Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice) (25 page)

But Sylvia and I were entranced with nothing but trees, trees, trees on either side, like tall parental figures, holding out leafy arms to embrace us. To transport us away from all the cares of city life.

“I think this getaway is just what we need, Alice,” Sylvia said. “Every moment we’ve had together seems devoted to the wedding, and it’s just nice to clear our heads for a few days, isn’t it?”

I agreed.

*  *  *

Les and Stacy were renting a town house in a small community a mile from the center where they worked. Les was in their little patch of front yard, watering the shrubs, when we pulled up in front. He grinned and turned off the hose.

“Your Honda make the hills okay?” he asked, coming over to give us each a hug as we climbed out and stretched.

“Of course!” said Dad. “It’s only seven years old. What did you think?”

Les scooped me up in his arms. “Finally got you away from books and bridal magazines, huh? Come on in, everyone.”

Stacy was putting lunch on the table, but she stopped to give us a tour of their home, everything sparse and sleek—Z-bar lamps with LED lights by the chairs and on desktops, geometric prints on the walls and sofa cushions, bright and modern and attractive.

“You’ve done a fantastic job! I love it!” I told her. It was fun following her from room to room, pretty in her jeans and peasant blouse with the untied ribbons at the neckline.

“We had a budget and followed it to the penny,” she said. “Amazing what you can do with IKEA and a few yard sales thrown in.”

After lunch Les took us on a tour of the convention center. His office had a wide window looking out on the woods, and we exclaimed over the indoor Olympic-size pool where Stacy taught swimming and exercise classes.

“Anything particular you wanted to do while you’re here?” he asked us. “I can even round up a few horses if you’d like to ride. What about you, Alice?”

“Fishing,” I said.

Everyone looked at me.

“Fishing?” said Les.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been fishing in my life. I want to be able to say I tried it.”

Les looked at Stacy. “We’ve got the rods and the tackle. If we got up early tomorrow and caught anything, could we add it to tomorrow’s lunch?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “But I won’t count on it.”

So he took us to see the river, himself in the lead, holding branches out of the way as we followed the path.

“Snakes are beginning to come out of hibernation and sun themselves, so watch where you step,” he warned us.

I paused with one foot two inches from the ground. Snakes and mice and roaches are all on my wipe-off-the-face-of-the-earth list, and suddenly I began seeing snakes everywhere. Every branch on the path, every twisted root of a tree, brought a gasp or a yelp from me.

Finally Les said, “Al, you want me to get some Prozac or something?”

“No, I want you to carry me piggyback all the way to the river,” I bleated.

“If there are any snakes on the path, Les will come to them first, Al,” Dad assured me, bringing up the rear, his sunglasses moved up on his forehead to see through the darkness of the trees. “If they’re off in the brush, they’re not going to bother you unless you bother them first.”

“Or look at them,” Les said. “If a snake is staring right at you, stop and look away.”

Now I came to a dead halt on the path. “Really?” I knew that applied to dogs and bears, but . . .

“Of course. Haven’t you ever heard of ‘snake eyes’?”

“Is this true, Les?” I demanded.

“Absolutely,” said Les, keeping a straight face. “And after you yield the path to a snake, keeping your eyes averted, you’re supposed to give a little bow and say, ‘After you.’  ”

Dad chuckled, and Stacy swatted at Les from behind.

“You’re no help, Lester. If we were lost in a jungle together, we’d get eaten by the first thing that came along,” I told him.

The river was beautiful with the reflection of the afternoon sun on the water. There was a homemade dock at the water’s edge and a rowboat tied to a post.

“Whose boat?” asked Sylvia.

“Bill, our neighbor’s,” said Stacy. “He’d be glad to let you use it.”

“Sure you’re up to this, Al?” Les asked. “We’d need to get up really early, when the fish are biting.”

“I’m fine as long as we’re in a boat,” I said.

We enjoyed Stacy’s chicken divan that evening and Lester’s homemade wine. As darkness closed in, we could hear the night sounds in the woods, and I began to feel more relaxed than I had in a long time. We all retired early, Dad and Sylvia in the guest room and me on a daybed under a handmade quilt, in the little home office off the living room.

