“So I hear.”
Alice pulls out both bottles, opens them.
“You ever had this kind before?” she asks.
“A taste. Maybe.”
She tries the brandy and nearly gags.
“That’s disgusting!”
Then she tries the Southern Comfort. The cloying sweetness helps the alcohol slide down a little easier.
“This one’s not so bad.”
She passes it to Henry.
“Alice, what do you think you’re doing?”
She takes another taste.
“Not thinking for five minutes.”
He grabs the bottle.
“Is that what you were doing with John Kimball? Not thinking?”
“Definitely not thinking.”
“Longer than five minutes.”
“One kiss.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t get you, Alice.”
“I don’t get me, either.”
Henry stashes the bottle between his knees. When Alice reaches for it he jerks away from her.
“What, do you think I’m going to attack you?”
“No!”
She takes the bottle.
“How could you . . . with John Kimball and—”
“I didn’t know he was following me.”
“Ha!”
“I didn’t. I was just trying to get away.”
“Why did you go
there
, Alice?”
“I don’t know. . .. It’s a safe place.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Do you even care anymore?”
“I do. You know I do.”
She can’t look at him. She offers him the bottle; he shakes his head. She takes another taste. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence.
“You’re not helping,” she tells him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get drunk with me and . . . and—”
“And what?”
“And do whatever it is that people come here to do.”
Alice is starting to make a pretty good dent in the bottle with all her little tastes.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Of course she’s kidding, she has to be kidding, he says to himself.
“There’s a blanket in the trunk.”
“How do you know
that?”
“My mother told me. She also told me to watch out for boys like Uncle Eddie.”
“I’m not like Uncle Eddie.”
“I know.”
Henry’s brain is running on high-octane fuel as he calculates what’s about to happen. Alice is going to drink herself silly, possibly drink herself right into puking. There could be kissing. Hopefully before the puking. But is that even what he wants anymore? And what is she doing? What is she out to prove and just what the hell was she doing with John Kimball? He’s really furious but it’s hard to be angry, or stay angry on the day your best friend buries her father. So maybe he’s just supposed to stay with her and try to keep her safe and try not to worry too much about, well . . . everything. But by then, the sun will be going down and here they are all the way out at the lake and Alice won’t be able to drive and Henry has driven like once in his life for maybe twenty minutes and this is a nice car, a really nice car, that Henry does not want to crack up or dent, or even mess with.
So how the hell is he supposed to get her home?
Alice exits the car, bottle in hand, and heads for the beach. Henry grabs the keys and follows her. She takes off her shoes—for a moment he thinks she’s going to take off her dress, too—drops the bottle, and starts running down the beach. He picks up the bottle, thinks maybe he should pour it out, realizes she’d be purely pissed at him then, puts it back, and heads over to the car to get the blanket out of the trunk, which is a good thing, because by the time he returns, Alice has finished off the Southern Comfort, taken her dress off, and gone swimming. And is now, of course, freezing.
He wraps the blanket around her. She presses into him, he tries backing up, she follows; it might be funny if he weren’t so mad at her, she keeps pushing against him until he has no choice but to hold her.
“You could have drowned.”
“Shut up. You sound like my mother.”
“Sobered you up a bit.”
“I’m really dizzy.”
She tries to kiss him. It’s sloppy and none too smooth with her arms trapped inside the blanket. Henry thinks, she’s had too much to drink, she’s got her dress off; they’ve got the blanket from the trunk of Uncle Eddie’s car. How is it that this turn of events, minus Alice being crazy with grief and drunk, is the stuff of fantasy, only it’s all wrong, it’s confusing as hell, he can’t trust one single thing Alice is doing or saying.
Next thing you know Alice is spewing all over the sand. Thank God she turned her head fast enough. It’s disgusting. She’s on her knees now, wiping her mouth with her hand and spitting and, oh, God, there she goes again. And then she just passes out, sprawled on the sand right next to the guck. In her underwear. Which Henry has never seen before, and certainly never expected to see in quite this context.
Henry tries to pick her up to move her. Can’t. Gets hold of her under the armpits and drags her several feet away. Kicks sand over the mess and the smell, covers her with the blanket, and sits down beside her. Lies back in the cool sand, sudden sorrow washing over him as he listens to Alice snuffling, almost snoring, as he listens to the waves lapping the beach.
She’s sound asleep, her mouth is a little bit open and she’s kind of drooling. He realizes she probably wouldn’t want to be seen like that so he closes his eyes and before he knows it, he falls asleep right there, right beside her, like all this heartache and craziness and anxiety is more exhausting than running ten miles or something.
When he wakes up, Alice is lying in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, the blanket covering both of them. He can’t believe it. He is lying on the beach with Alice in her
underwear.
And the sun is going down. And she has her eyes open and she’s looking right at him.
“Henry,” she says, her voice thick, her throat scratchy.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
How can she do this? Why does she always do this to him? Why does he let her?
“You don’t believe me,” she says.
“Not right now I don’t.”
She leans over and kisses him. He pulls away from her.
“You just
puked!”
“That was hours ago.”
“So?”
She cups her hand to her mouth and tries to smell her own breath.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“I think you’re immune to your own smell.”
“I don’t taste anything.”
“You were almost passed out when you puked. You didn’t see it; you didn’t smell it.”
Alice grabs the foul tasting brandy. Henry tries to grab it away from her.
“Not again.”
She takes a swig, swishes it around in her mouth like mouthwash, turns away and spits it into the sand. Does the breath test again. Henry is trying not to smile, Henry is trying not to laugh, but he is not, he notices, trying to get up.
