“Thanks, Mrs. Zee. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t actually the point of my story. My point was about your father. He didn’t see me as the unpopular girl or the nerdy girl. I was just Emily to him. The girl who helped him with algebra. Dale’s big sister. Someone who also liked The X-Files. He didn’t see any of the silly stuff. He just saw what mattered.” Mrs. Zee’s cheeks grew pink. “I asked him to Sadie Hawkins. He already had a date, of course, but told me Donny would go with me. And he did. They were both kind like that.”
“Okay,” Alice said. She stood up.
“The point is, whatever your father is going through now, it doesn’t change that he’s a good man. In fact, I would hazard a guess that it is in part his goodness that is making things so hard for him. Don’t listen to what other people say. That’s a hard lesson to learn, but the sooner you learn it, the easier life gets. People have their own stuff, their own baggage—don’t let their stuff change what you know is true.”
Alice started to back away. “Okay,” she said again, though she really wasn’t sure she understood what Mrs. Zee was talking about.
“If you ever do want to talk, Alice, I can be a good listener.”
Alice nodded as she kept backing out of the room. As she got to the doorway she blurted, “I’m going to Music!” She shut the door behind her before Mrs. Zee could say anything else.
4
Henrietta dropped a box onto the counter. Clarice, the mannequin, jumped from the impact. Clarice was dressed in a raincoat for the cold, wet weather they’d been having.
“What do you want with that book?” Henrietta asked. Her head was bent over a piece of jewelry she was inspecting.
Ms. Engle was looking for a copy of The Story Web. In the meantime, Alice knew her best bet was to ask Henrietta.
“My dad used to read it to me,” Alice replied. It was a truthful response, just not the whole truth. “Did he ask you to sell it for him? I heard it was valuable.”
“Is that what this is about? You want to make some money off the book?”
“No!” Alice exclaimed.
Henrietta looked up. She had her monocular wedged over her eye, giving her a fish-eye appearance. “If you and your mother need money—”
“No,” Alice said.
“Donny? The rink?”
Alice shook her head. “I just want the book.”
“For your dad,” Henrietta said.
Alice nodded.
“I understand. The things people own, the things they cherish, it’s like having a piece of them when you have those objects.” She held up the ring she’d been looking at. “This ring?” she said. “Beautiful. Valuable. But no one really cared about it.” She put the ring down and took the monocular off her eye. “But this,” she said, holding up a simple broach made of pewter and shaped like an anchor, “this piece has things to say.” She held it to her ear. “A sailor gave it to his wife. She wore it whenever he was out to sea. She’s his anchor.”
Alice understood. Her mother was like that for her dad. Even when things were really bad, when he seemed to not be there at all, his mom could always bring him home. Sometimes Alice thought that if her mom had been there that day instead of her, then maybe her dad would still be home.
Henrietta shuffled into the back room. “These are the boxes I have from your dad. I haven’t sold any of it, and I won’t. I don’t think there are any books in here, though. He’s not one for giving up books. But you take a look. Keep anything you want.”
Alice pushed through the beaded curtain into the back room. Her dad’s boxes were neatly marked with his name in his perfectly straight handwriting. There all the time, but she had never known.
She took down the first one. There was a baseball trophy, a miniature hockey stick, a glass paperweight with blue inside that looked like a jellyfish. She hadn’t remembered ever seeing any of this stuff, which, she supposed, was how it had ended up here. At the bottom of the box, she found his dog tags. His name was printed on them, along with a string of numbers and letters that didn’t mean anything to her.
She was surprised he hadn’t brought them with him. The hospital had a lot of soldiers in it but also people who had gone through rough experiences other places. Her mom had fought to get him into that hospital. Alice thought that he would have wanted his dog tags so he and the other soldiers could identify one another and keep one another safe. She slipped them over her own neck and felt the cool metal against her chest.
The next box had trading cards, baseball and hockey, mostly, but also some for a game called Magic. All the fantastic creatures on the cards seemed to be glaring at her, ready to pounce. She tucked them back into the binder where she had found them. She dug deeper into the box and found a pennant from Boston University as well as his team jacket from his time there.
The book wasn’t there.
Henrietta popped her head in. “Hot chocolate?” she asked.
Alice shook her head.
“Cinnamon toast?”
“No, thanks.”
“I take it the book wasn’t there.”
Alice walked across the room toward Henrietta. “No,” she said. “I guess it’s just lost.”
“Did you find anything you wanted?”
