Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [19]
Alice is shocked at this news and possibly also a little bit glad for Henry that he can stop feeling so bad trying to do something he loves so much. But then there’s this other reaction, like why the hell does everything have to change all the time?
She doesn’t say any of this, of course, because what could she say? I’m shocked-sad-mad-disgusted-furious, I want to scream at you, I want to celebrate. She sounds schizophrenic, even inside her own head.
She just keeps walking, keeps her head down. She’s chewing her lip and tastes blood—damn! Now that’s gonna bug her all day. And then they’re passing Mrs. Minty’s house.
Mrs. Minty lives alone, and Mrs. Minty always comes out on her porch and waves to Henry and Alice. Mrs. Minty is old. Really old, like from another century. But that doesn’t stop her from tutoring at the library, where she runs the literacy program. Teaching adults to read and write two afternoons and two evenings a week.
There she is in her tweed skirt and cardigan sweater and those dark brown tie shoes with a little heel. Her hair is in a bun. Her dad used to say, “Mrs. Minty looks like she just stepped out of a bandbox.” Whatever that is.
“Good morning, Alice! Good morning, Henry!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Minty!”
Henry gives her a little wave. Henry always gives her a little wave.
“Henry, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind stopping by after school. I need some help moving a few boxes.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Minty.”
“Alice, you come, too. I’m baking cookies this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Minty is smiling at her, not some sappy, oh you poor thing smile, but just a regular spring morning smile. Alice stops. Henry is shuffling his feet and giving her all the nonverbal let’s go signals he can think of. But Alice ignores him. She stands still right there on the sidewalk and takes a good long look.
The apple tree in Mrs. Minty’s front yard is full of fat buds getting ready to bloom. And it’s full of birds, too, and they’re all singing. Alice didn’t notice the birds before, but now she does. They’re making a racket. How could she not notice this? And then she looks down into the green, green grass and Mrs. Minty’s whole yard is filled with tiny white and blue flowers.
“Those are pretty flowers, Mrs. Minty.”
“Snowbells and scilla. Some of the first to bloom each spring. They’ll even bloom in the snow. My husband and I planted a hundred bulbs thirty years ago. Now there are thousands.”
Henry actually takes Alice by the arm and pulls her away, giving Mrs. Minty a last wave.
Alice is thinking she’d like to just lie down in Mrs. Minty’s front yard and skip school altogether, but Henry has this death grip on her elbow and before she knows it, he is propelling her up the drive to school.
They’re early—as usual—so they head to the auditorium, which has the only decent piano in the school. The janitor has given Henry the key so Henry can come in and play whenever he wants. This is strictly against the rules. The janitor, Mr. Herlihy, and Henry have decided, after much wrangling and discussion back and forth, that they don’t care about that stupid rule.
Mr. Herlihy, it turns out, loves music. He has a huge collection of old jazz records. LPs he calls them. And whenever he can, he slips inside the auditorium and sits in the last row to listen to that kid Henry Grover playing in the dark.
Henry rigs up his book lamp so it creates a little puddle of light, and Alice climbs up onto the lip of the stage, and angles her book into the one spot where there’s almost enough light to read by. Henry plays while Alice finishes her English homework.
Henry likes this arrangement. He gets to improvise and no one makes comments. Alice never tells him to shut up or play something different. Alice lies on the stage and reads, and sometimes she puts her book down and just listens to him. Every once in a while she’ll tell him she likes what he’s playing,