The Probable Future

by Alice Hoffman

  “The train was late,” Stella lied. Perhaps she did take after her father, after all. Lies seemed to come easily. She’d been lying to the new handyman all weekend; he’d given Stella and Juliet the creeps. He lived in North Arthur and yesterday he’d offered the girls a ride to the North Arthur mall.

  “Oh, yeah,” Juliet had said after Stella had demurred, with a polite lie, thanking the handyman for his offer, but assuring him there was plenty to keep them busy in town, activities such as dyeing everything in the closet black and fixing bird’s-nest pudding in Liza’s kitchen at 3:00 A.M. “Like there’d be anything in the North Arthur mall that would interest us. Doesn’t he realize we’re Saks girls? What a loser.”

  “I liked Juliet,” Liza told Stella when she’d returned from the library and had come to fix herself some hot tea. “Tell her she’s welcome here anytime.”

  Stella had her backpack slung over her bad shoulder, the one that had been broken at birth and which throbbed on rainy days. Stella’s father had told her a bedtime story when she was little, a tale about a girl who’d been born with one wing. After being repaired by the doctors, the only sign that she had ever been different was an aching shoulder. Anyone would think all Stella would remember were the many times her father had disappointed her, but that wasn’t the case. He always said, Ssh. No flying away tonight when the story was done and it was time for bed. Even now, what had happened wasn’t his fault. She should have never told him what she saw in the restaurant on her birthday. She should have kept it to herself. It was her fault Will Avery was in trouble.

  “Did my father tell you anything about that murder case in Boston? Has he heard anything at all?”

  Will had told Liza that Henry Elliot had filed a motion to have all of the charges against him dropped, due to lack of evidence. But the charges weren’t what Will worried about. It was the little house that had been taken that kept him up nights; when he closed his eyes, all he saw were its white gables and its wedding-cake form, its satin flowers, the carved front door. It was his daughter’s safety he worried about most of all.

  “Nothing yet. But don’t worry,” Liza said protectively to Stella. “Your father’s a good man, deep inside.”

  No one had ever said such a thing about her father before, at least not in Stella’s presence, and as she went up to her room Stella wondered if perhaps Juliet Aronson was right. Perhaps Liza was in love with her father.

  Stella took off her black jeans and her black T-shirt; they were so wet they leaked dye; Stella had to wring them out in the tub. She slipped on her black flannel bathrobe and flopped into bed. She was exhausted. All the same, she reached for her backpack; she didn’t bother to switch on the lamp or reach for the flashlight she kept in a night-table drawer. The greenish tinge of the last pitter-patter of fish rain was light enough to read by. She took Matt Avery’s thesis out, all of it there but the very last page that he’d been typing today, and opened it. The pages smelled like water, she noticed that right away, and something that reminded her of water lilies.

  Invisible Ink, An Account of the Life and Death of Rebecca Sparrow.

  The rain was coming down one lazy drop at a time, and Liza, still down in the kitchen, was listening to Sam Cooke, whose voice could take anyone’s troubles away. Darling you send me was the echo that filtered up the stairs. Honest you do.

  Matt’s thesis began with the first lines of Charles Hathaway’s journal.

  I was the man who was at fault, whose guilt was never known until these words were written. And even then, who will ever read these lines and know these words to be the truth?

  It was cold in Stella’s room tonight, so she grabbed a blanket and tossed it over her shoulders. She had the bad habit of chewing on the ends of her hair when she was nervous, much the way her own mother bit her nails. Now, Stella had taken up her bad habit without thinking. She could no longer hear the rain or Sam Cooke or the cars on the street. She skipped over Matt’s introduction: the founding of the town by Hathaways and Hapgoods and Elliots, the encounters with native people, the bear that was killed in the middle of town beneath the old oak tree, the number of horses and cows and sheep that were owned, the shipments from England of spices and tea and mirrors and ink, and, on rare occasions, bolts of blue or crimson silk.

  For so long Stella had wanted to know everything. Now she had a funny feeling in her stomach. Now the book was in her hands. She took a breath, the way a diver might, as though the pages and the print were deep water, deep as the lake beside her grandmother’s house, deep as all time.

