Alma

by William Bell

  The storm swept into Alma’s body, bringing a fever, and when her mother arrived for the supper break, Alma was half-delirious, mumbling to herself, her skin filmed with sweat. She was fiery hot, then cold, then hot again. She was barely conscious of her mother putting her to bed, of the sweet taste of honey and tea. She ran on incoherently about betrayal and guilt and broken friendship.

  Alma was hardly aware of the doctor’s visit and the conversation behind the closed door of her room, the closing of the kitchen door, the weight of her mother’s body on the edge of the bed, the cool damp cloth on her forehead. In the morning, her fever ebbed, but she felt unconnected to her surroundings when her mother questioned her, holding another mug of tea to Alma’s dry lips.

  “I’ve called the Chenoweth house and told them you can’t come this afternoon,” Clara said.

  “Hawkins,” Alma muttered.

  “And I’ve telephoned the school. It’s a shame you’ll miss the last day,” Clara rattled on. “What a time to come down with a spring cold. How did the story contest turn out?”

  Alma was overcome by a squall of tears.

  “What happened?” Clara demanded. “Tell me, Alma.”

  “I … I told on her,” Alma sobbed. “I ruined everything. She’ll hate me now.”

  “Who, Alma? For heaven’s sake, sit up and control yourself. There, that’s better. Wipe your face with the cloth. Now, who are you talking about?”

  “Miss Lily. Miss McAllister criticized my story and—”

  Try as she might, Alma could make no sense. Her words chased each other, throwing up dust and confusion, and finally Clara gave up. She took away the empty mug.

  “Lie down, Alma, and try to get to sleep.”

  As Alma fell back on the bed she heard, “And I’m going to telephone that school and find out what’s going on.”

  Three days passed before Alma was able to rise from her bed, and the first thing she did was turn her Hawkins novels around on the shelves. The seven gold RRHs on the spines had glowed accusingly, making it impossible for her to look in their direction.

  Alma was relieved that school was over for the summer and she didn’t have to go back and face her teacher or her classmates. But the house on Little Wharf Road seemed to hover above her every waking moment, glowering with menace. Sooner or later RR Hawkins would hear that Alma had revealed her secret, and she would be furious with Alma and never want to see her again. Miss Lily might even have to move away to preserve her privacy. In any case, there would be no more calligraphy lessons, no more walks to the harbour, no more quiet conversations before the fire. She had been lucky enough to meet her favourite author, just as she had always dreamed, but she had betrayed her. I can never be a writer now, Alma thought. I don’t deserve to be.

  It was more than a week after Alma fell ill—a week during which she refused to go outside, even for a minute—before she was able to explain things to her mother. They sat at the kitchen table, as they always did when there was something important to discuss, and before them were cups of hot tea.

  “I found out,” Alma began, “that Miss Lily is really RR Hawkins. By accident,” she added hastily. “I didn’t snoop or anything.” Alma had long ago decided that writing to Miss Lily through her publisher wasn’t prying.

  “You’re not serious! Honest and true? The writer you did your project on?”

  Alma nodded. “But she never knew that I discovered her. Remember, Mom? She hid away from people, her fans and newspaper reporters and teachers. All her mail went to her publisher first, so no one would find out where she lived.”

  “So you went over there twice a week, knowing who she was, and she never twigged.”

  “I thought she’d get mad if I told her I knew.”

  “Then how did the secret come out?”

  Swallowing hard, Alma related the events in the classroom the day before school ended for the summer, her eyes on her mother’s face, alert for the look of disappointment she knew would come. And come it did.

  “You told the secret because the teacher criticized your story,” Clara concluded.

  Alma fixed her eyes on the bottom of her empty teacup.

  “You wanted to lift yourself in Miss McAllister’s eyes—and your schoolmates’ eyes—by revealing someone else’s secret.”

  Alma nodded again.

  “You’ll have to tell her, you know.”

  Alma felt the tears hot on her face. “Mom! I can’t! I couldn’t face her!”

