Die A Little Part 2

"She is. I mean, she's qualified to teach home economics. She studied it. At Van Nuys Community College." He's followed me into my car after lunch, sits down next to me on the bench seat.

"Well, she'd have to get her teaching certificate." I shrug. "It takes months of coursework and student teaching." I wonder if Bill's sudden urgency has anything to do with the surprise party.

"No, no. She has her teaching certificate. She got it to teach in Lomita about four years ago. But then she finally got in the seamstresses' union and started working for the studios instead."

"Really? Well, that's great, Bill," I say, meaning it, really meaning it. Alice content means Bill content, after all.

And anyone could see Alice was desperate to channel her energy into a new project. "Long afternoons," she'd say to me, eyes a little too bright, neck a little too straight, teeth a little on edge, "the afternoons, Lora, are endless."

"So do you think you could talk to Don Evans? Maybe offer to bring her in so he could meet her? I'm sure if they met her, they'd see she'd be a great addition. I'm sure she'd charm the pants off them. And the kids would love her."

"But I'm not sure what I say means much. For hiring, especially. I'm not senior faculty."

"But you'll try?" He looks down at me, squeezing my fingers gently.

"She's my sister now, isn't she?" I smile.

As it happens, it is all too easy. Princ.i.p.al Evans is eager to make a quick hire, with Miss Lincoln ready to leave and begin planning her wedding. It seems like the whole process unfolds effortlessly, with Alice coming for an interview and receiving a modest offer two days later, contingent on her submitting appropriate credentials. Within three weeks, she will be in the cla.s.sroom.

"Tell me everything about these girls, Lora," she says, the table in front of her papered with open books (Mrs. Lovell's First Book of Sewing, Teaching Domestic Arts to the Young, The National a.s.sociation of Home Economics Teachers Presents a Guide for Lesson Plans), pads of paper, notes, an oversize calendar filled with notations like "Begin pillowcase" and "Basting work." Two pencils poked out of her upswept hair.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything. I don't even know what to ask. What do I say? Will they do what I ask them to?"

"You taught before, to get your certificate. Just do what you did then."

"But these girls... are they very ... what are they like?"

"They're just girls. They do what they're told. Just don't let them get the better of you. You know, pa.s.sing notes, talking behind their hands to each other during cla.s.s."

"I'm going to start with a simple project: napkins. Then a pillowcase. We'll work up to grander things: an evening jacket with shirring."

I bite my lip. "That's fine, Alice. But I don't think you can have fourteen-or fifteen-year-olds make evening jackets. They're not spending their time at nightclubs."

Alice looks up at me, eyes wide. "No, no, of course not. But they might wear it to a dance. They go to dances, after all, don't they?"

"Yes, but these girls aren't as ... sophisticated as the ones in Los Angeles. They're small town girls, really. What if you made a nice flounced skirt instead?"

"Is that what Miss Lincoln had them make?"

"No. No, I think they made middy blouses or jumpers."

Alice looks down at her calendar, hands shaking slightly. "You think I'm a fool." She smiles weakly.

"Of course not, Alice." I lean forward, toward her: "You're going to be fine."

"They'll love me," Alice says, looking up at me for a moment, then back down at her lesson plan decisively. "You'll see. They'll absolutely love me."

It is all as Alice predicts. She begins teaching and everything proceeds fluently. It strikes me that a focus for Alice's queer restlessness was all she had needed: just apply the same fervor to teaching that she had to the house, to being a new wife.

The girls are intimidated by her, not surprisingly. The intimidation that comes with intense infatuation. Even Nonny Carlyle, the most popular girl in school, settles in her seat, focused on the sewing machine, listening closely as Alice explains the different st.i.tches, how to thread the new machines.

Alice wears her hair in straight-cut bangs, and within a week Aileen Dobrowski, Linda Fekete, Mary Carver, even Nonny Carlyle herself all come to school with freshly shorn bangs. They stay after cla.s.s, circling Alice's desk, showing her pictures in magazines, in Vogue and Cineplay and Screenstar, pictures of dresses they want Alice to look at, ideas they want her opinion about. Alice, eyes jumping, is only too glad to indulge them, although her interest runs on an egg timer and it is never too long before she smiles and tells them they can discuss it more tomorrow; she has a husband to get to, a pot roast to make, a house to clean.

Each day, we drive home together, chatting about each cla.s.sroom interaction, each charming or charmless student comment. Still, it is only a few weeks when the rush of the performance, the velocity of daily events, seem already to have worn off. I guess I am surprised at how quickly things turn. While she doesn't say so, it's clear that the pleasures have waned. She still talks ceaselessly, but no longer about school, about anything but school. When she settles in the car at the end of the day, her whole body seems deflated, like she has peeled herself out of some awful costume and tossed it aside.

