Alice was still missing at eight o’clock, and Dillard was still driving around town. Emilia Mae had called the hospital and every friend of Alice’s. Two policemen had come and gone, bearing a full description of Alice plus recent pictures of her. “We’ll call you as soon as we have something,” the taller one had said.
Emilia Mae found waiting alone unbearable.
She called Reverend Klepper.
“Alice is one of God’s children,” he said. “I know he is looking after her. For now, you must stay strong. You know how to do this.”
She didn’t find his words consoling. She didn’t know how to do this. Her world felt as if it was tilting. She’d never looked to her mother for solace, but frantic now, she called and asked her to come over.
Geraldine breezed in ten minutes later wearing her faux leopard coat over jeans and a pink turtleneck with lipstick that matched. Emilia Mae had to laugh. “You put on lipstick for this?”
“I did it for you. Coming here looking like an old hag surely wasn’t going to make things any better.”
Emilia Mae understood that by her mother’s logic, this was a kind gesture. She started to cry. “I’m really scared.”
“I know,” said Geraldine, sitting next to Emilia Mae on the couch. “She’ll come back. I’m staying with you until she does. I know you’re not the praying type, but I am.” Geraldine closed her eyes and bowed her head. Emilia Mae wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on her knees. Geraldine moved closer to her. “You mustn’t let yourself think the worst.”
Emilia Mae laid her head on her mother’s shoulder. She couldn’t remember when they’d been this physically close. She smelled like gardenias and cigarette smoke.
“Poor child,” said Geraldine.
She’d never used those words before. Her daughter had been a troubled child, a difficult child but never a poor one. Now, settled against her, Emilia Mae was more of a child than she’d ever been. Geraldine basked in the feeling of being needed.
The man must have heard her footsteps running down the street. Why else did he turn around so abruptly? He had the cake box tucked under his arm and held his other hand in the air as if he were waiting for someone to place something on it. “Hey there, sweetheart. I guess we both knew this was about something more than strawberry shortcake, didn’t we?”
That’s when Alice should have lied, said she was running home to dinner, but being this close to the gap-toothed man, she wasn’t about to turn away.
“So, hi again,” she said.
“Well, hello to you.”
A wedge of silence stood between them until the man looked at his watch. “We could stand here saying hello to each other all night, or we could go somewhere and have a drink. My dinner doesn’t start for a few hours.”
Alice laughed. “I don’t drink. I’m only sixteen.”
“Well, I’m a bit older than that. Stick with me, and I promise, you won’t have any trouble getting a drink.” He pointed to a green MG convertible parked at the corner. “I heard about this place off North Avenue, the High Life. Have you ever ridden in an MG?”
“Nope.”
“Well, hop in, you’re in for the ride of a lifetime.”
It was a five-minute drive. No big deal. She knew the neighborhood. She’d passed the High Life many times, with its orange neon martini glass beneath it. This would be an adventure.
“Sure, why not?”
The car smelled like leather. The man turned on the engine, which sounded like a motorboat revving up. He drove fast. She could feel the road beneath her. Her hair whooshed around her face like the hair on a TV shampoo ad, and she wished someone from school could see her now.
The High Life was dim inside and smelled of old popcorn. The man led Alice past a row of barstools to a plum velvet booth in the back of the room, where they sat side by side. In the hazy light, she could see the dappled skin under his neck. He was balding and wore a thick silver wristwatch that kept banging against the table. He was older than her mother. Much older. He rested his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, while he swallowed her with his eyes. “So…sweetheart. You do have a name, don’t you?”
“Alice. And you are?”
“Marty. Marty Stone. Tell me, Alice with no last name, what do you do besides bake beautiful cakes and make the hearts of grown men beat faster?”
“I go to high school,” said Alice, trying to think of reasons why John might have changed his name to Marty.
“Yeah, so high school. That’s nice. Any favorite subjects?”
“Music. I like to sing.”
“I’ll bet you have a sweet voice. Why don’t you sing a little something for me?”
“Oh, no, not here.”
“Then maybe somewhere more private?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Alice had met men like this at the bakery. They’d make off-color remarks or pat her inappropriately. Dillard or her mom and grandma were always close by, so she could afford to shrug them off. This was different. She was alone with a strange man in a strange place who was studying her a little too closely and talking to her in a way that made her feel as if spiders were crawling up her back. Thank God the waitress showed up. “What’ll it be kids?” She winked at Marty.
