Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [81]
Alice, satisfied, puts the hoe over one shoulder, picks up the stool and the lantern, and heads to the workshop.
Angie calls out the backdoor.
“I’m drawing you a hot bath.”
“Five minutes, Mom. I have to clean the tools.”
Just like Matt: meticulous with his tools. In the last thirty minutes Angie has suddenly found herself face-to-face with a whole slew of things Matt has taught Alice. Angie wonders what she has taught her daughter, and feels like that list is woefully short. In this moment she cannot think of one truly valuable thing to put on that list. How to do laundry? Fry an egg? Not in the same league.
How in the world is she going to fill in for Matt? Not that anyone could ever fill Matt’s shoes. But for Alice, for Alice . . . she gets a sudden and dizzying glimpse into the size of this loss. If Matt doesn’t come home . . . No, she can’t go there, she can’t think that. He will be found. He will return. She has to believe this. She has to.
Alice walks in the backdoor, soaking wet and muddy, her dark hair dripping down her back.
“C’mere.”
Alice visibly recoils.
“Mom, I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care.” And Angie opens her arms. She opens her arms to her daughter, hoping beyond hope that Alice won’t turn away.
There’s a long moment before Alice can bring herself to walk into them, and when she does she’s stiff and cold and uncertain. But for once, Angie is not worrying about getting wet or dirty or what she has to do next. For once, Angie just holds on and holds on, until she can feel Alice melt into her, until she can feel Alice’s head sink onto her shoulder, until she can feel Alice’s arms go around her.
“I’ve missed you,” she says into Alice’s damp hair.
May 4th
Four days later, when Sergeant Ames, accompanied by a second soldier, appears again at their front door there is no need for Angie or Alice or Ellie to say a word. They all know why he is here; they know what the letter he holds in his hand says. They stand in the open doorway and attempt to listen as Sergeant Ames does his duty and recites his script about a grateful nation.
“On behalf of the President and the Commandant of the Army, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you . . .”
It is a beautiful, balmy May day and the air is rich with new earth smells and fresh cut grass. They can hear the Peterson twins down the street as they shoot baskets in their driveway.
How many other screen doors open when Sergeant Ames drives up the street? How many of their neighbors are looking at his brown Ford sedan and knowing exactly what it means? The distant war suddenly brought close, suddenly right here in their driveway, right here on their front stoop, right here and right now on East Oak Street.
Sergeant Ames seems hesitant to leave. There are details: the return of the body, the return of Matt’s effects. These will be handled by the military. Sergeant Ames promises to come back in the morning to guide them through the process and the decisions.
They watch him drive away and then step back inside the house and close the door. They sit on the couch, Angie in the middle, Ellie and Alice on either side of her. Angie holds the letter with the official army seal in her hand. They are not screaming, they are not wailing; they are barely breathing. It is so quiet Alice can hear her dad’s watch ticking on her wrist.
The phone starts to ring.
“We need to call Gram,” Angie says. “And Uncle Eddie.”
The ringing phone is like a crying child; but Angie does not get up to answer it. Angie seems paralyzed.
“I’ll call them,” Alice says.
Angie can’t seem to focus.
“Mom . . . ?”
“Okay.”
Alice gets up and heads for the kitchen, the ringing phone getting louder and louder. She turns to look back at her mother. Ellie has climbed into Angie’s lap and Angie is rocking her back and forth. In between “I’ll call them,” and “Okay,” Alice has crossed an invisible line. She was expecting Angie to say, “No, no, that’s all right, honey; I’ll take care of it.” She was expecting Angie to hold on to her, to hold on to both of her girls.