Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [4]
“No changes? No building on our successes and learning from our failures?”
“We didn’t have any failures.”
“Just way too much yellow squash.”
“Okay. Let’s take out half the yellow squash.”
“But keep the corn?”
“Yes.”
“And everything else.”
“Just like last year,” Alice says, slowly and carefully.
“Because . . . ?”
“Because I want it to be the same.”
Alice manages to look him in the eye, which is when he can see how hard she is working to stay in control.
“Okay.” He smiles at her. “We’ll go with last year’s design.”
“Good.”
“You want gourds even if I’m not here?”
“Yes!”
In the far corner of the garden Matt grows decorative gourds. They are strange things: bumpy and lumpy and misshapen. But they are colorful and surprising and they serve no purpose other than to amaze. Alice has every intention of growing gourds this year and every year for the rest of her life.
Matt labels the plan with the date and tacks it up on the wall.
“You can rototill mid-April if the ground isn’t too wet and heavy. You can call Jimmy Rose to do it; or ask Uncle Eddie to help you.”
“Got it.”
“You might have to pester Jimmy. He gets busy.”
Matt looks out the window at the snow covering the garden.
“And I want you to help your mom.”
“I know.”
“No, Alice. Really help her. Like you’re her partner. I want you to help her take care of Ellie and the house and . . . She’s gonna need you.”
“Okay. But tell her to remember to ask me.”
“What?”
“She acts like I’m supposed to know everything she wants and when I don’t she gets mad. If she’d just tell me. Or ask me—”
“You tell her.”
“She doesn’t listen to me.”
“Keep trying.”
Alice looks at her feet.
“Honey? Keep trying.”
“Okay.”
“You know where all my papers are.”
“Dad! We’ve been over this!”
She doesn’t want to hear about his will and his life insurance again. She doesn’t even want those papers to exist.
“I opened up an account for you.” He reaches into his back pocket and holds out a bankbook from the local bank. “It’s just a basic savings account. But I put five hundred dollars in there for you. In case you need something.”
“Dad, it’s okay.”
“Or there’s an emergency.”
She’s backing away from him. She doesn’t want to touch the bankbook.
“Or your mom can’t handle things for a few days.”
“Dad!”
“Alice, there are things you need to know.”
She trips backing away from him and sits down, hard, on her butt. Which is funny. In an awful sort of stupid, annoying way.
He reaches out to help her up and pulls her into a hug. It’s a real hug, the kind of hug he used to give her before she started turning into a teenager and growing breasts and getting sweaty and unsure. He holds her for a long time. She breathes him in. Sawdust. Wood smoke. Cold coffee. Aftershave. Linseed oil. Dad.
Matt is trying to stay right here with Alice; he is trying not to let his mind run off with all the what ifs that have been keeping him awake at night. He’s wishing his parents were still alive. His mom would know how to pick up the slack, or how to step in if Angie and Alice really can’t get along. And his dad . . . his dad would plant the garden with Alice, and take her to baseball games and . . .
“I need to show you something.”
“Not your will again.”
“Come over here.”
He leads her to the big wooden tool chest. He pulls out the first three levels of tools, then opens a drawer and slides that out completely. Underneath the socket wrenches there’s a plain white envelope with her name on it. He opens the envelope and fans five one hundred dollar bills.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s there if you need it. And in the envelope there are some important numbers. The VA so you can get benefits, my lawyer, my life insurance . . .”
“Dad! You’re talking like you’re not coming back.”
“No, no, no.” He grins at her, and his whole face lights up. “This is like carrying an umbrella in case it rains, and then it doesn’t rain, so . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just insurance. It’s just an umbrella. You can’t take it too seriously.”
She wants to believe him.
“And together, right now,