  Clara’s jaw had set, the way Alma hated, because it always meant her mother was about to make her do something she’d rather not. “I understand why you did it, Alma,” she said. “But you can’t walk by it as if it didn’t happen.”

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  As if it had joined in Alma’s dismay, the sky opened up and poured rain on Charlotte’s Bight for five days in a row, the low dark clouds turning day to an unpleasant twilight, battering the town with thunder. Water dripped continuously from the leaky eaves-trough above Alma’s window, and a fitful wind dashed pellets of rain against the glass. Alma found she could no longer pass the time reading, because stories had lost their appeal. Her calligraphy pen lay untouched on a shelf. She spent her time sprawled on her bed, dozing fitfully, or tidying up the house, sweeping floors that didn’t need to be swept, reorganizing dishes on the kitchen shelves. She washed down the hot plate and counter once a day. She pushed herself through aimless work, punishing herself with boring tasks.

  On Sunday she helped her mother with the laundry, and, later, shoved the cart up and down the grocery-store aisles. She didn’t ask even once to visit the Turnaround. When Clara and she returned home, stepping around the big puddles of dirty brown water in the alley, and put away the groceries, Alma offered to do the ironing, then went to lie down without any lunch. She lay for hours, listening to her mother humming to herself in the kitchen, the sparrows squabbling at the eaves, watching the gingham curtains lift and fall like waves in the warm breeze.

  And then she heard a sound that froze her heart. Two voices, outside in the alley, growing louder and clearer every minute.

  Alma jumped from the bed and ran to the window, looking out in time to see two women at her door. There was a knock. Alma’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart skipped and thumped. The door creaked, voices exchanged greetings, the door clapped shut. Alma stood at the window, clutching a curtain, wondering what to do.

  “Alma,” her mother called. “Come into the kitchen, please. We have visitors.”

  Alma stood fixed to the spot, breathing through her open mouth.

  “Alma,” Clara called again with the slight edge to her voice that signified displeasure. Alma took a deep breath and made her way to the kitchen.

  Miss Olivia, in a summer dress with a pattern of black-eyed Susans, a string of green beads around her neck, sat at the kitchen table, her round face expressionless. Beside her sat Miss Lily, one gloved hand on her walking stick, her mouth turned down at the corners, her piercing eyes on Alma, as if accusing her. Alma’s mother stood at the hot plate watching the kettle.

  “Set the table for tea, please, Alma,” her mother said formally. “And it might be polite to greet Mrs. Chenoweth and Miss Hawkins.”

  Alma’s first words sounded like a croak. “Hello, Miss Lily. Hello, Miss Olivia.”

  She stood like a post, her arms at her sides, her hands clenched, waiting. Before Miss Lily, a bulging cloth bag sat on the kitchen table.

  The two women returned her greetings, then Miss Lily said, “Your mother was kind enough to inform us that you’ve not been feeling well, Alma, so we thought we’d drop by to see how you are.”

  “Miss Lily walked the whole way,” Miss Olivia put in, earning a scowl from her mother.

  “The tea things,” Clara prodded.

  Alma went to the shelves, returning with four matching cups and saucers rattling in her hands. She put out the sugar bowl and milk jug.

  “Sit down, Alma,” Clara sai
d.

  Alma did as she was told, folding her hands in her lap. In a way, she decided, she was relieved. Now she would face her punishment. It would be awful, but it would be over soon. Finally.

  “Alma,” Miss Lily began, “I’m very disappointed in you—”

  But before the writer could utter another word, Alma burst out, “I’m sorry, Miss Lily! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done it! It’s all my fault. It’s just that Miss McAllister didn’t believe I knew—” And she stopped abruptly, aware that she was about to make an excuse. There was no excuse.

  The full weight of her loss fell upon her and Alma began to sob. How she had loved going to Miss Lily’s house, copying her letters in the parlour knowing full well whose correspondence she dealt with, taking walks with the writer and talking about books, even fixing her cigarette for her and lighting it, even, Alma thought, Miss Olivia’s gap-toothed smile.

