What if Alice had never been in an asylum …

My Alice is based upon the brilliant mind of Stephanie Meyer, I've just given Alice a past!

Chapter 4: Confluence

Before anyone could try out for the play, we had to be passing all our classes. The school wouldn't let anyone try out who had poor marks in their subjects. I was lucky; school had always been easy for me. I struggled the most in math, but if I really concentrated on the problems, I would eventually see the answer. Angela and Jessica were good students too.

I was worried about Cynthia, she had a harder time with school work. But I just knew that because of her remarkable piano playing talent she'd be allowed. She studied really hard so she'd be eligible. I knew she'd make it. I knew my father would go into the school and speak with the principal. He would convince him. My mother would volunteer to sew the costumes.

I hoped there would be dancing in the play. When I considered the name of the production, "Church Picnic", it seemed to me like there would be dancing of some sort. I could just see myself in a peach colored dress with a full skirt and frilly slip. I imagined carrying a white parasol and opening and closing it as part of the choreography. My mind told me I was very graceful and that the teachers would want me to dance. My mind's eye version of things was very flattering.

School dragged as we waited for try-outs. We all tried hard and were especially studious each day. The classroom was very quiet. I started to notice that Miss Madeline seemed flustered and lost. When I should be writing my letters or figuring math, I was watching her instead. Her hand would go to her throat to touch the cameo … but the necklace was not around her neck. That was very unusual. I don't think I could remember a time when she wasn't wearing it. Each time she was reminded it was missing, it was as if she were remembering something very sad.

I asked Angela and Jessica if they'd noticed anything different. They just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. I tried not to think about it, but it was always in the back of my mind. It was like my thoughts were trying to lead me to an answer for an unstated question.

As I fretted about Miss Madeline, I was getting a shadowy picture in my mind. It was a dark room with a shaft of light peaking through heavy drapes that were slightly open. I could see a desk that was battered looking. On the desk was a piece of paper with handwriting on it, a few pencils and a green lamp. There was dark paneling on the walls and a sage green overstuffed chair in the corner with a blue blanket draped across the back.

My mind seemed to focus on the desk. I didn't know if it was just because of the light or if there was something significant about it. The desk had a center drawer and a bank of three more drawers on one side. The bottom drawer was open slightly. A piece of dark blue luxurious looking material was visible; my mind tunnel-visioned on that fabric.

I didn't know what it meant.

When I wasn't studying, thinking about the play or worrying about Miss Madeline, I was following baseball. Our Giants had indeed made it to the World Series as predicted. They would be playing the Boston Red Sox, a formidable team.

I tried not to show how I was feeling. I knew they were going to lose. I knew it would be close, but in the end they would lose. I just knew it. I couldn't say it out loud though; people were just too excited about it. Hearing about Our Players brought our little community together. I just couldn't be the one to destroy the euphoria simmering around me.

Our Giants had barely lost the first game to Boston. The second game was an 11-inning tie! Dad was on his feet as he read the account of that game! We won the third, lost the fourth and fifth and came back to win the sixth and my Giants beat the Red Sox 11-4 in the seventh game. My father called it a "real shut-out"!

The final, Game 8 was scheduled for October 16. Today! There was a buzz of excitement rippling through the school. Even the usually stern teachers were feeling a little more lighthearted.

That night was excruciating. We knew Our Team was playing, but we had to wait until our fathers could bring home a paper the next day to hear about it. Cynthia was playing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" on the piano, I was sitting on the stairs and my parents were dancing an ungainly polka in the hallway. I watched with astonishment.

My parents were not given to public displays of affection. In fact, it was strictly forbidden. They would hold each other's hands, but they felt it was absolutely unacceptable to do more than that when in public - even in their own home. I almost felt like I was eavesdropping as I realized for the first time that my parents actually loved each other.

They became winded, I think both by the physical nature of their dance and also their unabashed closeness. They stopped dancing and let their arms drop. They continued to gaze at each other and you could see how much in love they still were. I couldn't make myself look away. I hoped I would feel that someday.

As unusual as it was for my parents to dance, it was equally unusual for me not to dance. When they felt my stare, they both turned and looked at the same time their eyebrows furrowed and that familiar distress clouded their eyes. In perfect synchronicity they clasped their hands and twisted at their fingers apprehensively.

"What is it?" they said in unison.

Their question caught me off guard.

"Wh-what do you mean" I stuttered.

They looked at each other then simultaneously turned to look at me again.

"You've got that look on your face …"

I looked away to gather my thoughts. I guess I hadn't kept my secret so well after all. I strained to come up with an answer. As I did, I was momentarily jealous of Cynthia. She was still playing the piano, lost in her baseball fantasy. I dully said the thing that had been bouncing around in my head.

"The Giants are going to lose."

Blasphemy. Why had I said that? To utter such words was absolute blasphemy. My parents' mouths tightened into a white line. I couldn't read their expressions. Worry? Anger? Dread? It was a jumble of them all. They stared at me for a long, long, long time. I became uncomfortable and fidgeted with the hem of my skirt.

My mother was the first to move. She put a hand to her forehead then straightened some locks that had come loose from the careful knot in her hair. She smoothed out her skirt. Then she looked at me hard. A reflexive lump constricted in my throat. My father read my wide-eyed reaction.

"Well." … uncomfortable pause. "That's enough celebration."

He looked at mother.

"Dinnertime then?"

Mother acknowledged with a nod and wordlessly turned to the kitchen.

"Come with me, Alice." My father said with patriarchal authority.

I followed him into his den as the final notes "… at the old ball game" serenaded our departure.

This part of our house was strictly off-limits to Cynthia and me. So even though I was very frightened I couldn't help but look around. I was surrounded by bookshelves. They were made of a deep mahogany as was the regal looking desk and chair in which my father now sat. I stared at the volumes and volumes of books. How I longed to reach up and touch some of them and read their covers.

"Ahem" my father cleared his throat to get my attention.

"Yes sir." I said timidly.

He became a little more gentle as he looked at me.

Solemnly he said, "When you say the Giants are going to lose, what do you mean?"

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I closed my mouth and stared at him.

"Alice" he let out a breath "what do you mean?"

What could I do but answer?

Nervously I blurted "Snodgrass is going to drop a fly ball in the bottom of the tenth inning … we're going to lose."

I pulled at a thread that was loose from the button on my sleeve. I did not look at my father. I swung my legs nervously as my feet did not reach the floor. I heard the swivel chair squeak as my father turned away from me. I peaked up at him through my eyelashes. His head was leaned all the way back in the chair and his eyes were closed. His hands were together, almost as if he was praying, and his fingers were splayed.

A great deal of time passed. Enough time to smell that mother was cooking meatloaf for dinner. I heard the chair squeak again. I didn't want to look up. My father got up from his chair and walked over to me. He stood beside me for a long moment. Then he knelt down, eyes level with mine.

"Mary Alice." It was a statement.

I looked up at him, frightened. His eyes had softened.

He tried again.

"Mary Alice. You must not speak of this to anyone. Not anyone. Not even Cynthia or Angela or Jessica." He tenderly put his hands on my shoulders never breaking eye contact.

"Do you understand?"

I did understand. And I wasn't afraid of him. He seemed simply overwhelmed.

"Yes sir." I whispered.

He examined my features for a long time before he spoke again.

"Now run along and help your mother get the table ready for dinner."

He easily pulled me off the chair. He hugged me briefly then sent me scampering to the kitchen to help mother with dinner.

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