By the time Alice went back out, it was late and her options had narrowed somewhat, since, of the taverns and churches that offered solace and inebriation of every sort to the lonely of Rensselaer, half were closed. Among the taverns, however, she still had plenty of choices. The smoky darkness of Losers repelled her, as did the noise of the sports bar. She kept walking down St. Anne until she came to the next bar, The Casino, a dim little place under the sign of two playing cards, and looked in. There were candles in netted red globes on the tables, giving off a warm ruby glow, and a few people sat at the bar, a couple of them talking without turning and the others absorbed in their drinks or the crooning of the jukebox. This was what she wanted by way of company, people talking a little but not necessarily to her, so she went in and sat at the bar.
Perhaps because of the feeling she got from her uniform, a sense of belonging but not here, strange and yet at home, she gave the impression of someone in costume, playing in a secret program known only to her but inviting speculation. It was not long before this air had its effect on a customer sitting two stools down, though all he could think of to say to her was, “Just get off work?” She told him no. He thought about that for a minute or so before trying again, this time to ask her, did she work at the brewery? Yes, she said, and, seeing his mistake, he tried a question that required more than a mono-syllable in response. What did she do there? Everything, she told him.
Feeling lucky, the man drew closer. His move made her uncomfortable, and when she was uncomfortable she did what she’d learned to do around Alex, be attentive all around but make it look specific, put on a placating manner, in this case letting the man buy her a drink and not protesting when he got up as soon as she said she had to go, which seemed to him like the conclusion of an extended transaction and to her like one too, though of an entirely different sort. When she found herself outside with this drunk, friendly stranger saying, “Which way?” she simply stood there looking like a woman waiting for something to happen.
This was the scene Little came upon on his way home from Losers. He slowed to say hello, looking precisely like what she’d been expecting, a circumstance it took him a few perplexed seconds to appreciate. Alice was smiling, as she hadn’t been until she’d seen him approaching, a subtle flattery he didn’t resist. “Going home?” he said, after reviewing some of the possibilities the situation presented. Alice said, “Yes,” and slipped her hand under his arm.
“Greg,” Little said with a nod to the man, whose face and name he knew, though not much more, and walked on with Alice at his side. He understood enough not to make much of her hand on his arm, but was heartened somewhat when it stayed there. For the first few minutes, uncertain, he felt that Alice was in command, but as soon as he realized she wasn’t letting go, he could start to see how he’d improved his position, maybe simply by not assuming too much.
They reached his house first, and he said, “Here we are.” A minute of immobility passed before he asked, as a question, not an invitation, “Do you want to come in?”
His house was neat; it was a point of honor with him after his divorce. Pleased with its tidy appearance, he deposited Alice on the sofa and said, “Let me get a few beers.”
When he handed one to her, she said, “I wanted company,” then explained, “I don’t know anyone.” When she added, “Everyone thinks I’m a whore,” his disappointment was intense, because he knew what disabusing her on this count would mean, just when he was beginning to marvel at having a woman in his house again after ten o’clock, and one he’d wanted from the time he was thirteen. But of course he had to tell her, no, it wasn’t so.
They sat like that for a few minutes, drinking their beers, Alice pensive, Little looking thoughtful, before he said, “Why are you wearing your uniform, Alice?”
“Because it makes me feel kind of invisible,” she said. “I like it. I like working there. But that thing with the calendar, I don’t know. Do you think I should play softball?”
“Sure. Lots of us do.” In fact, now that he thought of it, an easygoing game seemed like just the thing. For a moment Alice filled his mind like a problem with many parts: how he wished she would fit in, because he didn’t like friction, and how he also didn’t want her to fit in, since he guessed that if she did she wouldn’t turn to him anymore. She was looking at him now, or at least looking in his direction, her delicate face so close that all he was aware of was her body there beside him, shifting in such a way that he could almost feel the rough touch of the cloth of her uniform against her skin. It took a great effort to say, over the stirring of his senses, “Alice, don’t you think you should go home? Or,” he added, “you can stay here, I won’t bother you.”
“I am kind of tired,” she admitted with a sigh.
He fetched her a shirt and a robe, a pillow and a blanket, and was retreating to his room when her voice, already soft and sleepy, rose from the sofa. “Little?” He stopped, not breathing. “You know what I’m thinking?” she murmured. “Maybe I’ll get a cat.” With a small, satisfied hmm and a rustle, she turned over, and he went to bed, resigned to a restless sleep.