After Alice Fell: A Novel

by Kim Taylor Blakemore

  A shadow flits across the mirror. I turn to the window behind me, certain someone has crossed the yard, but it’s only my reflection, shimmery and floating in the whorls and bubbles, that stares back.

  “Are you all right?” Cathy asks.

  “I thought I saw something. I think there’s someone there.”

  Her napkin snaps and waves as she presses it to her lips. “It’s probably Elias. He comes to take Saoirse home.”

  My heart thumps in my ears. “Yes. That must be it.” I settle back to the table. “That’s all it is.”

  Lionel stares at me. I’ve seen the look before. He’s given it to Alice.

  Lionel’s too tall for my bed, but he stretches out at an angle anyway, his feet hanging over the side. He taps the corners of his square-tipped boots and pummels my pillow before crossing his arms behind his head.

  “I’d like to finish brushing my hair,” I say. “It’s late.”

  “It’s all so neat and tidy in here. Everything in its particular place.”

  “There’s not much to neaten.”

  “Still. One of your more . . . abiding traits.”

  His teeth bite down on a cheroot, unlit: one small accommodation since he’s taken over the bed and left me to sit at my desk. He wiggles it back and forth before abandoning it to my nightstand. My little brother who’s grown tall but not grown up.

  “You make it sound like a flaw.”

  “That would be your lack of humor.”

  “There’s not much to laugh at, is there?”

  “Or the way you cut your meat into tiny pieces before you eat.”

  I run a finger over my brush and pull a long strand from the bristles. “What do you want, Lionel?”

  He glances at the closed door. “Close the windows.”

  “It’s too hot.”

  “Just for a minute.”

  I reach for the latch. Just past the pond, a glow of light moves through the trees, and then it’s gone. The pond and woods are black again.

  “Are there squatters,” I ask, “in the woods?”

  “Did you see something?” His eyes slide to the window, then back to me. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s just a few of them. They’ve got a camp up Barrow Rock.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. A few. They’re back from the war, I think. Just not ready for home.”

  “You need to shift them off.”

  “They’ll move on when they move on.”

  “They shouldn’t be there.”

  “They aren’t doing any harm. Leave it alone, Marion.” He juts his lower jaw and grinds his teeth. “You never leave things alone.”

  “Is this about Alice?”

  “It’s about Cathy.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Don’t start.” The bed squeaks as he swings his legs off and paces to the door and back. “You always . . . I don’t want Cathy upset, that’s all. This is her house now.”

  “As evidenced by the wallpaper.”

  He stops midway across the room and stares at the paper with a frown. “You can change yours if you want.”

  I tip my head. “I don’t want to upset her.”

  He pushes his fingers into his hair, then rubs it into a muss. “You can’t change it, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can’t afford it. Not right now.”

  “But all those contracts.”

  “For bullet casings. And belt buckles. Do you have any idea the stockpile I have of US Army buckles? Half the contracts haven’t been paid. I doubt they will be. And Alice—the cost of her care at that place—and the floors and bonnets and . . . and wallpaper.” He sinks to the bed. “I’ve no work for the men. There’s too many of them home, and I’ve got nothing for them. We’re living on credit. Just for now, until I can retool the machinery and . . . I have a few ideas in the fire. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “Today upset Cathy. I need you to not upset her.” He sits upright and rubs his thighs. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I want to lodge a complaint. Against Brawders House.”

  “Why? Why would you do that?”

  “Because it’s right.”

  “What’s right is to say Alice had a short illness and died. That’s what’s right. That’s what’s kindest, isn’t it? To her? To the family? You know that’s what’s right.”

  I keep my eyes on the brush. “Where did you tell people she was?”

  “A sanatorium, for consumption. Cathy thought that best.”

  “But it’s not her place.”

  “Yes, Marion. It is.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I hesitate; I want to ask about Toby. If he’s seen his son as I have, silent chatter to no one, hearing nothing in return.

