little thing with light-brown hair tied back into a loose ponytail, crystal-blue eyes, and a noticeable bounce in her step, as if to illustrate just how much she loved her job, greeted him at the counter.

  “Hey there, what can I get for you?” she said.

  It took a sizable amount of restraint not to make a flirtatious comment about what he really wanted. He was very much relieved that he’d spent so much time ensuring his hair was perfect, and was certain, as she smiled at him, that she thought he was as cute as he thought she was. He imagined for a moment that she had said to herself (in a kind of of-all-the-Starbucks-in-the-city,-you-walked-into-mine moment), “What a handsome man, his jet-black hair coiffed just so, his blue eyes like a reflection of the clearest sky.”

  “I’ll have a grande double chocolate-chip frappuccino, skinny, no drizzle,” he said about as smooth as a baby’s skin, adding in the “skinny” and “drizzle” parts only because he thought it sounded refined, and he was out to impress her.

  “Sure thing,” she said, then turned away and began expertly constructing his drink.

  He watched as she tapped her feet to some imaginary music while she blended the ingredients together. She was unfettered by the weight of life, young and carefree, and her body told this tale; her tight black pants accentuated slight but playful curves, and just visible above the collar of her shirt was a Dumbo tattoo—original and cute. He’d always hated oglers, yet there he was, subtly scanning her over from top to bottom. When his drink was ready, he sighed in disappointment. Getting the frappuccino should have been a triumphant moment; it should have gleamed in the grocery store lighting. But to Henry it paled in comparison to the girl—whom he knew now as Alexis based on her nametag—and he was upset that the experience was nearly over. She reached forward and handed him his cup.

  “Grande double chocolate-chip, skinny, no drizzle,” she said, and he noticed that each time she pronounced a word with the letter l in it a shiver rushed through his body.

  When he accepted the drink from her he made sure to brush his fingers against hers, and even allowed this contact to linger a moment as he thanked her altogether too profusely. He left with every intention to return as soon as possible, and not so much for the drink. He would even be willing to “borrow” more money from his son to do so.

  Henry barely noticed the road as he made his way back home, daydreaming as he was of other things. However, as distracted as he was on his drive, and it would have been safer if he had been texting in all honesty, it was impossible not to notice flashing lights from two police cars parked sideways to block off the bridge. Henry checked the clock and did a quick calculation of how much later he would be if he took another route. He knew Bev wanted to get started on supper by five—she always did—and if, for whatever reason, she couldn’t, she got grumpy. He wanted no part of that. He drove up to the makeshift blockade, following cars ahead that angrily turned left or right to take their own detours, and on a whim he pulled over and got out of his car. He walked up to a police car and asked one of the officers what was happening.

  “There’s a jumper on the bridge,” the police officer said.

  “A jumper? Somebody wants to jump off the bridge?”

  “Yeah, a jumper, like I said.”

  “Think you’ll be letting cars get up there soon?”

  In the next five minutes, Henry thought.

  “Doubt it. She’s just standing at the edge there, ready to go,” he said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Just some Indian woman. They do it all the time, you know. Indians, not women.”

  Henry’s mind flashed to the girl he had locked eyes with on top of the bridge, and he knew it was her. She’d looked so sad. Everything made sense.

  “God,” he said, “I saw that woman up there not more than 20 minutes ago, you know?”

  “No shit,” the officer said. “You know her?”

  What if he did? He’d seen it in her eyes. She’d wanted to talk to him. Maybe he could talk to her now, talk her down, save her.

  “Could I go up and see her?” he said.

  The officer looked up at the bridge, then back at Henry.

  “You really know her?” the officer said.

  What would he say to her, though? What if he said something wrong and she jumped anyway? What if he got up there and didn’t say anything at all? He could picture it now. He’d just stand there and watch her, just like he watched Journey (or whatever) up there on his fence doing whatever the hell he was doing. Henry would stand there, dumbfounded, and then she’d jump and that would be that and he’d feel guilty, even though she probably would’ve done it anyway.

  “Sir?” the officer said.

  He heard the officer say it himself. That’s what Indians did. They jumped. What difference could he make? Even if he said something right, somethi
ng perfect, she might jump anyway. Then where would he be, and for what? Henry shook his head. It was a no-win situation going up there.

