The Pursuit of Alice Thrift (6 page)

“Until?”

“Until my mother calls and complains about my sister. No one apologizes. It just goes away.”

“I've heard of worse things,” said Ray. “In some families, people stay mad. No one calls and pretends everything's okay because they all hate each other's guts.”

I told him this trip was different. I always left like this—earlier than planned. But no one ever walked through the door with me. No one ever came to my defense or pointed out that the Mariettas of the world were the ones deficient in social graces.

“And?”

“I guess that was me saying thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

A few miles later he asked, “Who did this to you?”

I asked what he meant.

“Your parents? Is that who? Did they ever build you up? Tell you you were smart and pretty—their precious daughter, their pride and joy?”

“Pride and joy, sure,” I said. “But because of what I did and not the way I looked.”

I could see that he was studying my profile, searching for a diplomatic counterpoint. “What a pity,” he finally said. “To think that all these years—how many? Twenty-five?”

“I'll be twenty-seven in two months.”

“To think that in all these years you've been carrying around this image of yourself as—how would you define it? Unattractive?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don't want to hear that anymore,” he said.

I didn't flinch when his hand moved to my knee, an act that seemed more brotherly than sexual. Or so I thought. He left it there until he had to downshift, a good fifteen miles later. When it found its way back, higher on my leg and decidedly less fraternal, I let that pass, too. I was only human. No one else was driving me out of state or banishing derogatory adjectives from my vocabulary. No one else's pupils dilated as I described my two weeks in a remote village in British Honduras with the Reconstructive Surgeons Volunteer Program, aiding the shunned. In a few years I'd be thirty. My sister was a lesbian. I was a heterosexual with the potential to be the favorite child. And here in the adjacent bucket seat, stroking my unloved leg, was a man.

7.
Reveille

“WHAT I MEANT BY ‘STAY,' ” SAID RAY, “IS PRETTY MUCH
universally understood to mean
not go home.
As in
sleep over.
”

I explained, just inside the front door of my building, that overnight parking was prohibited on Brookline Avenue, and, furthermore, overnight guests were not allowed under Leo's and my covenant.

Ray said, “I've never heard of such a thing! Whatever happened to consenting adults? Is this a halfway house or something, with rules about sex, drugs, and firearms? C'mon. Who are you kidding? You're making this up, aren't you? Why not just tell the truth? Why not say, ‘Ray? I'm scared to have a man in my bed.' ”

“I'm not,” I said. “I just think this is premature and unwarranted.”

“ ‘Premature and unwarranted,' ” he parroted. He moved closer and took my hand. “But I'm a red-blooded guy who's pretty good at translating body language and I seem to recall you didn't mind having my hand on your knee earlier this evening between Sturbridge and Natick on the Mass. Pike.”

I said maybe, but that was depression authorizing what appeared to be intimacy. Physical contact didn't have to be sexual, did it?

“Pretty much,” said Ray.

I confessed that I wasn't a red-blooded gal. I didn't know the signs and didn't seem to be endowed with the hormonal cues that the rest of the population possessed. “Frankly,” I said, “I'm baffled as to why you want to see or drive or sleep with someone who gives nothing back.”

It was then he declared, “It's so obvious, Alice: I want to spend time with you and make love to you and wake up next to you because I'm crazy about you. And I have been ever since I walked into that examining room and found that the doctor was a woman, no wedding ring on her finger, and with a pretty uncluttered field once I asked around.”

“Whom did you ask?”

“The secretary! She said you weren't married.”

I said I doubted that very much. Yolanda would never entertain personal questions about me or any other house staff. Even if she wanted to she couldn't because we'd never discussed anything remotely extra-departmental.

Ray grinned. “I wheedled it out of her. It wasn't so hard.”

“Was fudge involved?” I asked.

Ray didn't answer.

“She has a notorious sweet tooth. Everyone teases her about it and bribes her with Godiva truffles.” Everyone but me, that is. Yolanda was overweight, sedentary, and had a family history of Type 2 diabetes.

“So how about a kiss?” he asked.

