Alma (9 page)

“Yes, Miss Lily.”

“Well, let’s go down there and see what the fuss is about. We should go now, before Olivia returns and refuses to allow it.”

“But—”

“You’ll find my coat in the hall closet. And I’ll need your help, Alma.”

With Miss Lily using her walking stick in her right hand, her left on Alma’s shoulder, they made their laborious way down the front steps and out onto the street, turning toward the harbour. The breeze off the ocean was fresh and
chill, infused with the odours of kelp and fish and salt. Along the wharf, lobster traps were piled high and deep, awaiting the season’s opening in a few weeks.

Alma walked slowly, careful not to upset the old woman’s balance. I’m strolling along the shore with a famous author, she thought. She knows and I know, but she doesn’t know I know! Alma giggled to herself.

“What’s taken your fancy?” Miss Lily asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nobody laughs at nothing, Alma.”

Alma showed Miss Lily the marina, and the shops and restaurants, some of which were being given a fresh coat of paint in preparation for the tourist season. A few residents walked their dogs along the quay or meandered arm in arm, soaking up the spring sun.

Soon, though, Miss Lily grew tired and asked Alma to take her home.

“We’ll do that again sometime, shall we, Alma?” Miss Lily said as she carefully lowered herself into her chair and reached for her cigarette holder.

“Anytime you wish, Miss Lily,” Alma replied. Miss Hawkins, she didn’t say.

“
D
ear Hattie Scrivener,” Alma wrote—or, rather, copied—as rain fell softly onto the lawns and sidewalks outside the window on Little Wharf Road.

Such was her disappointment that Alma put a little too much force behind the comma after “Sincerely” and made an ugy blot on the page. She sighed heavily, took a new sheet of creamy paper from its pigeonhole in the writing desk and began again. By the time she had finished the letter for the second time, a devilish smile creased her face.

I’ll show
you
, RR Hawkins, she said to herself.

On the next Saturday morning, Alma and Miss Lily took another walk, this time with the knowledge and blessing of Miss Olivia, who gave Alma a broad, gap-toothed smile as they left the house. Alma watched the gulls wheeling above the harbour, wishing she could translate their sharp cries into human talk. Were they squawking about food? The people on the quay below? The sailboats tied to the jetties, rocking gently? Was there such a thing as seagull talk?

Alma had decided to follow RR Hawkins’s advice, and the trusted friend she chose to ask for help was Miss Lily herself! She wondered if this would be a good time. Miss Lily sat on a park
bench beside Alma, her pale, wrinkled face turned up to the warm morning sun. She wore an uncharacteristically colourful dress under her black shawl, and cotton gloves. Alma knew without having been told that Miss Lily wore the gloves to hide her swollen red fingers.

Alma made a decision. “Um, Miss Lily?”

“Yes, dear,” the writer replied without opening her eyes or turning her face toward Alma.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

“Alma, don’t wonder if you could. If you have something to ask, ask.”

Alma reminded herself that Miss Lily hated indirectness. “I need help with a story I’m writing for Miss McAllister,” Alma blurted.

Miss Lily nodded. “And who is Miss McAllister?”

“My teacher. We have to hand in a story by next Monday and there’s a prize for the best one and I’m stuck on mine and I’m afraid it will be too long.”

The pale lids on the old eyes opened, then closed again immediately. “And what makes you think I can help?”

Because you know more about stories than
anyone in the world, Alma wanted to say. Because you’re the best, better than Shakespeare I bet, even though I’ve never read any of his plays.

“Because you love to read books, just like me. Only you’ve read a lot more.” And I trust you, she didn’t add.

Miss Lily opened her eyes and turned to Alma. “What is the problem, then, exactly?”

When Miss Lily said “exactly” that was
exactly
what she meant. No beating around the bush, or shilly-shallying, as Olivia Chenoweth would say.

“I’m stuck. I can’t figure out how to end it.”

“Be good enough to fix me a ciggie,” Miss Lily directed, awkwardly handing Alma the cloth bag that had been resting in her lap.