  “No, I don’t know her. Just somebody I saw,” he said.

  Henry turned around and walked away. He checked the time: 4:56 PM. It was late anyway. It was far too late to do something. Somebody else would talk to her. The police had people for that, and they could talk to strangers without any trouble.

  By the time he pulled up out front of his house, Henry had mostly forgotten about Alexis the Starbucks barista. Even the frappuccino, as delicious as it was, had tasted much better in theory than it did in practice. Imagination worked that way, though. He looked, with great concern, at the clock, which told him he was now 20 minutes late. There wasn’t even time to sneak to the side of the house and throw the frappuccino cup into the trash. Instead, he shoved it underneath the driver seat. The next time he drove somewhere he would throw it into a trash can somewhere else in the city, as though disposing of a dead body. A perfect crime. Bev didn’t do much driving anyway, and her finding it under the seat wasn’t likely. He turned off the ignition and reached over to gather the groceries. He remembered then that he hadn’t checked his phone for Bev’s text, but it was too late, and doing so would simply be a small admission that he really had needed the list. He stepped outside.

  The first thing he noticed was that boy, J … whatever, running along the top of the fence, his dirty, splintered feet pigheadedly finding balance with each step, his matted blonde locks joyously whipping back and forth. Henry shook his head as he walked around the front of his car. The kid didn’t get anything out of running on fences, except perhaps bumps and bruises that came from the odd fall. Henry felt bad for the boy—that was that. He’d probably end up running on that fence until he was an adult, always looking for a purpose and never finding it. He would probably end up like the Aboriginal woman he’d seen today, his naked toes dangling over the ledge, and the regrets of a misspent youth pushing him forward to a welcomed end. Maybe one day Henry would talk to the boy as he should have talked to the girl.

  For the time being, however, Henry turned away, toward his house, where he saw Bev waiting at the front door, tapping her foot impatiently, her head tilted curiously, her arms crossed. He was already planning out what he would say. What could he have done to help it? He didn’t intentionally come home 20 minutes late. He walked up to his wife and, before she could say anything, said, “There was a girl, an Indian girl, on the bridge trying to jump.”

  “Aboriginal girl,” she said. “Indian is so offensive.”

  “But they call themselves that,” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter, Henry. You can’t call them that. They hate it when people call them that,” she said.

  “Anyway, that’s why I was late,” he said.

  “Couldn’t you just have gone another way?” she said.

  “I did go another way,” he said, “but before that, I don’t know, I thought I could help her. I was sure I could help her.”

  “Help her? How?” she said.

  “I’d seen her on the way to the grocery store. She wasn’t about to jump then, mind you, but she looked upset about something. We met eyes and there was this weird connection, you know? Anyway, then, on the way back, I found out that the same girl was trying to jump and I thought I could maybe talk her down. So, I got out of my car and tried to get up there but the police wouldn’t let me.”

  Bev gasped. “Oh my god, Henry, I hope she didn’t jump. I hope to god she didn’t jump when you could’ve saved the poor thing!”

  “I know,” he said and shook his head. “Let’s watch the news after supper and we’ll see if we don’t hear something about it.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Henry began to walk past Bev when she stopped him and gave him a hug. Deep in her embrace, he said, “I’m sorry I’m late. I know you wanted me home earlier.”

  “It’s okay, hon. I mean, look what you had to go through,” she said.

  She squeezed him harder, and he turned his head to the side and kissed her on the neck.

  “You know what I’m going to do?” she said. “I’m going to get you one of those drinks you like after supper.”

  When Bev eventually let him go, Henry walked inside the house, kicked off his shoes, and made his way into the kitchen. Then, one by one, he placed the groceries onto the kitchen counter: a fruit tray, a carton of milk, and a loaf of sourdough bread.

  ELEVEN

  When Matthew was in grade nine, he found an old dusty box in the basement storage room while he was looking for his collection of Spider-Man comic books, which his mom had hidden for no good reason. When he opened the box, he found that it was his old Culture In a Box project he’d done in elementary school. He’d forgotten all about it. He opened it and sifted through all the Scottish items: the family crest his father had printed from Google Images, a family tartan also printed out from Google that reminded Matthew of toffee and made him want some, and a tam o’shanter. He eventually found the Indian stuff. He took out a pair of moccasins and marvelled at the delicate beadwork, how it so perfectly illustrated howling wolves; a braid of grass that smelled wonderful, earthy and sweet; a small ceramic bowl and a bundle of sage attached to it with an elastic; and a small red box in the shape of an octagon that read Mother Earth Tobacco. He couldn’t remember the significance of everything, but he inspected each one of them thoroughly. He felt so Indian all of a sudden, and proud of it, too. The only other time he had felt Indian was back in December. Tara, a girl he liked, had come up to him at school while he was placing books into his locker.

