After Alice Fell: A Novel

by Kim Taylor Blakemore

  “What about him?”

  “You don’t lay a finger on him. He’s an innocent boy.”

  “What do you take me for?”

  “What you are.”

  “You’ll get what you want.” Cathy’s voice like a knife. “Burn the factory. That’s the only thing you’ll get paid for.”

  “I’ll get more than that,” he says. “You didn’t pay me enough for the other.”

  Everything slows. My heart. My movements. The other. Alice. I peek through the gap in the shutters, try to find the figures in the small slice of yard that is visible. It is just dusk, the shadows long, the air murky. Nothing in view but the gravel path. Then Cathy, striding to the house, mouth in a thin line. Amos stepping to follow, then distracted, smacking the air and then his forearm. Quashing a mosquito. He lifts his hand. Stares at his palm. Then wipes it to his trouser leg.

  My breath is shallow. An image flips into place. Another man, smacking a mosquito to his arm and staring at his palm. Straddling the peak of the asylum roof, eating his lunch in the sun as we carted Alice’s body away.

  The kitchen door bangs. I jump away from the window.

  “Cathy.” I clear my throat, afraid she hasn’t heard me as she passes. “Cathy.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s Toby?”

  “I—he’s in the yard. Target practice. He’s—shut up.”

  Ice slides under my skin. “You can’t keep me in here. I know what you did.”

  “Who do you think will save you? Kitty Swain?” She kicks the door and tramps down the hall. Then she stops. “I have news for you.” Her voice echoes in the hall. “Your Kitty Swain is dead. She hung herself from a clothesline pole. Poor dim girl.”

  Saoirse’s brought me a candle and a match. It is only a nub of candle, and I’m hopeful it means this is all temporary, that I’ll only need the few hours of wax and wick proffered. It has been three full days and now tips to the fourth. Lionel has walked to the door each night, but said nothing. Tonight he stumbles, throwing his hand to the wall to stop from falling over. He breathes through his mouth, quick gasps, and knocks his forehead to the wallpaper.

  “Marion,” he whispers.

  He freezes, then slants his head to look back down the hall. He straightens, losing his balance, then teetering back and swinging out a leg to catch himself.

  “Lionel?”

  “Shh.” He wobbles forward, blocking the view from the keyhole. But then there is the scrape of a key, and he slips around the door. He is overcareful as he shuts it, his hand on the knob, his eyes boring into the door before he clicks it shut and falls back against the wall. He picks at the cuff of his suit, and now there’s a hole and four errant threads. One more and the entire thing will unravel. “It stinks in here.”

  “You knew what she did,” I say to him, my voice quiet, not wanting to give Cathy cause to come down the hall.

  He puts his hand over my mouth and squeezes his arm tight around me so I cannot move away. His breath is sour, hot against my cheek. “Be quiet.”

  I wrench and twist, but his grasp tightens, pinning my arms. He digs his fingers into the hollow of my cheeks. “You shouldn’t have come back, Marion.”

  I bite into his palm, clamping down until he loosens his grip.

  “God damn it.” He closes his eyes and wags his head, then sucks on his palm. In the candlelight, his eye sockets are dark black.

  “You knew.”

  “No. I didn’t . . . Lydia knew about Cathy. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Men are like that.’” He gulps a breath and slides down the wall. “I didn’t want—there was another child coming. I had to tell Cathy no. No. It was too much. She wanted too much. I promise you, I didn’t know she meant it. She laughed when she said, ‘I’ll kill her, then. You’ll be free.’ Then one day she came to the factory and said, ‘It’s done.’” His mouth pulls into a strange grimace. “She doesn’t like to lose. She won’t lose. And it’s all out of control; I don’t know where to stop it.”

  “And Alice?”

  “She made one too many complaints.”

  I roll my hand in a fist. “Amos pushed her. Didn’t he?”

  “I put her at Brawders to save her,” he says. “God, she was so—”

  “But you didn’t save her. Amos pushed her off that roof. And you let it happen.” I roll my hand into a fist and try to yank away.

  “I didn’t know. Not about that, not about Lydia. I promise you.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “No. I thought Alice was safe.”

  “Wasn’t it enough to commit her? Why? Why?”

