Saving Alice

by David Lewis

  But rarely, I admitted ruefully.

  Even now that couldn’t discourage me. Donna and I had actually conducted a reasonably civil conversation. I’d paid her a compliment, to which she’d responded favorably, but most important: The moment she gets home, she asks if you came.

  By the end of market hours on Tuesday, the S&P was sitting at a record high above the fifty-day moving average, and according to the prognosticators, The market is careening out of control.

  Obviously we were due for a significant slow-down. I reminded myself that while great traders let their profits run, they also know when to cash in their chips. So, according to my trading rules, I initiated a protective stop based upon a five-day moving average.

  If and when the price closed below this average, I’d be stopped out. In addition, once the market hit my stop, it would indicate another divergence, setting up another potential entry point in spite of the fact that such an elevated position would be risky at best. The market needed to tread water for a while. Breathe a bit. And frankly, so did I. But regardless of my emotions, I planned to follow my rules to the T.

  That evening, Donna called me. “I talked to her, Stephen. And you were right.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen.”

  I winced. “Should be a crime.”

  “She’ll be fourteen in April.”

  “Still.”

  “I don’t think she told him her age.”

  “Did you tell her she can’t see him?”

  Donna cleared her throat. “Of course I did. But she wasn’t happy with me—”

  “Doesn’t matter. You still have to—”

  “I don’t need your lectures on parenting, Stephen.”

  I paused, then asked, “Did she agree?” Donna sighed. “Stephen, please…”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Never mind,” I replied. “Just tell me.”

  “You’ll embarrass her, Stephen.”

  What do I have to lose? I thought. “Have you ever talked to her about, you know …”

  “Sex?”

  I exhaled again.

  “Yes, I have,” she said, sounding annoyed. “And we don’t need to have this conversation. She’s not having sex, okay? I know my daughter.”

  Well enough to know she was dating? I thought but didn’t say. Before hanging up, I assured Donna I wouldn’t embarrass Alycia. Reluctantly, Donna finally gave me the boy’s name.

  The next morning I called the principal and informed him of the situation. He was no help. “We can’t be responsible for your children after school hours. That’s your job.”

  On Wednesday, I borrowed Larry’s car and drove over to Holgate Middle School, parking on a cross street near the entrance so only the front end of the car was visible. Like a spy, I donned sunglasses and ball cap and waited for my daughter to appear.

  At three-twenty, she emerged from the front door wearing black again, this time without the face paint. She walked down the sidewalk with a Gothic girlfriend on each side, then stepped into a waiting car. I caught a glimpse of the young man in the backseat.

  I considered stalking the car, then decided against it.

  That evening, I called Donna again.

  “It didn’t take,” I told her.

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “Do you want me to talk to her this time?”

  “In what galaxy do you live?”

  A moment of silence passed before she spoke again, her voice pinched. “I’m not good at this, Stephen. You should know that, but I’ll do it because I have to. This is the kind of stuff that makes me very angry with you.”

  I tried to imagine the conversation. Alycia would probably fly off the handle if Donna didn’t get it right.

  “I’d help if you just let me.”

  She ignored my offer. “I wouldn’t come this Saturday, if you catch my drift.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re liable to lose a car window.”

  “But—”

  “She’ll figure it out, Stephen.”

  For the next few days, the market ignored the prognosticators and continued its upward tear. My anxiety grew in direct proportion to its acceleration. My leveraged account had now ballooned to just over three hundred thousand dollars. Daily, I adjusted my trailing stop along the five-day moving average, determined to squeeze everything possible from this significant trend.

  I had just finished plugging in my new price point when it suddenly hit me: I’d gone the distance. I had tamed the wild bull. I’d created a small fortune in a ridiculously short period of time.

  On Saturday, once again, I waited in front of Sally’s apartment. Remembering Donna’s warning, I stayed wide awake, just in case Alycia needed to express her anger in a physical fashion, although I couldn’t imagine my little girl throwing a rock at my car.

  I smiled to myself. Maybe a rotten egg.

  However, as usual Alycia didn’t show. Instead, Donna wandered out five minutes to eleven. She looked tired, even crabby. I rolled down the window, and she leaned in. “She’s agreed not to see him anymore.” Her voice was cold and stony.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  Donna shrugged. “Let’s just say neither you or I walk on water anymore.”

  On Monday, my suspicions were confirmed. An extremely largevolume day resulted in minimal upward movement, a sign of impending doom for the present trend. I double-checked my stop. At some point in the following weeks, I was likely to see a downward break, also on higher volume. Then, after a couple of sell-off days, I might see a frantic return to the previous highs, only by that time the volume will have, in all likelihood, diminished considerably.

  During the rest of the week, the market followed my prediction exactly, and on Wednesday, I was finally stopped out with three hundred thirty thousand dollars.

  Suddenly financially liquid again, I called my broker and requested a small portion, a few thousand dollars, to be deposited in my bank. Considering my family’s living conditions, I hoped Donna wouldn’t refuse it. And just maybe, she’d get the message: Things have changed. There was still plenty left in my account to parlay into my ultimate goal: Millions! Enough to pay back everyone I’d wronged.