At Bill's encouragement, Alice and I begin going out for "girls' nights" once a month. Nights that are at least as much about getting ready-radio moaning, hair spray buffering the air, Alice with needle and thread fitting me into new dresses she's made from studio-sc.r.a.pped gossamer-as they are about the destination.

Having Alice in our life makes me think of what it might have been like to have sisters or close girlfriends. Here we are in our slips and stockings, laughing and running around, cigarettes dangling (only with Alice do I smoke) as we try to get ready. Alice plucks my eyebrows for me, cursing me for what she calls my "crushingly natural arch."

One night, Alice is putting delicate finger curls in my hair when she starts to talk about how her mother had the most beautiful mane, like sealskin. Mae Steele nee Gamble was dismissed from her place of employment when it was discovered she was eight months pregnant with Alice-a fact she had concealed through increasingly painful physical measures for nearly six months. She'd been a chambermaid for a rich Los Angeles family-"not the Chandlers, but close."

Mae confided in her daughter Alice the toil of the job, and the many indignities. Especially, the monthly job of dyeing the woman of the house's pubic hair. "Once, she asked me if I'd ever done it to myself," Alice's mother told her daughter. "I said no, but that I once shaved mine in the shape of a heart for a man. Her jaw dropped to her knees. For about three seconds.

And then she decided she liked the idea and she asked me to help her do it. It wasn't for her husband, of course. The j.a.p gardener. Who was a big favorite in the neighborhood, let me tell you.

"Of course, the man who asked me to shave mine was her husband. When he finally saw what she had done, weeks later, he was furious. Because he knew. He knew that I had something over him, that she and I were that close."

These sidelong revelations, conveyed so casually, and then an hour later we are seated in sparkling, red-hued nightclubs in Hollywood, nights with cigarette after cigarette, cracked crab on silver plates, and maybe one too many Seven & Sevens.

Three hours later still, my head slung down, chest ringing, I can't stop the quaking fun house feel, bright pops and tingling sparkles, hand clutching, fist twisting in my belly.

Suddenly, Alice's enormous black eyes are looming beside me.

"Hold on there, darling," warm and then pealing into a laugh. "Haven't you ever been tight before?"

Not like this, I try to say, but the thought of speaking seems unimaginable, Alice's hand on my neck, in my hair, trying to hold me up like a ventriloquist's dummy.

"-get you home safe and sound before one of these pretty boys can get his hands on you when my back is turned. Bill will wonder where we-"

And driving home and lights pa.s.sing over me and I sit in the pa.s.senger seat trying to listen, trying to listen to Alice's rustling voice. She is telling me how she saw her mother on television the night before, her long dead mother, and had nightmares all night. It was an old musical and she couldn't remember the name, never remembered the names. As Alice watched the movie, her mother's face suddenly popped out of a row of dancing girls in satin bathing suits. "Like some horrible jack-in-the-box." She laughs, her voice rising, quavering uncomfortably.

"This was in the early thirties, before she hung it all up. She couldn't keep up with her union dues, and there were other problems, too." Alice's voice jingles in my ears, and I try to concentrate, try to hold on to her words, the secrets she may be revealing.

"She moved us out to Hermosa Beach and laid low for several months before getting her maid job. Hard times, and no one suffered more than that woman. At everyone's hands, but especially her own."

She pauses, looks out the window into the hills, eyes heavy with dread. Then adds, "If she'd had more of a taste for pleasure, like her husband, she'd have been better off."

Then adds, "Did you know. She committed suicide by eating ant paste."

Then, "Don't take this the wrong way," she confides with a ghost of a smile, leaning over as we pull into the driveway, mouth nearly to my ear, "but it wasn't soon enough."

For two months, we all fall into an easy schedule. Alice and I carpooling to school. Thursday night dinners. Sundays spent at my brother's, ending with a big Sunday dinner. Sometimes, bowling on Fridays. A double date. The main difference is I spend more time with Alice and almost never see Bill alone for more than a few minutes. It is jarring at first, but I know that it is only natural. They are newlyweds. And Alice is working so hard to make a home.

