Alice bliss, p.1
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       Alice Bliss, p.1

           Laura Harrington
Alice Bliss

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page




  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Laura Harrington, 2011

  All rights reserved

  A Pamela Dorman Book / Viking

  Publisher’s Note This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


  Alice Bliss / Laura Harrington.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51529-7

  1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Families of military personnel—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 6. Iraq War, 2003—Social aspects—United States—Fiction. 7. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A78185A79 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2010049089

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Patrick

  Prologue: August 20th

  This is the first time Alice has been allowed to walk back to their campsite from the Kelp Shed alone. She is fourteen, barefoot, her sneakers tied together by the laces and slung across her shoulder so she can feel the soft, sandy dust of the single-track road between her toes. Her sister fell asleep halfway through the square dance, dropping from hyperexcited to unconscious in a flash. Her father carries Ellie draped over his shoulder, and casually, or so it seems, her mother says, “Come home when the dance is done.”

  She can hardly believe it. The dance is still in her feet, still in her bones, the steps like an intricate game. She danced with everyone and anyone at all, old and young, men and women, just to stay on the floor and moving. The caller was a blind man with two fingers missing from his left hand. His face was wrinkled and brown from the sun, his body heavy and the voice that called the steps strangely high and sweet. A boy’s voice in a man’s body. A boy’s wildness, as though he had no awareness of himself in his body.

  She gave in, finally, and danced with her father—embarrassed to be asked by him, worried that everyone would be watching and judging and thinking her still a child. But he surprises her. He is a good dancer. Precise. His hands firm on her back or her hand or her arm. She is suddenly dancing better than she has ever danced before, suddenly experiencing the freedom inside the squares. She can let go because he is so confident. She is tasting something adult, grown-up, or almost tasting it. It is just beyond her reach, this feeling, what it is, how to name it and understand it. Now it is pure sensation, unadulterated fun. Years later she will remember his touch on her back, pulling her in, letting her go, her own helpless laughter, the way he guided her, his touch steady and strong, and how he held her close and let her go, over and over again.

  The dust beneath her feet now is cool, the day’s heat long gone. It is mid-August and already you can feel fall coming with the way night rushes in. She pulls on her sweater and as she crests the first hill she can see almost all of Small Point, the shape of the island dark against the water. She can hear the waves on the beach below her. There are fires still burning at a few campsites, but mostly it is true dark. Alone on the road, she stops. What is she feeling? Intensely awake. Aware. A bit scared. She senses everything, her body open to the sky and the night, the smell of salt and pine and wood smoke, the wind, the scratchy wool of her old sweater, her hips loose in her jeans, her feet cool and tough and sure on the road.

  In the distance she sees what look like stars on the water. Following the dip in the road, she loses sight of them, but cresting the next hill she sees them again. She breaks into a jog and takes the turn down to the ocean, away from her campsite. There it is again. Another curve and she can see where it is: the Devil’s Bathtub. She is on the beach now, walking toward the outlying rock formation, a wide cleft in the rocks that becomes an eight foot pool at high tide and empties to sand at low tide.

  There are fires on the water. How can that be? And now she sees them: a group of boys lighting small wooden rafts on fire and setting them afloat in this natural pool. They are quiet, intent. Why are they doing this? It’s so beautiful, the small rafts floating, in flames, and then gone.

  The boys have run out of boats; the last fire winks out. Now they strip off their clothes, daring one another to dive in. She crouches where she is, watching them, their pale bodies against the dark rock. She has never seen a naked boy before. She is not close enough to see much, but their nakedness is loud in the dark. Her eyes pass over each boy as though she could run a hand across a face or a chest, along a thigh.

  She turns and lies in the sand, listening to their shouts as they dive and splash, listening as the cold and the search for their clothes quiets them. And the sky overhead is raining stars. These are the Perseids her father has told her about. She wants to get up and go and find him, she wants to tell the boys, Look up! Look up! But she can’t move; there is magic occurring in front of her eyes. The heavens are throwing jewels at her feet. It is impossible, as impossible as fire on the water, as impossible as her hand on the chest of a naked boy, and yet here she is, seeing it with her own eyes.

