Though she’d put on a good face in her letters home, Alice hadn’t been at all sure she’d wanted to leave home for the conservatory. New place. New people. New everything.
She choked the first time she inhaled a joint, but then her roommate, Carolyn, told her to not swallow but to keep the smoke in her cheeks until she got used to the taste. She didn’t do much better when she tried to get drunk. Listerine spurted through her nose after she took a swig from the bottle. Carolyn laughed. “Don’t gulp it, silly. Let it dribble down your throat.” When the Listerine didn’t get them high, Carolyn decided to go for something stronger. Her brother suggested Tab and Four Roses, and that did the trick. At night, the girls would each pour themselves a glass, buy a package of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine down the hall, eat the crackers, drink, sit on Carolyn’s bed (she had the bottom bunk), and listen to Simon and Garfunkel sing “The Sounds of Silence.”
No one listened. No one cared. Silence like a cancer grew.
The song was deep. Very deep. And that first semester at the New England Conservatory of Music, so were Alice and her roommate, Carolyn Whitman. Or so they imagined.
Carolyn Whitman wasn’t the kind of girl people would call pretty. Tall and slim, she wore her straight dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and hardly wore any makeup. She had a long, straight nose, an elongated head, and brown eyes that looked to Alice like refinished mahogany. She seemed not to care about what she wore and was always “throwing on” this or that, but in her black turtlenecks and Frye cowboy boots, Alice thought she looked like a character out of a movie with subtitles. Although Carolyn eschewed the bright colors of the day, she soaked herself in patchouli every morning. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of large hoop pierced earrings and a stainless steel men’s Rolex watch.
Late at night, Alice and Carolyn lay in their beds and exchanged stories. Carolyn came from a wealthy Catholic family in Maine, whose only purpose they seemed to serve in her life was as a dumping ground for her contempt. “Mother still wears those virginal round-collar blouses from the fifties,” she said during one of their sessions. “She’s dreadfully prudish. You wouldn’t believe how concerned she is about my virginity. Before I came here, she kept telling me that ‘men don’t like to drive used cars.’ I finally said, ‘Mother, I don’t even have a car.’ She blushed like a prom girl and said, ‘I’m not actually talking about cars, if you catch my drift.’ I caught her drift, and I’ll guarantee you that by the time I go home for Thanksgiving, I’ll have driven this friggin’ car so far and fast, it’ll be ready for a tune-up. If you catch my drift.”
In return, Alice offered up stories about Geraldine and Alberto. “They’re always touching each other and saying things that have double meanings. Honestly, they’re like teenagers that way.”
“Do you think they do it a lot?” asked Carolyn.
Alice had never thought about that, but threw out a casual “Oh yeah, I think they do it like friggin’ bunnies.”
“Cool,” said Carolyn. “How about your mom and your cute stepdad? You think they do it like bunnies, too?”
Alice thought about the Swan and what that might mean about Dillard. Determined to preserve his secret, she snapped back: “Oh yeah, I’m sure they do it all the time.”
Carolyn was at the conservatory to study the cello. Her teachers had always told her what a gifted musician she was. “Everyone assumes I’ll be a professional cellist when I grow up,” she told Alice. “But I hate to think life is preordained. Suppose it turns out that I’m equally gifted as an engineer or a psychiatrist? I don’t think at this age we should have to commit to who we’ll be when we’re fifty. Mother married Father when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-five. Twenty-three years later, she’s still mixing him two Manhattans every night and preparing his dinner. That’s my idea of hell. I don’t know how she bears it. I think her dependency on him has infantilized her. She wears those horrible granny nightgowns with little rose patterns. Pretty sexy, huh? Honestly, I don’t think they’ve had sex since they conceived my younger brother. Me? I’m not going to marry until I’m at least thirty, or even older. I’d like to see the world, grab some life before I get tied down. How about you?”
The two of them were sitting on Carolyn’s bed. Alice was wearing one of those Lanz granny gowns (hers had a moon and stars pattern) that Carolyn had just disparaged. “Um, I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about marriage. I know I’d like to be a music teacher. I haven’t been anywhere. I mean anywhere except New York City with Dillard. So yeah, I guess I’d like to see some of the world, too.”
Carolyn took hold of Alice’s hand. “I’m not one of those psychics, but I’ve heard you sing, and I’m guessing that voice of yours could take you anywhere you want to go. You could be a professional if you wanted.”
“You really think so?” Alice squealed.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
“Gee, thanks.” Alice threw her arms around Carolyn’s neck and went to kiss her on the cheek, but Carolyn turned her head and placed her lips directly on Alice’s. They sat for a few moments, lips to lips, until Carolyn slipped her tongue into Alice’s mouth. Her tongue was salty and thin. Carolyn wrapped Alice in her arms and was rubbing her back. It felt good, too good to stop. Alice could feel Carolyn’s breasts against hers and taste the patchouli on her neck. She was aroused by Carolyn’s attention, but confounded by the thought that if she let this happen, what would that make her? She’d never thought of herself as a lesbian. She’d always liked boys and assumed she would marry one someday. So many things in her life seemed skewed right now, she couldn’t allow this to be one of them. Gently, she wriggled out of Carolyn’s arms. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready for this,” she said in a croaky voice. “You know I love you, but maybe not this way.”