  “Alma,” Miss Lily cut in, her deep, gravelly voice more gravelly than usual. “You misunderstand me. Your mother has explained what happened at school. I’m not pleased at all that you brought me into the matter. But I’m disappointed that you thought me such a poor friend that I would hold a grudge against you.”

  Alma heard the words but they rattled around in her head without forming a thought. She sat staring at the author, uncomprehending.

  “I … but … I’m sorry, Miss Lily.” And then Alma put the words together. “You mean … But I—”

  Clara put the teapot in the middle of the table. “Pour the tea, Alma.”

  Alma attempted to lift the teapot, but her hands shook.

  “Perhaps you’d allow me,” Miss Olivia said, taking the pot from Alma’s hands.

  Alma could scarcely believe what she had just heard. Miss Lily didn’t hate her after all. But how could she not?

  “And since you know the truth about me,” Miss Lily went on sternly, “I’d like you to have something.” She pushed the bag across the table. “I know you have copies already, but perhaps you’d prefer these.”

  A broad smile graced Miss Olivia’s face as she spooned sugar into her cup and stirred.

  Alma looked at her mother. Clara smiled and nodded. Alma pulled on the drawstrings of the bag. It was full of books. Seven of them, brand new, and identically bound in rich maroon leather. She opened one and held it up to her nose. The book gave off the fragrance of leather and ink and fine-quality paper. A thin gold ribbon attached to the binding served as a bookmark. On the spine of the book, in gold letters, was printed Into the Shadows, and under it, RRH. Inside the book, on the title page, in jittery, scrawly handwriting, was, “To my friend and fellow writer, Alma.” Alma checked the other six books. Each one had the same inscription, written by Miss Lily herself.

  As the afternoon wore on and cup after cup of tea was consumed, Alma was struck by surprise after surprise. RR Hawkins was a recluse, she learned, but not obsessed with secrecy. She wanted to live a private life, would not give interviews or meet with her readers, but she had never tried to run away or live secretly, as Alma had always thought. She simply wanted to be left alone. She and Miss Olivia had moved to Charlotte’s Bight because they had grown tired of the city. The selling of their house in Boston had been very complicated owing to a buyer who reneged on the deal at the last minute.

  As Miss Lily explained these facts, Alma felt as if she were a musty old attic, shut up for years and years, dusty and mouldy, and then someone had opened a window, letting in a sweet, cool breeze. By the time Miss Lily and Miss Olivia rose from the table and went to the outside door, Alma was beginning to feel herself again. And after they went through the door, Miss Olivia popped her head back inside.

  “Alma, may we expect you next Tuesday at the regular time? We have quite a bit of correspondence waiting.”

  Alma looked at her mother, who nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  “And Miss Lily forgot to say that, if it’s all right with you, she’d like to read your story.”

  Alma nodded.

  “You may bring it with you on Tuesday. And one more thing,” Miss Olivia added, her voice falling to a whisper. “Before you came, Miss Lily hadn’t gone for a walk in over a year.”

  With that, she closed the door quietly behind her.

  Alma went to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, taking up the new RRH novels one at a time and touching the gold letters, rereading the inscription penned by the best author ever. So many questions had been answered.

  Except one, she said to herself. She looked at the name written in black ink underneath her own, the letters wavering, scrawled by an arthritic hand.

  Why did you stop writing?

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  Alma remembered almost nothing of the farm where she was born, but sometimes images would flash in her mind like the sun on glass when she opened the window of her room. Lounging on her bed one hot, sticky morning, daydreaming with her eyes closed, she saw roads of red dirt rising and falling as they crossed a rolling green countryside of farms and woodlots. The Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, St. John’s wort and vetch trimmed the shoulders of the roads with white and yellow and purple. Fields stretched to the sky. The potatoes were well along, their flowers blown and faded; the barley was a shimmering green, the oats toasty-gold, plump ears nodding in the breeze. Later, as she strolled down Little Wharf Road on her way to the Chenoweth house, she tried to recall what it had been like living on the farm, but she couldn’t.