“Two beers, hon.”
Alice knew that she could get up from the booth and run out of the bar whenever she wanted. But something held her there: Was it the fear that Marty might run after her? Was she worried about being rude? Maybe she was a little curious. Maybe she felt cool being in a place like this with a man like that. Maybe that’s what held her here.
Marty asked her what her dad did.
“We all work in the bakery,” she said.
“Got any sisters or brothers?”
“Nope, just me.”
They talked about the bakery, and about New Rochelle. “I’m a Bostonian, been here a few times. Seems like a nice place, but everything outside a big city seems like the country to me.”
His Boston accent was thick. Alice didn’t remember her mother saying anything about John having an accent.
Marty talked about himself with gusto, as if he was used to entertaining people with his stories. That was another thing her mother hadn’t told her about John.
Alice took a sip of the beer. It was bitter and made her want to make a face, but she forced herself not to and took two more sips. Emboldened by the drink, she said, “So, Marty, what do you do?”
Marty wiped foam from his lips with his monogrammed handkerchief. “A little of this and that, you know.”
Alice took another sip. “Like what?”
“I dabble in the stock market. I play the horses at Suffolk Downs.”
“Did you ever dabble in real estate?”
“Nah, real estate’s a pussy’s game.”
Now there wasn’t a sliver of reason for Alice to be here.
Marty looked at his watch again, stood up, and took Alice’s hand. “Come, let’s you and me take a look at the jukebox. Maybe there’s something there you’ll want to sing along to.” He took two quarters from his pants pocket and punched a bunch of buttons. Andy Williams’s weeper, “Moon River,” started playing.
“Dance with me,” he said, pulling her close enough that she could feel her breasts crush against his chest.
“C’mon, let’s hear you sing,” he said, sliding his hand to the top of her behind.
“I don’t know all the words,” she lied.
She got through “Moon River” but said her throat hurt when Sinatra’s “Bewitched” came on.
“I really need to get home,” she said. “My parents are expecting me.”
Marty glanced down at his watch. “Aw, come on. It’s not even eight thirty yet.”
“No really,” she said, trying to wriggle out of his arms. “I’ve got to get home.”
“You’re like a ray of sunshine,” he said, pulling her closer. Struggling her way out of his clutch wouldn’t work. She’d have to sweet-talk herself out of it.
“What a nice thing to say. I’m sorry to be rude, but I really do have to get home. My parents expected me home hours ago; they’re gonna kill me for being late. You wouldn’t want that to happen now, would you?”
Marty loosened his grip. “Anyone lays a hand on you, you let ol’ Marty know about it.”
“I appreciate that,” said Alice, not knowing if he was kidding or not.
“So, at least tell me your last name. If you don’t, it’s easy enough to find out. I’ll just come back to the bakery.”
“Wingo,” she said, slipping out of his arms. “Thank you for the drink and the ride in the MG.” She managed a tepid smile, then grabbed her jacket and walked quickly out of the bar.
“Alice Wingo,” he shouted, as she headed toward the door. “We’ll meet again.”
Out in the street, Alice’s heart was beating so fast she had to lean against a car to catch her breath. When she started walking, she turned to see if Marty had followed her. He hadn’t. She remembered that in her haste to leave, she’d left her purse in the bar. No way she was going back in there. Except now, she had no coins to call home and had no way to get there. Her throat tightened but she stopped herself from crying with the thought that tears were a waste of time; she had to figure out how to get away from the High Life and Marty Stone. She started running in the direction of home, hoping that someone she knew would see her. People were out. It was a Friday night. Surely someone would recognize her.
After about fifteen minutes, her pace slowed to a walk. She sensed a light shining behind her. A car seemed to be following her, its headlights bearing down on her. Marty Stone? She started to run again and didn’t turn around. The headlights came closer, illuminating the yellow witch hazel buds on the side of the road. She jumped at the sound of a honk then jumped again at the second honk. It was only when she heard a familiar voice call her name that she turned around.
Dillard. Thank God. He pulled the Pontiac to the side of the road and got out. “Alice, where have you been? Are you okay?”
