Ask Alice

Chapter XI from "Music for a Pandemic Quartet"

Introduction

This is a chapter from my unpublished novel, Music for a Pandemic Quartet. It’s just turned April 2020, Paul goes to visit his friend Mary at her home where she’s become teacher to her two kids. He’s lonely and hasn’t seen her for a while, he’s been caught up in his research and delvings into “what’s been going on…” But Mary too has been doing her own research—from an intuitve perspective. She’s eager to share it with Paul and she does—some of which is directly inspired by a very famous children’s novel from the nineteenth century. I believe that most of us have either read it or are certainly familiar with its surreal happenings.

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            He decides to chance it, what the heck, she’ll tell him if she’s busy. It’s been over a week since Paul’s seen Mary and that rarely happens now. He gets out early for him, drives to the higher taxed part of town. They usually meet in Starbucks or at the park. Today Paul wouldn’t mind relaxing with a cup of joe in Mary’s spacious light-filled living room – sinking into her super-supportive leather couch.

            He walks to the left-rear. She’s usually in the kitchen at that time, drinking coffee, reading, emailing. He peeks through the window—no one on the other side. After a minute he can hear voices he confirms are Mary’s and Toby’s coming from the dining room. They’re talking about math. Mary the math teacher. Math had always made him feel helpless. She drifts in the kitchen, “Well try it, don’t use the converter this time, try it by yourself, you can do it...” Putting plates in the dishwasher she pauses to listen to Toby complaining and gazes ahead at the wall—her face a sad drained surrender to reality. Paul, watching a very private and ephemeral transformation, almost moves to go – she turns and sees him, doesn’t show surprise, doesn’t hide what’s exposed there at the dishwasher, plate in hand dripping. She looks at him. He wants to vanish. He tries a smile to convey, “Hey... it’s okay.” Her eyes open to him and they hold it a moment. She can tell him more with a look than all the words he can conjure. Toby’s voice again, Mary bends, putting the plate in the machine, answering him patiently. She gestures Paul to go to the backyard. 

             “Hey,” she waves like a kid.

             “Hey. How are – How’s it—”

             “Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t come by or we haven’t—”

             “It’s okay, I under—”

             “No, it’s not, especially now when we should be—you know.”

             “I see you’re pretty busy...”

             “No. No, Paul, Toby can do his lessons by himself for a while. I may be a teacher. I’m not a babysitter. Coffee?”

            “Sure.”

             “Two minutes. Sit.” He does. With her foot holding the door open—“Don’t you escape Wilmer!”

            No, I won’t – where can I go anyway in the pandem...onic. Pandem...oronic. Pandem-onium-ic. Pandem...alefic. He’s still fabricating variations when she’s in front of him – mugs and a bunch of things – he has to focus on them – books, notepads, newspapers, plate of cookies, cell phone.

            “Gee Mare, you forgot the kitchen sink.”

            “That’s rather unoriginal coming from you—I’d have thought you’d say, I don’t know, ‘the attic’s insulation.’ Something off-beat.”

            “Catch me a break would you sunshine? I’m not original till at least one in the afternoon. Or is it morning?”

            “Okay, I will,” she leans on the table. “Oh, by the way, I have news.” She eyes him expectantly— he’s hoping she’ll ask him into the house—the couch.

            “Yeah? I could use some news that doesn’t come from faceless voices on TV. Or is it voiceless faces?”

            “I’m pregnant.”

            The patio table splits—crumples. Of course it doesn’t.     

             “You’re...?”

            “April Fooooooolllsss!” she almost shouts. Could it be April first? Had they escaped from March? How had he not noticed the emergence? No victory parade?

            “Relax, it was just a goof.”

            “Oh... no. I was thinking about...something.” April Fools. Why would she say ‘I’m pregnant’? He’s drifting on that thought...

            “Coffee alright?”

            He lifts it to his lips, “Yeah, fine.”

            “Speaking of fools...” she sorts her things, newspapers, books, etc.

            “You still get the Times delivered?”

            “Yeah, we do. Dan’s the one who reads it. Lately I’ve been – glancing at it.”

            He takes up the main section, notes the date, March 31, Mary’s red stars and circles throughout the lead article.

            “Looks like you’ve been doing a lot more than glancing.”

            “Yeah, maybe.” She reaches for the paper—

            “Hold a sec, Mare.” He reads the headline: “Coronavirus May Kill 100,000 to 240,000 in U.S. Despite Actions, Officials Say.” She’d underlined Despite Actions three times. “Despite, huh?”

