Elinor Lipman - The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

“Because,” Leo continued, “it’s getting a little monotonous.”

I said, “Then I’ll have to be monotonous because all I care about is getting invited back next year and eventually becoming chief resident and after that getting into a plastic surgery program.”

Wouldn’t you think a speech like that would provoke a statement of support? Instead, to my shock and to the fascination of the two teenage girls sitting in front of us on the trolley car, Leo said, “I chose that word deliberately because I’m in charge of the social development of Alice Thrift.”

I harrumphed. The high-schoolers turned around in frank fashion to assess me. I stared back schoolmarmishly so they would mind their own business. Leo tapped one of them on the shoulder and asked in his friendliest pediatric bedside fashion, “Don’t you think my friend here should spend a little more time worrying about life outside of work and less about preserving her reputation as Alice the overworked?”

The two girls, both of whose hair was streaked maroon, looked at each other and smirked.

“No, really. Don’t give me attitude,” said Leo. “I grew up with a houseful of sisters, so I’m not deterred by a couple of funny looks.”

The one next to the window asked smartly, “Haven’t you ever heard of, ‘Don’t talk to strangers’?”

“I’m a nurse and she’s a doctor,” said Leo, “so that doesn’t apply, especially in the middle of a trolley car, surrounded by potential Good Samaritans.”

“They’re probably fourteen years old,” I muttered.

“Fifteen,” said the one in the aisle seat.

“A good demographic,” said Leo. “I have a couple of nieces around that age and I can always depend on them for an honest appraisal of my shirt, my tie, my hair, my shoes, my date, my taste in music, you name it.”

One mumbled, “Music?”

Leo named people or groups or albums—I’d heard of none of these entities—which broke whatever final layer of ice needed melting with these two strangers in front of us, their eyebrows pierced and their fingertips stained orange from some triangular chiplike snack they were sharing.

Do you see what Leo represented in our arrangement? Charm of the easy, fluent, unaffected variety—meant to be instructive, but a constant reminder of my own unease.

LEO HAD WARNED me, but still I was shocked by the quantity of Jesus iconography on his mother’s walls and horizontal surfaces. She lived in Brighton, in the same house in which he’d grown up, still containing some of the thirteen children she’d raised there: Marie, the divorced special-ed teacher, a foot shorter than her brother and 50 percent more freckled, had his round, elfin face; Rosemary, the travel agent, from the dark-haired side of the family, wearing a fashionable and no doubt expensive suit with a double strand of pearls; and Michael, the baby, age twenty-six, wearing a T-shirt bearing the name of a gym.

Mrs. Frawley had ginger-colored ends on her gray hair and bobby pins serving as barrettes. She introduced herself as Mrs. Morrisey. When she excused herself to check the oven, Leo explained that her friends and her priest had convinced her that marrying Mr. Morrisey a few years back—also widowed, also lonely, the owner of a red-brick duplex in Oak Square—was a good idea. The new Mrs. Morrisey had decided rather quickly that her friends were wrong; that being a wife to Mr. Morrisey involved duties beyond housekeeping and companionship that she’d been led not to expect.

The less said the better, Rosemary confided once we’d taken our seats in the dining room. “He calls once in a while but Ma won’t come to the phone.”

“And you don’t ask her for an explanation?”

Marie said, “She moved into his house after the wedding, and was back here in less than a month.”

“She implied that he raised his hand to her,” Michael whispered, “but we think it had to do with the bedroom.”

“Wouldn’t she tell you outright?” I asked. “Or file charges if he really did hit her?”

The four Frawley children twisted their mouths in various directions, all telegraphing the same thing: Enough said.

Leo added, “We think part of the deal up front was separate bedrooms, which Ma took to mean no wifely duties and no honeymoon.”

Marie put her finger to her lips and everyone but me nodded in complicitous agreement.

Raising her voice so it would carry to the kitchen, Rosemary said, “Leo tells us that you’re a surgeon.”

I said yes, I was. But just starting out, and it was a long road ahead, much competition, much narrowing down of the field.

“She worries about everything,” said Leo.

Mrs. Morrisey came back through the door with a roasted chicken on a cutting board. “The plastic thing popped up like it was supposed to, but I left the bird in because the baked potatoes weren’t ready. It might be a little dry,” she announced. “And, Rosey, get the vegetables out of the microwave, please. Use the Fiestaware.”

“Need another set of hands?” Leo called after his sister.

“You stay here with our guest,” said his mother. “Marie will get the drinks.”

“The chicken looks delicious,” I said.

“I hope there’s enough,” said Mrs. Frawley. “Leo didn’t tell me until this morning that he was bringing a guest.”

“The choices seem to be milk or water,” Marie said from the doorway.

“Milk,” I said. “And don’t worry about having enough to go around. I don’t eat much; in fact a baked potato would be fine.”

“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Marie asked.

Leo turned to me with a grin. “ Are you? I don’t even think I’d know the answer to that.”

I said no, I wasn’t. I liked everything.

“Why wouldn’t you know that?” Michael asked his brother.

“Because she works all the time, and when she’s home, that’s the night I’m out. Which is why we’re perfect roommates.”

“Out working,” asked his mother, “or out carousing?”

He grinned. “Carousing.” He got to his feet and approached the roast chicken on its ancient cutting board, cracked and wooden, the very kind that health officials ask consumers to replace with hygienic plastic.

“Who wants white meat who isn’t a Frawley?”

“Maybe a small slice,” I said.

Leo said, “You’re our guest. You’re going to get several slices because I can scramble myself a couple of eggs or make myself a bologna sandwich if need be.”

Marie said, “I would’ve picked up another chicken on my way home if Ma had called me.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” murmured Leo.

Mrs. Morrisey said, “I have an apple pie and a half-gallon of harlequin ice cream.”

“Pass the plates, please,” said Leo.

We said grace, and thankfully we didn’t have to clasp hands around the table. Mrs. Morrisey looked at me for a long few seconds before picking up her knife and fork.

“Go ahead, Ma, ask,” said Leo. Then to me, “She’s dying to know if you’re Catholic.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not.”

Leo said, “ And …? That’s only half an answer. She wants to know what brand of church you belong to.”

“I was raised Unitarian.”

“She’s heard worse,” said Leo.

“How’d you and Leo get together?” asked one of the sisters.

I explained that Leo had posted an ad on a hospital bulletin board and I answered it.

“She called Ma for a reference,” Leo said, and laughed.

“What did you say?” Michael asked his mother.

Mrs. Morrisey, unamused, said, “That I didn’t see why a girl would want to share an apartment with an unrelated man, but if that was her only option, then Leo was polite and clean.”