Alice didn’t answer. “Do you think he was a hero?”
“Your father? The greatest.”
Henrietta backed up through the beaded curtain to the sales desk. She took a seat on the high stool and pointed to the chair beside it. Alice sat. “Because he went to war?” Without meaning to, she touched her chest, feeling the dog tags beneath her shirt.
“Eh,” Henrietta said. “He would’ve been a hero even if he didn’t go to war. Some people are just like that. This town—it never had a lot. It used to have enough, back when the mill was running. They’d go twenty-four seven sometimes.”
Alice knew all about the mill history. They learned about it in school, visited the old buildings. Alice had never been sure why they had celebrated such failure.
“When your dad was in high school, the mills were shutting down. This town that had never had a lot suddenly didn’t even have enough. People were fighting. Businesses were closing. They thought they might have to close the school if more kids moved away. People were stressed, Alice. Add to that the things that were going on in the world—sicknesses people hadn’t heard of before, wars built on threats and bigger and bigger arsenals. We could’ve collapsed.”
Alice thought maybe she understood. “There were animals back then, too, right? Coming into town?”
“Yes, that’s right. Your dad and Donny found a dozen raccoons behind the diner one day, looking for all the world like they were holding a den meeting. There were strange, tough times all around this town. People needed something to rally around. Your dad was that something. No one missed his games. When he went down to Boston, we’d listen to the games on the radio, all gathered together at the Spaghetti Shed or Fitz’s Pub. And when the games were on television—woo! You would’ve thought James Dean himself was from Independence.”
“James Dean?”
“Handsome, tragic actor. Looked great in a leather jacket. The point is, your dad gave us hope. He gave us things to talk about, stories to share. He gave us something to be proud of.” She pushed up her sleeves and regarded Alice closely. “That’s a lot to take on, Alice. All the hope of one town on one young man’s shoulders. That’s why he’s a hero. Because he took it. He took that on, and we were all the better for it.”
Alice felt a hollow spot in her stomach. He had been that thing for all those people and still managed to be a hero for her. Until she had messed it all up and finally caused him to pop. The town still needed him, and her mom needed him, and Donny, and Henrietta, and Lewis—everyone needed her dad, but he wasn’t there. Because of her. If the town was coming apart, then that was on her, too. She could practically feel her father’s hand on her shoulder. Be bold. Be brave. Be fierce. It was time f
or her to act.
Luna perched on a branch of the willow tree. Her pale green coloring was nearly the same as the tree leaves, and it would take a very careful observer to notice the purplish piping along the edges of her wings. Her long tail matched nearly perfectly the tendril-like leaves of the tree. She was not trying to hide per se, only wanted a safe place to observe.
The wind stung her delicate wings, but she had taken it upon herself to watch over the web. The other animals had their plans, their conversations, but Luna simply watched, being sure to stay far enough away from the web itself. An insect can get caught in a Story Web just as easily as it can in a regular spiderweb. She didn’t want to do the web any further damage, nor did she want to harm her own beautiful wings.
She watched for the spiders and cheered them when they decided to weave, less and less often as the days wore on. She watched the wind and rain knock strands loose.
She watched the events unfold one cold evening, and, when she could watch no more, she went to find the boy.
Alice’s mom was asleep on the couch when Alice got home from school. She wasn’t supposed to leave the house without asking, but she didn’t wake her mother. She whispered, “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to fix this.” Then she slipped out the back door with Dare on her shoulder.
It was harder to follow the thread this time, covered in ice and broken completely in some places. Alice had to pace back and forth among the trees and stones before she found it again. Dare tried to help, cheeping and chirping in her ear, but Alice couldn’t understand the bird’s messages. She walked and walked, her feet slipping at times on the ice. Carrying the box of letters under her arm didn’t help.
Her toes and fingers began to burn, and she thought for a moment about turning around. Then she saw it. She recognized the willow. She dropped to her knees and crawled under the swooping branches and their tiny leaves that brushed her hair from her forehead back the way her mom did on lazy mornings.
Alice watched one loose strand of the web swing back and forth, back and forth. It made her ache for her father. If she could follow this strand back, it would lead her to him. She crouched, and Dare hopped off her shoulder. She took the end of the thread in her beak and looked at Alice as if she were telling her to grab hold of it, to see where it led her.
Alice’s eyes, though, were drawn to the center of the web. It was empty. Alice knew what it meant that the web was weak and the strand to her house was gone. She supposed she’d known all along. Her father was a Story Weaver and a hero. He was both the spinner and the star of stories. Now he was gone, and the threads could not survive. He was the center that held the web and the town together, but he was trapped on that island far away, unable to help.