            Yes, very hopeful.”

            He reads aloud: “ ‘The top government scientists battling the coronavirus estimated on Tuesday that the deadly pathogen could kill 100,000 to 240,000 Americans as it ravages the country despite social distancing measures that have closed schools, banned large gatherings, limited travel and forced people to stay in their homes.’ 240,000... Not much of a pandemic, doctors.”

             “Paul. That’s a lot of people.”

             “Is it?”

             “Yeah, of cour—what do you—”

            He continues, “ ‘Dr. Anthony S. Fauci, the nation’s leading infectious disease expert, and Dr. Deborah L. Birx, who is coordinating the coronavirus response, displayed that grim projection at a White House briefing, calling it “our real number” but pledging to do everything possible to reduce it.’ How reassuring! They’re ‘pledging to do everything possible.’ Don’t you feel at ease my dear?”

             “Yeah, I’m delighted.”

             “You must be. You’ve covered this thing in your lovely magic marker. Adding your own magic to Birx’s and Fauci’s?”

            She smiles and drinks her coffee. He reads:

             “ ‘As dire as those predictions are, Dr. Fauci and Dr. Birx said the number of deaths could be much higher if Americans did not follow the strict guidelines vital to keeping the virus from spreading. The White House models they displayed showed that more than 2.2 million people could have died in the United States if nothing were done.’ ”

             “Oh, now I’m totally at ease. I’ll have a bath and take a nap. If not for their ‘strict guidelines,’ like – collapsing the economy? – we would have had—will have had—over two million deaths. So, they prevented a mass die-off—we’ll never know for sure will we. Just trust the great experts.”

             “Yeah, but—”

             “The great doctors.”

             “I know you don’t have confidence in the—”

             “Confidence?”

             “Don’t you think these measures might have – forget it.” He answers only with a sour expression. “What were they supposed to do?”

            He drinks. “How about follow science and not quarantine healthy people? Let them make a living?”

             “They’re saying asymptomatic people can—transmit this thing.”

             “A...symptomatic. Meaning we’re all patients now? Including healthy people! Only a matter of time until we transfer this thing to our – Mother? Baker? Candlestick mak—”  

             “Okay, okay,” she titters. “I don’t know.”

             “Someone knows. Theater of the absurd.”

            Mary cracks a cookie. “No one does, yet.” Paul ruefully grins.

             “I do feel, in a way, for Trump.”

             “Why’s that? You’re not exactly a MAGA guy.”

             “Because. He – at first he had the intuition to resist the whole shutdown thing. Then gradually you could see...they were getting to him. Mr. President...do you want to be held—to be accused of responsibility—for thousands, maybe millions of deaths? Can’t you hear the conversation, Mare? How do you resist that? He caved, plain and simple.”

             “It does sound like an impossible position to be put in. How could he know? He has to depend on them. You don’t think this shutdown is helping to – slow this – thing down?”

             “Haven’t you been watching any of the videos I’ve sent you?”

             “Yeah, I actually have—”

             “Or reading the articles?”

             “I have, and I want to discuss with you.”

             “I’m listening.”

             “There’s a lot to digest, Paul.”

             “Heck of a lot.”

             “Don’t forget—I have them home, all the time. I’m teaching one.”

             “And Dan, he’s at Lions Pride?”

             “It’s too loud and chaotic here – he claims.”

             “For him. Not for you?”

             “I don’t fit into the equation.”

             “Mm-hm. And all this?” he tilts to her pile of things.

             “Yes.” She’s deliberating. The door flies open and Toby sticks his light brown head into daylight—

             “Mommm?”

             “What? Don’t yell I’m right here.”

             “Hey Tobias.”

             “Mom, Dad’s on the phone. Wants to speak to you.”

             “Toby, didn’t you hear Paul greet you?”

             “Yeah. Sorry. Hi Paul.”

             “Hello Tobe.”

             “Tell him to call me on my cell.”

            He’s gone.

            “It’s a cliché—it never stops.” Then as an aside—“But what in my life isn’t a cliché?”

            Her phone vibrates. She taps it. “Hi. Yeah, fine. Same thing they always are, Dan. Schoolwork. Nothing. Yes, he is. Yeah, we’re—yes, out back. I said yes, Dan. Look, call me later, I’m busy. Bye.” The phone clatters, she blows curls off her face.