*  *  *

Les tapped on my door about five the next morning.

“Al? You still want to go fishing, or would you rather sleep?” came his voice from outside the door.

My eyes opened a slit. Surely it couldn’t be morning already.
I felt myself sliding back into sleep, but he tapped again and stuck his head inside. “If we want to catch anything, we’ve got a better chance if we go now. Bill says the fishing’s best between five and seven.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” I said hoarsely, willing my eyes to open.

And finally I was in the kitchen in my jeans and sneakers and an old sweatshirt of Stacy’s, my hair in a ponytail, nothing but ChapStick on my face.

“I made us a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and dug up a can’s worth of night crawlers for bait after you went to bed last night,” he said. “I think we’re set.”

He handed me the bait can, a bucket, the sandwiches, and a thermos, while he carried the rods, the tackle box, and a flashlight.

I didn’t worry about snakes this time because no snake would be trying to sun itself yet. Something scurried across the path—a chipmunk, I think—but I kept my eyes on the beam of the flashlight ahead, and finally we were at the dock. Les held the rowboat steady while I climbed in.

There was something special about being out on a river before dawn with my married brother—watching the slow current make its way around the boat, the trees barely visible, birds calling from shore to shore.

“Right about here,” Les said, maneuvering the boat to a point almost even with a fallen tree on the opposite bank. “This is where Bill suggested we try our luck.”

I wanted Les to know I could do whatever he could do,
so—in the early morning light—I watched how he baited a hook and practiced tossing my line in the water. I never got it as far out as he wanted it to be, but he said that would do, and we settled down to eat our sandwiches and watch the bobbers moving slightly up and down on the water. I was glad that Stacy had suggested I bring a box of wipes along. Never eat a peanut butter sandwich right after you’ve baited a hook unless you have some wipes.

“I think married life’s agreeing with you, Les,” I said. “Stacy, too. You both look great. What’s it been now—three years?”

“Coming up on four,” Les said. “Yep, we’re doing fine. I can’t say I’ll stay in this job forever, but for now we both like living here a lot.”

I saw that his bobber had gone under, but when Les reeled his line in, the hook was empty.

“Took the bait and got away,” Les said, and dug another night crawler out of the can.

We weren’t having much luck. Les picked up the anchor once and moved to a different location, but we got only a few nibbles and lost a lot of night crawlers.

When the sun had risen full, reflecting off the water, we passed the sunblock back and forth for something to do. The minutes ticked by, and I began to feel that I was being hypnotized by the bobber and that if Lester were to chant
You are sleepy, you are sleepy,
I’d probably topple over.

Suddenly my bobber went under, and I felt a tug on my line.

“I got something! I got something!” I cried excitedly.

“Okay, easy now. Don’t let the line go slack,” Les said, standing up as my line moved in the water. “Keep it taut while you reel it in, and not too fast.”

The line was heavy, and the rod was slightly bent.

“Got a big one, Al. Want help?” Les asked, taking a step toward me. Even he was excited.

“No! I want to do it myself!” I cried, sounding like a four-year-old. “Is the bucket ready? Do we have a net?”

“No net, but the bucket’s ready. Just keep pulling it in . . .”

The line kept jerking. The fish was obviously trying to get away, but the closer it got to the boat, the heavier the line felt. I was afraid it was going to wriggle loose of the hook, the rod bending farther and farther, and finally I flung the line backward, and a long, silver, slithering something landed flopping and twisting in the rowboat.

“A snake!” I screamed, and fell backward, down into the bottom of the boat.

“Al!” yelled Les.

“A snake!” I shrieked again, letting go of the rod, and suddenly the creature was on top of me.

“Get it off! Get it off!” I screamed.

“It’s an eel,” Les yelled back, trying to grab the line and steady it, but the slithering thing flipped around on top of my chest until finally Les grabbed it with both hands and threw it back in the water.

He stood there looking down at me, and I could see he was trying not to laugh. “You okay?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me there were snakes in the river!” I chided, struggling to get up again.

“It was an eel, Al.”

“It was a snake. A water snake! A water moccasin or something!”

