Alma

by William Bell

  Alma thought she knew what Miss Lily meant, but she wasn’t sure. “Tell me what it’s like,” she said. “Please.”

  “Perhaps,” Miss Lily began, “it is, above all things, lonely. So many hours by oneself, lost in research or imaginings. Then there is the lack of understanding. So many people seem to think that all one has to do is find an idea for a story and write it down. They talk of inspiration as if it replaced grinding toil, the wrestling with ideas and character and narrative structure, the revising, the arguments with editors. And worst of all, the corroding self-doubt that will not go away no matter how well received the books are.”

  Miss Lily looked away again.

  “All of which sounds like a complaint,” she went on, “but I don’t mean it that way. What gets us through is the thrill of making something out of nothing. It’s the passion to tell the story that means so much to us.”

  Miss Lily seemed to run out of energy with her last sentence. She swallowed and looked again toward the estuary. A fresh breeze swept through the gap, cool and salty. A fishing boat was crossing the harbour, leaving a creamy wake behind.

  Alma thought of her own excitement when an idea for a story slipped into her head and began to make room for itself, like a tenant in an apartment where she plans to stay for a long time. The thrill that swelled as the narrative grew and took form. The sense of satisfaction when the tale appeared on the page in Alma’s cursive uncials.

  “Don’t you miss it?” she asked.

  Miss Lily shrugged her shoulders. But the look on her face, Alma thought, said Yes.

  “Do you think you’ll ever get it back?” Alma persisted, but she saw that Miss Lily had finished. Her face, which had brightened moments earlier, seemed to close in again, stiff and wrinkled.

  “There was a time, a long time, when I would have said no to that question. Now, I’m not so sure. At any rate, help me to my feet. You’ve worn me out with your prattling, Alma Neal.”

  They made their way up Little Wharf Road, the afternoon sun on their shoulders. Alma was thinking. Miss Lily had hinted that she might regain the passion she had described. Did that mean things had changed? Would RR Hawkins write again?

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  “Dear RR Hawkins,” Alma wrote in her awkward Hattie Scrivener hand. “I am writing to make a confession to you.”

  Alma stopped to consider her words carefully. She had decided, after that day in the park with Miss Lily, that she ought to tell the truth about Hattie Scrivener.

  “I am not who you think I am,” she put down. She stopped again. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to be honest, she thought, placing her pen on the kitchen table. After all, honesty could hurt people sometimes, like when your best friend asked you if you liked her new blouse and you didn’t and you wanted to tell her she looked hideous but you knew that would hurt her feelings but if you didn’t tell her the truth she’d wear the horrible blouse and people would laugh at her and it would be your fault and—

  Alma shook her head and picked up her fountain pen again. Such thinking was too confusing. Since Miss Lily had been so open with her about the most—or one of the most—important things in her life, her writing, then Alma couldn’t go on deceiving her. Miss Lily had been dictating letters to a girl who didn’t exist, and no matter how Alma looked at it, that wasn’t fair.

  “I am really someone you know,” Alma continued.

  My name is not Hattie Scrivener. And this isn’t my handwriting. I am Alma Neal, and I’m very sorry for deceiving you, but, you see, I had to find out if you were really my favourite author. I hope you can forgive me.

  Sincerely,

  Alma Neal (Hattie Scrivener)

  On Thursday afternoon after school, Alma took the letter to the Chenoweth house. She tapped on the door and let herself in. At the end of July, Miss Olivia had told Alma she needn’t wait; she should rap loudly with the knocker and enter the house.

  Alma didn’t see Miss Lily that day, and Miss Olivia appeared only for a moment, looking less cheerful than usual, and very busy. Miss Lily was feeling a little under the weather, she said. So Alma copied the letters that had been left for her in the file and, on her way out, laid her Hattie letter on the table in the hall.

  Saturday morning was dreary and chilly, with low clouds and a damp breeze out of the northeast—a sign that bad weather lurked over the horizon. Alma had breakfast with her mother, who looked tired and drawn after a very late night at the Liffey.

  “Take your raincoat and umbrella,” Clara said as Alma slipped into the “new” autumn jacket that her mother had found at the Salvation Army thrift store. “It looks like dirty weather. I’m going back to bed for a bit.”

