Alice Bliss (28 page)

“What?”

“Would you—?”

“—What?”

“I don’t know how to say this—”

“That’s okay.”

“I think if you could . . . maybe . . . I don’t know . . . hold me . . .”

She hesitates.

“I might be able to fall asleep.”

Henry has no objection to this idea, and he would like to play it cool, like, oh sure, what the heck, I get this request all the time. Hold you? All casual like. You bet. No problem. But really he is pumped full of the jitters, which is making it especially difficult not to let his hands and his feet sort of do their own nervous dance, and right away he is thinking logistics, like how is this going to work on that skinny little air mattress with a sleeping bag. But Alice has already figured it out. She unzips the sleeping bag so that it can go over them like a quilt.

“I think if we lie on our sides we can both fit.”

So Henry finds himself taking off his shoes and his sweatshirt and lying down next to Alice. She lies with her back to his chest. There’s a momentary question about what to do with their arms, but they figure it out.

“I’m gonna leave the light on, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure.”

Her head is tucked beneath his chin, her body curves into him, his arms are around her. He inhales the heady perfume of her hair, mixed with the workshop smells of woodsmoke and linseed oil. He listens to her breathing. He can feel her breathing.

“Henry . . . ?”

“Shhhh . . .”

“Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

They are quiet for a while.

“Henry . . . ?”

“Go to sleep, Alice.”

“I wish . . .”

“What?”

“I wish we could stay like this forever and ever and tomorrow would never come.”

He begins to sing to her, very softly, almost not singing at all, just a whisper of a tune. He spins out the tune like it is a tale he is telling her, until he feels her body relax, until he feels her falling into sleep. He sings to let her know he’s there, to stay anchored to the earth, to keep from laughing or crying in amazement that he is lying with Alice in his arms, he sings as if music could keep her alive, as if music could feed her soul, as if music could weave a protective spell around her to survive these days and these weeks and these months and these years, he sings as if he could give her a piece of himself, which will ring inside of her like a bell, like a promise, like hope whenever she needs him; and in his singing, he promises her every single thing he can think of, and more.

 

Inside the house, Angie falls asleep from sheer physical exhaustion and then wakes into fresh grief as she returns to consciousness and remembers. She swims up from sleep to the knowledge that Matt’s death is not a dream, it is not a nightmare, but more real than anything else that has ever happened to her, more real even than the birth of her children. She comes downstairs to make tea or toast or maybe something stronger and looking out the kitchen window she sees the dim, unexpected glow in the workshop.

She checks the clock. Three a.m. What’s going on?

When she crosses the lawn and opens the door, her first thought is: What the hell are they doing? They’re fifteen years old for God’s sake! Now she has to deal with this, too? Alone. Without Matt. Years of this. And then she sees that they both still have their clothes on. And remembers that the door was not locked. And the flashlight is on. Thank God. Henry turns his head to look at her and puts his finger to his lips.

“She couldn’t sleep,” he whispers.

Angie nods. And frowns. As frowns go, it is a loud frown.

“I promised to stay with her.”

He waits for a response.

“Is that okay?”

“Does your mother know where you are?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m not happy about this, Henry.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Keep it that way.”

“Okay.”

“No funny stuff.”

“No, ma’am. Absolutely not.”

“I’m not kidding, Henry.”

“I know.”

Henry is getting a crick in his neck from trying not to look like he is plastered against Alice.

“When you wake up, get up. Come in for breakfast. No lollygagging in the damn sleeping bag.”

“Okay.”

“Eight o’clock. I want you in the house.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a watch?”

“I can see the clock.”

“One minute past eight I’ll be out to check on you.”

“Okay.”

Henry attempts a reassuring smile.

“You’re way too young to be sleeping with my daughter. No matter what she’s going through. Do we understand each other?”

He nods.

“This is special dispensation for one night and one night only.”

Another nod.

“You do understand that now
I
will not be able to sleep for the rest of the night?”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . oh my God . . . do I really have to explain this to you?”