I waited, shrugged, switched my pocketbook to the opposite shoulder, announcing finally that a kiss would be acceptable. I closed my eyes.

Nothing happened. I heard him step away, and when I opened my eyes he was three respectful paces back, tightening the knot in his tie. “You know what?” he said. “I'm not going to force you. Your expression is like a kid biting into a fish stick when he was expecting a French fry. I have more pride than that.”

I asked, as any good clinician would, “Was it what I said, or the way I said it?”

“What does it matter? I wanted to kiss you, and now I don't.”

It was excellent psychology: In an instant he was the hurt party and I was the villain.

“Not sixty seconds ago I said I was falling in love with you,” he continued, “and all I get in return is a blank look and the third degree about which secretary said what.”

“Not blank,” I said. “Surprised, or maybe just exhausted. And you're the one who brought up Yolanda.”

“Either way, it's not very flattering,” said Ray, “although I don't expect much from this life anymore. Me, Ray Russo, average ordinary widower without a bachelor's degree, let alone an MD or a CPA after my name, thinking he can turn the head of Boston's most eligible doctor.”

I mumbled something to the effect that anything was possible. I'd seen in my own circles a famously obnoxious second-year resident chafe daily against her equally disagreeable chief resident, yet at the Christmas party they announced their engagement.

“Are you saying there's hope, or are you saying, ‘Let's be friends, Ray. You and I are from different worlds, and even though this is America, where everyone is allegedly equal, and even though you dress well and drive a cool car and own your own business, I'm looking for a guy who I could take to a doctors' dinner party and wouldn't embarrass me or get drunk or talk back to the host.' ”

Of course I had to counter with something democratic and egalitarian. I said, “I took you home, didn't I? And, by the way, I really appreciated your talking back to my father today, which I think demonstrates your high self-esteem as well as your ability to think on your feet.”

“My street smarts, you mean?”

“That, too. Definitely. And your pluck.”

“Gee, thanks. That's what I want people to think: That guy has pluck.”

“Are you mad?”

“Nope. Not mad. Discouraged, maybe. And still lonely, but don't you worry. That's my cross to bear.” He walked to the door and said, barely mounting a wave, “See ya.”

“See ya,” I said.

He opened the door, but hesitated on the threshold. “Good luck with everything, Doc. I hope you have a great life and you get to fix, like, every harelip along the Amazon.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

LEO'S BEDROOM DOOR was closed. His voice and that of an unidentified female's could be heard in what sounded like playful conversation. As a courtesy, I knocked on his door and said, “I'm home,” to save all of us the embarrassment of louder noises or their spilling into the hallway in any state of undress.

I should have been thinking of my deceased grandmother as I fell asleep, or agitating over my most recent evaluation, but instead I was puzzling over how I'd thrown cold water on Ray's torch. Was there a book I could read on the subject:
How to Restore
a Man You've Rejected to His Previous Station as Platonic Friend?
On Your Own Terms, Without Leading Him On?

Did I owe Ray an apology? Should I be thinking, Fruit? A gift certificate? A presidential biography on tape?

Leo would know. I'd ask him in the morning.

HE KNOCKED ON
my door at 5:45
A.M.
“Aren't you supposed to be across the street in fifteen minutes?” he yelled.

I groaned. I had hit the snooze button twice and fallen back into a deep REM sleep, stuck in a dream filled with cousins and stained glass. “Coffee's on,” said Leo. “I think if you take three minutes for a shower, two minutes to get dressed, five minutes to eat your cereal, you'll have another five minutes to cross the street and get up to the floor.
If
you get your ass in gear this second.”

None of this—reveille or raisin bran—was typical of our arrangement. Immediately I grasped what was happening: He was playing the solicitous and thoughtful roommate because he had an adoring audience.

“Is your guest still here?” I asked. When he didn't answer I said, “I thought I heard a woman's voice coming from your room last night.”

I was sitting on the edge of my mattress now, staring dully at my feet. There were specks of mauve polish left on a few toe-nails, remnants of a summer spruce-up. I probably had some nail-polish remover somewhere. “I'm up,” I called. Then louder, “Leo? You still there?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Alone?”

