The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  “Sorry, it’s just that I . . . I know a man who lives there.” May nodded her head toward the brick house of the Bishops as they strode along Louisburg Square. “Normally I avoid this block, but it’s the quickest way to your destination on Revere, and it’s too cold out here to take a longer route.”

  Miss Gardner slowed down and studied the house. “Looks like you wouldn’t have been wanting for much in that household.”

  “I would have been wanting for someone who took my artistic ambitions seriously. In fact, I met you a couple of years ago at a show of your work at Williams & Everett Gallery. After meeting you, I decided I needed to end my relationship with him. You opened my eyes to a different path.”

  Miss Gardner let out a wry laugh. “Sorry, I set you off on such a wild-goose chase.”

  May’s eyes widened. “No, meeting you was one of the best things that happened to me. You gave me the confidence to try to be an artist.”

  “Funny, I barely recall our meeting. But it’s interesting how one chance encounter can make such a difference. It just goes to show the importance of living the life you want to lead. Not only does it benefit the person living that life, but it can also inspire others to try the same. I’d never thought of it that way.”

  The women reached the boardinghouse in which Miss Gardner was staying with a friend. She surprised May by thrusting out her hand to shake it as if they were men and said, “Now chin up on this whole Knowlton thing. Remember, you’re an artist. You’ll be promoted to oils soon. But listen to her. Follow her suggestions. She’s the one with real artistic instruction in that studio. Hunt’s just the big name who takes all the credit.”

  May knew the woman was right. There was no more time to nurse grievances against Miss Knowlton.

  The following day, she took note of every comment Miss Knowlton gave her and revised her work accordingly.

  On a warm March afternoon, with street noise rising up through the open windows, Miss Knowlton finally gave her the news she waited for: “After much consideration, Mr. Hunt believes you are ready to advance to the fundamentals of oil painting. I have composed a list of the materials you should bring on Monday so we may commence the next stage of your artistic development.”

  May smiled and took the supply list. She was so ecstatic she did not even mind Miss Knowlton’s pretentious little speech. It seemed nothing could stop her now.

  Chapter 20

  On a chilly evening the following November, May lay on the couch with a cool compress over her tired eyes, listening to Louisa read one of her newest stories aloud when the neighborhood fire bells started clanging outside their boardinghouse. Louisa looked out the window expecting to see flames rising from surrounding rooftops, but not a puff of smoke could be seen.

  The sisters prepared for bed, but a loud knocking at the door made them pause.

  A man’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Missus, missus, the city’s on fire!” The bells clanged with increasing urgency as if to punctuate his words.

  The sisters threw their dresses back on, not bothering to fasten buttons properly, and hurried outside. The area farther east, deeper into the city, where Mr. Hunt’s portrait studio was located, appeared to be engulfed in towers of flames.

  They ran down the sidewalk, but May slowed, mesmerized by the red-and-orange fire against the blackness of night. “It’s almost beautiful, isn’t it?”

  She was reminded of J. M. W. Turner’s The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons that Mr. Hunt had shown the class as a fine example of spontaneity and expressive painting. Now watching a giant plume of flames illuminating Boston’s nighttime skyline, she could see the terrifying appeal of the composition. Despite its savagery, the fire itself worked in eerie near-silence—the sound of wood snapping and collapsing echoed along the street—but the flames merely sighed over and over as they consumed everything in its path.

  “Come on, this is no time to daydream.” Louisa pulled her skirt up to run faster.

  The women rushed to the Common and found a scene of chaos. Shopkeepers ran back and forth, piling the contents of their stores into the park. Towers of books rose amidst heaps of housewares, silks and laces, and crates of china. Young boys ran back and forth with bundles and carts of goods, as the flames rose from Franklin Street. Burning wood and tar stung the women’s nostrils and made them gasp. The skin on their faces stiffened from the heat. The fire sucked all moisture from the air.