Lately, she had begun to allow Alma to fix a cigarette in the ivory holder for her and to hold the ornate lighter to the end while she puffed the cigarette to life. “Tell me the story,” she said, smoke pouring from her nostrils.

Beginning slowly and nervously but gaining confidence as she described Sammy’s first dream, Alma related the tale she had been working on for months. “And that’s as far as I got,” she concluded.

Miss Lily laughed. “The Dream-ary. What a wonderful idea. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

Miss Lily’s laugh, Alma thought, was as rare as … well, she hardly ever laughed, so the story must be good. Alma felt a surge of pleasure.

“So you don’t know how to end it,” Miss Lily said.

“No.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s the problem at all,” said the old woman, giving Alma the cigarette holder.

Alma pinched off the butt like a professional and shook it from the holder. She picked it up off the cobblestones and deposited it in a receptacle beside the bench. She waited for the author to go on.

“While you were telling me about Sammy, his family and his dreams,” Miss Lily said in her strong, deep voice, which seemed to Alma to be even stronger now, “you mentioned three times that you think his story is too long.”

Miss Lily paused, but Alma was thinking. She said
his
story and family and dreams, as if Sammy was a real person. Then Alma realized Miss Lily was waiting for her to say something.

“Yes. Miss McAllister said it could only be five pages or less. I’m already at page—”

“That sounds like something a teacher would say,” Miss Lily rumbled. Then, louder, “Perhaps you’re so worried about the story being over-length that you won’t let it tell itself.”

“’Tell itself?”

“Yes. Now listen carefully. You think of it as your story because you are writing it. That’s understandable, but wrong. Every story, especially one as good as this one, has its own life. It has its own length. You cannot impose a length on it. The story, once begun, must run its course. I think you’ll find that if you forget about what Miss McAllister said and let yourself relax, the story will tell you its own ending. Then you can write it down. Don’t try to control it. Understand?”

“Yes. Well, I think so.”

“Never mind ‘I think so.’ Do you or don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, I will give you a little hint and that’s all. You must do the rest. At the beginning of the story, Sammy is upset because he thinks his parents didn’t plan to have a child. He feels unwanted.”

“Yes.”

“From what you’ve told me, that problem isn’t resolved yet.”

Alma furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. “No, it isn’t.”

“Good. Now let’s walk back before my daughter sends the Coast Guard to find us.”

Alma sat in her room, on the rug, using the couch as a desktop. The tea things were laid out on the kitchen table for her mother’s return. Through the ceiling came the throb of a bodhran drum and a melody carried on a tin whistle, backed by fiddle and guitar. Alma went over what Miss Lily had said, about the story finding its own length, then Miss McAllister’s assignment, repeated at least three times, “If your story is too long, I will mark it of course, but it cannot earn more than a C. And it will be disqualified for the prize.”

Alma doodled for a moment, forming her name and “RR Hawkins” and “Clara” and “Sammy,” alternating Carolingian letters with half-uncials. The story is already lots too long, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. And I don’t have time to do another. So I’m going to finish it and hand it in.

And I won’t win the prize. My story can’t even be in the contest.

But I’m going to write it anyway, and make it the best I possibly can, she said to herself. She found that as soon as she stopped worrying about the length, her ideas flowed again.

T
he classroom shimmered with energy and buzzed with illicit whispering. Miss McAllister pointed to the ten arithmetic problems she had written on the blackboard and commanded her pupils to begin. Feet shuffled on the floorboards, pencils twiddled unproductively, figures were written on foolscap and abandoned, the number of requests to go to the pencil sharpener on the wall by the door was ten times the usual.

Outside, the leaves on the trees and shrubs hung limp in the fiery afternoon air. The fragrance of tulips and irises rose from the flowerbeds and through the open windows to tantalize the pupils with the promise of long,
languid days free of letters and numbers and assignments.