  The dry leaves rattled on the tossing branches as Alma made her way down Little Wharf Road, the wind on the side of her face. She hurried up the path and banged the brass knocker and pushed open the door.

  “Hello, Miss Lily. Hello, Miss Olivia,” she called out, hanging her jacket on the rack by the door, taking in the fragrance of warm biscuits and coffee and fried bacon.

  Miss Olivia called back a greeting from the kitchen, where the rattle of dishes told Alma that the breakfast washing-up was in progress. Alma entered the sitting room. In the middle of “her” desk was an envelope. She recognized the spidery, unsteady handwriting immediately. “To Alma.”

  Should she read it now? Or wait until her work was done? Alma opened the folder. There were three letters to copy. She put aside the envelope with her name on it and flipped open the inkwell lid. A half-hour later, she had completed her duties.

  She sat back in her chair. Should she read her letter here? Or wait until she got home?

  Alma decided to take it back to her room. She stuffed the envelope into the pocket of her jacket and went into the kitchen. Miss Olivia sat at the table, four or five small bottles of brown glass before her. She opened a bottle, shook pills into the palm of her hand, counted them and replaced them in the bottle, then made a note on a small pad.

  “I’m finished for today, Miss Olivia,” Alma said. She was trying hard to think of an excuse so that she wouldn’t have to talk to Miss Lily.

  “All right, dear,” Olivia Chenoweth said. “I’m afraid Mother won’t be able to speak with you today. She doesn’t feel awfully well.”

  “Oh,” Alma said, relieved, but pricked by a pang of guilt. “I hope she’s better soon.”

  “I’m sure she will be.”

  “Well, goodbye, then.”

  “Dear Hattie Scrivener,” Alma read, curled up on the couch in her room as the wind blustered outside the window. “Thank you for your most recent letter. Looking back, I recall that we have been corresponding for some months, some five or six letters, and all that time, you now admit, you were someone else.”

  Alma felt a little sick to her stomach, the way she always did when she knew she had been caught doing something wrong. She looked up from the page at the new leather-bound novels given to her by RR Hawkins. I’ve done it again, she thought. I’ve ruined everything. Why did I have to confess? I should have written one last letter as Hattie Scrivener and let it go at that.

  She didn’t want to finish the letter, to read the criticism she deserved, to hear disappointment shouting through the wavery handwriting. But she looked back to the page.

  “I myself have a confession to make,” the letter went on.

  You see, I knew all along it was you, Alma. How did I know, you are now asking yourself as you read my very poorly written words.

  In the first place, I am aware that scrivener means writer, the vocation to which you have long aspired. Secondly, your letters were mailed from Charlotte’s Bight, as indicated by the cancellation stamp imprinted by the post office. Thirdly, you must have forgotten that you told me long ago that your favourite name is Hattie. Remember, Alma, I used to make up stories for a living!

  Dear Alma, someday you will be a wonderful writer, but you will never be a successful criminal!

  Yours
very sincerely,

  Miss Lily (RR Hawkins)

  P. S. I shall expect you and your mother for tea on Sunday. I have something very important to discuss with you.

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  “And what’s this important thing, do you think?” Clara asked the next morning as she sprinkled water onto a pillowcase before ironing it.

  “I don’t know, Mom. She said she wanted to talk to you and me.”

  Alma hadn’t told her mother about the letter. She pretended the invitation had come when she was at the Chenoweth house the day before.

  “Probably something to do with your job,” Clara guessed. “Maybe you’re getting a raise,” she said, smiling.

  I don’t care about that, Alma told herself. I just hope Miss Lily isn’t mad at me for tricking her—trying to trick her—about Hattie Scrivener.

  That afternoon, the sun finally broke through, reflecting brilliantly on the pearls of rain on the grass and trees and faded flowers in the gardens along Little Wharf Road. Alma and her mother, dressed for tea, walked slowly, enjoying the warmth of the day.

  Alma’s stomach churned. What was the “important thing”? she wondered once again. Was it good-important or bad-important? Alma was thinking about how much she hated uncertainty when her mother knocked on the door. Since it wasn’t a workday but a social call, Alma didn’t enter immediately.