When she leans over him again he wants to look in her eyes, but her eyes are closed, she is already far away on the Ferris wheel of this hoped-for kiss.
She moves closer to him, if that is possible, she moves closer and presses against him. She puts her hand inside his shirt, her cool hand on his warm skin. She’s never done anything like this before. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he doesn’t know what to do with the confounding fact of her, the body and breath and near nakedness of her.
She takes his hand and pulls it under the blanket.
“What are you doing?” Henry can’t keep the alarm out of his voice.
“Touch me . . .”
“Wait.” He can feel his heart smashing against his ribs. “Alice . . .”
“Shhhh . . .”
“I don’t know . . .”
“It’s all right.”
“Is this what you really want?”
“Henry . . .”
“You’ve had a lot to drink—”
“I puked, I napped, I’m pretty sure I’m back to normal.”
“But how would you
know
? For sure?”
She laughs.
“I wouldn’t want you to change your mind or something tomorrow,” he adds.
“I won’t,” she promises.
Touching her is overwhelming; it is like trying to read a symphonic score. It is, in fact, so overwhelming it is nearly impossible, but there are glimpses of comprehension, like something inside of him understands this; the way clusters of notes combine, make melody and counter melody and he is reading something with his fingers, with his body, he has never read before.
The hollow beneath her throat; her clavicle, he thinks, and his mind flashes on an ivory key and a clavichord and he remembers why he loves that word and that fragile bone. There are the bones in her shoulders, the hard knobs of her spine and then there is the elastic of her underpants. He stops. His hand stops.
“Will you take your shirt off?” she asks.
He is looking at the singular, hollow-eyed, broken beauty of her as he starts to unbutton his shirt and then pulls it over his head, and he wants to tell her he can see the broken places, he can see where she is blasted by grief. He somehow knows that what she wants is to obliterate her anguish with their bodies, with their longing, with the whole symphony of sensation that is washing over each of them right now. And he knows it might work, for a minute or two or ten, it might work long enough to gulp down a few clear, pain-free breaths. But he also knows that she will still be brokenhearted when this moment ends, and that she could even blame him for that, for coming back to earth, for not being able to truly rescue her or comfort her at all.
Still, there is no chance that he will refuse her; that he will refuse her anything.
This is what no one tells you, Henry thinks. The nearness of her, the unguarded nearness of her, the wonder and simplicity, now, of what had seemed so complicated and impossible just moments before. He will remember everything, he tells himself, every single thing. Alice lying on the blanket and wriggling away from an ant, which is funny and he has never seen her like this and he is relaxed enough and safe enough and close enough to laugh. He helps her find her shoes; he brushes the sand from between her shoulder blades, from the backs of her thighs. This kind of easy closeness, this is what he wants for the rest of his life. Here is the surprise of it, the simple surprise of intimacy, the deep secret at the center of things, as clear as a glass of water dipped from a well.
There is grace in this, a blessing, a still, quiet pool for each of them.
Alice stands there looking at him as he straightens his clothes and brushes the sand out of his hair and finds his glasses; then she looks at the sky and the sand and the lake. Standing up she takes on the weight of knowing again, the weight of the death of her father, which has been hurtling toward them like a comet falling to earth from the day he got on the bus to go to Fort Dix.
And Alice knows, suddenly, that his death can only hurt her more, not less, as time passes. It is as if the grief is growing inside of her, larger than the shell of her fifteen-year-old self. The burden of this grief makes her feel that she is not a kid anymore; that the most essential part of growing up has happened overnight. And if she must suffer adult loss she wants her own life beyond the borders of her family, beyond the borders of her own body. This is why she is reaching for something of her own, for something as large as this pain and emptiness inside of her. This is why she is reaching for Henry.
They are in so much trouble when they get home it could almost be comic. Every single person in both their lives is angry and upset with them. From Uncle Eddie and the car: Do you have any idea what that car is
worth?!
To Mom and the standard:
How could you?!
The general themes that are touched on, or pounded on, by anyone even tangentially aware of their multiple misdemeanors are trust, responsibility, trust, danger, stupid choices, trust, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
No one seems to have picked up on the personal part of the story, the beach and the blanket part of the story, except for maybe Uncle Eddie who is watching them with a very quizzical expression on his face. He might actually be able to follow that train of thought if he weren’t pretty drunk and pretty consumed and distracted with rage about his car.
Alice and Henry listen to the harangues as best they can, trying to remain straight-faced, trying to maintain the proper contrite demeanor, trying not to look at each other. They both feel that they are floating above this moment, deliciously immune to it. Something so much more important has happened to them today, they can’t believe that people can’t actually read about it right on their faces. But everyone seems oblivious to the warmth radiating off the two of them. This only makes Alice and Henry feel more closely aligned, as though they are, once again, coconspirators, just like when they were kids.
Gram, of course, wants to feed them. They are released to the kitchen where Gram and Mrs. Grover pile food on plates and watch them carefully, each of them beginning to sense something, they don’t know what, perhaps picking up on the fact that these two young bodies are vibrating in new and disturbing ways.
“Henry?”
“What, Mom?” he says without looking up from his food.
“Henry—?”
He looks up, startled by her tone. Mrs. Grover tilts her head, looking at her son. Alice watches as Henry meets his mother’s eyes and in the next instant blushes so furiously he has to take his glasses off and shade his face with one hand. Mrs. Grover’s glance travels from Henry to Alice, then to Gram. Gram shakes her head. Alice is biting her lip to keep from laughing.
“You’re too young! Do you hear me, Alice?” Gram says.
“Yes, Gram, I hear you,” Alice manages to say quietly, looking down at her lap.