The woman said gratefully, "Dear, if I had a daughter, I'd want her to be exactly like you."
Alette squeezed her hand. "That's such a great compliment. Thank you." And her inner voice said. If you had a daughter, she'd look like a pig like you. And Alette was horrified by her thoughts. It was as though someone else inside her was saying those words. It happened constantly.
She was out shopping with Betty Hardy, a woman who was a member of Alette's church. They stopped in front of a department store. Betty was admiring a dress in the window. "Isn't that beautiful?'"
"Lovely," Alette said. That's the ugliest dress I've ever seen. Perfect for you.
One evening, Alette had dinner with Ronald, a sexton at the church. "I really enjoy being with you, Alette. Let's do this more often."
She smiled shyly. "I'd like that." And she thought, Non faccia, lo stupido. Maybe in another lifetime, creep. And again she was horrified. What's wrong with me? And she had no answer.
The smallest slights, whether intended or not, drove Alette into a rage. Driving to work one morning, a car cut in front of her. She gritted her teeth and thought, I'll kill you, you bastard. The man waved apologetically, and Alette smiled sweetly. But the rage was still there.
When the black cloud descended, Alette would imagine people on the street having heart attacks or being struck by automobiles or being mugged and killed. She would play the scenes out in her mind, and they were vividly real. Moments later, she would be filled with shame.
* * *
On her good days, Alette was a completely different person. She was genuinely kind and sympathetic and enjoyed helping people. The only thing that spoiled her happiness was the knowledge that the darkness would come down on her again, and she would be lost in it.
Every Sunday morning, Alette went to church. The church had volunteer programs to feed the homeless, to teach after-school art lessons and to tutor students. Alette would lead children's Sunday school classes and help in the nursery. She volunteered for all of the charitable activities and devoted as much time as she could to them. She particularly enjoyed giving painting classes for the young.
One Sunday, the church had a fair for a fund-raiser, and Alette brought in some of her own paintings for the church to sell. The pastor, Frank Selvaggio, looked at them in amazement.
"These are - These are brilliant! You should be selling them at a gallery."
Alette blushed. "No, not really. I just do them for fun."
The fair was crowded. The churchgoers had brought their friends and families, and game booths as well as arts-and-crafts booths had been set up for their enjoyment. There were beautifully decorated cakes, incredible handmade quilts, homemade jams in beautiful jars, carved wooden toys. People were going from booth to booth, sampling the sweets, buying things they would have no use for the next day.
"But it's in the name of charity," Alette heard one woman explain to her husband.
Alette looked at the paintings that she had placed around the booth, most of them landscapes in bright, vivid colors that leaped from the canvas. She was filled with misgivings. "You're wasting good money on paint, child."
A man came up to the booth. "Hi, there. Did you paint these?"
His voice was a deep blue.
No, stupid. Michelangelo dropped by and painted them.
"You're very talented."
"Thank you." What do you know about talent?
A young couple stopped at Alette's booth. "Look at those colors! I have to have that one. You're really good."
And all afternoon people came to her booth to buy her paintings and to tell her how much talent she had. And Alette wanted to believe them, but each time the black curtain came down and she thought. They're all being cheated.
An art dealer came by. "These are really lovely. You should merchandise your talent."
"I'm just an amateur," Alette insisted. And she refused to discuss it any further.
At the end of the day, Alette had sold every one of her paintings. She gathered the money that people had paid her, put it in an envelope and handed it to Pastor Frank Selvaggio.
He took it and said, "Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people's lives."
Did you hear that, Mother?
When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modem Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art.
Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on the museum's walls. One young man in particular caught Alette's eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O'Keeffe's Petunias, and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. "Hi."
His voice was a warm yellow.
"Hello," Alette said shyly.
The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. "What do you think?"
"Bellissimo. I think it's wonderful." And she waited for her inner voice to say. For a stupid amateur. But it didn't happen. She was surprised. "It's really wonderful."
He smiled. "Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton."
"Alette Peters."
"Do you come here often?" Richard asked.
"Si. As often as I can. I don't live in San Francisco."
"Where do you live?"
"In Cupertino." Not - "It's none of your damn business" or "Wouldn't you like to know?" but - "In Cupertino." What is happening to me?
"That's a nice little town."
"I like it." Not - "What the hell makes you think it's a nice little town?" or "What do you know about nice little towns?" but - "I like it."