During the school day, if I have a free period, I sometimes walk by Alice's cla.s.sroom, just to see. Occasionally, I notice a faraway look in her eyes as she teaches. She is very present, talking seamlessly, directing everything. But her eyes are slick, silver things not connecting to anything, just hanging there, unfixed. And sometimes her body starts to look that way, too. Not tight and taut and jumping like usual, but loose, with slow and elongated movements, punctuated by hands touching everything lightly, running along the sewing machines, sliding along the windowsill, pa.s.sing over the girls' shoulders, touching everything, but only faintly, fleetingly, like a ghost.

It reminds me of my days volunteering at the county hospital, and the way some patients would always touch you, and the touch was warm and slippery and the morphine tanks dripped endlessly, endlessly.

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Alice is smoking and driving with equal intensity. It is a bright Monday morning.

"Of what?"

"Of having to be at school. Of having to be in front of them, of having them come up to your desk, in the hallways, in the cafeteria. Always wanting to talk to you. And then, the other teachers, always talking about their cla.s.ses, about lesson plans, about the students, about the princ.i.p.al, about faculty meetings and curriculum. All the time. All day long."

I wave her smoke out of my face and say, "Well, it's the nature of the job. Everyone takes these jobs, chooses teaching because they do care, right?"

She looks at me, blowing smoke from her lower lip and smiling faintly. "I notice you didn't say 'we.' "

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't say, 'We take these jobs because we care.' "

"I was speaking generally," I say.

She doesn't say anything, her eyes darting at the traffic. I can't tell if she is thinking of a response, or if she's already moved on.

"I've always known I was going to be a teacher," I add.

She nods vaguely, hitting her horn lightly as a car threatens to force its way into her lane.

"You'll get used to it," I say.

"You'll come to enjoy it," I continue. "Truly. You'll come around." I can't stop talking. Somehow, it's me now who can't stop.

The sense always that there is a ticking time bomb ... and then, quite suddenly, it seems to be ticking faster.

It is a month or so before final exams, and I'm in the main office, where the attendance secretary is helping me track down an errant student.

"Don't take it personally, Miss King." She clucks her tongue. "Peggy's been missing all of her cla.s.ses. We're going to have to call her mother."

"All right," I say. As I turn, I collide with Princ.i.p.al Evans, his vested chest nearly knocking me down.

"I thought I heard you, Miss King," he says. "Come into my office for a moment, will you?" He opens the door for me with his usual formality.

"Have a seat. I have a small favor to ask."

"Yes, sir."

"When we hired your sister-"

"Sister-in-law."

"Sister-in-law. When we hired her last fall it was under the precondition-the state-dictated precondition-that we would receive a copy of her certification from ... what was it..." He began thumbing through the file in front of him.

"Van Nuys Community College," he reads aloud, then looks up at me, over his reading gla.s.ses.

"Right."

"Well, somehow we never received the paperwork from Van Nuys. Or from Lomita, where she taught for ... a semester."

"Really." I want to be more surprised than I am.

"I'm sure it's merely an oversight." He smiles serenely.

"I'm sure. Why-may I ask, why are you asking me and not Mrs. King herself?" "Well, you see, I didn't want her to feel we doubt her," he says. "She's very sensitive, you know. A fairly green teacher."

"I see. I'll be sure to bring it up with her."

"And I'd hoped to take care of it today, because I have a lunch meeting Wednesday with the superintendent about next year's renewals. Do you know, will she be back tomorrow?"

"Pardon me?"

"Well, I might have broached the subject with Mrs. King herself, delicately, but her illness-"

"Illness?" Alice had seemed fine when we drove to school that morning.

"Oh, I a.s.sumed you generally drove in together. She's out sick today. Apparently some sort of flu."

"Right," I say, rising. "I'll speak with her tonight."

"Righto."

As I walk out, head suddenly throbbing, I try to guess at what point Alice might have slipped out of school. At what point she gave up her pretense of coming to work and drove away. Perhaps she felt ill once she arrived.

"Miss Harris, have you seen Mrs. King today?"

"No, no," she says, thumbing through her card file. "She called in sick." She waves a card in front of me. "She phoned when I first arrived, seven A.M."

"Thank you," I say.

That night, I call my brother to tell him about the missing paperwork. I speak to him in simple, even tones, trying to keep my voice free from any concern or doubt or judgment.

Like the detective he is, he asks a series of questions I am in no position to answer, questions about how the school or the college must have bungled the process, why he and Alice hadn't been told sooner. Then, he a.s.sures me that he will take care of it.

"There must have been some mistake, some kind of filing error or something," he says, and even over the phone I can somehow see his brow wrinkled in a gesture so old it seems timeless.

"Don't worry," he says, for the third time.

"I'm not worried, Bill."

"I'll drive to Van Nuys myself if necessary," he adds.