“I’ve brought him to you,” she said to the web.
She opened the box and spread out the letters carefully on the ground in front of her. Eyes closed, she picked a letter.
Her voice shook as she read the words.
SEPTEMBER 23
DEAR ALICE,
HOW HAS THE START OF SCHOOL BEEN? IT’S HARD FOR ME TO BE AWAY ON SUCH IMPORTANT DAYS. I AM CERTAIN, HOWEVER, THAT MRS. CARMICHAEL WILL BE DULY IMPRESSED BY THE WORLD’S SMARTEST THIRD GRADER. IS LEWIS IN YOUR CLASS THIS YEAR? PLEASE REMIND HIM AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO KEEP HIS HAND DOWN ON THE STICK. HE CHOKES UP TOO MUCH.
I THOUGHT WE WOULD BE COMING HOME SOON, BUT I’M AFRAID THAT IS NOT TO BE THE CASE. YOU SEE, ON MY TRAVELS I STUMBLED UPON A BRONZE ISLAND RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT. AN OASIS, I THOUGHT, BUT AS I DREW NEAR I HEARD VOICES AND SINGING. A BOY NOT MUCH OLDER THAN YOU INVITED ME TO THE MOST MAGNIFICENT CASTLE. INSIDE I MET A KING. HE NEVER LEAVES THIS ISLAND, AND HE LONGS FOR STORIES. AS A STORY EATER MYSELF, I CAN CERTAINLY RELATE.
Alice looked up from the letter. “Story eater,” she whispered. The phrase was unfamiliar, but she knew it was true. Her father liked to hear stories as much as he liked to spin them.
A spider emerged on the web and started lazily to weave.
Alice kept reading, her voice stronger now.
I TOLD HIM MY STORY. HOW I HAD NOT WANTED TO GO TO WAR AND LEAVE YOU AND MOM BEHIND, BUT WE ALL HAVE OUR OBLIGATIONS. ONCE IN THE WAR, I HAD NEW OBLIGATIONS: TO MY TEAM OF FELLOW SOLDIERS. WHEN I FINISHED, HE GAVE ME A BAG FULL OF WINDS. HE SAID THEY WOULD SEND MY SHIP HOME. I TUCKED THE BAG UNDER MY ARM AND BROUGHT IT BACK TO MY BARRACKS. I TOLD ONLY ONE PERSON, BUT AN ENEMY MUST HAVE HEARD, FOR IN THE NIGHT THE BAG WAS OPENED. WIND WHIPPED UP AROUND OUR CAMP, SWIRLING SAND THROUGH ANY CRACKS IN THE BUILDINGS. OUR BEDS FILLED WITH SAND. WE STUMBLED ABOUT LIKE BLIND MEN . . .
BUT ENOUGH OF THAT.
THE CLEANUP HAS BEGUN. WE SHALL BE FINISHED SOON AND THEN, PERHAPS, WE SHALL BEGIN OUR JOURNEY HOMEWARD. LOOK UP TO THE STARS AND PERHAPS YOU WILL BE ABLE TO TRACK MY PROGRESS.
BE BOLD, BE BRAVE, BE FIERCE.
LOVE,
DAD
Alice refolded the letter and held it in her lap.
Most of her father’s stories she did not know the truth of, but this one she did.
A windstorm had come upon his camp. At the same time, enemy insurgents came through. Three of the men in her father’s unit were lost. Her father had been injured but not badly. The phone call came in the middle of the night. Her mother answered and Alice picked up the other line. Her heart had leapt at the sound of her father’s voice, until she heard the true story.
On the web, a second spider had joined the first, but they still wove slowly, far too slowly.
Alice sighed. She took out the newer, harder letters and spread these along with the older ones. “I suppose you want these stories, too,” she said, not sure who she was speaking to.
Eyes closed, she chose another letter. The worst letter, from just two weeks before.
NOVEMBER 4
DEAR ALICE,
I TRY TO WRITE EVERY WEEK, BUT THEY KEEP ME BUSY HERE. I’M JUST BACK FROM SEEING MY CALYPSO. SHE SAYS IT IS GOOD THAT I WRITE YOU THESE LETTERS. SHE SAYS IT IS HEALING FOR BOTH OF US. IS THAT TRUE? I HOPE SO.
