Are You Alone on Purpose? Read online

  She could not look away.

  “I said get the fuck out of my life!” Harry repeated. “Leave me alone.” If he hadn’t been whispering, it would have been a scream.

  Alison managed to force her eyes up his body, to his face, as white as his feet. She looked into his eyes. She thought he was about to lose it, and begin screaming at her.

  Her head, miraculously, cleared.

  She reached behind her with one hand for the doorknob. “I can’t leave you alone,” she said. The words came from somewhere deep inside her, and she knew, however horrible, they were true. “And I won’t.” With her other hand, like a child throwing food to a lion at the zoo, she tossed the books she’d brought for Harry onto his bed beside him.

  Then she opened the door, turned, and fled.

  HARRY

  March

  For the next two Saturdays, Harry flatly refused to go to Sabbath services at the synagogue. He didn’t plan to go ever again.

  His father couldn’t make him. “What?” Harry had said the first time. “You’re going to push me screaming in the wheelchair?” His father had stared at him. Then he had left the room and, a little later, walked off to the synagogue without Harry.

  And for the first time in his life, Harry had spent Saturday morning watching TV.

  His father kept asking, though. This morning, he had sat right down with Harry in the kitchen and taken the sports page away from him and told him that he really wanted him to come. He understood how Harry’s faith might be wavering, but it was important to keep up the form of things. That was what life was about. And he could assure Harry that everyone at the synagogue really wanted to see him. They asked about him all the time. They were concerned.

  “Yeah, I bet,” said Harry.

  Finally his father had begged. He had even offered to take the car. God would understand, he’d said. It was in the Talmud that you could make allowances for sickness, and—

  “I’m not going,” Harry had interrupted. “And that’s final.” He had wheeled himself out of the kitchen.

  His father had left without him. In a few more weeks, Harry figured, even his father would get the idea. But, to help him along, he kept the TV on, even after his father got home.

  Later that afternoon, when the Celtics game broke for commercials, Harry pressed the remote. Bowling. Click. A documentary about heart disease. Click. Blonde on Home Shopping Club in a suede suit. Back to the game, but they were advertising Bud Dry. Click click click.

  Well. Sports, of course, but besides that it looked as if he hadn’t been missing much all these years of no TV on Saturday. Not that that was the point. He clicked back to the game. The commercials had to end sometime.

  Maybe if they had cable. He’d never ask, though. He wasn’t going to ask for a damn thing.

  He wondered if his father knew he had the TV on. The door to Harry’s bedroom was closed. He clicked up the volume.

  Okay, third period. Boston had the ball. Pass. Score. 76–54. It wasn’t much of a game. Maybe he’d switch to bowling.

  He clicked up the volume again.

  Nothing.

  He had to get out of the house. Over two weeks, and he’d gone out only for his appointments with Eileen and Dr. Jefferies.

  He almost thought he missed the rehab.

  No, he didn’t. He just wasn’t sleeping too well. But he wouldn’t take those pills. There was no way.

  He had school on Monday. Dr. Jefferies had prodded him about it both times he’d seen her. Hey, change of pace. Nice to know she had other interests besides his mother’s death and his relationship with his father.

  And, of course, tomorrow was Sunday. Time for round three with Alison Shandling.

  The books she’d brought that first time, week before last, were over there stacked on top of his bookcase. Harry hadn’t read them. He had told her what to do with them last week, when she’d barged in for the second time.

  At least she’d waited for his reply to her knock before entering. She just hadn’t paid any attention to it. She’d walked in, looked straight at him, closed the door. This time he’d been dressed, and in his chair. He’d been ready. He’d suspected she might pull something again.

  “Hi,” she’d said. She had a couple of Diet Coke cans and a bag of potato chips that she must have brought with her because his father sure hadn’t bought them, and, of course, she had a book, tucked under one arm. “Catch.” She threw a Coke underhand.

  Harry had caught it, but not because she knew how to aim. If he’d missed, he thought, she would have picked it up and tried to hand it to him. He put it down on the floor next to his chair. “Get out of here,” he said, really quite pleasantly.

