John D. MacDonald

What About Alice?

Bill Sanders, faced with, a deadline set by the agency — combined with no desire to get to work — paced back and forth through his cluttered apartment. He tried not to see the typewriter, smoked countless cigarettes which tasted flat and stale, scratched at the stubble on his chin. It was midafternoon, with winter rain whipping against the west windows.

He was grateful for the knock on his door, knowing that for a while, at least, he wouldn’t have to dredge his sluggish mind for sparkling ideas.

It was Stan Quinn, the fellow that Morgan was breaking in on public relations — a tall, dark, friendly fellow, but still a bit awkward with the older men in the agency. It seemed odd that Quinn should drop in. Bill had been friendly to him, but not particularly chummy. Probably had something on his mind. It would be best to let him work up to the point in his own time.

Stan followed Bill into the kitchen while he broke out two bottles of beer. They went back into the front room and sat by the windows. Bill noticed that Stan acted ill at ease — almost ashamed.

“How’s it going with you, Bill?”

“Average. Just average. I’m knocking myself out trying to dream up angles for a sample program. When I’m down at the shop I think the ideas’ll come easier up here — and when I’m up here I can’t work because it’s too quiet.”

Stan looked sympathetic and made thumbnail markings on the outside of his steamed glass. Bill let him take his time. Finally Stan set his glass firmly on the floor, balanced his chin on his fists and looked intent.

“How about the scoop on Alice Kelsey, Bill?”

It was a shock. Bill was angry for a moment, but when he tried to sort out the reasons, the anger turned to a type of sadness — of regret. “Isn’t that a pretty odd thing to ask, Stan?”

“Hell, don’t I know it! But who else can I ask? I’m in love with Alice and I hope to marry her, but...”

“Stop right there, Stan. I’ve heard that a marriage should feel inevitable to be right. No ‘buts’.”

“Sure, let me explain. Morgan says that I’ve got a good future with the outfit, even though I won’t make much for some time. Marriage at this point could be a very good or a very bad thing, depending on the girl. I’ve been told it would be a good idea to talk to you because you and Alice ran around together for a long time, even though you don’t speak to each other now.”

Bill nodded slowly. “She’s a little older than you, Stan.”

“Only two years. She’s a little younger than you, but I don’t think a few years makes much difference either way.”

“Maybe not. Give me a chance to think it over for a few minutes. You’re handing out a lot of responsibility.”

Bill finished his beer, set the glass on the floor, leaned back in his chair and stared out at the gray rain. Immediately he thought back to the first time they had met — the booth at Milo’s. He remembered that she had cried for joy because she had landed a job that she had wanted badly — a job at the station. They had managed to get drunk on coffee and on each other at Milo’s, and right away every bit of her had snapped into place in his heart. She was both plain and beautiful — something about the line of her brow, cheek, jaw, throat — gray eyes bright with laughter. Before they left the booth they were in love. He recalled the way she walked out of Milo’s ahead of him, his first realization that she walked with the instinctive grace and appealing awkwardness of a colt.

Bill wondered how many miles they must have walked, her stride free and swinging, her hand warm and firm against his palm — walking the streets of the city by day and night. The line of her throat, the tilt of her head, filling him with a dazzling sweetness. Beside him on the bench by the river, with the moist breath of the river mist, and the freighter shadows shouldering their way out to sea. That had become a favorite place, that bench near the river.

She had been mocking in the midst of emotions, and suddenly emotional in the midst of laughter — and all the days with her were short, so short. Under the gay surface she had a streak of peasant — with warm lips and husky voice. Earth and fire, beauty and movement, he was thinking — a bit of all that breathes is in her, and part of her is in everything that is beautiful.

But somehow he had managed to spoil it. He had learned to hurt her, and having learned, he wanted to hurt again — to taste the joy of reconciliation. That was it — at first, the small germ of emotional sadism. And behind her gray eyes there was new uncertainty — fear that he would pick up the words that hurt and hurl them at her. He was moody, he told her, hard to get along with, unpredictable. Then, even knowing why he did it, he could not stop — it was too late to stop.