             “Hey, you good?”

             “Yeah, I’m – I’m fine. Sorry ’bout that. And for sitting out here.”

             “I don’t mind, it’s mild today.”

             “Mm. He doesn’t want anyone... in the house. He made me cancel the cleaning ladies.”

             “I should have brought my Windex.”

             “It’s stupid and un—”

             “Whatever, I don’t care.”

             “I do, though. You’re my oldest... I’m not going to let his paranoia dominate our—” pointing at the house—“lives ’cause he’s...freaked out or... I’m gonna talk to him. Set it straight.”

            “Okay, hon.”

            “It pisses me off.”

            “Alright, forget it.

            “I’m trying to—"

             “What was it you—”

            “Oh! Finally, yes. No more interruptions or divagations.”

            “I promise neither to interrupt or – divagate – if you tell me what divagate means!”

            “I promise I will once you stop interrupting me.” Their laughter is easy, their flow natural. 

            “Give it to me!”

            “Okay...” excitement lights her up. “I was thinking one night about the name you know, ‘Covid...Nineteen.’ I started scribbling notes on these napkins.” She comes around and stands by him. “I’ll attempt to decipher for you.” She arranges the napkins juxtaposed like mascara-stained jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Here you have Co which is together. We’re talking roots.”

            “Okie dokie.”

            “Co is together or with. Vid is to see or to view.”

            “Got it.”

            “Then the number 19. No, I’m not getting into numerology, don’t worry.” She winks at Paul who chuckles. “Nineteen—last year. Or ‘the past’.”

            “Mm-hm.”

            “So there’s – Together see last year. Or the past. I dropped ‘We’ in—Together we see the past. I asked myself, what is it ‘we’ might see in the past? You with me?”

            He looks up – “Yes.”

            “We are seeing...Ourselves.” Simultaneous chills. “Yes. Together – We – See – Ourselves – in Nineteen.”

            “The past.”

            “Why do we see ourselves last year?” She sinks next to him. “Because—we’re watching ourselves...go backwards.”

            “Backwards!”

            “We see ourselves going into the past.”

            “Hm... Interesting, Mare.”

            “But why, Paul? Why?”

            “Why...?”

            “Why are we watching ourselves going or being in the past? What does it mean?” She holds up the napkins— “Getting stuck. Being stuck.”

            “Stuck.”

            “That’s what...came to me.” Mary shrugs.

             “Okay,” he tracks, “let me... We watch ourselves...going backwards...”

            “Mm.”

            “Into the past and...getting stuck.”

            “Basically what I’ve come to.”

            “It’s a code you’re – unveiling?”

            “Guess so.”

             “That’s expressing—concealing—something about—”

            “What our situation really is?”

            “Keeping us stuck in the past. 2019. Covid...nineteen. Shut...down.”

            “Mm, yes. No movement.”

            “Well... backwards movement.”

            “Yes, it’s a paradox.”

            “It’s into the past—no real movement at all.”

            “Stuck.” She locks eyes with him.

             “Going nowhere.”

            “Watching ourselves.” She caps it.

            They sit a moment. Looking ahead. Listening to the common grackles.

            “Shit,” he whispers. 

            “What?”

            “It’s...compelling.”

            “Yeah? I’m not crazy? This isn’t nuts?”

            “Hm?” He’s skating in his head around it. “Not at all. Too sane, maybe.”

            “Can that be? They’re purposely – and they’re telling us—”

            “Purposely keeping us stuck in the past? And telling us—in the name of the disease?” He consults the grass, the trees. “Fucked up, right?”

            The coffee bolsters them.

            “Are you ready for another one?”

            “You’ve got more?”

            “The last one for today.”

             “I’m still absorbing that one.”

            “You can only blame yourself. You’re my catalyst.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “I’m just an ordinary suburban housewife.” He busts out laughing. “What’s funny?”

            Her cell phone vibrates. A text. She looks at it.

            “See? My dear hubby requests me to attend to a certain matter. Guess I’d better attend,” she rises.

            “Later—housewife ‘ordinaire’.”

            “Hey,” she plunks down—“watch it, pal.”

            “Let me have it.” He opens his arms to receive.

            She holds up a hardcover volume.

            “Alice In Wonderland! Gorgeous edition.” He flips the pages.

            “My parents gave me that for my eleventh birthday.”

            “These illustrations are amazing. Such detail.”

            “I remember poring over them for hours. Lying on my bed.”