  “I hope you like barbecued potato chips. They’re my favorite.” Alison was pulling out the desk chair, reversing it next to the desk so that it faced him, and sitting down, placing her Coke and book on the desk and starting to open the chips. She had a little trouble. It was a large bag, and she kept her head down while she pulled at it. Her fingers slipped on the package. And suddenly Harry knew she was scared, the way he’d always known that sort of thing about other kids. He could smell it.

  It calmed him. This was his room. This was his house. “Why don’t you give it to me?” he said.

  She looked up.

  “I’ll open it. My arms work.” Harry watched while she got up slowly, took a half step forward, and reached out and over to hand the bag to him, keeping herself well away. Yes. Definitely scared, he thought. Even physically scared.

  His chair was now nearer the door than she was. He wondered if she’d noticed.

  He smiled at her.

  He ripped open the potato chips. Then, putting the bag down in his lap, he wheeled his chair closer to her, moving it right in front of the door. Their knees were almost touching. She couldn’t get out now until he let her, not unless she were to push him out of the way, and she would never do that. That was another thing he always knew, what another kid would or wouldn’t do in a fight. He held out the bag.

  Harry saw Alison’s eyes flicker to the door, but they lingered only a moment. She didn’t crack too easily, but he could still sort of see what she was feeling underneath. That was one reason she had made a good target for him the year before; she was someone he could hurt but who wouldn’t cry and attract attention and who didn’t have a lot of friends.

  Uncertainly, Alison took the bag. “Don’t you want some?” she said.

  Harry decided to wait and say nothing. He’d sit there, blocking the door, silent. She’d get more and more scared. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she’d make some excuse, say she had to leave. Get up. Fumble with her book and the chips and the Coke. And then she’d have to ask him to get out of her way.

  Harry smiled. He looked at her, but Alison shifted her eyes away before it could develop into a staring contest. “Well,” she said. She reached into the bag, took out a large chip, and bit into it. A few crumbs dribbled down onto her blue and gray sweater, onto her breasts. Deliberately, Harry looked at them and let his eyes stay there a long moment. He looked at her face just to check. Yes, she was turning red. She was reaching, awkwardly, to brush off the crumbs and then pausing, not sure what to do about them. She’d last three minutes, tops.

  He felt good.

  Then she spoke. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll just read. Paulina and I hang out and read a lot. It’s a good way to keep company when you don’t want to talk.”

  They hung out together and read?

  Harry watched, incredulous, as Alison put the potato chips down on the desk, the bag’s open end toward her. He noticed that her hand was shaking a little, but she leaned right back in the chair, crossed her legs, and opened her book somewhere near the middle.

  Of course she wasn’t really going to read. It was just her way of trying to outface him. She was a little tougher than he’d thought.

  And a lot weirder.

  Alison turned a page of her book. The Caine Mutiny. She
was definitely faking it, though.

  A minute passed. Two.

  Alison turned another page. Slumped back a bit more. Then she reached into the potato chip bag with her left hand and extracted a large chip. She put it in her mouth whole. More crumbs dribbled down on her chest, but this time she ignored them.

  She turned another page, paused, and then went back, eyes scanning the previous page. Then she nodded and flipped ahead again.

  She ate some more chips. She turned another page.

  And then another.

  She’d forgotten Harry was there.

  He reached over and grabbed the book, pulling at it. She looked up, startled, but held on. “Hey! Let go!” She looked right into his eyes this time, furious. “Get your own book!”

  It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. Harry was so surprised, he let go. Alison glared at him. “I brought you some books last week,” she said. “This one’s mine.”

  She was insane. What did she think this was, Book-of-the-Month Club? Unexpectedly, Harry wanted to laugh.

  She had settled back in the chair, clutching her precious book to her chest. “You can’t read it like that,” Harry said, before he remembered that he wasn’t going to talk.

  “I’m not stupid,” said Alison.

  Oh, well. He might as well talk; his strategy hadn’t worked anyway. “I don’t want your books,” Harry said. “I hate to read. You can just take them home and shove them.”