  The door opened suddenly to reveal Miss Olivia. “Oh,” she burst out. “Oh!” Miss Olivia looked as if she had been wrestling with a ghost. Her face was ashen and drawn, her eyes blazing, her hair unkempt. “Come in! Come in!” she exclaimed. “I’m on the telephone. It’s Mother.” And, leaving the door open, she rushed back inside.

  Alma followed her mother into the house. In the kitchen, Miss Olivia spoke into the telephone, nodding, raising her hand to her cheek, shaking her head.

  “Something’s happened to Miss Lily,” Clara said.

  “Yes, yes, all right,” Miss Olivia said into the telephone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Goodbye.”

  She hung up and placed her hand on her chest, as if to control her breathing. She sank into a chair.

  “Miss Olivia, what’s happened?” Clara asked softly.

  “It’s Mother. She’s at the hospital. Oh, what shall I do?”

  Clara turned to Alma. “Alma, put the kettle on,” she commanded. “Do you know where everything is?”

  She meant the tea things. “I … I think so,” Alma said.

  Alma’s mother shucked off her coat and took one of the chairs. “Miss Olivia, tell me what happened,” she said, leaning forward.

  As Alma, still in her jacket, filled the kettle and lit the gas, took down the teapot from the cupboard and spooned tea into it, Miss Olivia reported that her mother had been unable to rise from her bed that morning. Though awake, she seemed unaware of where she was, and wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak.

  “I telephoned for the ambulance,” Miss Olivia related, twisting her hanky in her hands. “They wouldn’t let me accompany Mother. I had just called them when you arrived. Oh, it was an agony waiting here, unable to be with her, wondering if—”

  Alma laid out three cups and poured the boiling water into the teapot, hoping that hot tea was really the magical cure-all her mother always said it was.

  “They say I can see her now,” Miss Olivia concluded, winding down a little. Then she made to get to her feet. “I should be—”

  “Take a little tea first,” Clara said, putting her hand on Miss Olivia’s arm. She pushed the milk and sugar toward her. “Did they tell you anything?”

  “Only that Mother is stable,” Miss Olivia said, sitting down. “Whatever that means. She’s in Emergency.” She spooned sugar into her cup, added milk, stirred slowly, her hand trembling.

  A dreadful cloud settled on Alma as she began to take in what was happening. The hospital! A person could die! She felt tears on her face.

  “Mom!” she cried. “Is Miss Lily going to—?”

  “Oh, you poor girl!” Miss Olivia sprang to life. She got up and rushed to Alma, put her arms around her shoulders, held her. “I’m sure Mother will be all right.”

  Alma’s sobs hit her like punches. She tried, but couldn’t stop her tears. It was her mother who said, “Come, come, Alma. Get hold of yourself. It does no good to cry.”

  “I should be getting to the hospital,” Miss Olivia said, releasing Alma. “I need to get some things together.”

  “Let us give you a hand,” Clara said. “And Miss Olivia, forgive me, but you may want to, er, spruce yourself up a bit before you go.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. Thank you.”

  Alma and her mother drank their tea. “What do you think will happen, Mom?” Alma asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Miss Lily is old, but she’s quite strong, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, then,” Clara said, as if that settled the matter for good.

  Presently, Miss Olivia came down the stairs, a small bag in her hand. She looked more—normal now, Alma thought. Her hair was in place, face washed, a crisp blue dress under her grey cardigan. But she had forgotten her beads. She forced a smile.

  “Alma, if you wouldn’t mind, could you collect Miss Lily’s reading glasses and her book from her study? They’re on the table by the ashtray.”

  As her mother and Miss Olivia put on their coats, Alma ran down the hall and opened the study door. Without Miss Lily, the room’s silence seemed unnaturally deep. The fireplace was cold, littered with grey ash, the desks in shadow, Miss Lily’s chair empty and lifeless. Alma spotted the spectacles on the table beside a bookmarked copy of Emma. Jane Austen was one of Miss Lily’s favourites, Alma recalled. She took up the book and glasses, and as she turned toward the door, she caught sight of a stack of papers on the desk. A buff-coloured envelope lay across the papers at an angle, covering the middle of the page. On the envelope was typed a name and address that Alma recognized immediately—RR Hawkins’s publisher, Seabord Press.