            “Is there another code you’ve discovered—Sibyl?”

            “Ha-ha.” She takes in her new moniker. “Funny. Yes, discovered it back in Delphi. I had an urge to read it again – when this thing started.”

            “You quoted it at Jill’s dinner—‘Do cats eat bats’. ”

            “Yes. Bats, cats... do they eat each other... It’s in the beginning. Bizarre. I read through the whole book and put it down. I picked it up two days ago, reread some sections. And I was like – huh!”

            “Share Sibyl, share.”

            “You never called me that before.” She’s touched and a bit awed.

            “You’ve never been an oracle during a pandemic before. Or have you?”

            “Not that I recall. You remember the Mad Tea Party chapter?”

            He squints, “The Hatter...The Hare... Alice. The empty chairs.”

            “Yes, the March Hare, he’s called. And the Dormouse.”

            “Of course, the dormouse. Grace Slick’s friend.” 

            “Ha, yes. In this chapter they talk about time—with a capital T. The Hatter tells Alice that in the past Time would do anything for him, arrange the hours any way he desired. But—they had quarreled. Let me read you this passage: “The Hatter shook his head mournfully. ‘Not I,’ he replied. ‘We quarreled last March—just before he went mad, you know’ (pointing with his teaspoon at the March Hare)—‘it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing: Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you’re at!’” ”

            “What!? That’s in there—‘Twinkle twinkle little bat’?”

            “Yes. That’s not all. He goes on, “‘Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,’ said the Hatter, ‘when the Queen bawled out, ‘He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!’ ‘How dreadfully savage!’ exclaimed Alice. ‘And ever since that,’ the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, ‘he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.’ ” Alice, being a bright girl asks him, “‘Is that the reason so many tea things are put out here?’” He answers, “‘Yes, that’s it, it’s always teatime, and we’ve not time to wash the things betweenwhiles.’ ‘Then you keep moving around, I suppose,’ said Alice. ‘Exactly so,’ said the Hatter, ‘as the things get used up.’ ‘But when you come to the beginning again?’ Alice ventured to ask.” Now, interestingly, Mary explains, the March Hare pipes in here—“‘Suppose we change the subject,’ the March Hare interrupted, yawning. ‘I’m getting tired of this.’” ”

             “Am I feeling a connection in this to your ‘being stuck in the past’ idea?”

            “Stay with me. There’s a late chapter called Who Stole the Tarts. It’s a trial and the Knave is accused, etc. The Hatter is called as a witness. He excuses himself to The King of Hearts, as he “came in with a teacup in one hand, and a piece of bread and butter in the other. ‘I beg pardon, your Majesty,’ he began, ‘for bringing these in, but I hadn’t quite finished my tea when I was sent for.’ ‘You ought to have finished,’ said the King. ‘When did you begin?’ The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm in arm with the Dormouse. ‘Fourteenth of March, I think it was,’ he said. ‘Fifteenth,’ said the March Hare. ‘Sixteenth,’ added the Dormouse.” The King of Hearts goes on questioning the Hatter who becomes totally confused and flustered and says in a trembling voice, ‘It began with the tea...’” ”

            A breeze had picked up, neither has noticed. Mary had been animated while reading. Paul’s eyes were gleaming. He stands and she follows him on the lawn.

            “I’ll review,” she digs in. “Alice stumbles on these three – the Hatter, the March Hare, note the month in his name, and the Dormouse. Though the table is set for many guests, they’re all scrunched together.”

            “Yes.”

            “The Hatter explains to Alice his relationship with Time had soured and now Time won’t do a thing he asks. It’s always six o’clock.”

            “Stuck in time.”

            “Yes. After upsetting the Queen of Hearts because his timing was off – he was ‘murdering the time.’ And the song he was butchering was ‘Twinkle twinkle little bat how I wonder what you’re at.’ ”

            “How I wonder...what you’re at. Wuhan. You’re at Wuhan, aren’t you little bat?”

            She knows he’s getting it—goes in for the coup de grâce—

             “They’re in this tea party that never ends. Never can end. They keep moving around the table—”

            “As if to accommodate guests who never appear—”

            “Yes, simulating time is moving, that there’s a progression when—”

            “—They’re actually getting nowhere.”

            “Bingo Paul! You’ve got it!”

            “No, you got it, Mare.”

            “One more thing on the tea party...”

            He’s on tenterhooks, they’re pacing like boxers under the lofty multi-branched elm.