  Alison blinked. “You hate to read?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you have books. Over there. You have The Hobbit. That’s why I brought you the other Tolkien books. Didn’t you read it?” Her voice was curious, nothing more.

  “No,” said Harry again. “Why should I?”

  She looked bewildered. “You don’t like to read?” she repeated, as if she thought he had to be lying.

  “No! Why should I? You act like reading is fucking breathing or something.”

  “I never thought about it like that.” She frowned. “I guess I never thought about it at all. I just assumed . . . no, not even that. It just didn’t cross my mind. Breathing. Well, maybe. For me.” What the hell was she talking about? She was looking at him. “You really don’t read even for fun?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her what he’d been reading about the last few months. It hadn’t been fun, that was for sure.

  “Only nerds read. You read all the time; that makes you Queen Nerd.”

  “Queen Nerd,” said Alison thoughtfully. She grinned. “I know I’m supposed to be insulted, but it sounds kind of Egyptian. King Tut. Queen Nerd. Kind of nice. But I thought I was a nerd because I’m lousy at sports?”

  “Doesn’t help.” Queen Nerd sounded kind of nice?

  “Oh,” said Alison. “I get it. A fatal combination of things.” She nodded.

  Harry was curious. He couldn’t help himself. “Don’t you mind being a nerd?”

  “Yes,” said Alison, honestly. “But you know, I don’t think I’ll mind now that I can think of it as being Queen Nerd. And I couldn’t give up reading, not even to be as popular as Felicia Goren. It wouldn’t be worth it.” She took a handful of potato chips and held out the bag to Harry. “Are you sure you don’t want any? They’re good.”

  Harry stared at her. He took a handful. He spent the next ten minutes listening to Alison tell him what had happened so far in The Caine Mutiny, and then his father knocked. Adam’s lesson was over, and Mrs. Shandling was here to get them.

  “Well, ’bye,” said Alison. She picked up her book. “Do you want the chips?”

  “No,” said Harry, moving his chair out of her way.

  “Okay, I’ll take them. See you next week.”

  He recovered himself. “Don’t bother, Queen Nerd,” he said.

  She had laughed. Really laughed. “See ya.”

  She had meant it, Harry thought, remembering. She’d liked being called Queen Nerd.

  What an odd girl she was.

  ALISON

  March

  Alison was up by eight the next Sunday, which wasn’t unusual, but she was also showered and dressed. Alison never got dressed before she had to. But she was supposed to go and see Paulina before she and Adam went to the Roths’ at eleven.

  Paulina had called the night before, late, after Adam had gone to bed and literally seconds after Rabbi Roth had called. Alison had had trouble listening to Paulina because she’d been wondering what Rabbi Roth’s phone call had been about. What if Rabbi Roth had said something to her parents about Alison talking to Harry? They’d be horrified. They thought Alison just kept out of Harry’s way. But she hadn’t been able to hear what her mother was saying because Paulina was jabbering on, something about the mall and Felicia Goren.

  She had finally interrupted Paulina. “Look,” she had said. “I can’t talk now. What if I come over tomorrow morning?” They had agreed on eight-thirty, and hung up. Then Alison had wandered down the hall and lingered outside the den, where her parents were talking.

  “Well, do you think a bar mitzvah would be possible for Adam?” her mother was saying.

  A bar mitzvah for Adam? Alison was amazed. She listened even more intently.

  “Roth really thinks Adam can do it?” her father asked.

  “That’s what he said. Jake, he really sounded excited. I’ve never heard him sound so enthusiastic.”

  “Adam’s fourteen,” her father said. “But that really doesn’t matter....Well.” His voice strengthened. “Why not? If Adam’s willing. I did it, after all.”

  “Do you think Alison will mind?” her mother asked. “Rabbi Roth didn’t mention her. But she could have a bat mitzvah. I can ask her.”