She hugged him. “I’m fine,” she said, and began to cry. She could smell his freshly ironed shirt, the clover scent of Dial soap. He smelled safe, like home. Dillard kissed her forehead. “You’re okay, sweetie.” They stood that way on the side of the road until another car whizzed by and made them realize they were in harm’s way. Dillard took her by the arm, opened the car door, and helped her in. “Do I smell beer on your breath?” he asked.
Alice didn’t want to tell him why she was following this man or how she said nothing when he pulled her so close to dance and put his hand on her rear end. She told herself she let him do these things because she was frightened not to and didn’t allow herself the thought that she might have also been flattered.
“There was this party after school. And, um, I got a ride with some kids to the party, which is around here. There was a lot of drinking, and then one kid got into a fight with another kid, and I just wanted to get out of there. By the time I was about a block away, I realized I’d left my purse at the party, but didn’t want to go back there so I started walking home. That’s when you found me. And I didn’t call because I thought you all would be mad at me for not telling you in advance. I only had a sip or two of the beer to taste it. I didn’t like it, by the way.”
Alice watched Dillard’s jaw tighten as she told her story. When she finished, he said, “Okay, let’s get you home, and we’ll deal with all that later.” She could tell he didn’t believe her.
“So, you’ve never done anything that seemed a good idea at the time, then turned out to be stupid?” she asked.
“Sure, I have. Who hasn’t? I’m as far from perfect as the moon is from the sun. Honestly, sweetie, you scared the crap out of me.” His mouth twisted in a funny way.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Please don’t pull something like this again.”
“I won’t. But can you promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t tell my mother about the beer.”
Dillard laughed. “Okay, I won’t, though I think she’s heard worse.”
He stopped the car when he saw a phone booth. “I’m calling your mom. Let me get this straight: party, fight, you ran out, forgot your purse, no beer. Right?”
“Right,” said Alice, ashamed of how easy it had been to lie.
He looked upset when he came back to the car. “Your mother called the police. They’ll be there when we get home. They want to ask you a few questions. Are you ready for that?”
Alice shrugged.
“I’m not suggesting that you lied to me, but it matters that you tell them the truth.”
“Okay. Including the beer?”
“Yup, everything.”
Alice couldn’t imagine how she would tell the cops about Marty Stone and the High Life and the dancing. No, she’d stick to the party story.
Emilia Mae must have heard the car pull up when they got home. She ran out in her bare feet and embraced Alice. In the glare of the car’s front headlights, Alice could see that her mother had been crying. Geraldine ran out of the house, her faux leopard coat flapping behind her. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said, hugging Alice, who was hugging Emilia Mae. Then she leaned in and whispered, “The cops are here. They want to interview you.”
Dillard shot Alice a look. “Remember what I said.”
The tall cop took his notebook out and asked Alice a lot of questions. She told him about the party and the fight and how she’d left early and forgotten her purse there.
The short one asked, “Were they serving alcohol?”
“Some, yeah,” said Alice. “But I just had a Coke before I left.” She glanced at Dillard, who was staring at the floor.
“Is there anything else you want to tell us?”
“No, sir. I didn’t stay long enough to see a whole lot.”
The tall cop closed his notebook. “Okay, that’s it. I guess I don’t have to tell you this, young lady, but going off without telling your folks where you are can lead to a lot of wasted time and unnecessary worry.”
“I know, sir.”
The tall cop wrote something down, then tore a page from his notebook and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else we ought to know, give us a call.”
Alice said she would and tucked the paper into her coat pocket.
The shorter one turned to Dillard. “May I assume you’re the girl’s father?”
Dillard folded his hands behind his head. “No, I’m no blood kin. I’m married to the girl’s mother.”
The cop opened his notebook. “Good. May I have your name and birthdate please?”
Dillard hesitated. “It’s not really important. I’m not from around here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the cop, pen poised. “I just need to know the names of the adults who share the girl’s home.”
“Okay, so my name is Dillard Fox.” He spelled it out and told the cop his birthdate. But he kept his eyes focused on the floor as if waiting for something to happen.
Two days later, Dillard came into the music room, where Alice was practicing. “I just got a phone call from the High Life,” he said. “They have your purse.”
Alice looked up at him and started to speak.
Dillard raised his hand to stop her. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We all have secrets. Yours are safe with me.”