“E-E-L,” he spelled out, reaching down to pull me up.

“Prove it.”

“I can’t. I threw it back. It was too big for the bucket, and I couldn’t subdue you both. If I’d had a net, though, I would have put it over you.” He steadied the boat, a hand on either side, as I awkwardly pulled myself back onto the seat.

“Sure you’re not hurt?” Les asked.

“We might have both been bitten and poisoned,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “It was at least four feet long.”

“Three, maybe.” Les grinned. “Ready to go back and get some breakfast?”

“Yes.” I was more civil now. “And thanks for the fishing trip, Les, even though you live near a snake-infested river.”

“Eel,” said Les, picking up the oars and turning the boat around.

“Full of water moccasins and snakeheads,” I muttered.

When we got back, Dad and Sylvia and Stacy were having coffee.

“How was the fishing?” Dad asked.

“We had a nibble or two, but nothing we could bring back,” said Les. “The fish just weren’t biting much this morning.”

“All except the snakeheads,” I said.

“Snakeheads?” Stacy paused, holding the coffeepot. “Did you see a snakehead? We’re supposed to report them if we see any. Fish and Wildlife Service is trying to keep them out of West Virginia rivers.”

“Yeah, I’ll file a report,” said Les, and I could see that he was struggling to hold back a grin. “I’ll tell them there was some weird thing out on the river this morning . . . couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it was wearing one of my wife’s old sweatshirts and was definitely new to West Virginia waters.”

*  *  *

It was hard to leave Les and Stacy and their little home in the woods. They seemed so content with each other, and I wanted Patrick and me to be as happy as they were.

After breakfast, and then lunch on their screened porch, Les walked our bags to the car.

“So what’s the secret of a happy marriage, Les?” I asked.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Always say yes.”

“C’mon. Really.”

“It’s something every couple has to work out for themselves, Al. I can’t give you a formula. To live together with anyone takes adjusting, you know that—even roommates.”

“Okay, but what works for you and Stacy?”

Les opened the trunk of Dad’s car and put the bags in. “Number one, listen. Number two, always be honest. Three, never take your company fishing.”

I poked him in the ribs. “I had a good time anyway, Les. I guess we’ll see each other at the wedding, if not before?”

“October it is. Got your wedding present all wrapped and ready.”

“Really? What is it? Tell me now!” I begged.

“A tackle box and bait bucket,” he said.

*  *  *

I got my master’s degree in June—just a plain old MA, no frills, but I was pleased and so was Dad. Patrick gave me a small gold heart on a gold chain for a present. He graduated too that summer from the University of Chicago—summa cum laude, of course—bought a car, and moved to Maryland when he was hired in about two minutes by a think tank in DC studying health and food production in developing countries.

Since I’d be living at home temporarily, the Stedmeisters invited Patrick to stay with them till the wedding. He and Mark had been good friends, and this helped them feel that they were still part of Mark’s life. They gave Patrick a key to the house and told him to come and go as he pleased, and we were grateful. Even though Montgomery County had no openings for a counselor at this time, we went apartment hunting, and we finally found one in a new complex in Bethesda. It would be completed about a month before we married.

We had set our wedding date for October 18, in the church on Cedar Lane where Dad had taken Sylvia to the Messiah Sing-Along, where he and Sylvia had been married, and where Les and Stacy, too, had said their vows. I promised myself our wedding would be as easy on our relatives and guests as possible. I would not ask them to travel to some distant location, would
let my bridesmaids help choose their dresses, and most definitely would request, in the program, that guests remain seated when the bride came in. I hate the way everybody rises, like she’s royalty or something.

In fact, Abby, Valerie, and I used to wonder where that old idea came from that this is
her
day—like everything has to be exactly the way
she
wants it.

Claire saw it differently. “But it
is
her day! It’s the day in her life she’s the most beautiful. She’s
giving
herself to her new husband.”

“What?”
I cried. “What is she, a loaf of bread? He’s giving himself to her too, remember.”

“It’s not the same,” Claire said.

“It’s
their
day!” we argued. “The bride’s
and
the groom’s.”