Alma

by William Bell

  7. So, they could be Olivia Chenoweth and Lily Hawkins. On the right, Alma reluctantly scribbled, “Lily doesn’t begin with an R!!!”

  8. But, “Could Miss RR Hawkins have another name? A nickname or a family name?” Alma couldn’t imagine Miss Lily accepting a nickname.

  Alma had been thinking so hard, her head hurt. Time and time again she told herself her imagination was running wild. To think a world-famous writer would come to live in an old wooden house in an out-of-the-way place like Charlotte’s Bight! Alma decided she was being a dunce. She wanted RR Hawkins to be close by, so her mind was making things up. She had always put RR Hawkins on the list of authors she would love to talk to, so she was trying to make it come true.

  Still, she insisted, it could be.

  Alma decided to find out, once and for all.

  She would have to think like a detective. She must, when at Miss Lily’s house, keep her eyes open. Observe, like Sherlock Holmes. But she had to wait. She couldn’t just march over to the Chenoweth house, push open the big wooden door and snoop through the place with a giant magnifying glass. It would be three days before she had the opportunity to put her plan into action.

  Even then, how could she find the answer to the mystery? Alma repeatedly asked herself over the next few days. She could simply ask Miss Lily, but that seemed rude, especially if Alma was right. It would mean that all Miss Lily’s efforts to keep her identity secret had failed. Alma didn’t want to be the one to let the secret out, the way Pandora had released the evils from her box.

  The following Tuesday afternoon as Alma was ambling home from school, enjoying the sunshine, she caught sight of Russell Stearns, walking jauntily along the sidewalk on Grafton Street, his black postman’s bag fat with letters, his blue uniform rumpled, his ruddy cheeks puffed up as he whistled tunelessly.

  “Afternoon, Alma,” he said as he passed.

  “Hi, Russell,” Alma replied. Then, to herself she whispered, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? It’s perfect!”

  She started to run.

  “Dear RR Hawkins,” she began, barely able to contain her excitement as she wrote, in pencil, with an ugly backward slant to disguise her own hand.

  Alma was sitting on the rug in her room, a sheet of plain writing paper in front of her. She had already addressed the envelope to RR Hawkins, c/o Seabord Publishing Company, New York City. Her plan was simple. If Alma’s suspicions were correct and the woman she worked for was the famous author, the letter would come right back to Charlotte’s Bight and Alma herself would copy the reply!

  Alma struggled to hold herself back. She was tempted to put everything she wanted to say to RR Hawkins in the letter, but, she reminded herself, she might be wrong about Miss Lily. Best to go slowly, she told herself. So she wrote, “I have admired your books for a long time and I wanted to know if you have written anything since you finished the Alterworld Series.” Alma left a space, then wrote, “Yours sincerely.” She wrote the A in her name and then caught herself.

  “Stupid!” she muttered, vigorously erasing the error. Then she wrote “Hattie Scrivener,” because she had always liked the name Hattie (she had even tried to change her name to Hattie but her mother wouldn’t let her), and a scrivener was a writer and Alma wanted to be a writer someday.

  Then Alma thought of another problem. When she mailed the letter it would go to the post office in Charlotte’s Bight, where the stamp would be cancelled before the letter was sent on to New York. The cancellation imprint would show the name of the town and the date. So Miss Olivia and Miss Lily would know where the letter originated.

  “Oh, well,” Alma concluded, “there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  Another thought struck her: Miss Lily’s letters to her fans must go back to her publisher to be mailed from there, otherwise every letter she sent would show that it was mailed in Charlotte’s Bight! And in such a small place, she would be easy to find! That was why none of the envelopes Alma wrote out had return addresses!

  She smiled to herself, pleased with her Holmesian powers of deduction and logic, as she sealed the letter to her favourite author inside its envelope. She placed the stamp exactly, in line with the top and right edge of the envelope. She put on her coat and went out to post the letter. Before she dropped it in the mailbox she crossed her fingers.