  January 29th

  Matt Bliss is somebody who knows how to be happy. A former engineer, he’s now a carpenter, doing what he loves, a craftsman, meticulous. He likes to say he escaped from his career and got himself a job. He coaches Little League even though neither of his daughters shows any aptitude for baseball. He was a pitcher on the local farm team right out of college, until his father told him to get serious and he went to grad school for his engineering degree. He still pitches for a local team.

  Matt grows vegetables. Alice helps. They grow the best corn and the best tomatoes in town, not like there’s much competition anymore. Ever since Mr. Hendrickson down the road died, the old time guys who put in vegetables every year have really dwindled. Matt says, “You just wait, the hippie kids will bring it all back again; all
that poison in our food now, people are waking up. You can do it yourself. Good food. Cheap.” And they’ve got this black dirt he loves to go on and on about. Topsoil eighteen inches deep. “Beautiful stuff!” He keeps trying to get Angie interested in canning or preserving or freezing their bounty, but this is not Angie’s bailiwick.

  So Alice and Ellie and Matt are the ones to snap beans, make tomato sauce and tomato juice and salsa, grape jelly and grape juice. Matt wants to plant three more apple trees in the side yard where Angie would like to have a nice patio. Two more cherry trees, too, right next to his grape arbor. Apple butter, he tells her, apple pies, cherry pies. Angie rolls her eyes and says: “Matt Bliss, you did not marry a farm girl.” He laughs and picks her up and kisses her. Times like this the two of them head off for a “nap” hand in hand. Eventually figuring out just what this euphemism means makes Alice a little queasy. Here it is, right in front of her face, the power of opposites to attract.

  Angie would love to stay in a nice hotel; Matt likes to camp. Angie is upwardly mobile, a striver if ever there was one; Matt likes things just the way they are. Angie thinks they’re living in a starter house; Matt thinks they’re home. Angie likes French perfume; Matt likes to get his hands dirty. The fact that Angie might like those workman’s hands on her perfumed skin is a thought Alice vigorously chases from her mind.

  The army reserve was a bone of contention, too. Angie all hung up on what’s fair, why should Matt have to do it, what about his own family. Matt talking about doing what’s right, not letting somebody else do what he should do: serving his country, an example to his girls. Finally they agree to disagree and Angie seems reconciled to it, even seems to enjoy the additional income, the occasional dinner in a nice restaurant, all dolled up in a new dress and high heels. And, oh, there’s that perfume again, Matt’s laughter, Angie’s surrender, and another closed door.

  But now, with the war dragging on and on, Matt’s unit has been called up. He’s heading to Fort Dix. Until recently reservists got six months of specialized instruction. Now they are fast-tracking volunteers through six weeks of supposedly high-quality, hurry up, move’em out training.

  The weeks prior to his leaving are an insane rush. Angie and Matt talk late into the night, every night, sitting at the kitchen table. They argue, Angie tries not to cry again, they pore over health insurance, Matt’s will and living will, the power of attorney forms. They try to anticipate what Angie will be facing in the coming months.

  They are running out of time. They all know it. It’s in the air they breathe.

  Alice is so tired her eyes are burning but she can’t sleep. As long as her father is still awake and still in the house and still talking or drinking coffee, Alice wants to be near him. So she sits in the dark at the foot of the stairs and listens.

  “Why are you insisting—?” Angie’s voice pops up a register when she’s upset.

  “You know why.”

  “Tell me why the United States Army is more important than your own family.”

  “It’s not an either or equation, Angie.”

  “You like this. You’re actually excited.”

  “I like the work, I like my crew, I like the challenge, the chance to—”

  “But leaving us, Matt—”

  “You know I don’t want to leave you.”

  “They’ll throw you right in the middle of—”

  “I’m going where I’m needed.”

  “I need you. Doesn’t that count anymore?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “I never imagined—never—that you would do something like this. You were going to play baseball for god’s sake. Baseball! How did we get from baseball to—”

  “Angie, it’s not just about you and me.”

  “Okay, so you’re the selfless hero and I’m the selfish wife. You think I want this role? I didn’t sign up for this. This was not part of the plan.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate this, I really hate this.”

  “Sweetheart . . .” Alice can hear the ache in his voice.

  “I want . . .” Angie’s voice breaks.

  “I don’t want to be one of those guys who gets old and says, I wish I had done this, I wish I had done that.”

  “Oh, Matt . . .”

  “I want to contribute, and I don’t think we should just send our kids to this war.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Don’t you have any faith in me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’m coming home, Angie.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  It’s quiet for a moment.