  Boylston Street, where Mr. Hunt taught May’s classes at the Studio Building, appeared to be safe, but smoke coiled up out of Trinity Church’s windows, its blocks of stone oozing and melting in the heat. May’s eyeballs dried when she faced the conflagration. Flakes of black soot flitted to the ground around them like snow. A sudden boom sent the ground lurching underneath them.

  “This must be what the final moments of Pompeii were like,” Louisa said wide-eyed.

  “Dunno anything ’bout that, ma’am.” An errand boy dropped a load of shawls next to the sisters. “They’re blowing buildings up, tryin’ to stop the fire’s path.” He gestured down to the pile by his feet. “You can take some if you like. The boss told us to take whatever we want ’fore it’s destroyed.”

  Fear muscled into May’s heart. She grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Do you know what’s happening on Summer Street?”

  “That’s the heart of the fire, ma’am.” The boy grimaced. “Ouch.”

  May realized she was digging her nails into the poor lad’s shoulders and let go.

  “Louisa, I must go check on Mr. Hunt’s studio. He may be there and need help—his current work, his collection . . .”

  Louisa looked at her in disbelief. “Are you mad? Did you hear what the boy said? It’s the heart of the fire. You’ll do no such thing—”

  But May didn’t wait to hear the rest of what her sister had to say and ran toward Temple Street where only occasional flames sprang from the rooftops. Shadowy figures ran in and out of buildings. Glass windows shattered from the heat. She tucked her arm around her face to protect it, leaving only her watering eyes uncovered. Her lungs stung. A cramp pinched at her side. She ran deeper into the heat, dodging piles of store goods littering the streets and almost collided with a shop boy nosing a cart of men’s boots along the road.

  May stopped at an intersection and winced at the sound of wood splintering as a mansard roof on Washington Street collapsed in on itself. The air thickened with smoke, parching her mouth and eyes. She reached another intersection and paused, spinning around to look for street signs. Visibility diminished to a few mere feet.

  Something hit her side, and she spun around to find a man grasping her upper arm. The red-rimmed whites of his eyes glowed in the darkness, wide with urgency. “Whaddya think you’re doing? Git outta here,” the man yelled in a thick Irish accent.

  “I must get to the Mercantile Building!”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” He pulled her backward.

  “Let go,” she cried, pulling away. The man clapped his hand over her mouth, and May started kicking.

  Despite her efforts to fight back, a deadening heaviness came over her. The man tied a handkerchief around her nose and mouth. He dragged her backward. A roar filled the air around them. The skin of May’s forehead prickled as if needles were being stuck into her. She could see nothing. May doubled over as she was dragged backward.

  “Come on, move yer feet. Faster! Come on!”

  Reeling, May lifted her head. Burning planks of wood surrounded them. They had almost been buried in the remains of a collapsed building.

  “That was close. Let’s not push our luck again, lady.” The man’s hoarse shouting rang in her ears. May blinked her eyes furiously. She straightened up and started to run beside him. The smoke made it impossible to see beyond the hem of her skirt. Where in God’s name are we going?

  She tried to hold her breath to avoid the burning sensation of smoke in her lungs, but that just brought on a wave of coughing. All she could do
was focus on moving one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. Gusts of heat blew at their backsides. Hopefully the fire was behind them. At one point, they both stopped to bat at May’s skirt as her hem smoldered. Storefronts on either side of them became visible. They slowed down. The man let go of May’s arm, coughing and spluttering.

  “You’ll be fine. Keep going.” He pushed her forward.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  But he had vanished back into the smoke behind them.

  May stumbled back to the Common and wandered, dazed, amidst the piles of furniture, books, and home goods littering the field.

  “May Alcott!” Louisa marched around a pile of discarded washtubs to reach her sister. “What in the world were you thinking?” Before May could answer, Louisa reached around her sister and pulled her close into a tight embrace. Louisa’s back shuddered. May realized her sister was sobbing.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You terrified me.” Louisa pulled back to look at her sister, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “Goodness, you’re a mess!”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, but—” Panting, May hunched over and rested her hands on her knees. “I couldn’t bear to think of him losing everything.” Her raw throat made her stop to cough. Hunt’s collection of paintings by Millet, Rembrandt, Velázquez, Turner . . . all gone, most likely.