  IN THE YEAR OF 1682 the winter was so cold the ice froze solid in Boston Harbor, and it stayed that way until the middle of March. On the morning when the ice finally melted, a fierce blue day when the wind toppled some newly constructed birds’ nests from the trees, a child of seven or eight years old walked out of the woods, up on the hill that overlooked Hourglass Lake, near the rock formations the settlers dubbed the Table and Chairs. This was the place where some people said invisible roses grew, the sort that disappeared in the blink of an eye. No one was surprised that a person could just as easily appear, one who spoke a language no one understood.

  She arrived on the day when the first snowdrops appeared, growing right through the melting ice, there to remind one and all of the gifts of the Angel of Sorrow. Who saw her first was a matter of debate, but it wasn’t long before the whole town knew that a child had wandered out of the wilderness, coming down from the north where there was far more ice than there were snowdrops. Before most people saw her, they already knew that the roses that withered when seen by the citizens of Unity were said to flower in her presence. It may have been Charles Hathaway who first reported that he had seen the child whistle and call the sparrows to her; these birds, people vowed, had brought her berries and sweet clover, and on this she had survived during her time in the woods. She spoke only gibberish, and she didn’t even know how to pray. Her black hair was tangled with brambles. In her possession she had three things, brought from whatever cold country from which she had appeared: A silver compass. A golden bell. A star on a chain. People looked at these things and whispered. They peered at the soles of her feet, turned green and tough as leather from walking so far, and they wondered who indeed she might be.

  Which generous neighbor among them would take her in, a child of not more than eight? Unity was a town built in the sight of the Lord, but where was the charity that was so often preached when the minister traveled the winding roads from Boston? None of the families wanted her, not even the Lockharts, who raised pigs and sheep on the far edge of town. The child was pretty enough, with a bright countenance, but when she was brought to a meeting on the town common, called to pray for guidance and rejoice in the salvation of a human life, she didn’t even know to get on her knees. She looked right at the heavens, prideful, questioning, and that was worrisome indeed.

  John Elliot was the first to take her in, not that he wanted to. It was his wife that suggested they study compassion, but on the very first night the child was with them, the family heard the bell ringing. They couldn’t sleep, not a wink, so they brought the girl back to town. The Hapgoods took her next, but she refused to take off the star she wore around her neck; she was neither pious nor obedient, so they took her back as well. It was then that Charles Hathaway had no choice but to take her. He was the richest man in town, granted his acreage by the king, and he saw it as his duty to succeed where other men failed.

  Hathaway had a son of his own, Samuel, nearly the same age as the lost child, as fair as the girl was dark. Hathaway accepted no nonsense from his own flesh and blood, and he took it upon himself to train this child from the northern woods and teach her the ways of civilized people. When the bell rang and woke everyone in the house, Hathaway beat Rebecca with a switch cut from a hazel tree. When she took the compass and wandered through town, he brought her back and beat her again, this time with a switch from a hawthorn tree. When she would not take off the star, he tore it from her
neck, then beat her with a switch made of oak.

  Already, the girl and Hathaway’s son were inseparable, united, perhaps, by their hatred for Hathaway. One night the children disappeared. Guided by the silver compass, they found the place where the girl had first been spied, on the far side of the Table and Chairs. Hathaway discovered them late that night, asleep on the Table, their arms locked around each other. He got rid of the girl the very next day. He took her down to the washerwoman, who lived at the edge of the lake, an old woman who had an eye for worthwhile things.

  It was said the washerwoman could tell the difference between homespun and silk at a distance of a hundred yards. Although the washerwoman’s name was never recorded, it was she who decided to call the girl Rebecca, after she who’d been found in the wilderness. This was the name anyone passing by the lake would hear, at any given hour of the day: Rebecca, come here! Rebecca, where are you now? For there was a great deal to be done on the shore of the lake. A girl must be smart if she was to learn not to burn herself when she added hot grease to the ashes in the making of soap. She must be strong if she were to wring out heavy bolts of wool. She must be sweet so that she would never complain when her fingers bled from the toxic lye. She must be quiet, so she would not say a word when her hands ached from the harshness of the starch made from potatoes. She must make certain to bide her time.

