CHAPTER 8

I can’t stop thinking about her. I want to know everything about her. Alice Mallet is now indisputably the one and only love of my life. She has revealed a lot about herself and her parents to me. I have told her everything I can think of about myself, and my parents, except of course about my little trips to the bathroom. As far as I’m concerned this shared knowledge forms a sacred bond between us. That’s what grownup relationships are based on, aren’t they?
Alice is the only child of Maize Floss, a former Go Go dancer, and Anton Mallet, the head of the Theology Department at Yale University. According to Alice, Maize left for parts unknown with a bouncer from the nightclub where she was formerly employed when Alice was only ten. Evidently Maize couldn’t take Anton’s bouts of moodiness and his long stretches of boring silence. Now Alice has to put up with the same conditions that drove her mother to distraction. Her father hardly talks to her except to occasionally repeat the story of her mother’s leaving them. At least that’s how Alice relates to the situation that led to her parents breaking up and her father’s treatment of her since her mother left.

My darling Alice, she believes her Dad has some Huguenot blood in him, which is in constant conflict with his raging sexual appetite. She thinks he’s afraid his passions will erupt if he talks too much, or shows emotion. Alice is so wise. I don’t know how she knows these things. I guess it’s a woman’s instincts.

Anton married Maize in a fit of passion, and regretted it almost immediately after getting out of bed four days later. I guess her mother must’ve told her this in one of their little heart to hearts, which Alice embarrassedly described to me, shortly before Maize took off. Not exactly the type of conversation to have with a ten-year-old if you ask me.

Alice took her mother’s leaving very hard. She thinks her mother doesn’t love her. Sometimes I find her staring off into space, and looking so sad. It’s none of my business, but her mother sounds like she doesn’t love any one except herself. What else is new?

Alice, who is fourteen, and a week older than me, has become very stoic about her situation. Her father barely interacts with her. He is attentive to Alice’s needs, but that’s as far as familial passions go. My poor Alice takes the brunt of her father’s silent fury at her mother’s infidelity. I guess the thought that Maize just couldn’t stand him, or the sleepy hamlet of Sheepsville, Connecticut, where they resided, never crossed her father’s mind. For some unknown reason he blamed his wife’s departure on Alice.

I wouldn’t care except for the fact that this makes my Alice unhappy at times. She is so brave. Why do parents pull this kind of junk on their kids? Don’t they know how much they hurt us? That’s a lot of unwarranted guilt to heap on a young girl like Alice. It’s a good thing she’s so mature and knows how to cope with problems of this kind. Seeing how she handles this trauma is making me grow up too. I guess I didn’t know how lucky I have been considering my mother is a pill. At least my folks are together and don’t take their problems out on me, most of the time.

Alice lives alone in the family mansion with her father. I call him stone face, but not in front of Alice, and not to his face. He never smiles. He is a tall sad looking man with a big hooked nose who usually dresses in a wrinkled black suit. Looks a little like Abe Lincoln, but without the mole, and his black hair is cut short. He wanders around the house with a Bible in his hand.
Their home has been in the Mallet family since the early nineteen twenties. The house is a huge red brick affair with high dormers on the third floor, two imposing white pillars in front, and a myriad of eight pane glass windows. The walls are sixteen inches thick, most of the interior hallways are dark, and the gray walled kitchen would have done justice in size to the school cafeteria. In this austere and forbidding environment my Alice passes her teenage years, alone except for me
Alice is a pragmatist. She accepted early on that this was her lot in life, and has determined to make the best of her circumstance. I know she really likes me, but I’m not sure she loves me. Sometimes I think she does. Sometimes I think that to her I’m just an adorable naive stepping-stone on the way to becoming a woman. I don’t care. She can use me and my body any way she wants. I love her.

In terms of the sex thing, I think I really have no clue what’s going on. I need someone to interpret social interaction between a boy and a girl for me. I guess in my own clumsy idealistic way I need someone else to say oops before the action got too hot and heavy. I’m not sure I’m ready for what is happening to me, or the way I feel.

I love cuddling and kissing Alice on the screened in terrace of her home. In the corner of the porch is this great white wicker sofa with huge overstuffed purple pillows that you sink right into. We stay there, half hidden from the world, by the cushions and our love for hours. Mr. Mallet is hardly ever home, so we have plenty of opportunity to enjoy some quality time together.
On our most recent cuddling session, Alice, who was wearing a skimpy white shirt blouse that was unbuttoned nearly to her belly button, took my left hand and guided it gently inside her blouse. I felt the firm, round, subtle warmth of her. She is perfect.

I withdrew my hand in a minute or so; seemed like an eternity of bliss. I was getting hard and was afraid I would lose control. Alice noticed and touched my crotch, holding her hand there for only an instant.
I pulled away, pushed myself up from the couch, and said, “I have to go,” grabbing awkwardly at my pants to hide the bulge. “We discussed this Alice. We’re not ready. I want to, but it’s just not right. We have to wait.”
I don’t know what I’m afraid of? Having sex I guess. Maybe I’m scared I won’t please her, or perform properly.

Alice threw me a kiss and said, “I love you Johnny. You’re my idol.”
I ran all the way home and up the stairs, slamming the door to the bathroom, as I resorted to my old childish habit to relieve my passion. Fortunately no one was home. Funny thing is I wasn’t satisfied. Nothing could keep my mind off Alice or the way she touched me.

I think this is as good as it gets, but why isn’t our love enough? I want more, but more of what? Is this what life is really about, having pleasure and wanting more and more of everything? I didn’t know passion and love could feel like this: happiness and longing mixed together. Why can’t I be happy with what I have?

My darling Alice gets me so excited just thinking about her or touching her or smelling her perfume. I want Alice to be the love of my life forever.
Please God don’t let this ever end. We haven’t even consummated our union yet.