TODAY SHE AND I TALKED ABOUT THE LAND OF THE DEAD. DID I EVER TELL YOU THAT STORY? NO, OF COURSE NOT. YOU WERE TOO YOUNG THEN. NOW, BECAUSE OF ME, YOU ARE OLD. SO HERE GOES.
I VISITED THE LAND OF THE DEAD. I VISIT IT OFTEN, IN FACT. CIRCE TAUGHT THAT A SACRIFICE MUST BE MADE TO CROSS OVER TO ATTRACT THE DEAD. SHE SAID TO DIG A TRENCH AND FILL IT WITH MILK AND HONEY. IT IS THE BLOOD, THOUGH, THAT ATTRACTS THE DEAD. FOR ME IT IS DIFFERENT. I MAKE NO NEW SACRIFICE. I AM SIMPLY WALKING AND THEN THE LAND THAT SHOULD BE BEFORE ME IS GONE AND IN ITS PLACE IS THE LAND OF THE DEAD. I KNOW IT BY THE SWIRLING MISTS THAT SURROUND IT AND THE SMELL OF SULFUR. THE PEOPLE THERE ARE GHOSTS, BUT THEY TALK TO ME. THEY TELL ME THEIR STORIES. THINGS I KNEW OF THEM AND THINGS I DID NOT KNOW. I SEE THE MEN I FOUGHT WITH. I HEAR THEIR HOPES. THEY TELL ME I AM THE LUCKY ONE. I KNOW I AM, AND STILL . . . THE THING OF IT IS IT’S NOT THAT THEY FRIGHTEN ME, THESE GHOSTS, IT’S WHAT THEY REMIND ME OF THAT IS SO TERRIFYING. I WISH I COULD THROW OFF THAT FEAR, BUT THEN, WHAT KIND OF PERSON WOULD I BE?
THIS IS NOT A GOOD LETTER, I DON’T THINK. I WANT THE LETTERS TO MAKE YOU FEEL SAFE. BUT I ALSO NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND WHY I AM NOT THERE WITH YOU.
Alice’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t speak the rest of the letter. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to swallow. She remembered the day her father left.
Alice’s parents had sent her over to Lewis’s. It was the day after the fifth-grade social, and the last person she’d wanted to see was Lewis. She’d gone upstairs with Linda, who had grilled her about who she had danced with. Alice said she’d danced with Brady, which was true but also not true.
It had all been her fault, that’s what no one would believe. She’d tried to tell them a million times, but no one listened.
It had been fire-safety week at school. The firefighters came and talked to them about what could happen in a fire, why it was so important to have smoke detectors. Alice had gone home and put batteries back into all the smoke detectors. They didn’t go off that o
ften, she reasoned, and her dad sitting in the car was better than them all dying in a fire.
The day of the social she was making cookies. Her mom had signed up to bring some to share, but then she’d been called in last minute, and Alice had to make them. It was okay. It was just the tube of cookie dough. She’d sliced them neatly, put them on the pan, and gone to get ready for the dance.
Izzy had said they needed to braid their hair into crowns that encircled their heads, a trio of queens. Alice’s fingers tangled in her hair trying again and again to get her braids to look like Izzy’s. She braided her hair almost every day for hockey but couldn’t make it bend around her head in the elaborate style Izzy had chosen. She had just about given up and was ready to ask her dad for help when the smoke alarm went off. She ran to the kitchen. Smoke puffed out of the oven, and the alarm blared and blared and blared.
In the center of it all was her father, stock-still and wild eyed. “Get down!” he cried.
She didn’t move.
“I said get down!” He lunged toward her, grabbed her around the shoulder, and pulled her roughly to the floor.
“It’s just the smoke alarm, Dad,” she’d told him. “We just need to open the window.” She moved toward the window, but her father held her shoulders tightly.
“Stay down!” he ordered. He pressed her into the floor. She felt the ridges of the linoleum on her cheek.
“Dad,” she said, struggling to breathe under the weight of his body. Then she yelled it: “Dad!”
He looked right at her. He closed his eyes tightly. He ran from the kitchen to his bedroom and locked the door.
Alice hadn’t known what to do. She opened the window, then turned off the oven. She threw the burned cookies out into the lawn and finished getting ready. She never managed to get the braids in.
Lewis knocked on her door, and she met him in the party dress she had bought at the mall down in South Portland with her mom. Lewis said something stupid like, “Can’t stop many goals in that.”
Alice replied, “I can stop anything that comes my way.”
The Story Web Page 14
