A Girl Called Al: The Al Series, Book One (7 page)

“How about my father?” I asked. “I thought you liked my father a lot.”

Al got red. “Yes,” she said, “I do. He is great. And for that matter, how about my father?” She sounded like Teddy does when he is looking for a fight, which is a lot of the time.

“I don't know your father,” I said. “But from his picture I would say he would be nice, very nice. I like his eyebrows.”

Al turned and started walking again. “Don't forget,” she said, “Just don't forget that Mr. Keogh and your father have perfectly good wives and families.”

I nodded. “That is true.” Mr. Keogh's wife has a little baby boy. I have seen pictures of him and if he had a bow tie on he'd look just like Mr. Keogh.

Al walked very fast. I had a hard time keeping up.

“Mr. Richards has no one. He is all alone. That is very important.”

By this time we were practically running.

“He doesn't seem to mind,” I said finally, when I could get my breath. “He never seems to be lonely.”

Sometimes I think that Al does not remember that I have known Mr. Richards a lot longer than she has. I have never said this to her but I think it. She acts kind of uppity about Mr. Richards sometimes, like she discovered him or something.

“That's all you know.” Al narrowed her eyes so they were little slits, like Mr. Richards's. “That's all you know.”

When we got out at our floor I asked Al if she wanted to come in for a snack. Practically every day we go to my house for a snack on account of Al's mother doesn't believe in snacks.

“No,” she said. “Thanks, but I am cutting down on snacks. That and I want to see if there's a letter or anything from my father. I am sort of expecting to hear from him today.”

“Did you check the mail?” I asked.

“I forgot,” Al said. “I will drop off my books and go back and check.”

“O.K.” I said. “I think my mother made brownies, if you change your mind.” I could smell them. As a matter of fact, I could almost see the smell coming out from under the door. The way it does in the funny papers. Big waves of smell. It is a nice thing to come home to.

“How was your day?” my mother asked. One thing about my mother, she is usually glad to see me. Not always, but usually.

“Pretty good,” I said. “Can I have a brownie?”

“One,” she said. “Did I hear you talking to Al?”

“She went back to check the mail. She expects to hear from her father today. He is coming to see her soon.”

“That's nice,” she said.

I heard the elevator stop and I went to the door.

“Did you get a letter?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Maybe that means he is on a plane right now and will just call you up,” I said. “He's probably just about over our heads right now,” I said, and sure enough, we could hear an airplane going over very low, getting ready to land. We live pretty near the airport and get so used to the noise we don't even think about it.

“Maybe,” she said.

“How about a brownie?” I asked. “My mother just made them.”

“No offense,” Al said, “but I am not in the mood right now. And I am on a diet.”

She fished around for her front-door key. “I am going to wash my face and brush my teeth and fix my hair,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, “that way you will be all ready for when your father calls.”

“No,” she said, “I thought it might be fun if we went to see Mr. Richards.”

“Oh, all right,” I said. We never get dolled up for him, I felt like saying. He is not the kind of person who expects people to get dolled up. I was about to say this to Al when she said, “I'll stop by for you when I'm ready,” and went into her apartment.

“Did Al hear from her father?” my mother asked.

“Not today,” I said.

Mr. Richards was not there when we arrived, so we sat down to wait. He came in about five minutes later.

“Had to put ashes on that ice out by them garbage pails,” he said. “Well, ladies, tell me about yourselves. How was your dinner date?” he said to Al. “You give 'em the air pollution stuff?”

“They thought it was great,” she said. “We had a nice time. I had crepes suzette. You know what they are?”

“You bet,” Mr. Richards said. “Them little pancakes you light up. I never had 'em myself but I used to work in a classy restaurant where they had 'em. Always wanted to try 'em for myself.”

We looked at each other.

“Why not?” Al said.

“Well”—he got out a frying pan—“I'll give it a whirl, but I don't know. I'm more of a flapjack man myself.”

We watched while he threw some flour, eggs, milk, and sugar into a bowl and sizzled some butter in the pan. When he had a stack of about six cakes he put two on each plate.

“How do you get it to flame up?” Al said.

“I reckon brandy,” Mr. Richards said. “I keep a bottle of brandy for toothache. I'll pour a mite on and set a match to 'em and we'll see what we get.”

He put a tiny bit of brandy on top of each cake and lit them. They flamed up pretty well.

Mr. Richards took the first bite.

“I'll take mine with maple syrup any day,” he said. “What say, ladies? You agree?”

Al said, “Delicious,” but she couldn't help making a face and we wound up throwing the rest in the garbage.

“Stick to flapjacks and you can't go wrong,” Mr. Richards said. I agree.

Chapter Twenty

“I'm going shopping after school,” Al said. “You want to come?” We always get out early Friday afternoon, so I told her, “Sure. What are you going shopping for?”

“I have decided to buy myself a sweater with the money I got from my father. I figure ten dollars ought to be about right.”

“I thought your mother always bought your clothes at her employee discount,” I said. “Will she think it is all right for you to go to some place else and pay full price?”

“It is my money,” Al said. “I have decided to take the bull by the horns and buy myself something nice to wear. Instead of buying myself junk. Food junk. You know.”

She looked at me like she was expecting me to argue with her. I thought the whole idea was great. Beautiful. I told her so.

“Beautiful,” I said. “I will help you pick it out. What color do you want?”

“I think I will have pink. Pink is a good color. My mother says elderly women buy pink so the reflection will make them look young. They even have pink lamp shades in restaurants so that the ladies will look young.”

“But you are not elderly,” I said.

“So what?” Al shrugged. “Some days I feel awful old.”

She tossed a pigtail over her shoulder. “Let's go,” she said.

“One thing I know,” I said as we went downtown, “one thing that would make you look better is if you stopped wearing those pigtails. Comb your hair out and it looks great. It kind of shines and it's real pretty.”