  On Thursday and Friday the market came roaring back—on lower volume, just as I had foreseen. This part was tricky. While the market might resume its upward trajectory, thus popping my divergence stop, the odds of further trending at this lofty elevation above the fifty-day moving average was unlikely. If I did get stopped in, I needed to be prepared for a sudden precipitous drop.

  Either way, I was ready, and since the market was significantly above the fifty-day moving average, I ruled out going short, betting on the market’s decline. The probabilities were against it. Shorting would remain an option for much later, once the bull market had ended, but only when the price had closed significantly below the moving average.

  As for short term, the market would probably range a bit. Most likely, the following weeks would be volatile, followed by a series of quiet weeks. If and when the market decided to resume its bull market run, I would be waiting for the next uptrend, setting my stop just above the fractal high of the slowly building price base.

  Regardless of my predictive analysis, however, I set my present buy stop above the latest divergence, precisely following my system, just in case my speculative evaluation was wrong.

  If I handled it correctly, I could ride the next wild bull into the stratosphere and get off just before it fell to earth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I sent another check to Donna, but she sent it back. Across the top, she wrote, Where did this come from? and below that: We’re making it fine, Stephen. Please don’t go in debt just to help us. She’d misunderstood, but could I blame her? I considered picking up the phone and telling her the truth, then reconsidered. I wasn’t ready to go public with my trading activities—considering my
last meltdown. Better to bide my time.

  Through the remainder of December, the market merely churned in a narrow price range. I drove to Sally’s every Saturday morning, waiting in my car for a full hour. While to others it might have seemed an exercise in futility, I considered it a test of my resolve and some small message to Alycia, hopefully to Donna as well. I’ve changed. I reframed it in my mind, continued to set my expectations to zilch, and eventually Saturday mornings simply became a relaxed time to read the paper … in the car with the engine running occasionally.

  Donna didn’t come down as often, although, a week before Christmas, she retrieved my gift for Alycia. After I had quizzed Donna regarding various gift options, she’d informed me, “Don’t try to buy her something cool. Cool changes from week to week.” So I purchased a gift certificate to Alycia’s favorite clothing shop—at least her current favorite.

  Two weeks before Christmas Day, my mother called, requesting my company. I agreed and arranged to spend half the day with my parents and the other half with Larry.

  My time in Frederick went as expected. My mother fixed Christmas lunch, and my father complained about the toughness of the meat. Later, we opened presents and Dad complained about the color of his new sweater. “I said ‘blue,’ ” he muttered. “Not navy blue.”

  “We’ll exchange it,” Mom said graciously.

  I gave my father an expensive tie clip and some computer software. When he opened the package, his face fell.

  Mom filled me in. “Your father gave away the computer.”

  “Oh,” I replied.

  “Too danged complicated,” he muttered. “You got the receipt, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Good boy.”

  After we’d finished unwrapping our presents and Dad was momentarily out of the room, Mom pulled me aside. “Your father still won’t see the doctor.”

  “ ‘Nixon administration,’ ” I reminded her.

  “He’ll go if you go with him.”

  I wondered what Mom had been smoking. “I doubt it.”

  “Try.”

  Dad walked into the room. “My ears are burning.” He stared at the Christmas tree. “That thing look crooked to you?”

  Before either of us could answer, he’d crouched below the tree and begun adjusting the stand.

  “Hey, Dad, let’s go see the doctor.”

  Mom grimaced, obviously thinking my timing was off.

  Without looking up, Dad replied, “I’ll go to the doctor when Linda Svenson wears an A cup. And not a minute sooner.”

  “Lou!”

  “There’s your answer,” I said to Mom, wondering who Linda Svenson was.

  “Don’t even ask, Stephen,” she said quietly, reading my mind.

  That afternoon, when I called to wish Alycia Merry Christmas on the phone, she was, as always, “unavailable.” It was beginning to wear on me. The likelihood of regaining my daughter’s trust or at least some kind of civility between us seemed unlikely, if not futile. At this point, I could only hope I would be invited to her high school graduation.

  A month after the mini-correction, including several weeks of high volatility, the market began to settle down. Twice, it had charged like a bull at the old high, each time either falling short or gasping just after breaking the high. Since low-volume breakouts were suspect, I tightened my stops. I lost a little money during these ranging days—about ten thousand—but nothing to worry about. All normal, and all according to plan.

  On February fifth, the thirteenth Saturday since I’d begun waiting for Alycia, I arrived by nine forty-five, reclined my seat, and promptly fell asleep. I awakened to the sound of soft rapping and peered through the condensation-clouded passenger window, expecting to see Donna. Instead, it was Alycia.

  I turned on the engine in order to power the windows, bracing myself for the worst: Would you just leave me alone! You’re ruining my life!

  I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-thirty. I’d overslept my usual departure time. As the window lowered, I took in the sight of my daughter, hidden within her parka. The thick white face paint was gone, despite a rather heavy application of eyeliner and eye shadow.

  She simply stood there, glancing about, her attention seemingly preoccupied with something in the neighborhood.