  “Here’s hoping,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  While Alma waited impatiently to find out if her “Hattie Scrivener ploy,” as she called it, was successful, she worked on her story. Miss McAllister had assigned a short story, to be completed before school broke for the summer holidays, and there was a prize for the best one. Alma wanted to win the prize.

  “SAM-U-ELLLL!”

  Uh-oh, Sammy thought.

  Before long, she had completed chapter 1, where Sammy goes to the library and discovers a secret door.

  As the days passed, Alma’s excitement each time she entered Miss Lily’s house diminished, until she went a whole day without once thinking about her clever trick to solve the RR Hawkins mystery. Alma began to fear that, as happened so often, she had let her imagination capture her and carry her off. Perhaps, after all, Miss Lily was just a slightly eccentric and more than slightly scary old lady living in Charlotte’s Bight with her slightly eccentric daughter whose name happened to be Olivia.

  Alma’s home underwent changes. With her increased salary and longer hours, Clara was able to purchase bright, colourful material to make a tablecloth and curtains for the kitchen. She bought an almost complete set of dishes at a garage sale. “No more cracked teacups in this house,” she told Alma on the day she brought home the cardboard carton full of dusty dishes with a cornflower pattern around the rims. There was a new doormat with “Welcome” printed on it, and a boot tray, and for Alma and her mother, new galoshes that didn’t leak.

  After the lending of the calligraphy book, the pen and ink, Alma had softened toward her employer, but was still a little shaken each time she was summoned to the room with the fireplace. One afternoon, when the weak winter light washed the sitting room where Alma worked, Miss Olivia told Alma, “When you’re through today, Miss Lily would like to see you, dear.”

  Miss Lily was at her usual place, in the chair by the fire, a large book open on her lap, with a lit cigarette in the ivory holder. Alma was conscious of a tingling sensation in her stomach as she thought of the elaborate trick she was playing on her employer. Miss Lily put the cigarette holder in her mouth and closed the book, placing it on the table on top of two others. Alma read the titles on the spines. Chess Problems from Ancient Persia. Philodor’s Conundrum and Other Chess Challenges. It was then that Alma noticed the chess set on the desk nearest the fire, elaborately carved pieces at rest on the board, as if waiting for something to happen.

  “Hello, Miss Lily,” she said when Miss Olivia closed the door behind her.

  “How is your calligraphy coming along?” Miss Lily asked, her throaty voice intimidating Alma as it usually did.

  “Fine, I think.”

  “Well, is it or isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I … I love it!” Alma gushed, in spite of herself. “My mother bought me a pen.”

  “I’m a little disappointed that you haven’t shown any of your work to me,” Miss Lily said, her stony voice a bit less stony, Alma thought. Or perhaps it was Miss Lily’s habit of speaking as she exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Oh, um, I could. If you wish.”

  “Bring some with you next time you come,” Miss Lily commanded.

  “Yes, Miss Lily.”

  “In the meantime, you say you like books by this Hawkins person.”

  “Yes! She’s my favourite.”

  “Well, be that as it may, you may like that book there,” she said, pointing to the bookshelf, “second shelf from the bottom, third section.”

  In a moment, Alma found it. The Secret Orch
ard.

  “I’ve read it,” Alma said.

  “Fourth shelf from the top, fourth section. Clive Loomis.”

  “The Rianna Chronicles books? I’ve read them all,” Alma said, a little worried she might be disappointing Miss Lily, who was clearly trying to be kind. “Three times,” she added without knowing why.

  “Hmm.” The old woman’s brow creased, but the thin lips seemed to fight off a smile. “The Elvenland Trilogy?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Alma said.

  “So, finally a book that has escaped your clutches. Geoffrey Reese. Top shelf, sixth column. Take volume one. You’ll have to use the stool.”

  As she was directed, Alma stepped up onto the stool and stretched to the top shelf and removed the book.

  “If you like the trilogy, he has more,” Miss Lily said, adjusting her shawl. “Next time you come, bring some of your calligraphy.”

  “Yes, Miss Lily,” Alma said, opening the door. “Goodbye.”