  His sigh is long. He removes his spectacles, rubs a knuckle to his eyes. His lids are red rimmed and shadowed. I think he knows what I won’t ask. What we’ve both had bite at our own heels—that we, too, are like her. But he doesn’t need another hole in the boat right now.

  “Never mind.”

  “And Cathy?”

  “I’ll try not to upset her. She’s been nothing but good to you.”

  “And the money? You won’t tell her about that?”

  “It is temporary, isn’t it? Because I don’t think she’d like something more permanent.”

  There’s a rap on the door. The knob turns. Cathy’s in her nightdress and shawl, her hair braided to her scalp. “Don’t you hear it?”

  Lionel shakes his head and puts on his glasses.

  “There’s someone at the door.”

  “Now?”

  “You’ll need to answer, Lionel.”

  He crosses to her, then slips past, down the hall.

  Cathy steps into the room, her back to the wall and shoulder pressed to the wardrobe. She looks at me. “Are you all right? From today, I mean.”

  “Are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Two voices in the vestibule. Too low to make out what is said, but it’s short. When Lionel returns, his eyes flick to Cathy, then to me. “They’ve brought her trunk.”

  I swallow, but it is like sand.

  He slits open a thin envelope with his thumbnail, removing both the letter and the key to the trunk. He chews at his bottom lip as he scans the paper.

  “Read it out loud, Lionel.” Cathy moves to me, her hand to my shoulder, as if she is guarding me from some horrible news.

  “Dear Mr. Snow.”

  Lionel scans the page, then continues.

  “Please again accept my deepest condolences for the passing of your sister. Our investigation has found all procedures were followed by ward attendants. We believe Alice Snow was—as she had proven in past situations—unnaturally adept at easing and opening locks, and was indeed successful that evening in her unfortunate goal. Thus, the inquiry is satisfactorily concluded.

  “We will, in condolence, waive the last three months balance from your account, and I personally would like to contribute to the headstone. Pls send said bill directly to me.

  “I do hope you will think of your sister’s time here and know she was well looked after and is missed by the attendants and staff.

  “Respectfully yours—

  “Lemuel Mayhew.”

  He looks to me, eyes bruised with remorse. “I taught her how to do it. I didn’t . . .” He stares down at the key in his hand, then tosses it to the bed, as if it will singe his skin.

  “Well, there is our answer,” Cathy says. “It’s a generous offering.”

  “An apology would have helped more. All I wanted was for him to tell the truth. That they made a mistake. I wanted him to say, ‘Someone didn’t do their job, Mrs. Abbott, and I am sorry.’ That is worth something. I just want him to say he’s sorry.”

  Dr. Lemuel Mayhew wants rid of me: he thinks the bribes for silence and the trunk’s return will be enough. It sits now at an angle to my wardrobe. The key with its
four-clover bow and braid of lavender ribbon rests in my palm. I squeeze until I feel the edges bite my skin.

  The candlelight skates and tumbles across the leather straps and brads, falls into the scrapes and tears. Toby’s snuck down from his room and now kneels in front of the case, drumming his fingers on his knees and pulling the hem of his knit drawers. Then he scratches under the collar of his undershirt. “Is it really hers?”

  He stands, runs his hands over the buckles. Bends down to investigate the rivets and pokes his finger in the lock. He steps away, crossing his hand behind his back, splaying his feet in a wide stance, cocking his head just like Lionel. He closes one eye to peer up at me, just like Lydia did when she wasn’t certain of something—an algebra equation, a hat, if Lionel meant it when he asked her to wed or if it was a horrible joke.

  I reach for him, a quick caress of his neck, then brush my knuckles to his shoulder. I bite my lip and stop myself from saying, “You look so much like her.” Because Cathy is right. She’s the only mother he’s known. And that is enough now. No need to muddle that up with his loss of Alice, who loved him as fierce as he loved her.

  “Do you know Alice wrote me of you?” I give a quick nod. “She said you were very, very clever.”

  His face flushes, and his mouth opens in a small, pink O, for this pleases him.