“Shhhh . . . shhhh . . . we don’t want to wake her up.”

“Maybe I should just stay out here with you.”

“Mrs. Bliss . . .”

“What?”

“You can trust me.”

“Henry, you’re an adolescent boy.”

“So?”

“There are forces at work here that are bigger than both of us and both of you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will,” Angie says, as she turns and leaves her daughter in the arms of this boy, in the safe haven of her father’s workshop, in a world turned upside down and inside out, as she turns to go back to . . . what? Her empty bed? A stiff drink? To crawl into bed with Ellie, to steal comfort from her eight year old? None of these choices were even a remote part of her life when Matt was alive. Stop thinking, she admonishes herself, just make some tea and curl up on the couch with a blanket to wait for eight a.m. Matt would be beside himself if he knew she was letting Alice sleep with Henry. In the same bed, in a separate building, with no supervision. She can hear Matt hollering
, What are you thinking?!
But Matt hasn’t met this moment, Matt hasn’t met these nights and these days with this pain and dislocation and the sense that they will, all of them, have to find their comforts and their safe places and their moments of peace and rest and respite wherever and whenever they can.

 

Henry wakes to find the sun up and Alice gone. It is 7:27, he notes, according to the clock over Matt’s workbench, so at least he hasn’t broken any promises to her mother yet. The pillow is squashed from Alice’s head, the sleeping bag is still warm from her body, but where is she? His mouth feels like sandpaper, which probably means he was snuffling and making strange noises all night long. He would like about a quart of orange juice and a salad bowl full of Cheerios, but what is he supposed to do now? Look for her? Go into the house and have breakfast? Disappear down the street to his own house as though he was never here in the first place?

He throws off the sleeping bag, gets up, and crosses to the window overlooking the garden and what do you know, there she is, in her pajamas and his sweatshirt and a pair of too-big rubber boots, hoeing away. What does she think she is, some kind of farmer? She has braided her hair to keep it out of her face. She is hoeing very carefully, turning over the soil, loosening the clods.

Every row is planted now, except for the tomatoes, which have to wait for Memorial Day, or so he has been told on innumerable occasions. Soon there will be a pale green fuzz to the garden, a green, hopeful, babyish fuzz of barely born, half-baked plantlets all in straight rows. Alice finishes hoeing and heads back to the workshop. She opens the door, hangs the hoe on its hook, and asks:

“Want some breakfast?”

And that seems to be that. Like last night never happened. Like he hasn’t been holding her in his arms for hours, watching her and listening to her breathe. He had been determined to stay awake all night, but something, who knows what, happiness maybe, stole him away and took him off to dreamland.

“You coming?”

“Maybe I should go home.”

She considers this.

“Okay. If you want.”

“Your mom came out here last night.”

“She did? Was she mad?”

“Yes and no.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Well, yeah. Sort of.”

“And she let you stay?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“What do you mean, kind of?”

“She established some ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“The usual.”

Alice turns toward the house.

“You coming in, or what?”

“My parents might be worried.”

“Okay.”

“But I left a note.”

“So they’re fine, then.”

She starts across the lawn.

“Alice—”

When she turns to look at him, the rising sun catches her square in the jaw and she steps back as though it is a physical blow. And now the birds. As he tries to find words, as he tries to find what to think and what to say he can suddenly hear the birds, dozens of them in the apple trees, dozens more in the lilacs.

“C’mon. Let’s go,” she says.

He follows her across the lawn and toward the house, like a guilty party, like a hungry man, like a frightened boy, and he is full of words and feelings and confusion and a rumbling belly and somewhere important something hurts and aches and he can’t tell if he is aching for Alice or if he breathed in her grief with the smell of her shampoo.

Henry pauses at the kitchen door. Alice is already pouring juice into jelly jars. When he steps into the kitchen it is unnaturally quiet, as though the house itself is holding its breath. And he suddenly knows that the millions of changes no one wants and no one can prevent, the avalanche of change falling down on Alice and her family, is just beginning.