  As the days passed, Alma’s story, which she had decided to call “The Dreamary,” took shape. Sammy borrowed his first dream card from Clio and put it under his pillow and was astounded by what happened. But the narrative, Alma realized, was already far too long.

  Alma and Miss Lily talked together every time Alma came to do her copying. They discussed books and stories and history and myths and fables. Miss Lily gave pointers to Alma to improve her calligraphy, and Alma found that uncial was Miss Lily’s favourite hand also.

  “Do you know, Alma,” Miss Lily mused on one of these occasions, “I think that in a former life you must have been a scribe. I can imagine you scraping vellum, mixing inks, shaping quills. You have books in your soul.”

  Alma didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t quite as frightened by Miss Lily as she used to be. Still, she decided not to ask what vellum was. She’d look it up when she got home.

  Then one day Alma was copying a short note. “Dear Mr. Tyler,” it said. “Many thanks for your kind wishes on my seventieth birthday. It was so kind of you to send me the lovely crystal ashtray.”

  Oh, no, Alma thought. I missed her birthday! When her duties were completed, she ran home, and as soon as her mother stepped into the apartment, she bubbled, “I missed Miss Lily’s birthday! It was her seventieth. That’s a special one, isn’t it?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Alma, can’t you for once let me get into the room before you bowl me over with words?” Clara complained, pulling off her waitress apron. She wore a uniform to work now, a green dress with a frilly white apron.

  “Can I use some of the money I earn to buy her a present?” Alma went on. “I know her birthday’s gone by, but still, Miss Lily has lent me a lot of books and she—”

  “Slow down, girl,” Clara begged. “Of course you can buy her a present. That’s sweet of you.”

  “Can I go to the gift shop on Grafton Street? Can I go now?”

  “That place charges too much, Alma.”

  “Well, could I go and look?”

  “Don’t be late for supper.”

  Alma spent ages in the gift shop, perusing the crystal, pottery, blankets woven from mohair and wool, bowls fashioned from exotic woods, jewellery and candlesticks of softly glowing pewter. It was the quilts she liked best, hand-stitched and vibrating with colour, but the prices were far, far beyond what she could pay. And then, as she turned to go, she spied a small pillow propped on an antique wooden chair by the door. The pillow, too, was quilted, and the quilter must have lived in Charlotte’s Bight, because the little scenes depicted in the design made up of small squares were familiar to Alma: the lighthouse on East Point, the shells you could find on Little Harbour Beach on any summer’s day, a dory cresting a wave, gulls and ships and more. And in the background the quilter had stitched the outline of a lady’s slipper. Alma bought it with shaking hands, and raced home.

  On Saturday morning, Alma surprised Miss Olivia by asking her, “Before I start work, may I speak to Miss Lily?”

  Miss Olivia’s thick eyebrows rose as she touched her beads and eyed the package Alma carried. “I’ll see,” she said, and she went down the hall and tapped lightly on the study door.

  A few minutes later, Alma stood in the study, with Miss Olivia behind her, watching as Miss Lily struggled with the pink ribbon around the box. Miss Olivia moved toward the chair.

  “Let me help you, Mother.”

  “I can manage,” Miss Lily snapped, dropping the ribbon and, using her stiff red fingers like spades, sliding them under the tape holding the sea-blue wrapping paper, creating a ragged tear. Alma waited as Miss Lily then struggled with the box, a scowl on her face, her lips pressed together in frustration. With a snap, the tape parted and Miss Lily raised the lid.

  “I’m sorry it’s late, Miss Lily,” Alma said. “Happy birthday. It’s from my mother and me.”

  Sometimes, in the sky over the harbour, Alma would watch as the west wind pushed the heavy grey rain clouds away, allowing a bar of sun to burst through and illuminate the water, turning it instantly from slate grey to a warm, deep blue. That was what happened to Miss Lily’s face when she lifted the quilted pillow from the box. Her scowl fled and her features softened. She said nothing, tracing the delicate stitching of the lady’s slipper with her fingers.