  SOMETHING SOUNDED against the window. Stella thought it was only the rain, so she ignored it. She was consumed by Rebecca Sparrow’s history, but there was the sound again, more insistent this time. Pebbles were being thrown against the glass, a rain, it seemed, of stones. It was just past twilight, the murky hour when everything turned blue. Outside, blackbirds flew across the sky and disappeared into the shadows. Stella opened her window and peered down, past the lilacs, past the plane trees, past the blackbirds taking flight.

  There was Jimmy Elliot.

  Stella couldn’t see his face exactly, but she knew it was him from the way he stood there, as if he’d just happened by for no particular reason. As if one minute he was minding his own business, and the next he’d found himself throwing rocks at a window he didn’t even know was hers.

  He’d been more and more underfoot lately. Arriving where he was least expected, happening to stop in when Stella and Cynthia went to the pizza place or standing beside Stella’s locker at school with that same confused look on his face, as though he’d been lost, as though he needed a map in order to find his way through his own hometown. Now, on this evening, he was making his presence known and something more: he was daring her to respond.

  Stella never backed down from a dare. She got her key from her backpack and threw it down to the sidewalk. Whether or not this was the reaction he expected, Jimmy immediately picked it up. He went to the locked door of the tea house and before long Stella could hear him on the stairs. She hoped Liza wouldn’t notice, that she was still in the kitchen, busy with making out the week’s grocery list. Because Stella felt a churning in her stomach each time she saw Jimmy, she wondered what her own response would be when he came through the door. Did she want him here, did she not? She realized she was only wearing underwear and a T-shirt under her bathrobe, so she quickly pulled a quilt over herself.

  He came into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The room seemed quite unreal to Stella with Jimmy Elliot there at the foot of the bed. She could feel him, as if particles of his essence were filtering into the air. He smelled like rain and something Stella couldn’t place.

  “Did she hear you?” Stella whispered.

  “Liza? She’s in the kitchen listening to music and singing along.”

  Sure enough, Stella could hear Liza’s muffled voice. They both tried not to laugh. “Natural Woman” was the tune Liza was singing. Aretha. Will often played her CD. The Queen of Soul.

  “What’s with the blanket?” Jimmy said. “You look like one of those old ladies who never gets out of bed.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.” Frankly, Stella felt a little sick to her stomach right now. She felt that churning. She wished Jimmy Elliot wasn’t so good-looking. She wished he didn’t look so confused.

  “Grandma, what big eyes you have.”

  “I mean it. Shut up.”

  Jimmy stared at her. It was growing darker. “Fine,” he agreed. He threw himself down on the bed beside her, grabbed a corner of the quilt and pulled it over himself. The only thing between them was Matt’s thesis. “What’s this?”

  Stella quickly grabbed the manuscript and stuffed it under her pillow. She was wearing the bracelet her father had given her, and the bell made a small, shining sound. “Nothing.”

  “It’s something.”

  He kissed her then. Right away, Stella’s lips began to burn. She thought of the candle and the pin and the way love walked into a person’s life, uninvited. She could feel Jimmy’s hip against her own, and she burned there, too. Wherever he touched her, wherever he was. So this is what it was, this burning up, this wanting something you knew you shouldn’t have.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Stella said after a while. By then her lips hurt, not that she wanted to stop. All the same, she had a panicky feeling inside her chest.

  “What should we do? Read?”

  Stella laughed in spite of herself, then muffled her laughter, for they could hear Liza’s tread on the stair. You make me feel, Liza sang, off-key, but with feeling. You make me feel. Stella put her hand over Jimmy’s mouth so Liza wouldn’t hear him laughing. Even his breath against the palm of her hand burned. She thought of the man Hap had told her about, who was able to breathe out fire. When she leaned her head against Jimmy’s chest, she could hear what a strong heart he had. Was that what attracted her? That she saw his death when he was a very old man; that when she was with him she didn’t have to worry about what terrible fate might be waiting around the next corner?

