I FOLLY
We all live slapstick lives, under an inexplicable sentence of deathâŠ
âMARTIN GARDNER, The Annotated Alice
ALICE WAS BEGINNING TO get very tired of all this sitting by herself with nothing to do: every so often she tried again to read the book in her lap, but it was made up almost exclusively of long paragraphs, and no quotation marks whatsoever, and what is the point of a book, thought Alice, that does not have any quotation marks?
She was considering (somewhat foolishly, for she was not very good at finishing things) whether one day she might even write a book herself, when a man with pewter-colored curls and an ice-cream cone from the Mister Softee on the corner sat down beside her.
âWhat are you reading?â
Alice showed it to him.
âIs that the one with the watermelons?â
Alice had not yet read anything about watermelons, but she nodded anyway.
âWhat else do you read?â
âOh, old stuff, mostly.â
They sat without speaking for a while, the man eating his ice cream and Alice pretending to read her book. Two joggers in a row gave them a second glance as they passed. Alice knew who he wasâsheâd known the moment he sat down, turning her cheeks watermelon pinkâbut in her astonishment she could only continue staring, like a studious little garden gnome, at the impassable pages that lay open in her lap. They might as well have been made of concrete.
âSo,â said the man, rising. âWhatâs your name?â
âAlice.â
âWho likes old stuff. See you around.â
The next Sunday, she was sitting in the same spot, trying to read another book, this one about an angry volcano and a flatulent king.
âYou,â he said.
âAlice.â
âAlice. What are you reading that for? I thought you wanted to be a writer.â
âWho said that?â
âDidnât you?â
His hand shook a little as he broke off a square of chocolate and held it out.
âThank you,â said Alice.
âYouâre velcome,â he replied.
Biting into her chocolate, Alice gave him a quizzical look.
âDonât you know that joke? A man flying into Honolulu says to the guy in the seat next to him, âExcuse me, how do you pronounce it? Hawaii or Havaii?â âHavaii,â says the other guy. âThank you,â says the first guy. And the other guy says, âYouâre velcome.â â
Still chewing, Alice laughed. âIs that a Jewish joke?â
The writer crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. âWhat do you think?â
The third Sunday, he bought two cones from Mister Softee and offered her one. Alice accepted it, as she had done with the chocolate, because it was beginning to drip and in any case multipleâPulitzer Prize winners donât go around poisoning people.
They ate their ice cream and watched a pair of pigeons peck at a straw. Alice, whose blue sandals matched the zigzags on her dress, flexed a foot idly in the sun.
âSo. Miss Alice. Are you game?â
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Alice laughed.
âAre you game?â he repeated.
Turning back to her cone: âWell, no reason not to be, I guess.â
The writer got up to throw his napkin away and came back to her. âThere are plenty of reasons not to be.â
Alice squinted up at him and smiled.
âHow old are you?â
âTwenty-five.â
âBoyfriend?â
She shook her head.
âJob?â
âIâm an editorial assistant. At Gryphon.â
Hands in his pockets, he lifted his chin slightly and seemed to conclude this made sense.
âAll right. Shall we take a walk together next Saturday?â
Alice nodded.
âHere at four?â
She nodded again.
âI should take your number. In case something comes up.â
While another jogger slowed to look at him, Alice wrote it down on the bookmark that had come with her book.
âYouâve lost your place,â said the writer.
âThatâs okay,â said Alice.
On Saturday, it rained. Alice was sitting on the checkered floor of her bathroom, trying to screw tight her broken toilet seat with a butter knife, when her cell phone beeped: CALLER ID BLOCKED.
âHello Alice? Itâs Mister Softee. Where are you?â
âAt home.â
âWhere is that?â
âEighty-Fifth and Broadway.â
âOh, right around the corner. We could string up a couple of tin cans.â
Alice pictured a string, bowing like a giant jump rope over Amsterdam, trembling between them whenever they spoke.
âSo, Miss Alice. What should we do? Would you like to come here, and talk a while? Or should we take a walk together another day?â
âIâll come there.â
âYouâll come here. Very good. Four thirty?â
Alice wrote the address down on a piece of junk mail. Then she put a hand over her mouth and waited.
âActually, letâs say five. See you here at five?â
The rain flooded the crosswalks and soaked her feet. The cabs churning a spray up Amsterdam seemed to be traveling much faster than they did when it was dry. While his doorman made room for her by pressing himself into a cruciform position, Alice entered purposefully: long strides, blowing out her cheeks, shaking out her umbrella. The elevator was plated top to bottom with warped brass. Either the floors it climbed were very tall or the elevator was moving very slowly, because she had plenty of time to frown at her infinite funhouse reflections and to worry more than a little about what was going to happen next.
