Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  Dovie sighed, still kicking herself. “After dinner the other night. We were talking out on the dock, and all of a sudden he kissed me.”

  Theda jerked forward in her chair. “He kissed you?”

  “That’s what I said, yes.”

  “And how was it?”

  “Just like you’d think.”

  “Dovie, throw a girl a bone. I haven’t had a date in three months.”

  “What do you want me say, Theda? There was a connection. At least I thought there was—until he pushed me away.”

  “He pushed you away? You?”

  Dovie shrugged. “He doesn’t want to be my rebound guy. He can’t be the guy I deserve. You know, all the stuff a guy says when he’s not interested. Only I could swear he was. He’d been sending signals all through dinner. The voice. The eyes. And then he pulls back. I don’t get it. It’s not that I’m miffed. It was just a kiss, but I can’t figure out how I misread the signals.”

  “Maybe you didn’t. Maybe he just doesn’t know what he wants. Or doesn’t want to want what he wants.”

  Dovie put down her sandwich and stared across the table. “I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”

  Theda sighed, that overly patient sigh tutors use with slow students. “Sometimes guys get weird when they start feeling things above the waist. Maybe he’s just freaking out a little because he realizes he’s starting to have feelings for you. Real ones.”

  Dovie traced a finger through the ring of sweat at the base of her glass. “He said he’d just end up wrecking me, and probably himself, too—whatever that means.”

  A crease suddenly marred Theda’s brow. “Did you say wreck?”

  “That’s what he said. I’m sure it’s just a line he uses when he’s ready to make an exit.”

  “No. There was something . . . I can’t remember now . . . something about him in the paper a long time ago. Something to do with a car crash. Do you remember it?”

  “No, but I’ve never gone in for the gossip stuff. I mean who cares who wears what or who’s dating whom? Most of us have real lives.”

  “I’m not talking about the Wave or City News. I’m talking about the real paper. I think it was even on the news. I just can’t remember what it was all about now. It was a big deal for about a week, and then it all just went away. I can’t pull it out of my head—I hardly ever watch the news—I just know it had to do with your Mr. Tate.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you. And he’s not my Mr. Tate.”

  “So you say. But don’t be surprised if he shows up again, once he gets his head straight.”

  “He’ll be wasting his time if he does.”

  A sly smile tugged at Theda’s mouth. “I thought you said you weren’t miffed.”

  Dovie lifted her tea glass, trying to look nonchalant as she sipped. “I’m not. I’m just taking his advice and steering clear. I can’t afford to get wrecked again, Theda, and something tells me this time would be worse. Besides, I’ve got enough on my plate with work and Dora.”

  “Lord, are you still messing with that woman? I thought she was going back to England, or wherever she came from.”

  “She’s in the hospital with pneumonia. I got a call yesterday from the woman who works at the front desk of her motel. When I got there she was so bad I called the ambulance. They say she’s going to be okay, but she’s not in good shape at all at the moment.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I’m bringing her home with me when they discharge her.”

  Theda was about to sample one of her pickles but changed her mind. “Dovie, have you thought this through?”

  “Of course I have. I can’t let her go back to that motel. She’s all alone here. And we’re . . . sort of in the middle of something.”

  Theda rolled her eyes. “Lord, give me strength. It’s the letters, isn’t it? You’re still playing detective, trying to find out what happened to her daughter. Dovie, this has been going on way too long.”

  “I know, but I promised. She deserves to know what happened.”

  “Have you told Austin about this? Because I’m pretty sure he’d be pissed if he knew. The last thing he wants is anything surfacing about his father and that girl.”

  “And it won’t, Theda. It’s not like we’re going to the papers with whatever we find. She just wants to know how Alice died, and if she ever found her child.”

  “And what if you find out something terrible? Are you going to just keep it to yourself?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t keep anything from her. And technically those letters belong to her, not me. As for Austin, there’s no need for any of this to touch him—or his mother.”

  Theda checked her watch and pushed away her half-eaten sandwich. She cast a sideways look at Dovie as she stood. “I hope you’re right, ’cause I sure don’t want to think about what could happen if this all blows up in your face.”

  Dovie dragged her tote up onto her shoulder and pushed to her feet. She didn’t want to think about it, either.

  Dovie checked her watch, closed her planner, and made a beeline for the parking lot. She’d gotten a call from Dora’s doctor an hour before. Apparently, she was responding nicely to the new meds but was still refusing to eat, grousing about the atrocities of hospital food and sending her trays back untouched. Could she possibly come by and explain to Dora that she couldn’t go home until they knew her appetite had returned? She had promised to come by straight from work.

  Dora’s impending discharge was definitely good news, but it meant Dovie needed to start thinking about getting the spare room ready for company, which would be no small task, since the bed was currently buried beneath boxes that had been there since she moved in more than a year ago. Also on her mind was how to handle the letters going forward. That Dora would want to get back to them immediately was certain. Dovie just wasn’t sure it was a good idea to subject her to that kind of emotional stress. What if one of the letters contained something shocking, something too terrible to bear? She could relapse, or worse. Perhaps if she read ahead, and knew what to expect, she would at least be forewarned. And forewarned was forearmed.