“She’s a sensitive woman, Stan,” Bill said. “Easy to hurt. Don’t fall into the habit of hurting her just because it’s so easy. Don’t be an emotional big shot at her expense.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t try to hurt her. Maybe it isn’t important. You’ll probably be right for her. That’s all.”

“Of course she’s sensitive. But do you think that maybe she’s too sensitive? Is that what I ought to look out for? I wouldn’t want to hurt her — I wouldn’t hurt her intentionally.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t. You’ll be all right for her. I’m not the type, that’s all.”

He had seen her sparkle fading, the cloud behind her eyes becoming more evident. But he had not been able to stop, even when he knew he must, and he couldn’t stand it to watch her cry. It was easy to walk out, walk quickly out, in time to let her save herself. Easy, that is until the realization came that all the rest of the days would be empty. And now... now she was mending and here was Stan to help her. Yes, Stan would probably be right for her — and he knew that no woman would ever be right for himself, now that Alice was gone.

“Stan, she’s the sort of woman that becomes necessary to you. The more you know of her, the more essential she becomes. She gets into your blood and makes every other woman in the world tasteless and dull.”

“Is that a warning? You mean she’s dangerous if she gets into your blood?”

“I’ll risk sounding sloppy. Look, there isn’t a better gift the fates can hand out to you than a woman like Alice. And somehow I doubt that there is another woman like her.”

Stan laughed self-consciously. “You sound as though you still held that old torch on high.”

“If you’re right for her — if you can keep the old sparkle in her eye, that’s all I’ll care about. But don’t ever hurt her. Another beer?”

“No thanks. Got to run. Thanks, Bill, I only hope I’m the right guy for her.”

“Okay, kid.” He saw Stan to the door.

At dusk the rain stopped. Bill sat by the window as night darkened the apartment. It was too easy to remember every word she had said and how she had said them, the way she moved her hands, the look in her clear gray eyes — before the cloud came. Too easy to play the game of what might have been, and he knew that with a second chance... But nobody goes around handing out second chances.

He showered, shaved, and dressed. He couldn’t work. Stan’s questions had torn away the protective scar tissue, and the wound was new again. He would have to walk — countless blocks — so that sleep would come.

The wind off the river smelled fresh and moist from the rain. He followed the winding path where they used to walk together. He moved slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, retracing, through some compulsion, all their steps and all their thoughts. The lights from the avenue swung his long shadow out across the black water.

He heard the quick tapping of feminine heels coming up behind him, and he remembered the nights when they had arranged to meet along this part of the walk. The heels tapped nearer and she walked by. Alice — the tilt of her head, the line of her shoulders. She hadn’t noticed him at all.

He watched her walk into the night, knowing he should turn and walk blindly in the other direction. Instead, he followed her — slowly at first, and then faster, desperately afraid that he would lose her in the night.

Almost running, he came up beside her, slowing his steps to match hers. “Hi,” he said.

She glanced up at him, night masking her face. “Hello, Bill.” Quietly, casually.

They walked along in silence — awkward — not like the silences of long ago.

He said, “Do you come, here often?”

“Not often.” Her voice was hushed to match the night silence.

As he walked beside her, his hand brushed hers, and it was more than he could bear. He grabbed her hand, stopping her, and suddenly, surprisingly, she was in his arms, her sobs shaking him. He tasted salt on his own lips and realized without wonder that he too had tears.

She pulled away and looked up into his eyes, her face a pale oval in the night. She said with an odd, throaty chuckle, “Did I do a good coaching job on Stan Quinn?”

When he realized what she meant, he said, “My darling, you’re a bad type. A fiend with red hair. Come here.”

Her lips were warm.

Content

John D. MacDonald
What About Alice?