  “What was it like?”

  “What?”

  “The fire—what was it like?”

  “Are you already priming me for a full reporting?” May wiped at her face and could see soot covering the palms of her hands. “This will all work its way into one of your stories, won’t it?”

  “It’s a bit like I’ve always imagined the underworld. Smoke, pools of fire, the ground trembling underfoot . . .” Louisa’s eyes looked up to the glow of the fire above the rooftops and wrapped her arm around May’s waist. “Thank goodness, you’re safe.”

  Chapter 21

  When the fire stopped two days later, a large swath of Boston’s downtown and financial district lay in smoking rubble. Mr. Hunt’s portrait studio burned to the ground and with it, his collection of masterworks.

  May returned to Concord at the end of November, since Mr. Hunt canceled his classes to shore up the remains of his business. A crusty scab of snow settled over the small town. Inside the house, an obstinate draft always managed to locate the inch of exposed skin between the back of May’s collar and her hairline. A chill seeped down her spine no matter how warmly she dressed.

  Winter slammed into the area in earnest with storms enveloping the town, deepening the snow with every passing week. May chafed at her snowy prison. She longed to ride her horse. Or ice skate. Or walk to the town center. Instead she cleaned out the storage bins in the kitchen, emptied the fireplaces, and mended countless quilts. She knit a pair of cherry-red mittens for Freddy and watched fissures of ice etch patterns along the panes of the parlor’s windows while listening to the creak of the roof groaning under the heavy layer of snow upon it. Anna had taken the boys to visit Pratt farm for a few weeks, so Orchard House was quiet with only May and her parents tending to it.

  Early February brought an unexpected week of thaw, and the Pratts returned. May welcomed the sound of children’s giggles, the thud of small bodies landing hard after jumping down the stairs, and even the clatter of knocked over dishes.

  “Anna,” May called from the kitchen after shoveling a small path to the road. “I just saw Mr. Hosmer—there’s a snowman-making party and singing down by Monument Square this afternoon. May I take the boys? It sounds like great fun.”

  Anna frowned. “I don’t know. I cannot bear to have any of us take ill right now. Perhaps we should keep the children out of the cold.”

  May surveyed her sister’s drawn face. She was still exhausted all of the time, but the boys were children; they needed activity. “But fresh air will cure everything. The boys will love it. I promise I’ll bundle them up and bring them home well before supper, warm and snug.”

  Anna sighed. “I suppose getting you to skip a town social event is futile.”

  “You should come, too. It would be good to get out.” May took her sister’s hand in her own, but Anna slipped her hand out, shaking her head.

  “I really don’t feel up to it. You three should go. But please, don’t let the boys overdo it.”

  May didn’t wait for her sister to change her mind and dashed off to scour the house’s wardrobes and closets for wool socks, long underwear, mufflers, hats, and sweaters. When she finished dressing them, Freddy and Johnny resembled little colorful snowmen.

  “Please, don’t keep them out late. Come right home,” Anna said, waving from the front door.

  May nodded, and the trio dashed out of the yard, singing and tossing snowballs at one another. It felt glorious to feel the sun spread across her face. She urged the boys down the road in a boisterous game of follow-the-leader, and they hopped, skipped, and slid the mile into town.

  Monument Square spread out before them, transformed into a wonderland of figures carved from snow—a hulking elephant, a circle of dancers—a frozen circus had come to Concord.

  “Look, boys,” cried May, pointing to a whale tail rising from the field, “there’s Captain Ahab’s white whale.”

  The boys darted off into the crowd. Rosy-cheeked revelers drank from steaming mugs of hot cider, catching up on the latest town news, eager to be out of the confines of their homes while children threw snowballs and frolicked. The brilliant sunshine reflected off the snow, leaving May’s cheeks sore from smiling and squinting as she caught up with neighbors on the latest town news. Eventually the light weakened, and purple shadows stretched across the square leaving the snow looking bruised, yet everyone lingered, reluctant to return to their chilly kitchens and dark bedrooms.

