“Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five.”
“You look twelve.” She said it in a way that didn’t sound entirely complimentary. “I always looked young. Until I didn’t. I bought this house when I was about your age. It was the most expensive place on the market at the time. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“My fault. I should have introduced myself. Alice Whitley.”
“Alice Whitley. I guess you don’t look like ‘Alice’ to me. You look like ‘Penny.’” She pronounced it Pinny.
“Why Penny?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even like pennies. When I was a kid they turned green if you buried them in the yard and tasted terrible when you hid them in your mouth. Ugh. That’s a bad taste you can’t forget. Alice. Alice, Alice. I’ll do my best to remember it. I’m no good with names.”
“I could write ‘Alice’ on my forehead with a Sharpie if that would help,” I said.
She laughed then, a short, joyless bark. “You need to meet Frank. He may like you. He likes young women with blond hair. He doesn’t care if they aren’t pretty.”
That sounds cutting, but she was right. I’m not pretty. What I am is organized and diligent. I don’t complain much. I’ve worked since I was sixteen years old, mostly lousy jobs whose chief benefit lay in teaching me that procrastination is a loser’s game and that you’re better off ignoring insults from the public you serve doughnuts. My hair is pretty, I’ll give you that. It’s thick, blond, and shiny, and grows straight to my waist without petering out. Two of my great-grandfathers were named Vard and Thorsson, so go figure. I’ll let you in on a secret, though. Hair like mine is a burden. I’m always worried my face will be a disappointment when I turn around. Still, I’m not dumb enough to cut it off to punish it for being the best thing about me.
Outside, Frank found one of the green peaches on the ground, rubbed its early velvet against his cheek and tossed it back and forth between his hands before hefting it onto the roof, following its trajectory with his eyes, as if he wished he could follow it there. After that he spun around a few times, staring up at the sky, before sauntering to the driveway, where he stepped onto a skateboard and sailed to the porch, arms extended for balance and swallowtails flapping behind him. He hopped off with a certain rubber-kneed grace and waltzed past both of us as if we weren’t there.
“What were you doing out there with the station wagon?” M. M. Banning asked him.
“Oh, you mean the stagecoach. I was robbing it. That’s why I called you ‘Ma.’ For historical verisimilitude. That’s what people called their mothers in stagecoach days. Ma.”
“I’d rather not be ‘Ma’ if you don’t mind. I don’t see a ‘Ma’ as a woman with all her teeth.” Frank edged around his mother but she caught him by the shoulder and turned him to face me. “Hold on, cowboy. Notice anything?”
“The door’s working again.”
“What about her?”
“That her?” He pointed an accusatory finger in my direction but couldn’t seem to focus on me exactly. I wondered if he needed glasses. “Who’s her?”
“Who’s she. She’s Penny.”
“Alice,” I said. “My name is Alice.”
“Who’s Alice?” Frank asked. He fixed his eyes on the grand piano, maybe thinking “Alice” might be the invisible presence manipulating its keys.
“I’m Alice,” I said.
“What’s she doing here?”
“She’s doing everything around here that I don’t have time to do anymore.”
“Staff? Splendid. It’s so hard to get good help these days.” Frank shot his grimy cuffs and I saw he had silver links in them shaped like the masks of Comedy and Tragedy. He extended his hand palm up, as if he meant to take mine in his and kiss it.
“Frank. Look how dirty your hands are. Go clean up. Use soap. Scrub your filthy nails. And come straight back when you’re done. What did I just say?”
“Frank. Look how dirty your hands are. Go clean up. Use soap. Scrub your filthy nails. And come straight back when you’re done. What did I just say?” Frank hustled down the hall.
“If you can believe it, he took a bath this morning,” M. M. Banning said.
I shrugged. “He’s a kid.”
“Young No?l Coward in there was never a kid. Wait till he starts telling jokes. F.D.R. is in a lot of them.”