  “You were coming home. You would have listened. You did listen.” He gulps a breath and his hand drops from my arm. With shaking shoulders, he cries, hand tight to his mouth to hold in the sound, skin glistening with tears. He reaches out to me—for what? Forgiveness? Solace?

  “The Asylum for the Insane is sending two men. Tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re committing me?”

  “For your own good. For your own life, Marion.”

  “And what happens when she sends Amos for me? What then?”

  “She won’t. Once we burn the factory, he’ll get his money. That’s what he wants. It’s all planned. New life.”

  “You can’t get away with this Lionel. You’re just as complicit.”

  “But we can. It’s all planned. We burn the factory. Get the insurance. New life.”

  I can barely breathe. “Did you ever love Lydia?”

  “I’ll live with my mistake.” He pushes up from the floor, bumps against the wardrobe. “Where are the slides?”

  “You helped kill her.”

  The knob on the wardrobe snaps in his grasp. “No.”

  “You’re a liar. You knew exactly where to find her. You knew to bring rope. You knew because you waited—”

  He lunges toward me, shoving me to the bed, his hands pressed on my shoulders. “Shut up. I’m trying to save you.”

  “Have you even thought about your son? Cathy hates him.”

  “Shut up.”

  My blows slide from his shoulders and land on his back, then against his waist. “Let us go. Both of us. I won’t say a word. Look at me, Lionel.” I ratchet a breath. “I know you love her. Let it just be you and her. Just you and her. Like you’ve always wanted. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

  He swallows and lifts his chin.

  “She’ll kill him too,” I whisper.

  “No.” He pushes me into the mattress as he stands, staggering to the door. “It’s all planned. The hospital will keep you safe. I’ll keep him safe.”

  “Leave the door open and let us go.”

  “I never meant—”

  The swing of the door snuffs the candle.

  “Auntie . . .”

  “No, Toby.”

  Lionel spins around. “It’s all right,” he says, bending down to the boy. “Shush and go back to bed.”

  “Toby . . .” My voice cracks. The floor shifts and sways as I stand; I set my feet wide for balance. Grab the bedpost to maintain myself. Then I thrust myself past Lionel, knocking him against the rocking chair. I grab the pitcher and swing it hard at his head. He lets out a groan, pats the back of his head, and stares at the blood. Then he grabs the mantel, stumbling and collapsing with a thud. Benjamin’s picture smacks on the floor with a loud snap of glass.

  My ears ring with the next sudden silence.

  “Toby?” Cathy’s voice glides down from the top of the stairs.

  He turns toward her.

  “No, Toby. No no no. You need to run.”

  “Toby.” Cathy’s voice is sharp.

  “Auntie—”

  I can see his toes, the white soft of his bare feet, the sharp juts of ankle. “Go through the kitchen. Go to the fort.”

  “Auntie—”

  “Run.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Cathy steps to the entryway. Her skirts peel round the last post. She doesn�
��t rush. Just stands in place. Listening.

  But Toby’s gone. I sit up, gulping air into my lungs. He’s out the door. I can see him in my mind’s eye. He’s fast, like a deer, eluding the moonlight.

  “Lionel?” A singsong. One step on the hardwood, the next muffled on the runner.

  “He’s in here.” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and slink to the mending basket, watching the doorway. I pull the cord to the skirts—clever Alice—and the bands lift the hem just above the ankle, enough so I won’t trip on the fabric.

  The etui rests on the pile of clothes. I stick my thumbnail to the clasp, listen for the click, then turn the box upside down. The scissors tumble out. Such small shears. I squeeze the handles and hold it against my skirts.

  Cathy is just outside the door. The key rattles in the lock, the tumblers grinding, metal on metal. She pushes the door open, silhouetted in the sconce’s light. She holds her bow near her thigh, the arrow nocked in the catgut string, tip pointing to the floor. Her head swivels to me. “Where is he?”

  I set my feet, hoping against hope she won’t lift the bow in time. Then I lunge.

  We careen into the wall and tumble to the floor, the wood splint slamming to her ribs. My vision goes white. I feel her twist under me, pushing against my shoulder as she gets to all fours and shoves me back to the wall. I gasp for air.