She hands him his glass of juice as her mother steps into the kitchen.

“Right on time,” she says, looking at the clock.

“I was just leaving,” Henry says, and makes his escape out the door. He turns to wave at Alice, walking backward, waving at her through the doorway. He wants to make her smile somehow; but she seems lost to him, so he doesn’t even dare flash a goofy grin. She raises a hand to him, like a salute, and inside his head he thinks, be strong, Alice, just as inside her head, she hears her father’s voice:
courage, Alice, courage
.

Within twenty-four hours every neighbor has brought a casserole or a cake or a plateful of cookies. Mrs. Grover arrives with stacks of paper plates and cups, plastic forks and spoons, and a fresh apron. She has quietly installed herself in the kitchen to take care of the food and the family.

Gram has left the restaurant in Sally’s hands. Sally, Ginny, and Dave have rearranged their schedules to be there for the duration, as everyone is calling this.

Gram and Uncle Eddie have made all the necessary calls to friends and family. Uncle Eddie is shuttling back and forth between their house and his garage, trying to keep a lid on things. He’s installed coolers on the back porch crammed with ice and soda and beer.

Sergeant Ames has called to tell them Matt’s body will be arriving stateside, with a military escort, in two days. Do they want to meet the body in Delaware? Do they want to view the body before the autopsy? Which will take two more days. At which point Matt will be placed in a coffin in his military dress uniform, unless they choose cremation. Have they chosen the coffin? Do they want to accompany the body home along with the military escort? Commercial or military plane? Do they want an honor guard at the burial?

Angie doesn’t want an autopsy; she won’t even allow the word to be spoken in front of Alice and Ellie, but of course, they’ve both heard it. Angie and Sergeant Ames have been around the block several times on this issue. Angie is furious and adamant and she’s even called her senator’s office to ask for help. When the senator herself calls back, Angie has a wild moment of hope, but all of the senator’s sympathy and gratitude cannot change army policy.

The funeral director, lugging two sample cases, is knocking on the door with his own long list of impossible questions and impossible choices to be made. Only it’s not a he, it’s a she. It’s a beautiful young blonde with a soft voice and soft hands and just why is it so unsettling to think of this lovely young woman dealing with the dead? How can she do it, Alice wonders? And Angie is thinking, isn’t it just like Matt to have a beautiful girl taking care of him, even now.

Allison Mahoney, of Mahoney and Sons, suggests that they sit at the dining room table to go over things. Gram whisks Ellie upstairs for a game of Scrabble while Angie and Alice follow Ms. Mahoney into their own dining room.

The sample cases contain very glossy photographs of all kinds of coffins, shown open and shut. There are samples of too-shiny satin in lurid colors, fancy turned brass handles, all of which can be mixed and matched, like picking an outfit. Urns, should they go that way, large and small, plain and fancy, some are blown glass, some are hammered brass. There are pages and pages of choices for the registry book, for cards and prayer cards, and Mass cards, and preprinted thank-you cards.

“Who will be writing the obituary?” Ms. Mahoney asks.

They make their choices and their decisions, one by one. Angie is numb; Alice just wants to get away, to get outside, to go running, to think about, to feel something,
anything
else.

When Ms. Mahoney finally leaves, Mrs. Grover and Gram serve dinner. They all pretend to eat. Uncle Eddie and Henry are pretty successful at it. Afterward, Alice heads to the kitchen to help Mrs. Grover clean up.

Henry is taking out the trash. Mrs. Grover is trying to keep Alice up to date with the food and the leftovers and what they should keep on hand and what they should freeze. Alice wants someone else to keep track of this. But she is trying to help; she is trying to focus on what they should do with the leftover green beans and will anyone want any more of Stephie’s mom’s Jell-O salad? Which Stephie delivered herself while Alice was out in the garden.