  “I want letters, you know,” Matt says. “Real letters. With perfume. You can’t carry an e-mail around in your pocket.”

  “You’re not so deluded you actually think this is romantic?”

  “I do. A little.”

  “It won’t be romantic if—”

  “Oh, yeah,” he teases her, laughing. “The fallen hero, blah, blah, blah.”


  Alice hears the kitchen chairs scrape across the floor and knows it is time to beat a retreat up the stairs to bed. But she waits another moment, and another. She wants to see her dad one more time tonight.

  They walk through the kitchen door. The dining room light is nothing more than a warm glow, illuminating them. Matt pulls Angie to him and kisses her, and kisses her some more.

  Alice backs slowly up the stairs, carefully stepping over the creakiest step, third from the top. She puts her freezing cold hands under her armpits to try to warm them as she walks down the hall to her room. She waits to duck inside her door until she hears them on the stairs. Matt has his arm around Angie’s waist and he has even managed to make her laugh. That soft, musical, surrendering laugh Angie saves just for Matt and his beautiful blue eyes.

  Alice closes her door as softly as possible and leans against it, hoping they have not heard her. She hears them pass by whispering and giggling like little kids.

  Ellie has kicked her covers off as usual. Alice pulls the quilt over Ellie and then climbs into her own bed. She listens to Ellie breathing; she closes her eyes, tight, tight, and tries to breathe through the knot in her chest. She wishes she could call Henry but that would mean waking up Mr. and Mrs. Grover and getting into trouble for calling so late. She wishes they still had their walkie-talkies hooked up. She could ask Henry to leave his on so she could listen to the static and hear him sleeping and breathing the way she did that whole terrible month in fourth grade when her grandfather was dying. What happened to those walkie-talkies she wonders, and what’s Henry doing right now? She’ll ask him tomorrow. If it doesn’t sound too crazy in the cold light of day.

  January 31st

  Matt is in his workshop puttering around with a cup of forgotten coffee sitting on the windowsill. It’s a cold day with flurries and a gusting wind, so he’s got the woodstove going full blast and he’s wearing his tan work jacket with the ripped pocket. Alice slips in and sits on a wooden crate near the stove. What is she doing here, exactly? Her English homework lies forgotten in her lap. She is, what? Hanging out? Breathing the air? Daydreaming? Making a nuisance of herself?

  All of the above? She brought her dad a toasted muffin as a way of interrupting him and then stuck. Like a burr. She is uninvited, she feels awkward; but this is where she has to be even if Matt would rather be alone.

  But Matt would not rather be alone. There are things he wants to say to his daughter before he leaves but they all sound so portentous and ominous that he can’t bring himself to begin. There are things she needs to know, things she needs to prepare for, and it’s really not fair to leave all the talking and informing and awkwardness to Angie. So he talks about the garden instead. He pulls out last year’s plan and asks Alice to come over and take a look. She throws another log in the woodstove and joins him at the workbench.

  “So I was thinking less corn because there will only be three of you.”

  “What about Gram? She can always take the extra.”

  “Because that way we could squeeze in another row of yellow beans.”


  “And beets.”

  “You’re the only one who likes beets, Dad.”




  “Two plants at most.”

  He notates the changes as they talk.

  “You can do peas spring and fall like we did last year.”

  “Can we do basil?”

  “Sure. And Mom likes arugula.”


  Suddenly Alice’s hands are clammy and she can’t lift her eyes from the plan.

  “You don’t like it,” he says.

  “I liked it just fine last year. I thought last year was perfect.”

  “No changes? No building on our successes and learning from our failures?”

  “We didn’t have any failures.”

  “Just way too much yellow squash.”

  “Okay. Let’s take out half the yellow squash.”

  “But keep the corn?”


  “And everything else.”

  “Just like last year,” Alice says, slowly and carefully.

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because I want it to be the same.”

  Alice manages to look him in the eye, which is when he can see how hard she is working to stay in control.

  “Okay.” He smiles at her. “We’ll go with last year’s design.”


  “You want gourds even if I’m not here?”


  In the far corner of the garden Matt grows decorative gourds. They are strange things: bumpy and lumpy and misshapen. But they are colorful and surprising and they serve no purpose other than to amaze. Alice has every intention of growing gourds this year and every year for the rest of her life.

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