  She clambers to her feet, clasping the bow again, bending down for the arrow that’s just outside her reach. But it’s inside my reach; I kick it away. When she turns for it, I scramble to my knees and ram my shoulder to her legs so she buckles. The scissors stab through the rug, but I don’t let them go. They’re all I have.

  Her arms flail, and she kicks out, crawling backward and grabbing up the arrow. And it’s nocked again in the bow, the string pulled back. “I don’t lose,” she says, closing one eye and pulling the string tauter.

  She cries out. The arrow corkscrews straight into the ceiling plaster. The bow clatters against the wall as her hands scrabble forward, clawing for the scissors I’ve buried in her thigh.

  Run.

  The moon slices bright through the woods, painting shadows that hide roots and stones, nettle and chokeberry. Something cuts my foot—a broken limb, a shard left over from the glass house and the bonfire. I don’t care. I wind through the trees, each limb silver in the light, the leaves copper and iron. Up a narrow path that twists and gives way to the graves. Mounds and shallows.

  “Marion?”

  I circle once to the sound, then peer in the forest for the path to the Sentinels. To Toby.

  There. Just beyond Alice’s grave. I bolt across, crashing into the brush. The sling catches on a gnarled branch, snapping me around again. I give a tug to release it, then pull my arm free and let it hang loose. The fabric flutters against my chest when I spring forward again.

  To my left, I catch glints of light from the pond, like a cat’s eyes winking. Soon I’ll be at the Sentinels. My breath slices in and out like a razor. I can’t feel my legs.

  But I feel her. She’s coming.

  Pine needles soften the thump of my feet as I grapple up a rise, digging my fingers into the rough of the rounded rocks. I slide down, scraping my face and shins.

  “Marion.” Cathy’s voice bounces off the trees and stone; I can’t determine where she’s at. “I just want to talk. You’re safe, now.”

  I clamp my hand to a sapling growing between two boulders and push my toes to the stone.

  But I can’t pull myself up. Not with one arm. I dig my feet and knees to the rock to climb. All I need is enough purchase to hook my elbow.

  “It wasn’t me, Marion.”

  My hand can’t hold any longer. I slip down the stone and topple back to the ground.

  “It was him. Lionel did it. Not me.” Dry leaves and empty cicada husks crackle under her feet. Slow steps. Stopping to listen.

  I hold my breath. The katydid’s song ebbs and saws. Above, the topmost leaves rustle.

  A snap of a branch. Right next to my head. I scramble back and hunch against the rock.

  “Where’s the boy?” Amos hoists me up by my shoulders, then hangs on because I’m trembling too hard to stand.

  “I won’t have anything happen to him.” He shakes me like a sack.

  “What are you doing here?” Cathy steps from behind a tree.

  He lets me go, turning to her. “I changed my—” His words are cut off, as if sliced by a scythe. His body doubles into itself. He grunts and staggers back before collapsing to his knees. He rolls forward, face to the dirt, his hair tumbled forward, arms slack, the shaft of Cathy’s arrow pierced so deep through his gut I can make out the fletch feathers along his spine. His ribs heave. Blood pulses and bubbles. One more heave. One more heartbeat. Then the hollow rattle of a final breath.

  “Well.” Cathy moves her weight to one hip.

  “Why, Cathy?”

  She stares at Amos and flinches, then shakes her head and laughs. “Sniveling, sweet Lydia.” Her mouth curves down. “Do you know what it’s like to kill your best friend?” She sniffs. “It’s harder than you think.” She looks at something to her left. I follow her gaze and my heart drops.

  Toby.

  He holds the little derringer with both hands. The barrel wobbles as he cocks the trigger.

  “Toby, you shouldn’t play with that.” Cathy smiles and taps her index finger to the grip of her bow. She lowers it. Takes a step forward.

  “Don’t.” He clenches his teeth, then chatters them. “I’ll shoot you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  In one quick move, she grabs his wrist and twists away the gun. She straightens her arm and aims.

  “No.” I bowl into her, knocking her off her feet. The gun falls to the ground and discharges with a muffled bang.

  She grabs onto the loose sling, twisting it around my neck, yanking me along. I clutch at the fabric, kicking my heels into the dirt to find purchase. She slows, loosening the fabric enough that I take in one huge breath and twist my torso so I am facedown. Then she pulls again, dragging me until the ground stops, dropping to the ink-black water below.