  “What else?” he asks.

  “Hm. You are good at your times tables.” I cross my hands and roll the key between my fingers.

  “They’re easy.”

  “Or you’re smart.”

  “You were repairing the soldiers,” he says. “Alice said you used a lot of green string and sugar glue.”

  My eyes prick. I can see her bent to a notebook, one she carried everywhere, making a quick sketch to give to the little boy, and her fingers trailing the arrows and figures and explanations. Where are all those notebooks she so assiduously wrote in? Her only method to tell us what she wanted, save the grimaces and stomps of her foot, and the way her eyes would narrow and go sly when she teased. Broad gestures that embarrassed Father, that confounded Lionel, that Benjamin ignored.

  “We would have been happy for that string and glue,” I say. “Did she give you it? The picture?”

  Toby frowns and shakes his head. “She liked to draw.” He curls his fingers over my fist, prying at the skin in search of the key.

  I pull my hand away. Tighten my grip. My stomach sours. I don’t know why. It’s only clothing in the trunk, perhaps a bauble or two; what did she really own? Maybe all the notebooks are stacked within. Maybe her child’s primers. Or the astronomy book she used to confirm her plottings of the sky.

  “I don’t think I can open it yet.”

  Toby’s jaw sags in disappointment as if I’ve kept a present from him. After all, isn’t that what this is to him? Just a bigger version of the toy box in his room. It contains treasures. It contains everything I have left of Alice, and I am not ready to go through it and give value to the treasures and the trash.

  “Go back to bed.”

  Turee

  Doctor Lemuel Mayhew

  Brawders House

  Dr. Mayhew—

  So Alice is worth three months of fees and a granite stone. And we are meant to be grateful. Am I to assume her bruises were of her own device and phantom sewing needles magically available for her lock picking use? I demand to see the investigative report and have a reckoning from you as to every action taken that evening by your staff and where it all failed. My sister should be alive and instead of writing this letter, I should be writing one asking for her release to my care.

  Respond directly with a time and place to meet.

  Marion Abbott

  Chapter Ten

  All night the sky rumbles its grievances. The air is sharp, electric, restless. As is the household. I pace the parlor, watch the brackish green sky and the whip of the hedge when the wind gusts. The windows cackle and rattle. I check the latches. Make certain they’re held tight.

  Upstairs, Cathy and Lionel fight. I catch the rat-a-tat of her words and the pummel of his. They stop and start, and as the words gain momentum so does the train Toby rolls around its track. Metal wheels on metal axles that need oil. Round and round it goes.

  A glass snaps and clatters in the dining room. As I cross the hall, a shimmer of oil light coats the stairs. Lionel stands on the landing, knobby kneed below the hem of his nightshirt. “What was that?”

  “Just a vase, I think. Go back to bed.”

  He blinks, runs his hand through his hair. “You’re up late.”

  “It’s hard to sleep with all the noise.”

  “You know where the whiskey is. If you need it.”

  The curtains along the dining room window lift and flutter, then are pulled out to the yard, as if the wind has taken hold of them like a thief.

  “I’ll close the window. Go back to your . . . conversation.”

  It was a crystal vase, the shards scattered across the floor and table. I jostle the window, but it won’t shut all the way. It’s stuck, leaving a gap along the sill. Any candle I light to avoid the splinters will snuff with the wind, and my bare feet won’t do in the dark. I turn to my room. The air whisks under my nightdress, is hot breath on the nape of my neck. Another whirl comes cool and damp—the rain is coming.

  A spike of light illuminates the patterned hallway wallpaper: the mourning doves stretch their wings, and the irises below bend and ripple. Then it all consolidates again to its frozen horrible design.

  I pull my boots from the wardrobe and move to the desk chair to button them. The chair has been pushed away from the desk. It faces the end of Alice’s trunk as if it awaits someone’s vigil. I turn it around, button the shoes, and don’t look back at the trunk.