It was the second-last day of school. Alma looked at the clock once more. Fifteen minutes until the story contest winner was announced. At recess, in the schoolyard, Alma had heard Louise Arsenault whisper to her covey of admirers that she was to win. Her mother, who wrote poems and had them published in the Charlotte’s Bight
Herald
, had helped her, even though it was against the rules. And, Louise hardly needed to add, Miss McAllister liked her best.

Out of the running herself, Alma hoped anyone
but
Louise would take the prize. But, she admitted, Louise was probably right.

Finally, Miss McAllister consulted what Alma called the “upside-down watch” that hung from a brooch below her collar. She stood, smoothed her dress over her thin hips, and moved slowly to the metal filing cabinet. She pulled open the middle drawer and removed a bundle of papers. Clutching them against her chest, she walked to the centre of the area before the blackboard and announced, “Very well, you may put away your arithmetic.”

A great shuffling of feet, rustling of papers, squeaking of hinges as desktops rose up and thumped down, followed the teacher’s words. When quiet returned, each pupil sat, as instructed over the year—in some cases, like Lenny Grant, time and time again—with hands clasped and resting motionless on the desktop.

“This year,” Miss McAllister began, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, “we have a number of wonderful stories.”

There was a surge of shifting-in-the-seat, glances and smiles. Miss McAllister waited until calm was restored. “And, for the first time, we have three honourable mentions in addition to the winner.”

Another wave of fidgeting swept through the room. When the waters were tranquil once again, Miss McAllister called out the names and the titles. Bobby Kirkpatrick, for “The Storm at Midnight,” Alice McAskill for “My Best Friend” and Agnes Moore for “The Christmas Gift,” which, Miss McAllister added, was quite similar to O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi,” but never mind.

Alma hardly listened. She burned with an alternating current of envy and shame—jealous of the pupils who received honourable
mention, ashamed of herself for a feeling she knew was unworthy. She should be glad for her successful classmates, but she wasn’t. If only my name had been mentioned, she thought; if only I could win.

“And the winner of this year’s prize,” Miss McAllister chirped, “for her story—”

Louise Arsenault, Alma saw, had her palms pressed against the sides of her face and her eyes were afire with anticipation. Her pals Samantha and Polly stared at her. Then, in an instant, the light in her face disappeared.

“‘The Littlest Hero,’ is—”

Alma watched as Louise lowered her hands, her face tight as she struggled to control her disappointment. Louise forced herself to smile, and at that moment Alma felt sorry for her.

“Jennifer Andrews!” Miss McAllister almost sang the name. “Come up here, Jennifer.”

The waters around Louise chopped and churned as her followers whispered their shock and outrage. Jennifer won’t have a pleasant walk home, Alma thought.

“Attention,” Miss McAllister said. She had presented Jennifer with a brand-new dictionary and the winner had carried it to her seat, beaming.

“There was one sour note in the contest this year,” Miss McAllister intoned, her voice suddenly sombre. “In spite of my repeating the directions several times, one of you wilfully refused to follow them. This person submitted a story that was more than three times the allowed length.”

Something inside Alma lurched, leaving a sinking feeling of nausea. Don’t say my name, she chanted inside her head. Her throat and face burned with shame. Don’t tell them it was me.

“Alma Neal,” Miss McAllister said, “ruined her chances by refusing to be guided by the rules.”

Every face turned toward Alma.

“Now, we must learn from this unfortunate example,” the teacher admonished. “Alma, your story was good—quite good, really—but it was too long.”

“It wasn’t!”

Alma was shocked by her own outburst. A look of malicious satisfaction crossed Louise Arsenault’s freckled face. A few pupils tittered as the rest continued to stare at her, wide-eyed at her rebellion.

“I’m afraid it was, Alma. You know that as well as I. Now—”

“I asked a famous author—the best author in the world—and she told me you can’t make a story fit an assignment. She said every story will find its own—”

“Well,” Miss McAllister’s voice rose as she interrupted, “I wasn’t aware that any renowned writers lived in Charlotte’s Bight, so I don’t know who this so-called author might be. But obviously her—”