  “Hey there,” I said, smiling like a fool.

  “I’m hungry,” she finally replied. “There’s nothing here except crackers and peanut butter.”

  I pounced. “Wanna grab something?”

  She shrugged, and cast a quick look toward the apartment. Turning back to me, she added with a reluctant casualness, “Why not?” and pulled open the car door.

  Sure, I thought. Why not? Plopping into the seat, she pulled the door closed and clasped her hands together on her lap. She was wearing jeans and purple tennis shoes. Then remembering my car rules, she reached back, grabbed the seat belt, pulled it over her chest, and clicked it into place.

  I was as nervous as a pimply-faced adolescent on his first date.

  “Taco John?” I asked.

  “Cool.”

  Heading down the street, I was reminded of the last time she’d been in my car. Driving her to the mall, she’d spent most of the time scrunched down in her seat. Three blocks away, we’d approached a group of junior high students. Peeking just above the window, Alycia had shuddered and collapsed into the seat, flat as a pancake. When they were directly across from us, my annoyance got the best of me.

  “It’s safe,” I’d said.

  Alycia sat up, only to crumple like a reverse Pop-Goes-the-Weasel. “Da-ad! You lied!”

  I never heard the end of it. My driving privileges were instantly revoked, and Donna did the escorting after that.

  As we drove in silence, I tried to gather my thoughts, searching for something uncontroversial to say. I thought of her sixteen-year- old boyfriend, and hoped it was over, although I couldn’t imagine using the word “over” in reference to such a thing.

  Don’t bring it up now, I decided.

  “I got an A in Algebra,” she finally volunteered.

  “Wow,” I exclaimed softly. “And it’s not even English.”

  “I know,” she chuckled. “Pigs fly.”

  I resisted the typical parental reply: I knew you could do it.

  When I turned in, I parked at the side of the tiny fast-food restaurant and switched off the engine. Alycia seemed suddenly tentative.

  I’d blown it. She’d intended for us to drive through, not sit in. All kinds of respectable folk might see us.

  “Hey, let’s just go through the drive-through,” I announced casually, inserting the keys back into the ignition. “Then we can drive around while we eat.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said bravely, reaching for the door and pushing it open. Once outside, she closed the door and stood like a sentry, furtively searching into the glass of the building, and then turning to survey the parking lot, her eyes darting left and right. I waited until she seemed to relax and caught my eye through the car window.

  I raised my eyebrows: All clear?

  She smiled tentatively, then shrugged as if to say, Why would I care anyway?

  Inside at the counter, Alycia ordered three hard-shell tacos from a teenager in a white uniform, with bed hair and what looked like braces on his nose and lips, then wandered toward the booths in the back of room. I gave my order to the same boy, waited for a few minutes, then followed in her direction with the food tray. Halfway back, I stopped. Alycia was nowhere to be seen.

  Well, it was a start, I thought, figuring she’d ditched me. I settled down to eat a rather large lunch for a man who’d suddenly lost his appetite.

  A few minutes later, Alycia emerged from the rest room, her face flushed. I was relieved, but tense. This is killing her, I thought, now wondering if Donna had talked her into coming today.

  As she settled into her seat, facing away from the front door, I reconfirmed my decision to avoid anything remotely controversial. Stick to
small talk. Inconsequential minutiae.

  I asked her about her Christmas without mentioning my gift. She hadn’t acknowledged receiving it, much less thanked me for it. Another can of worms.

  “Well, don’t you want to know how Mom is?” she asked.

  “I talk to her nearly every week.”

  “Oh,” she replied, taking a small self-conscious bite. The hard shell crunched between her teeth, and she seemed embarrassed by the sound.

  “How’s her job?”

  “She’s working all the time,” Alycia shrugged. “I don’t see her much anymore.”

  I decided to change the subject, and searched my memory for the name of one of her friends. “So, um … how’s … uh … Leesa?”

  She frowned. “Leesa? We haven’t been friends for a year.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” I said, but Alycia seemed annoyed with my feeble attempt to hide my ignorance.

  “Actually, I didn’t know,” I added. The tension was excruciating. Obviously she felt it too, because she stopped eating after half a taco. “Guess I wasn’t that hungry.”

  Finally I decided to go for broke. I couldn’t think of anything nonparental to say, and this little reunion was bordering on disaster. “It’s sure good to see you, Alley Cat.”

  She forced a smile.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  She looked away as if she hadn’t heard me.

  Okay, I thought. That went reasonably well.

  “You don’t have to say that stuff,” she said, clearing her throat.

  “I’m just following the rules in the Obnoxious Parental Guide Book.”

  A smile crossed her face, then quickly disappeared. She looked at me for what seemed like the first time. “That’s so dumb, Dad.”

  “Yeah, I know, but did you expect anything better?”

  “No.”

  “So, I didn’t disappoint you.”

  “What are some of the other rules?” she asked, with a familiar but fleeting grin.

  I thought for a moment, then nodded as if I remembered one. “Always remember that no matter what you say, no matter how brilliant, it will be perceived by your son or daughter as either stupid or embarrassing—or both.”