  Saoirse keeps a small broom and dustpan in the closet under the stairs. I push the door so it springs open, grab them up, and nearly collide with Toby. He stares up at me. A yellow toy train car dangles from his hand. His pajamas cling to his frame, the static in the air puckering the cotton against his ribs and down his legs.

  “A vase broke. I have to clean up the glass,” I say.

  He runs the back of his free hand under his nose and nods.

  “Are you afraid of the storm?”

  “No.” He sniffs and rubs his nose again.

  “Go get your shoes, then, and you can help me. You can point out any pieces I’ve missed.” I watch his eyes waver between his bedroom upstairs and me. “I’ll come with you.”

  The train has derailed; the cars are strewn across the floor. I find Toby’s bedsheets tossed and tangled in the wardrobe, his pillow pushed to the far corner.

  “That’s where I slept sometimes, too.”

  “You did?”

  “When there was thunder.” I pick up the train cars and set each on the round rail. “Get your shoes.”

  “I’m not afraid of it.”

  “As you say.” The train set’s dining car is red. Cast-iron figures with rough-shaped features sit at tables: men in tall hats and women in bonnets. The tables are scored with round plates, and there’s a little dog in the aisle.

  Toby sits splay legged on the floor and struggles with his boots. Behind him, the wardrobe door hangs open. His suits and breeches are lined on hooks. His shoes and boots sit in a neat row, toes facing out.

  I set the dining car on the toy shelf, next to the old magic lantern Lionel and I used when we were young. I move to help him with his laces, but he jerks up. Grabs the wardrobe door and swings it closed. “I know how to do my laces,” he says, and takes my hand. “We have to clean up the glass so she doesn’t cut herself.”

  I sigh, because it would be something Saoirse wouldn’t pay attention to. Just hobble into the room to wipe down the table for breakfast and slice her hand right open. “Yes. You’re right.”

  Toby’s mouth pulls into a wide smile. “Yes, that’s right.”

  I follow him to the landing. There is no light from under Lionel and Cathy’s door. Only the
repeated squeak of the bed coils and sweeter words from Cathy. I put my hand to the boy’s shoulder and guide us down the stairs. “Come on. It’s soon to rain.”

  At the bottom, he grabs a bucket from the small closet. Holds it with both hands. He looks at me again, his eyes glassy bright. I know it’s from the strange light coming through the windows. But I can’t stop the shiver that skids down my spine.

  Toby’s cut his thumb. I’ve set him in the chair in my room, lit the lamp, and pulled my leather aid kit from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he says.

  “I told you not to pick anything up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not deep.” I dip a handkerchief to my water glass and dab the beads of blood. “Just a scratch.”

  He squirms in the chair as I press the wound edges together and tie a strip of cotton around it.

  “Is it terrible?” he asks.

  “We won’t need to amputate. It will sting for a bit, though.”

  His eyelashes are starred with tears, but he screws up his mouth and gives a quick shake of his head. “I don’t feel it.”

  “You’re very brave.” I pat the inside of the forearm, then rest his hand to his lap.

  “Did you cut many thumbs off? In the war?”

  I move from my kneeling position, rest back against the desk, and cup my chin in my hand. “Not a one.”

  There’s a burst of white light, followed by a clap of thunder that shakes the house. Toby claws the edge of his chair, then jerks his sore thumb away.

  The rain comes in on the wind gusts, first like fingers tapping the glass, then in sheets that rattle and hiss. The window latches shiver but hold, keeping the rain out. But the closed-in air steams with the damp of it, as if the water has found all the little crevices and boiled inside the walls.

  The lightning comes in pieces. Out the window, the pond is a sulfurous yellow, like smoke. In the next flash, the vapor clears; the rain plonks and pulls at the skin of the water.

  Another clap. Closer. Enough that Benjamin’s portrait shimmies and tips. I jump up, grab at it before it falls off the mantel.

  We sit together, Toby’s fingers curled into my palm. A roll of thunder sounds somewhere past the hill, over Barrow Rock. A blue-white light slices along the treetops.