  THIRTY-NINE

  9 East Battery Street

  Charleston, South Carolina

  July 5, 1963

  My darling little one,

  I have written to you before of my dislike for Harley Tate, but I have new reasons for disliking the man. Reasons that have nothing to do with his son, and everything to do with the way his eyes seem to find me whenever his wife steps out of the room, like he’s eyeing a table spread with puddings and wondering where to dip his spoon first.

  And then last Saturday afternoon, while Gemma was out to one of her charity teas, Mr. Tate came into the nursery. I had just put Austin down for a nap and was startled to see him there. He never comes to the nursery.

  “Hello, Alice,” he said without warmth.

  “Mr. Tate. I just put Austin down, but I’m sure—”

  “I didn’t come to see Austin.” He took a step closer, and then another. “I thought we might have a little talk, you and I. We never have, you know . . . talked.”

  Something about the way he was looking at me made my throat go dry. “We’ll wake Austin,” I said, glancing anxiously at the crib.

  His eyes never left my face. “You’re a lucky girl, Alice. A very lucky girl.”

  I looked down at my feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “My wife is very happy with you. She says you’re wonderful with Austin.”

  “He’s a wonderful boy, so smart and happy, and he’s—”

  “She told me about you,” he said, cutting me off. “About your little . . . predicament.” His tongue clucked in disapproval, but there was something like amusement in his eyes, too, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Not many families in our circle would have hired a girl like you. Dam
aged goods, they’d say. You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded, feeling sick. Where would I go if he dismissed me?

  “A smart girl would be grateful for the opportunity to work in one of the finest households in Charleston, and know that she was employed only by the good graces of the head of that household.”

  I nodded again, because I saw that he expected me to.

  “Are you . . . grateful, Alice?”

  Something in the tone of his voice, the way it had dropped several notches, made me go cold inside. I stood there, staring at the floor, bracing myself for whatever came next.

  “You do understand that if I wanted to, I could turn you out right now, don’t you? No matter what my wife says?”

  I was startled when I looked up, to find him standing right in front of me, so close I could smell cigarettes and liquor on his breath, mingled with the oily scent of his hair tonic. I took a step back, and then another, until I found myself pinned against Austin’s crib.

  “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he said, brushing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And so young.” He traced his thumb over my lower lip, then down the side of my throat, sticky where it touched my skin. “I’ll bet that mouth of yours is just as sweet as a fresh-picked peach.”

  I was too stunned to reply, sickened by his touch, and by the realization that for all his fine clothes and lofty reputation, Harley Tate was no different from the greasy little janitor from Sacred Heart, except that instead of shoving me into the backseat of his car, he was prepared to seduce me in his son’s nursery.

  My thoughts flew to Gemma. Worshipful, dutiful Gemma, always ready with an excuse for her husband. But even she couldn’t excuse this kind of behavior. And then I remembered the whispers of her so-called friends, about his taste for sweets, and realized she had probably been excusing it for a very long time now. Suddenly, the thought of her walking in on us, of what would she would think if she saw us at that moment—me staring up at her husband, him with his hands hovering near the opening of my blouse—filled me with a mixture of fury and panic.

  I wanted to rail at him, to tell him exactly what I thought of his bullying and his unwanted attentions. And yet I knew saying those things would have me out on the street before I could pack my things. He’d said it himself; he could fire me anytime he wanted. And I could see in his face that he would do it if I didn’t give him what he was after.

  I was still trying to find something to say, some way to divert his attention, when my throat suddenly constricted and I reached for the crib railing, bracing for the coughing fit I knew was coming. They come like that sometimes, when the air is particularly damp or I’ve tired myself out, fits like I used to have at Blackhurst. They told me I might suffer with them on and off, but this was a bad one—so bad it nearly bent me in half. When I finally got my breath back, Mr. Tate was staring at me with something like annoyance.

  “What in God’s name is wrong with you, girl?”

  I stared at him, startled by the naked disdain in his eyes, the same disdain I had seen in Ellie Gleason’s eyes the day I bumped into her outside the druggist’s back in Sennen Cove, and suddenly I thought of a way to ward off Harley Tate’s attentions without actually refusing them.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve . . .” My words trailed off as the coughing resumed—this time on purpose. “I’ve had this cough . . . for about a year now. A lot of the girls had it where I was. From the damp, the doctors said. Some died, but I came through. Just the cough left over. They said it’s almost never catching after this long. I thought your wife might have told you.”

  It took all I had not to smile when he took a sharp step back and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to cover his nose and mouth. I knew full well there was no risk of it being catching, but I saw no reason to volunteer that to Harley Tate. Let him think what he wanted, so long as he kept his distance. I suppose it was rather naïve of me to think the matter was closed.

  The next day I was called to Gemma’s study. She rose, smiling, as I entered. I was surprised to see that she wasn’t alone, that a somber man with a heavy black satchel was seated in the wingback next to hers. His eyes lingered as I stood in the doorway, appraising me in a way that made me uncomfortable, though not in the way Harley Tate’s gaze had the day before.