  “Turn around and don’t look,” Stella told him when it was time for him to leave. She got out of bed, slipped off her bathrobe, and pulled on a pair of jeans. When she turned back, he was definitely looking. “Well, that was trustworthy.” She was still whispering.

  “What about you?” Jimmy reached for the manuscript beneath the pillow. “Are you trustworthy? Isn’t this your uncle’s thesis?”

  Stella leaped to grab the pages.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Jimmy said. “I swear.”

  He’d gotten off the bed; his boots had been muddy and now he dusted off the quilt. Oddly enough, she did trust him on this. He could keep a secret; he wouldn’t tell. They went downstairs together and she let him out the door. It had rained hard and the air was clear. Now it was she who watched him; she who couldn’t look away until he was all the way down the road, past the lilacs, past the shade trees where the blackbirds slept, all in a row.

  I V.

  AS THE DAYS GREW LONGER, there were more hours for Elinor to work in her garden. She felt greedy for the ever-expanding twilight, greedy for most everything, especially time. Her knees were bad, oh, embarrassment of age, but oddly enough when she knelt in the garden she swore she could feel the interwoven roots under the soil, the pulsing of the cicadas in the weeds, the beautiful heart of the world. She could feel the growing things quicken her own blood and she felt young again. Once, she fell asleep in the middle of the day, back against the old stone wall, just like Argus, and that was the way Brock Stewart found her, curled against the stones like a bird which had fallen from the sky, or a star that was burning, or a coil of roses without the protection of thorns.

  Elinor and her old dog hadn’t heard Dr. Stewart’s Lincoln come sputtering up the driveway any more than they’d heard the warblers in the trees. Brock Stewart leaned on the garden gate. He thought about everything he’d learned from Elinor Sparrow. Why he knew that the wild roses in Unity were said to be invisible, that they tended to wilt and fade right before a person’s eyes, if one was lucky enough to ever spy them. This local variety refused to grow in gardens, in backyards, in nurseries, an
d yet Elinor had managed to persuade one specimen to take root and then she’d crossed it with a variety she favored. Even now with summer so close, the hybrid was still covered by a cone of burlap, which allowed sun in, yet protected against wind and bad weather, like the stone rain that had fallen last week, battering down some of the more fragile roses, until they broke in two.

  The doctor came into the garden and sat on the bench he’d given to Elinor. When a person accepted a gift from someone, she was accepting the way the giver felt about her as well, any fool knew that. So what did it mean that she was sleeping on the ground, rather than using what he’d given her? He watched her breathe, and each breath was a precious thing. One more day, the doctor thought, as greedy as anyone, greedier than Elinor by a mile. Maybe two.

  “Hey, girl,” Dr. Stewart said when at last Elinor opened her eyes.

  She had been dreaming that she was walking down the lane, under a bower of green. Then she saw Dr. Stewart and he looked so handsome, the way he looked when he came back to town after medical school, that she wondered if she had woken at all.

  “Hardly a girl,” she was lucid enough to remind him of that.

  Elinor’s eyes were filmy; her vision was failing and she felt a weakness in her legs. She thought about the various ways in which a flower faded, some petal by petal, others all at once, torn by wind or circumstance, or merely by time.

  “How’s our blue rose?” the doctor asked.

  “Not ours. Mine. The burlap’s the only thing that’s yours.”

  Brock Stewart laughed.

  “If you really want to know, I feel sorry for the poor thing,” Elinor went on. “All wrapped up that way. I’m starting to think there’s no point in being a rose if you’re tied up and covered with burlap.”

  If he wasn’t a doctor, if he hadn’t seen it many times before, would Brock Stewart have noticed the darkness around her eyes, the faint plumlike tinge? Would he have seen that her skin was sallow, truly yellow in full light. By now, he knew, the pain in her spine must be unbearable; he’d checked with the pharmacist on how often she filled the prescription for morphine. Perhaps that was why she had been sleeping on the ground, with milkweed pods scattered all around her, dreaming of roads that led home.