Carolyn unembraced her. “That’s cool,” she said. “I love you, too. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Three months with Carolyn had an impact on Alice. Back in New Rochelle, she decided that her mother wore too much makeup and looked gauche. Worse, she had a false gaiety about her like a sad person trying to pass for a happy one. Her mother had definitely not grabbed life. Alice also saw that something was eating at Dillard. His face was as haggard as when he first showed up at Shore Cakes.
At least Grandma and Alberto were unchanged. He still did her hair every couple of weeks, something that Alice found infantilizing, while she had embraced the miniskirt. Her legs weren’t bad for a woman her age (Carolyn said the legs were the last to go).
She found their house in New Rochelle to be déclassé.
These were the things Alice couldn’t wait to tell Carolyn.
She would not tell Carolyn about what happened when she tried to sing with Dillard on her second day home.
“I have a new favorite song,” she’d told him. “‘Paint It Black,’ by the Rolling Stones.”
“That’s bullshit,” he’d said. “They’re all about preening and yelling. You’re better than that.”
She’d wanted to tell him that she wasn’t better than that, that the new stuff excited her, took her voice to different places, but she’d been afraid of making him more upset than he already seemed to be, so she’d agreed to sing some of his favorites. The songs seemed stale. Dillard seemed old. She’d wished she were back in Boston.
Thanksgiving was at Geraldine’s house this year, with the usual crowd: the Kleppers, Dillard and Emilia Mae, and, of course, Alberto. Alice set the table and arranged it so that she was sitting next to Cora. Every year, they’d had the same traditional meal. But this year, Alberto (along with Julia Child) decided to put a French spin on the menu. Instead of turkey, he made a roasted leg of lamb with different herbs and garlic, pork and herb stuffing, green beans, an eggplant casserole, and Brussels sprouts. He had also baked an apple tart for dessert, but thank God for the Kleppers, who’d brought with them a good old American pumpkin pie.
Gigot de pre-sale roti. Farce de porc. Haricots verts. Ratatouille. Choux de Bruxelles. Tarte aux pommes. Pumpkin pie.
Alice tried to memorize all the French names of the food they’d eaten so she could tell Carolyn. When it came time to clear the table, Alice jumped up and gave Cora an imploring look. “Everybody sit. Cora and I will take care of it.”
They stacked the plates and gathered the silverware. Once they were both in the kitchen, and the dishes were in the sink, Alice closed the door. “Finally,” she said. “I’ve got you alone. Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, ask away.”
“You see my mother and Dillard at least once a week, right?”
“Yup, I do.”
“Have you noticed anything different about them?”
“Different in what way?”
“I don’t know, just different.”
Alice didn’t mention what she knew about the Swan.
Cora turned away from the sink and leaned against it. “As well as you know people, you never really know what goes on in a marriage. Dillard and your mom are two strong people. They’re so different, yet they’ve made it work. Marriages aren’t always smooth sailing. They’re work, all the time. It’s not like there’s ever a long spell when you can coast. So maybe they’re going through a rough patch right now. That’s entirely possible. Especially with you gone.”
“Have you and Reverend Klepper ever gone through one of those?”
Cora laughed. “I live with a man who thinks he’s one of God’s messengers. Dare I say it, sometimes he can be a bit too saintly. And guarded! Wow! That man has secrets buried so deep I don’t know if I’ll ever get the whole story. Me? I have a big mouth and am far less circumspect, as you’ve probably noticed. So, have we ever gone through rough patches? What do you think?”
Alice laughed. “Yeah, it’s probably just one of those.”
Cora tilted her head and studied Alice, who’d tucked her long hair behind one ear and was wearing a pair of gold hoop earrings and reeked of patchouli. “Look at you, a real college girl, although that perfume—they can probably smell you as far away as Manhattan. Anyway, how are you liking school?”
“The work part is hard, but really interesting. I’m doing a lot of singing, all kinds of it. I’m thinking that maybe I would even try to do it as a career. You know, like after I graduate. Does that sound completely crazy to you?”
“Why would that sound crazy? You have a gorgeous voice. It’s the sixties, you can be whatever you want to be.”
Alice hugged Cora. “Thanks for that. Can we keep that part about the singing between you and me right now? I’ll probably change my mind a thousand times before I graduate.”
“Sure, but stick with it for now. You have real talent.” Cora stepped back. “Oh God, now they can probably smell me in Manhattan.”
“It’s patchouli,” laughed Alice. “The perfume—well, it’s an oil, really. My roommate, Carolyn, gave it to me. She says I could be a professional singer if I wanted. I’m going to try and join the chorus. I’ve also been asked to sing with some guys in a rock and roll band they’re starting up. Carolyn says I should experience every kind of music before I decide which road I want to follow.”
“Carolyn sounds like a very wise girl,” said Cora. “But what do you think?”
“I think Carolyn is right.”