  Johnny appeared at May’s side, urging her to come and see his armory of snowballs, but all she could see were his violet lips. May ran her hand along his cheek and pulled his hat down lower over his sweaty damp hair. “Oh dear, your mother will be sore with me for keeping you out. We better get home.”

  The sun dropped behind the bare limbs of trees, and the temperature plunged. May and the boys leaned into a lacerating headwind as they trudged along Lexington Street, heavy in wet clothes. May dreaded her sister’s chagrin as she dragged them all home.

  Anna met them at the door. “My goodness, you were gone longer than expected.” She unspooled scarves from the necks of her sons. “May, they’re shivering and their teeth are clacking!” She nestled the boys next to the stove to thaw and shot a cross glance at her sister. May’s fingers could barely bend, and she could no longer feel her toes, but she hid her own chill.

  “Mama, you should have seen the big fat jolly snowman we made! We put a beard of black twigs on his face. He looked fearsome!” Johnny said. His round cheeks glowed, and his small body let off the tinny smell of snow.

  “It really was a merry scene. I wish you had come with us,” May said, pretending not to notice Anna’s frown. Marmee entered the kitchen, and the boys fell over themselves telling her all about the afternoon. The sisters avoided looking at each other and continued to peel sopping layers off the wriggling little pugs.

  WITHIN TWO DAYS, the boys were coughing and sniffling. Although Anna did not blame her outright, May could feel recriminations every time Freddy asked for a clean handkerchief. Bitter temperatures returned. The sky darkened, and snow drove sideways into the windowpanes. Johnny’s cough dropped into his chest and sounded heavy. His forehead grew warm with fever. May, Anna, and Mrs. Alcott took turns reading and playing endless rounds of gin rummy with the boys to occupy them, all while studying their flushed little faces carefully for signs of worsening illness.

  The blizzard ended three days later. They all peered out of the windows marbled with ice. Only occasional glimpses of evergreen boughs and brown tree limbs bobbed in the whiteness surrounding the house—the world outside seemed to be erased. The snow stood three fe
et deep. Father and May took turns shoveling a path from the kitchen door to the barn, but the wet and heavy snow left them exhausted after only a couple of brief shifts. The quiet was complete, the absence of noise seemed loud.

  The boys improved within a few days, but Anna began coughing and looked blanched. One morning, she awoke aching, unable to come downstairs to breakfast. May sat with her sister throughout the day and watched her cheeks bloom red with fever. Her eyes glassed over. Leaning in to dab Anna’s forehead, May could feel the heat radiating off her sister, but snowdrifts trapped them in the house, making it impossible to fetch the doctor. May soaked cloths in a bucket of snow and pressed them to Anna’s forehead and wrists, cursing her foray out into the village that day of the snow festival.

  After several days with no improvement, Father tunneled a path down to the road to ask a passing neighbor to fetch the doctor. They waited, watching Anna mumble incoherently with fever. Her chest fluttered up and down with labored breathing. May hovered over her, pleading encouragements while desperately trying to cool her burning skin with compresses and urging Anna to recover.

  Finally Dr. Hitchens arrived at the door. He listened to her chest and declared the diagnosis they all dreaded to hear: pneumonia. Father took off his spectacles and pinched at the bridge of his nose. May kneaded her fingers into the tight cords of her neck.

  She crept downstairs to lean into the doorway of the parlor to check on her nephews. Freddy and Johnny sat on the carpet murmuring to each other with their heads bent over a chessboard. Without saying a word, she returned upstairs to Anna.

  Marmee’s own fragile health made her an unsuitable nurse, so it fell to Father to help May care for Anna. Though he relieved May for a few hours each night at Anna’s bedside, May would fall into bed and sleep fitfully. Sleep did not refresh her. Every time she closed her eyes, nightmares of John and Lizzie imploring her for help set in.