When the elevator doors opened, there was a hallway containing six more gray doors. She was about to knock on the first door she came to when another door, on the other side of the elevator, opened a crack and a hand came through, holding a glass.
Alice accepted the glass, which was full of water.
The door closed.
Alice took a sip.
The next time the door opened, it seemed to swing wide on its own. Alice hesitated before carrying her water down a short hallway that ended in a bright white room containing, among other things, a draughtsmanâs desk and an unusually wide bed.
âShow me your purse,â he said from behind her.
She did.
âNow open it please. For security reasons.â
Alice set her purse down on the little glass table between them and unlatched it. She took out her wallet: a brown leather menâs wallet that was badly worn and torn. A scratch card, purchased for a dollar and worth the same. A ChapStick. A comb. A key ring. A barrette. A mechanical pencil. A few loose coins and, finally, three portable tampons, which she held in her palm like bullets. Fuzz. Grit.
âNo phone?â
âI left it at home.â
He picked up the wallet, fingering a bit of stitching that had come undone. âThis is a disgrace, Alice.â
âI know.â
He opened the wallet and removed her debit card, her credit card, an expired Dunkinâ Donuts gift card, her driverâs license, her college ID, and twenty-three dollars in bills. Holding up one of the cards: âMary-Alice.â Alice wrinkled her nose.
âYou donât like the Mary part.â
âDo you?â
For a moment, he alternated between looking at her and at the card, as though trying to decide which version of her he preferred. Then he nodded, tapped the cards into alignment, snapped a rubber band from his desk around them and the bills, and dropped the stack back into her purse. The wallet he lobbed into a mesh-wire wastepaper basket already lined with a white cone of discarded typescript. The sight of this seemed to irritate him briefly.
âSo, Mary-AliceâŠâ He sat down, gesturing for her to do the same. The seat of his reading chair was black leather and low to the ground, like a Porsche. âWhat else can I do for you?â
Alice looked around. On the draughtsmanâs desk a fresh manuscript awaited his attention. Beyond it a pair of sliding glass doors gave onto a small balcony sheltered by the one above it from the rain. Behind her the enormous bed was made up so neatly as to look aloof.
âDo you want to go outside?â
âOkay.â
âNo one throws the other one over. Deal?â
Alice smiled and, still sitting five feet from him, extended a hand. The writer lowered his eyes to look at it for a long, doubtful moment, as though listed there on her palm were the pros and cons of every handshake heâd ever made.
âOn second thought,â he said then. âCome here.â
His skin was lined and cool.
His lips were softâbut then his teeth were behind them.
At her office, there were no fewer than three National Book Award certificates in his name framed on the lobby wall.
The second time, when she knocked, several seconds went by with no answer.
âItâs me,â Alice said to the door.
The door opened a crack and a hand came through, holding a box.
Alice took the box.
The door closed.
Lincoln Stationers, it said on the box, tooled smartly in gold. Inside, under a single sheet of white tissue paper, lay a burgundy wallet with a coin purse and a clutch clasp.
âOh my goodness!â said Alice. âItâs so pretty. Thank you.â
âYouâre velcome,â said the door.
Again, she was given a glass of water.
Again, they did what they did without disturbing the bed.
Over her sweater, he put a hand on each breast, as if to silence her.
âThis oneâs bigger.â
âOh,â said Alice, looking down unhappily.
âNo no; itâs not an imperfection. Thereâs no such thing as a matching pair.â
âLike snowflakes?â suggested Alice.
âLike snowflakes,â he agreed.
From his stomach all the way up to his sternum ran a pink, zipperlike scar. Another scar bisected his leg from groin to ankle. Two more made a faint circumflex above his hip. And that was just the front.
âWho did this to you?â
âNorman Mailer.â
While she was tugging up her tights, he got up to turn the Yankees game on. âOoh, I love baseball,â said Alice.
âDo you? Which team?â
âThe Red Sox. When I was little, my grandmother used to take me to Fenway every year.â
âIs she still alive, your grandmother?â
âYep. Would you like her number? Youâre about the same age.â
âItâs a little early in our relationship for you to be satirizing me, Mary-Alice.â
âI know,â laughed Alice. âIâm sorry.â
They watched as Jason Giambi slugged a three-two pitch into left center.
âOh!â said the writer, getting up. âI almost forgot. I bo...