            “Recall the Hatter said he’d quarreled with Time, last March—‘just before he went mad, you know’—referring to the March Hare.”

            “Right, go on...”

            “The Hatter enters that trial eating and drinking his tea as he must since he can’t depart the tea party. The King asks him, “‘When did you begin?’” And what are the answers?”

            “The fourteenth of March?”

            “That’s what he says. Then the March Hare says, ‘The fifteenth.’ And the Dormouse adds—‘The sixteenth.”

            He stops. She stops.

            “The sixteenth of – sixteenth...of March.” Hand to his forehead. “That’s when the March Hare went mad. And when all this shit...” he flings his arm over their world—

            “Began?” Mary drives it –“Jill’s party was on the thirteenth, remember?”

            “That’s right...”

            “Then that Monday, the sixteenth—”

            “The beginning of the madness.”

            It’s like a silent explosion. He goes to the table. She gives him a moment.

            “Sit.” She’s nervous. He takes her hand. Kisses her on the cheek. “I’m proud of you. That’s breathtaking.”

            “Yeah? Truly?”

            “I don’t know how or what exactly but to me, it’s – undeniable –  it’s there. You illuminated something. Stunning.”

            She blushes, giggles. “Thanks.” She leans her head on his shoulder. “Thanks.”

            “I need to ponder it.”

            “Permission to ponder.”

            “Seriously. I’m getting chills.”

            “Ooh. When Paul gets chills...”

            She puts her arm around him and they reverberate. She feels the house tugging, has to return to the students. Knows he needs her also.

            “How are you?”

            “Me, I’m – I’m okay. Not bad.”

            “I’m concerned about you. Have you been alone this past— You look tired, honey.”

            “Alone?” He hadn’t considered it. “I go out. I – it’s funny you say that, though. None of my friends want to meet. I even promised them proper distancing. None.”

            “Including me, huh?”

            “No, I didn’t mean—”

            “I’m sorry. I haven’t been avoiding you.”

            “I know that. You’re full up with things.”

            “You need to rest, Paul. Are you taking the vitamins?”

            “Yes, every day. Promise.”

            “Still at the research?”

            “Yeah...I am. I did pull away a little. Not as...frantic.”

            “Remember, balance.”

            “Yes. I’ve put it on my wall, Mare. But, it’s strange...”

            “What?”

            He stands, stretches his back. “I uh—maybe I should have expected it. I was sending a bunch of friends links to the stuff I was finding.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing. Almost nothing. Either total indifference or weird hostility.”

             “Nothing between?”

            “Not really. ‘I totally disagree with this video. Covid is not a made-up disease, I know someone, my sister knows someone...’ Or, ‘The hospitals are like war zones.’ I try to reason with them. I send more evidence that it’s not how the media is making it seem. Then—no response at all. Or, ‘Stop sending me stuff.’ They don’t want to look into it.”

            “Not everyone’s like you, Paul. They’re just trying to get through their lives.”

            “Me too. But the truth is – important.”

            “Sad to say dear—very few people are interested in it. Don’t you know that by now?”

            “I suppose not. I should. I’m no longer sending things. They can reach out to me if...”

            “Fine, that’s a better approach. But don’t stop sending to me, okay?”

            “I will. I mean, I won’t.”

            “I like that Dr. Kaufman fella by the way.”

            “Oh, you watched his presentations?”

            “Yes—not all. I have to take time to understand.”

            “Please do, Mare. It’s important.”

            “Now I promise. I need to—”

            “Find more time?”

            “Yes. Speaking of which—” she thumbs toward the house.

            “Time?”

            “Time. We don’t want a quarrel,” she winks.

            “It’s not six o’clock is it?”

            “Not yet. Not always yet.”

            “Okay, Sibyl.”

            She takes his hand.

            Her touch, he feels it. She leads him to the edge of the fence near the driveway.

            “Call me anytime. If you need me, I’ll do my best to...”

            “I know that Mary.”

            She brings him to her, hugging him. What was it – about him? She whispers, “Thanks for listening to my – ideas.”

            “My pleasure.”

            She kisses him lightly on the lips. They go in again for a kiss—surprised. It lasts a moment.

            She breaks it, murmurs, “Okay.” He’s opening the fence. “Paul.” He turns—he’s a still life, poised, hand on the gate latch. Watching her. She waves – “Don’t forget your writing, sweetheart.”

            He nods. My writing.

            Waves. Goes.

            April.