  No, thought Alison, alarmed. Thank you, but no. She’d been to bar and bat mitzvahs. She didn’t want to stand up in synagogue and go through the whole, lengthy performance, chanting in Hebrew, being formally initiated into adulthood. She didn’t even like going to synagogue.

  And she wasn’t at all sure about God.

  “Well, if she wants to,” her father was saying. “Of course. But it might be nice to have Adam do this all by himself.” He paused. “Betsy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you noticed, Harry Roth doesn’t come to Sabbath services anymore? It’s no wonder Roth’s enthused about Adam. I almost feel sorry for him. Roth, I mean.”

  “Me too,” Alison’s mother had said. “And, Jake...”

  Alison had slipped away, feeling strange. Once in bed, it had taken her ages to fall asleep. There was so much to think about: her parents, Adam and this bar mitzvah thing, Rabbi Roth.

  Harry. Her parents didn’t understand at all, did they? Why would Harry want to be a good son to Rabbi Roth? Rabbi Roth couldn’t even let Harry’s accident be about Harry. It had to be about Rabbi Roth and his relationship with God.

  By contrast, it was a relief to wonder what Paulina wanted to talk about. It wouldn’t be anything heavy. Probably just some gossip. Paulina was a terrible gossip.

  Adam was in the kitchen eating Raisin Bran. Alison hesitated, but she didn’t really feel hungry. “Adam,” she said, “I’m going to bike over to Paulina’s, just for an hour or so. Will you tell Mom and Dad?”

  Adam regarded her stolidly.

  “Well?” said Alison.

  “Alison Shandling, you’re dressed,” said Adam, in his unmodulated, slightly too loud voice. He looked upset. Adam didn’t like it when things were different from usual.

  “Yes,” she said. “I needed to be dressed to go visit Paulina. I can’t go in a nightgown, can I?” She kept her voice calm.

  Adam giggled. Alison breathed a sigh of relief. “You can’t go in a nightgown!” he said.

  Alison nodded. “Inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate,” agreed Adam. Alison knew it was a word he’d heard as often as his own name. He was still giggling softly, but he nodded when she reminded him to tell their parents where she was, and when she’d be back.

  Alison put on her jac
ket and gloves and headed out. She got her bike from the shed and began pedaling down the mostly empty streets. It was cold, and she biked fast, to stay warm. It was funny, she thought. Adam had calmed down so quickly. Maybe he really could have a bar mitzvah. He was in so much better control now.

  But Adam was still autistic, still himself. Alison knew that would never change.

  Arriving at Paulina’s, she parked her bike in the driveway and approached the back door cautiously. It was very early. But Paulina had remembered, though she was still in her nightgown, and she was waiting to let Alison in. Together, they went through the kitchen and down the hall toward Paulina’s room.

  Mrs. de Silva was standing in the doorway of the baby’s room, cradling him in her arms, and humming. She was wearing a robe, and looked sleepy. “Hi, Alison,” she said. “Paulina, I don’t suppose you girls could watch Marc for an hour or so, so your father and I could sleep in?”

  Paulina looked rebellious. “Mom,” she started.

  Alison interrupted. “Sure,” she said. She took the baby from Mrs. de Silva before Paulina could stop her. He’d gotten so big. “We can still talk, Paulina. He’s not crying or anything. We’ll put him on the bed. Or I’ll hold him.”

  “Oh, all right. But if he was your brother—”

  “Thank you, Alison,” said Mrs. de Silva. Paulina shut up. Alison thought that she would love a brother like Marc, a soft, cuddly, curious little bundle that grabbed and pulled at your fingers and nose and settled right into your arms as if he belonged there. She rubbed her cheek against his head.

  “You should see him throw up,” said Paulina cynically. They had entered her room. She threw herself onto her bed and then sat up and moved over into the corner, leaning against the bedpost, to make room for Alison. “Or change his diapers. Disgusting.”

  “He’s so sweet right now, though.” Alison put Marc on the bed and climbed into the other corner against the wall before picking him back up.

  Paulina snorted. “Let’s see how long it lasts. But listen, I didn’t want to talk to you about babies. Something amazing happened. You’ll die.”