  “Alice,” Gemma said in a too-bright voice. “This is Dr. Ponder. He’s been our family physician for years, and he’s come by today to make sure you’re well.”

  I digested the words with a sickening lurch. It was her husband’s doing, of course, a way to be rid of me without raising a lot of questions. I had been so clever, warding off his advances without actually rebuffing them. What I hadn’t stopped to consider was that the very illness I had used to fend off Harley Tate could also be used against me—as a threat to the health of his son.

  “My husband is . . . concerned about your cough,” she explained, not quite meeting my eyes. “He wants to be sure it isn’t anything . . . serious.”

  I nodded. She meant contagious but couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

  “I told him we had discussed it when you first came, and that there was no reason for concern, but he thought it would be a good idea for Dr. Ponder to examine you. It’s just a precaution, honey. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We went to my room then, Dr. Ponder and I, and he performed his examination. He looked down my throat and made me take deep breaths while he listened to my chest, front and back. When he finished, he snapped the latches of his black leather bag closed and with a kind smile began with a list of questions. He asked about the first time I was sick, about how long I had been ill, what kind of pills they had given me, and if I remembered what they said I had. I told him what the sisters told me. That my lungs had been badly scarred by the consumption, and I might always have a cough—that in time it might even worsen—but that I was past the infectious stage, which was why I had been allowed to go home.

  And then he scolded me, asking what had possessed me to come all the way to the United States when I had to have known I wasn’t fully recovered. That’s when I told him about you, little one, how I had come here to find you and wouldn’t stop until I did—things I never even told Gemma. Enough time had passed that I no longer felt the need to keep my promise a secret, and it felt strangely good to say it out loud. I only prayed Dr. Ponder was as kind as he looked, and hadn’t just come to justify Harley Tate’s plans to give me the sack.

  Sometime later, Gemma came to the nursery. She closed the door behind her and stood watching me as I tugged a clean shirt over her son’s head, then smoothed down his dark curls. I held my breath, waiting.

  After a moment, she cleared her throat, once, twice, but her voice still seemed a little rusty when she spoke. “Dr. Ponder says there’s nothing to worry about. Based on his examination, and the information you gave him, he agrees with the diagnosis of tuberculosis but says any danger of it being contagious has long since passed.”

  I bobbed my head, so relieved I couldn’t speak. If Harley Tate was going to fire me he’d have to use something other than my health as an excuse. And yet as I looked at Gemma, I sensed there was more.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed that her eyes were puffy, her cheeks splotched red and white. “He told me . . . about the place you were sent to, Alice, and the terrible things that happen to the girls there. He also told me you came to the U.S. to look for your baby.” There were tears in her eyes, now, making them look even larger than usual. “Oh, Alice, why didn’t you tell me any of this when you first came? I didn’t know. I just . . . I had no idea.”

  I looked away, not wanting to remember that first day and the wild thoughts that had run through my mind. “I probably should have told you, but I was afraid I might be sent back, and then I’d never find him—or her. It’s crazy, I know, like looking for a needle i
n a haystack. But it’s what keeps me going. I have to keep on believing and keep on trying, or I don’t think I could get out of bed every morning.”

  “You’re going to keep searching, then?”

  “Forever, if I have to.”

  “And what will you do if you . . . if you find him?”

  “Get him back,” I said without pausing to think. “Or her. I’ll spend my last cent, take out ads in the paper, plead with every adoption agency I can find, hire a private detective—whatever I have to do. Because I made a promise. I just don’t have the money to do most of it yet. Lawyers and detectives want money. So for now, it’s just letters. I’ve been writing to different adoption agencies, asking if they’ll help. So far, none of them have.”

  Gemma drew a ragged breath, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Alice,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, and close to breaking. “So very, very sorry.”

  “Please don’t be. It had nothing to do with you, and you’ve been so kind, taking me in the way you did. I don’t know what I would have done. And now you and Austin have become my family.”

  Gemma brightened as she blinked away her tears. “We have, haven’t we? We have become family—the three of us. We’ll share him, then, and raise him together.” She paused when her voice began to fracture. “My son will be your son, too.”

  I stood there with an aching throat, stunned by her generosity. She had waited so long to become a mother, had given up hope of ever having a child of her own, and there she stood, offering to share her little boy with me. Even now, as I write this, I cannot fathom her doing such a kindness for a woman she didn’t know a year ago. Still, I’ll take her up on her offer to share her little boy, because I find I cannot say no, and because it may help to fill the hole in my heart—until I can fill it with you, my angel.

  All my love,

  Mam

  FORTY

  Dovie scanned the guest room with a critical eye. She’d spent the morning clearing out boxes of old junk, putting fresh sheets on the bed, making space in the closet and dresser, and was finally satisfied that she was ready for Dora’s arrival tomorrow. Jack had surprised her by agreeing to let her work from home next week, which would allow her to be home with Dora until she felt more comfortable about her condition. She’d be available by phone if she was needed for any last-minute catastrophes, and had promised to run through her checklist to confirm final details with all the vendors.