“She didn't stay over, if that's what you mean.”

I put my robe on, a souvenir in thin yellow cotton from a VA rotation, over surgical scrubs and took a seat at the kitchen table. I said, “I think I'll have that coffee before my shower.” I shook a cupful of flakes into a bowl. “Was it someone nice?” I asked. “Someone new and exciting?”

He shook his head. “Just someone to watch a movie with.”

“Was it a funny movie?”

“In places,” said Leo.

“Because I heard laughter.”

He was at my elbow, holding our phone and dialing a number. He handed me the receiver and said, “Here. It's ringing. Tell them you came back by train this morning and you'll get there as fast as you can. Mention the word
funeral
so they'll remember it wasn't a vacation day.”

Yolanda answered. I told her I was doing my best to get there for rounds but would undoubtedly be late.

“Funeral,” Leo whispered.

I nodded. “I think you probably remember that I was at my grandmother's
funeral
all day yesterday.”

Yolanda said without any indulgence in her voice, “So when should I tell them you'll get here?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes, if I run.”

Leo held up his hands and flicked both sets of fingers three times.

“More likely thirty. I just got in. And my roommate is in the shower so I have to wait my turn.”

Leo flashed a thumbs-up.

“The most I can do is pass on your message,” said Yolanda.

I looked up and mouthed, Not happy. Leo reclaimed the receiver and said, “Yolanda? It's Leo Frawley, soaking wet. Look, she's in no shape to make rounds. Can you finesse this? I mean, like a half hour? It's not like she was out partying last night and couldn't get out of bed this morning—you know what I'm saying?”

She must have said something like, “Dr. Thrift? Partying? That's a good one,” because Leo answered, “Yeah, well, there's a lot to be said for keeping your nose to the grindstone when you're expected to work eighteen-hour days.”

I stood up, tapped my watch, and pointed across the hall to the bathroom.

He hung up quickly and asked, “How was yesterday? Awful?”

“Very sad. And the minister was a complete stranger, so that didn't help.”

“I guess I meant, how did Ray work out as an escort?”

“Good and bad.”

He pointed to the chair I'd just vacated and I sat back down. “Good as transportation. Good at taking my side in a family fracas. Bad at being grammatical and appropriate.”

“I could have predicted that,” said Leo. “There's something slimy about him. And he tries too hard. He's clearly waging a campaign to win your hand.”

“My hand?” I repeated. “You mean, as in marriage?”

“Of course. He's not a kid. He's a widower. Don't you read magazines? Men who were once married get hooked up again as soon as they can because they know single men die younger than married men. Ask any actuary.”

I said, “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then you're blind. He's looking for his next wife and he thinks her name is Alice.”

I took a long gulp of coffee. “Okay. Maybe he is. But it's only human nature to look for someone who can return his feelings, and when he realized I couldn't, he finally gave up.”

Leo said, “I don't want to make you any later than you already are, but I think I have more to say on the subject of Ray—namely that he kept coming back without any encouragement, so why would he bow out now?”

I said, “Maybe you and I can grab a sandwich in the cafeteria.”

“If my five minutes overlaps with yours, you mean.”

“Or tonight.”

“Can't tonight,” said Leo.

“Same woman?”

“Dinner with my mother,” he said.
Mutha
was how he said the word:
Dinna with my mutha.

I waited, thinking he might sweep me up into the party, in that way of large families with boardinghouse tables and bottomless stews.

“You didn't want to come home and have dinner at my house, did you?” asked Leo. “Is that what I'm reading in your face? ‘Leo, invite me to your house because I haven't had a really stringy piece of meat in months, and I'm dying to be interrogated about my life, my sleeping arrangements, and my grandmother's last days on earth.' ”

I said, “Actually, I'd welcome the opportunity to observe you in a family context.”

Leo said, “Is that Thrift-speak for ‘Excellent! I've been dying to meet your mother, Leo'?”

I didn't see the difference, but I said yes, it was.