Free Saving Alice by David Lewis Page B

discovered that only one half of the yard had been sodded, lending a rather lopsided look to the front. We would also learn later that the house had been misbuilt, the plans erroneously flipped, which meant that not only was our side door a mere five feet from our neighbor’s garage, but their property line actually went through the cement steps. The builder, acknowledging his mistake, threw in enough money to pay off the neighbor and push back the property line.
    Across the street, to the east, the railroad tracks snaked behind similarly styled houses. It was a treeless neighborhood destined for more of the same, since few owners planted much more than the absolute minimum of marigolds and pansies, as if acknowledging the futility of improvement, or perhaps praying for temporary residence and refusing to think long-term. To the north, empty fields extended for miles.
    Presently, I stopped in the vacant driveway in front of the seven-year-old one-car garage, set back from the house. Parked inside the garage was our “good” car, Donna’s Dodge minivan, a discolored navy blue scabbed with a cancerous rust, the interior light blue vinyl faded and dull. The windshield was pockmarked with tiny fractures no larger than a dime, yet destined to become long jagged slivers. When operated, the wipers gapped over half the windshield, and the lights to the radio display had long since extinguished. But the tires were relatively new, and the refurbished engine was still alive and kicking.
    Noting the darkened house, I grabbed the earrings box and got out of the car. Pushing the car door closed instead of slamming it, I slinked up the sideways-sloping sidewalk. A sudden winter wind erupted, pelting granules of frozen snow against my face. Gripping my jacket tighter, I turned away from the offending gust.
    I stamped my feet on the concrete step, then cringed at the noise I made, and opened the door to the living room. The Happy Birthday banners and party decorations Alycia had made on the printer in my downstairs office glared down at me. I slipped off my wet shoes, hung up my beige topcoat on a tree hanger, and placed Donna’s gift on the dining room table.
    Without further ado, I took a deep breath and headed down the short hallway to our master bedroom. The door was closed, so I steeled myself and turned the knob. Locked . I knocked softly but no answer.
    “Donna?” I whispered.
    I checked my watch. 9:30. Surely she wouldn’t have retired so early. Instead of knocking again, I retreated to the kitchen, where dirty dishes were stacked on the counter. After thumbing through the mail, I discarded the junk and opened the bills. Then I rolled up my sleeves, filled the sink with hot water, and began a small measure of penitence, painstakingly avoiding any clanging of pots and pans.
    Fifteen minutes later, when I could put it off no longer, I headed downstairs to the partially finished basement. The cement floor was cold and moist against my stockinged feet. At the far end of the room, a sliver of light was visible along the edge of Alycia’s partially open bedroom door. No sounds.
    Gingerly I pushed her door fully open. Hunched up on the carpeted floor, she leaned against her bed, surrounded by crumpled bed sheets. Although she must have seen me out of the corner of her eye, she refused to look up. She was wearing her headphones, something I had forbidden, then lectured, then pleaded, and now pretended didn’t exist. Lately, those things I forbade only became her gauntlets.
    According to her sixth-grade teacher, and in spite of the historic “Shrek-a-lina ear episode,” Alycia had been the most popular girl in her class. On the other hand, seventh grade was now proving to be an adjustment. Her choice of friendships, not to mention her confidence, had deteriorated. Sometimes her melancholy—what her teachers and counselor have labeled as nothing more than pre-adolescent mood swings—seem to descend out of nowhere and last for