  My ears thrum. Toby screams in the distance, as if he’s in a far tunnel. Cathy’s busy with the sling. It’s the pretty one she bought me. Peacocks and fairies printed on silk. The fairies’ wings quaver as she pulls the fabric taut, then tugs it over my face.

  She’ll drown me, same as Lydia. Leave me blinded and suffocating, paddling in circles until my lungs burst.

  I arch my back, clench my teeth, and slam the wood splint to her nose. There is a loud crack, and a gush of blood spatters on the cloth. I claw and rip it away and swing the splint again and again.

  The forest dims around me. I see the swing of my arm. Cathy’s eyes glaze and stare into mine, the tiny red veins traversing the sclera bursting with each hit until the white in one eye is pink.

  She lays her head to my chest. It is heavy as lead.

  I swing in the air, and my arm drops to the ground. I’m too weak to lift it once more.

  I open my eyes. The moon is low, just a thin crescent over the tree line. The water is indigo, streaked with wavering lines of pale sun. The water sliders skate on the pond’s skin. Toby has curled next to me, his hands tucked under my arm, his knees to his chest.

  Cathy is not here.

  I scan the clearing. Amos’s body is folded in on itself by the rocks. Just beyond are the snarls and twines of bushes, with one small opening in the buckthorn. The fort. There is a bright glint from a tree. Alice’s locket. It catches the sun and spins, though the air is still. On the next a lilac ribbon. A stand of birch, young saplings. A silver maple. A bit of pearl lodged in the wood. A round red bead. The teeth of a key. The Sentinels.

  Cathy sways between them, then puts her hands to her knees and stumbles forward.

  I slowly pull my arm from under Toby’s head.

  His body stiffens when he sees her. His voice wheezes, as if he will scream. Then he digs his heels to the
dirt, struggling against my grip, wanting to escape.

  But Amos is dead behind us, and I won’t have the boy see that. I kiss his temple. With my lips next to his ears I whisper, “You are safe.”

  There’s someone coming toward us. Loud feet that stomp and don’t mind if anyone hears them. “Mrs. Abbott! Someone answer!”

  A man. He whistles, then calls again. “Anyone?”

  “Here,” I call. My voice is rough, and the sound dies out at my feet.

  Cathy trots toward him, waving. “Help me. Oh, please help me.”

  A man pummels through the laurel and into the clearing. He carries a bundle of cotton batting folded and cinched with leather straps.

  “Mrs. Abbott? What in the . . .”

  Cathy stumbles toward him and grabs at his arm. He shakes her off, then stares from her, to Toby, to me. His gaze lands then on Amos’s slumped body. “My God.”

  “You’ve come from the asylum. You’re going to commit me. You’re going to keep me safe.” My laugh becomes a sob. I’m too tired to stop.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The room is impossibly bright. A white linen tablecloth that sears my eyes. Porcelain cups and plates with bright berries. I push a spoon under a saucer to hide the reflection and shift my chair so I no longer face the sheen of sun scratching at the window.

  “Are you comfortable now?” The man across from me perches on the edge of his chair. He holds his hands palm to palm, shoved between his knees. He twists his left boot tip against the floor. I think his feet are the size of a child’s. His hands and all his features—the grand hair and mutton chops, the saucer eyes, his Adam’s apple that struggles up and down his skinny neck—seem outsize to them, as if they were added on from the wrong pile or God had run out of the large. He’s been squinting and peering all morning. Attentive to a fault.

  “Would you like more coffee?” He gestures to the pot. “Myself, a cup a day. It is a rule. Mmph.” His voice is a thin rasp. He shuffles back in his chair. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. You are Mr. Finch. You were introduced in the hallway.”

  “Enoch Finch. Doctor Enoch Finch.”

  My head aches from the light. From his rasping, grating, horrible voice. I want to press my fingers to the bridge of my nose to stop the ache. But there are bandages there. And all across my head. I want the orderly to take me back to my room, so I can crawl under the bedding and let the pain dissipate in the dark. But instead, I rest my hands in my lap and shrug. “My sister-in-law sent me here. For you to examine me. To determine if I suffer from mania. Or not.”