  “Matthew, are you an Indian, or do you just have a tan?” Tara said.

  Matthew shut his locker and leaned against it. He thought about what to say long enough to appear as nervous as he felt, then said, “I’m not an Indian.”

  “Oh, cool,” she said. “So where do you go?”

  “For what?” he said.

  “For your tan,” she said. “My mom takes me to this place that turns my skin orange every time.”

  Matthew responded with the only tanning place he could think of. He’d heard commercials while listening to Jets games. “Fabutan,” he said.

  “Really? Hmph. I never go to cheap places, and look at your skin. Just look at it. It’s fucking perfect.”

  At the time, he’d left Tara feeling good. And while her skin turned more and more orange in the weeks following, she’d remained enamoured with his perfect little “tan,” and he liked the attention. He felt differently about it now, though. He looked the items over, one by one, as he placed them back with his Culture In a Box project, saving the moccasins for last. He turned them around in his hands, thinking about how comfortable they must have been and wishing he could wear them, but they were altogether too small. Before putting them away, he placed one moccasin beside his forearm. He looked back and forth between his skin and the leather, comparing colours.

  FUTURE DAYS

  GIDEON WAS SITTING IN THE LOBBY of his therapist’s office wondering why he’d moved to the city in the first place. When he’d made the decision, it seemed like the right one, maybe the only one. Bad things had kept piling up for him just as the waters around the rez continued to rise. There’d been Grace’s death, of course, and the fact that whoever ran her over still hadn’t been found. And then, after Grace, his grandpa got sick and had just recently passed away. But it felt like it’d all come to a head when Alice and the girls disappeared, and right after his grandpa’s death. He still remembered when he’d gone to Alice’s place to see her and the girls after they hadn’t shown up at his grandpa’s wake. It was like somebody had just swooped them up and taken them right in the middle of breakfast.

  When he’d seen the unoccupied kitchen table, and the cold bacon and eggs on all the plates, his body got all numb and tingly. Later, he’d describe the sensation as being “kinda like the feeling coming back to your arm after you slept on it.” Despite that unpleasant
ness, he rushed through the house and checked in every room to make sure they weren’t holed up somewhere else, but every room was empty. As he was walking down the hallway back to the kitchen, his heart started to pound out of his chest, like he’d just run a few miles. Then, when he got to the kitchen, he found it tough to breathe, like a big fat person was sitting on his chest. He ran out onto the driveway and collapsed. Black spots came across his vision like rain and then everything shut off. Before he lost consciousness, he thought that was it for him, that he was having a heart attack.

  Turned out, it was his brain giving out on him. That’s how he understood it anyway. When it kept happening, and in the oddest places, too, like when he was sitting around his living room watching television, the doctor at the health centre figured Gideon needed therapy. The only thing was that the kind of therapy he needed wasn’t available in the rez—he needed to go to the city for it. Now, he’d never cared very much for the city, but moving there was more appealing than staying around all the bad things. Of course, he knew Alice was living there. She’d been thinking about moving to the city ever since Grace died. But he told himself that wasn’t why.

  He had managed to find his way to the office, but only after getting lost and asking for directions at a coffee shop. He’d never really been anywhere in the city except for the Walmart right near the perimeter. He could navigate his way there, no problem. But walking around downtown was like trying to complete one of the mazes Jayne liked to do in her activity books. When he took wrong turns he found dead ends and had to back up and try a different way. It was loud, too. There was an incessant noise, a collision of car horns, rumbling engines, screeching tires, and shouting. It made the lobby seem more appealing than it might normally have been. It was simple and stress-free. There was a leather chair he was sitting in, some kind of exotic plant, an elegant side table, a magazine rack stocked with Sports Illustrated, Time, and Maclean’s, and a calming selection of Baroque music playing. There was nowhere to get lost.