“Holy Toledo,” Al said, “you'd think I was trying out for Miss Teen Queen of America,” but she looked pleased and her cheeks got pink even though she had on a white blouse.

We went to the sweater department of the store, which was not the one where Al's mother worked.

“Yes?” The lady gave us the fishy eye. They must train salesladies to give the fishy eye. She acted like we had a large paper sack under each arm and were preparing to stuff them full of sweaters and run for the nearest exit.

“I want a pink sweater,” Al said.

“What size?”

Al said, “I don't know. I have never bought a sweater for myself before.”

The saleslady stood back and narrowed her eyes. “I would say a thirty-six,” she said and reached into a glass case and came out with a couple of pink sweaters.

Al said, “I will take this one.”

“Don't you want to try it on?”

“I'm going to wear it,” Al said. “That is, if I can afford it. How much is it?”

“With tax, that comes to nine dollars and forty-five cents,” the lady said. “But you'd better slip it on and see if it fits. There's a dressing room back here.”

Al slipped it on and it fit fine, which was a good thing because I think she would have worn it even if it hadn't fit.

“It looks very nice,” I said, because it was what she wanted to hear and also because it was true. “That color is good on you.” This is what my mother always says.

All the way home Al kept running her hand over the sleeve of the sweater.

“I don't think I've ever had a pink sweater before. It's the first thing I've really bought for myself. To wear, that is. It is a good feeling to buy something for yourself to wear. You know? I will write my father and thank him for the check and tell him what I did with it. I think he would like that. Maybe I will have a picture of myself taken wearing the sweater and send it to him. Do you think that would be good?”

“That's a great idea,” I said. “Then he can show it to all his friends and say, ‘This is my daughter.' He would probably like that a lot.”

“You know something?” Al said. “I don't think he's ever really going to come to see me. I just decided that now. I think he thinks he will, but he'll never make it. Sort of like Mr. Richards never getting to see his daughter and his grandchildren. He wanted to, but he never did.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “He'll come when he isn't too busy. Men get awfully busy. He'll come when he isn't on a trip.”

“Do you really believe that?” Al asked me.

“He thinks about you,” I said. “He sends you money and most kids' fathers don't even give them a quarter without an argument.”

“That is true,” Al said. “But I feel sorry for him. I am the only daughter he's got and he'll never really know me. Just like Mr. Richards will never know his daughter. And she's the only one he's got. That is really kind of sad, don't you think?”

“Yes,” I said. “I agree. It is sad.”

“I'll write him tonight,” she said. “I'll tell him exactly how much it cost, tax and all.”

Chapter Twenty-One

When Al knocked on my door the next morning she smelled clean. She had on her new sweater and her pigtails were stiff and not fuzzy the way they get at the end of the day.

“I'm ready,” she said. I could smell tooth paste like mad.

“How do you like her sweater, Mom?” I asked. I had told my mother all about it. “Isn't it nice?”

“It's lovely,” my mother said “That pink is a very good color on you. Would you like to sleep over tonight, Al?”

It was the first time I could remember my mother asking a friend of mine to sleep over. Usually I have to ask her myself and she mostly says, “I'll see,” and then forgets I asked her.

“I would like to,” Al said. “I have to check with my mother, though.”

“Well,” my mother said, “we'd like to have you. Any time.”

“Thank you,” Al said. “I will let you know.”

We went down in the elevator and we did not talk to each other. I don't know why, except that Al was depressed. I could tell. It is very easy to get depressed when things do not happen the way you plan. People think that children do not get depressed. They think it is specially reserved for grownups. They are wrong.

“I'm glad the sun came out,” Al said when we reached the basement. “It got rid of all the snow.”

“Yes,” I said. “That was a break.”

We knocked our special knock—one, two, three, pause, then four. We waited. There was no noise at all. Unless you count the oil burner, which is always going. And the kids riding their tricycles around while their mothers did the wash. Little kids, like three or four, are very amusing. I like them. Al said once that this is because I identify with them.

“Is that good?” I had asked.

Al had shrugged her shoulders. “Good or not good, it doesn't matter. It is the way things are. Me, I don't think I was ever a child. Really a child, I mean.”

I did not know what to say so I didn't say anything. I have discovered this is a good policy.

We knocked again.

“Maybe he is out,” Al said.

“Where?” I said. “Where would he be? Besides, he expects us.”

“Open the door,” Al told me.

“Why don't you?” I said.

“All right, I will.” She pushed the door open.

Mr. Richards's kitchen was very still. I could hear the refrigerator purring, sort of.

“Mr. Richards.” Al looked around. “Mr. Richards.”

“He must be taking a nap,” I said.

Al looked at me. Mr. Richards does not take naps.

“Look in there.” Al pointed to the room where Mr. Richards sleeps. It is a little closet kind of a room. He showed it to us once. You would not think it was big enough for a bedroom but he fixed it up with a bed and a radio and a chair. “All the comforts of home,” he had said when he showed us around.

We tapped on the door. Then we banged. It was so quiet in there that I could hear Al's heart beating. At least I think it was hers.

Finally she opened the door. Just a crack. She looked in. “He is there,” she said. “He is in bed. His eyes are closed.”

“Mr. Richards,” she yelled as loud as she could.

I looked over Al's shoulder and I could see him lying there, not moving. He looked awfully little.

“We'd better call somebody,” I said. “I think that would be the best thing.”

“Who will we call?” Al asked.

“My mother and father went downtown to look at a new couch,” I said. “Your mother?” I was not telling her, I was asking.

“She has a cold. Her head is stopped up and she can't breathe. That's why she didn't go to work. She feels terrible,” Al said.

“She is still your mother and we have got to call someone that we know,” I said.