  Alma took a step nearer. Had Miss Lily written a new story? She read the bottom of the partly concealed page, easily making out the typed words “by RR Hawkins.” Yes! she thought. It’s true. RR Hawkins has broken her silence! Maybe I can be the first one to read it. If—when—Miss Lily gets out of the hospital, I’ll ask her.

  Then Alma’s eyes rose to the top of the page above the envelope, and the words “THE DREAM-ARY.”

  She froze. It couldn’t be, she told herself. There must be an explanation. Perhaps Miss Lily borrowed my title. That must be it. She fell ill before she could tell me. That was the reason for the invitation to tea—to ask permission. Alma carefully lifted the envelope and title page.

  “‘SAM-U-ELLLL!’” she read.

  “Alma! Hurry up!”

  Alma dashed from the room, numb and confused, and ran down the hall, the spectacles and novel in her hands.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  The leaves of autumn blazed with glory, faded, and were swept away on chill, blustery winds. Winter crept slowly into Charlotte’s Bight. It was mid-December before the first snow, a spiteful two-day storm that left the town frosty and white and shivering. Not until the middle of January were the two rivers frozen all the way across, thick enough to permit skating and pick-up hockey games in the places where the wind kept the ice clear of snow.

  Alma had seen Miss Lily only twice by the time Christmas arrived, in the hospital, a dreary place soaked in the odour of disinfectant and a churchlike reverent silence that seemed to threaten rather than comfort. The author, struck down by a stroke, had looked frail, her body under the blankets thin and birdlike, her face collapsed and wan. She had not awakened either time, so Alma hadn’t heard her voice since that day in the park, so long ago.

  Once, when Alma was walking with her mother along the harbour on a windy spring day, the water had captured her attention. The river’s current swept powerfully into the harb
our, but the wind, blowing at gale force in the opposite direction, built high, choppy white-caps and whipped foam into the air. It was as if the waters in the estuary wanted to rush in two directions at once.

  The commotion that had churned in Alma’s mind since that day in Miss Lily’s empty study was like the contrary waters of the harbour.

  Alma had said nothing to anyone about finding “The Dream-ary” with Miss Lily’s name on the cover—“by RR Hawkins.” She knew that to tell was to accuse. But, in keeping her secret, she could not ask for help or share her torment. There must be an explanation, she kept telling herself.

  Alma was beginning to learn the troublesome nature of secrets. You tucked them away in your mind, because you couldn’t possibly think about them all day long, and you carried them with you. A secret was always there. There were some secrets that would fly out of the shadows, making your spirit soar when you remembered them. Others shambled into the light and snarled like an angry bear, and you shook with fear as you tried to shoo them away.

  This secret was the worst kind, because it wasn’t a fact. It was a question. Had RR Hawkins taken Alma’s story? One answer made Alma burn with shame for misjudging her friend. The other filled her with sadness.

  RR Hawkins, Miss Lily, was her friend. She liked being with Alma—the strolls to the park and harbour, the long Saturday-afternoon chats in the study, with the fire crackling and steam rising from the teacups. She had forgiven Alma for revealing her identity to Miss McAllister and the class. She had paid Alma’s wages even on those few days when Alma turned up at the Chenoweth house to find there were no letters to copy. She had introduced Alma to calligraphy and who knew how many books. Miss Lily would never do anything against Alma.

  And yet Alma was unable to put aside the notion that RR Hawkins, desperate to write again, had taken “The Dream-ary,” intending to publish it under her own name. Hadn’t she praised the tale more than once? Miss Lily would never compliment something just to be polite. She didn’t do anything just to be polite. It was one of the things Alma had grown to like about her. And hadn’t Miss Lily, that day in the park when she talked about the passion to write, hinted that she wished she could regain the passion? Did she think that “The Dreamary” was a ticket back to the world of writing? How could she take my story? Alma would ask herself, near tears, when she temporarily chose this explanation.