  Then she looked at Alma, and Alma realized there were tears slipping from Miss Lily’s eyes, following the deep lines on her face.

  “Thank you, Alma,” she said, and her voice caught. She began to sob.

  “Let’s leave Miss Lily alone for a moment,” Miss Olivia said, taking Alma’s hand and tugging sharply. Alma followed her out, her mind churning, unsure how she should feel.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, “I didn’t—”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry,” Miss Olivia said, her usual businesslike tone absent. “Miss Lily’s just a bit overcome. Why don’t you get your work done and you can talk to her before you leave.”

  Alma sat at the desk, straight pen in hand, and copied the first letter, her ear cocked for any sound from the study. She worked through the correspondence, writing carefully, setting each letter aside to let the ink dry fully before clipping it to its envelope, shaping her letters while, as usual, her mind wandered. Why had Miss Lily been overcome with tears? she asked herself for the tenth or twelfth time. Didn’t she like the pillow? Maybe it was an unwise choice. Alma felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck and she glanced up to see if Miss Olivia was by any chance standing in the doorway. What use would a little pillow be to someone like Miss Lily?

  Alma hardly noticed the words of the next letter in the file. She had copied the opening salutation and begun the first paragraph before her breath caught in her throat and all thoughts of pillows fled from her mind. She stared at the line she had copied.

  “Dear Hattie Scrivener,”

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Alma swallowed deeply, her heart whumping in her chest, her mouth dry and scratchy. She was sure she would be unable to form a word, never mind a sentence. She stood just inside the door of the study. Olivia Chenoweth had closed the door softly and now Alma was alone with Miss Lily.

  But it wasn’t the Miss Lily Alma thought she knew—an unknown, scowly lady who lived in an old house by the harbour. Alma was in the same room as her very most favourite author!

  That stupid pillow. A mistake. A bad present, too late for the birthday. What would RR Hawkins want with a little pillow made by an unknown quilter in a small, unimportant place like Charlotte’s Bight?

  Miss Lily sat with her gnarled hands resting like claws on the same pillow, one curled finger on the lighthouse, another seeming to point to the plovers on a sandy shore.

  “Do forgive me, Alma,” she began. “I don’t know what came over me. I was overwhelmed by your kindness.”

  Alma opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  “It’s a lovely gift,” Miss Lily went on. “I … it’s especially precious to me because I used to quilt mys
elf. I made my own designs and … well, that was some time ago. Now …”

  She looked down at her hands, then at Alma’s face, and Alma understood.

  “I’m glad you like it, Miss Lily,” she said.

  The old strength returned to the woman’s voice. “Why are you fidgeting so, Alma? Are you quite all right? You look pale. I apologize for upsetting you a while ago.”

  “I’m … I’m fine,” Alma croaked. “Fine.”

  “Well, have you completed your work for this morning?” the writer asked, her tone businesslike once more.

  “Yes, Miss Lily.”

  “Good. Hand me a cigarette and my holder, if you will, before you go.”

  Alma left the house, and as soon as she reached the sidewalk, she tore up the street, her feet squelching through the slush. Should I tell Mom? she asked herself. No, Mom won’t understand. The truth was that Alma wanted to keep the delicious secret to herself, at least for a while, like a piece of sponge toffee melting slowly in her mouth.

  As soon as Alma got home, she began another letter to RR Hawkins. This time, she didn’t hold back. She wrote and wrote—about RR Hawkins’s books and how much she loved them, about the questions she had always wanted to ask, but mostly about two things. Why, she asked politely and insistently, did you stop writing stories? Did you run out of ideas? Did you get sick and tired of fame?

  The second thing Alma stressed was, I want to be a writer too, and now I’m writing a story for school, but it’s much too long and I’m afraid I won’t get it done in time. Maybe I won’t be able to finish it at all. Do you have any suggestions?

  “Dear Hattie Scrivener,” came the reply a few weeks later,

  Thank you for your latest. Forgive me if I do not respond to some of your questions, as they are of a personal nature. I’m sure that you are aware that I am an extremely private person and prefer to let my books speak for themselves.