  The routine at the Chenoweth house was unchanged by summer. True, Miss Olivia and Miss Lily had exchanged their heavy dark dresses and shawls for cotton and gingham, the fireplace was swept and inactive, and there was a brand-new electric table fan in the parlour for the hottest days, but the letter writing continued. It had taken Alma two weeks to catch up on the correspondence that had awaited her in the bulging folder on the desk. Now she went “to work,” as her mother called it, whenever she wanted.

  And, most times, if the weather was fine, she and Miss Lily went for a walk. Leaning on her walking stick, the author took each step stiffly and with care. At times they talked. At others, they walked silently and companionably along the sidewalks of Charlotte’s Bight. Miss Lily, Alma had learned, was a great believer in silence. “Do not speak,” she once commanded Alma, “unless you can improve upon tranquility.” Alma hadn’t been quite sure what the author meant, but she got the idea.

  On this day, they had gone to the park by the harbour and taken a bench with a view of the river mouth, where the tide ran strong, carrying jellyfish and strings of kelp upriver. The bench stood under an oak tree. Miss Lily sat on the shady side.

  “Are you looking forward to commencing school again?” she asked, breaking Alma’s reverie. “There are two weeks left of your summer.”

  “Sort of,” Alma replied. “I’ve got Mr. Strachan this year. He’s strict. And he always has speckles of dandruff on the shoulders of his jacket. And he wears the same tie, every day. That’s what Robbie Thornton says.”

  Alma saw a smile begin to form at the corners of Miss Lily’s lips. “Does this Mr. Strachan allow you to write stories?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. But he doesn’t have penmanship.”

  “In any case, I hope you’ll continue to write stories on your own.”

  “Oh, I will. I started a new one yesterday.”

  Alma’s confidence in her writing had blossomed when Miss Lily had told her she thought “The Dream-ary” is wonderful. “I love it,” Miss Lily had said. Alma had glowed with pleasure. Imagine, having your story praised by your favourite real live writer. Later she began to doubt herself. Maybe Miss Lily was just being polite. Then Alma reminded herself that Miss Lily was very blunt and honest and straightforward. No, Alma had concluded, if Miss Lily thought my story was no good she would have said so.

  As they sat on the bench, listening to the cries of the gulls wheeling over the estuary, the laughter of little kids on the swings behind them, the faint notes from the old man playing t
he fiddle over by the ice cream stand, Alma screwed up her courage.

  “Miss Lily, could I ask you something?”

  “You just did,” the writer replied. “Remind me why it’s silly to ask someone if you can ask her something.”

  “Because you can’t un-ask a question,” Alma recited.

  “Fine. Now go ahead.”

  “Why did you stop writing books?”

  Miss Lily turned her head in the direction of the estuary, where a sailboat was passing through the swing bridge, its sails furled, its motor chug-chug-chugging as it headed toward the gap. She stared for a long time. Alma began to fidget. She had upset Miss Lily. After all, it was none of her business why the writer had abandoned her vocation.

  “It is difficult to explain,” Miss Lily replied, turning to Alma. “When I began the Centreworld books, I had no plans to continue once the trilogy was complete. By the time the third novel was published, I had conceived the idea for Alterworld, which was, as you know, an even larger project.”

  “Four volumes,” Alma said.

  “By the time I had finished my seventh book, fourteen—no, fifteen—years had passed. Fifteen years of extremely difficult, concentrated effort. I was tired.”

  Alma kept silent.

  “And,” Miss Lily continued after a minute, “as you know, I didn’t at all appreciate the public attention. In particular, those who felt that they could delve into my past or write articles pretending to know everything about my personal life and my work.”

  Alma knew a little about Miss Lily’s past, but she said nothing, willing the author to continue, using her silence to encourage more talk.

  “But the main thing, I think, was that I had simply lost my passion for telling stories. That’s something you know about, Alma, the passion, because you have it.”