The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (12 page)

L
ouisa, did you set aside the candles for the collection?” Abba’s voice startled Louisa, and the steel brush she was using to scour the soot from the stove door clattered to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Marmee. What did you say?”

“The charity candles—I can’t seem to find them.” Anna glanced up from the peas she was shelling into a bowl, her fingers glistening wet and green at the tips. She gave Louisa a confused look.

“No, Marmee. It’s my fault—I think I forgot to make them.”

Abba pulled a week’s worth of the slender brown sticks from the bin under the sink, wrapped them in a stiff rag, and tied them with twine. Louisa felt a disappointed pang in her stomach as she tried to calculate just how many late-night writing hours she would lose without those candles.

“Take these to Mrs. Parker,” Abba said, handing the parcel to Anna. She pried the lid off a tin box and shook a few coins into her hand. “And here’s the rag money. We have only a dusting of flour left, so you’ll have to see how far you can make this stretch.”

Louisa felt a vibration whisk through her veins. They would buy the flour at the dry goods store. “Please, Marmee—can’t May go? I find that Joseph Singer
intolerable
.”

Anna looked at Louisa and rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind her, Marmee. We’ll go.”

Abba nodded. “Wipe your face, my dear—you’ve soot on your chin.”

Louisa nodded, putting the money in the pocket of her dress and dabbing at her chin with a rag from the sink.

“I’ll finish the peas, Anna.” As they turned to go, Abba took note of the creases in Louisa’s forehead and her voice turned sharp. “I will not abide self-pity, Louisa.”

Louisa cast her eyes down to the floor. “Yes, Marmee.”

“I know we do without—I know better than any of you just how much we do without. But I hope I never live to see the day when we have too little to share with those who are worse off than we are. God has blessed us in so many ways, and in return we must give with an open heart. And we don’t do it for a reward, even though the Bible says we
will
be rewarded, tenfold.”

Louisa nodded at the toe of her boot. The floor was bare and clean. She had swept it that morning.

Abba smiled faintly, finally letting her stern façade retreat just a little. “All right, off with you. When you return we will make the stew.”

 

 

Outside, Louisa inhaled
a giant gulp of air and imagined it could cleanse away all her selfish feelings.

Anna cinched the string on her bonnet. “What was that all about? I thought you said Marmee told you
not
to make the extra candles.” They moved along the dusty path in the late morning sun. Lizzie’s marmalade kitten poked its nose out of a shrub and watched them, slipping silently out after they had passed and following behind their footsteps.

“When I went to ask Marmee the other day I overheard a . . . tense discussion she was having with Father. It certainly wasn’t meant for our ears.”

“What did they say?”

“Some of it was muffled—listen to me, speaking so easily about eavesdropping on our parents!”

“Well, if they won’t tell us the truth, what choice do we have?”

Louisa eyed Anna carefully. In recent days something had changed in her. The slightest whiff of haughtiness put an edge on her comments. It was so unlike the Anna she had always known. “Yes, perhaps that is true. Marmee questioned Father’s choice to refuse work and accept charity from Mr. Emerson instead. He explained that his philosophy and beliefs were the very foundation of his character—that violating them was . . . well, out of the question.”

Anna said nothing but exhaled sharply as they approached the lane where the Parkers lived.

“So, as I was not going to interrupt the discussion, I crept back down the hallway the way I came. Certainly we can
not
afford to give candles away, and I thought I would try to be the voice of reason on Marmee’s behalf.”

“No chance of reason when it comes to money in this family,” Anna said, exasperated. “Father doesn’t think of it at all, and Marmee gives it away as fast as we can get it.”

“One thing’s certain,” Louisa said, pointing to Anna’s pocket. “That rag money won’t get us more than a half-pound of flour.”

Anna sighed. “I know.”

Louisa couldn’t bear the guilt that weighed on her heart. She stopped in the road and turned to her sister. “You know, Anna, there is that money I’ve been saving back for Boston. It just doesn’t seem right—”

“Louisa Alcott, don’t you say it.” Anna’s voice was fierce as she fixed her eyes on her sister. “That is
your
money, and I won’t let you chip away at it. You’ll never get to Boston without it. I won’t even discuss it.”

Louisa opened her mouth to protest as they approached the Parkers’ house. Anna shut her up by raising her palm to their friends. “Hello, Mrs. Parker! Hello, Margaret!”

The women, future mother and daughter-in-law, sat on the porch sipping cold tea. The humidity was already thick in the air—anyone could see it would be a sweltering day. Anna and Louisa lingered a moment to join their conversation about the details of Margaret’s trousseau. Both she and Mrs. Parker looked uneasy. They were just beginning the process of forming a friendship based on mutual adoration of the same man—for very different reasons. They seemed relieved to be interrupted.

“Miss Louisa, you’re of at least reasonable intelligence,” Mrs. Parker said, turning to her. She was a birdlike woman with a pointed nose and fragile-looking wrists. “I heard about your book—well done. Tell me, what do you think of this crinoline business? I myself think they are outrageous.”

Louisa smiled at what Mrs. Parker clearly believed to be her neutral presentation of the topic. “I must agree that they certainly aren’t practical. I’ve heard appalling stories about the largest ones overturning in a brisk breeze, exposing the lady’s petticoats. Why do you ask, Mrs. Parker?”

“My future daughter-in-law was just telling me how much she admired the fashion. Taste is a curious thing, I suppose.”

Margaret’s eyes flashed with anger and she opened her mouth to respond.

Anna, always aware, always nimble, spoke just in time to smooth Margaret’s quills. “Crinolines are very dignified, though—you must admit. Of course, I wouldn’t want to wear one to weed the garden, but I can’t imagine wearing anything else to the theater or a dance.” She laughed. “That is, if I ever went to a dance, a crinoline is what I would want to wear. Wouldn’t you agree, Margaret?”

Margaret looked up at Anna, the flush subsiding from her cheeks. “Yes. That is what I meant, of course. You see these things in the ladies’ books, but we know they aren’t meant to be worn all the time. Only for special occasions.”

Mrs. Parker nodded. “I see. Well, that seems reasonable enough. I suppose you feel one of these special occasions might arise in association with the wedding?”

Margaret nodded, the blond coils of her hair trembling from her exertion at keeping her temper. Louisa watched in awe. Once again Anna was three steps ahead of her. Louisa hadn’t picked up on the subterranean tension between the two until it nearly exploded. Her mind had been on other things.

“I suppose that is acceptable. I will speak to your mother about it. Heaven knows your parents won’t be able to afford it.” Anna put her hand inconspicuously on Margaret’s back, willing her not to take the bait. “But with Mr. Parker’s assistance, we should be able to make it so.”

Louisa observed that the women’s appearances had little in common. Mrs. Parker was stern and almost disturbingly thin, as if she believed any additional tissue to be a frivolity. Margaret was plump and fleshy, and her faded dress stretched to contain her curves. Louisa wondered if Mrs. Parker was offended that her son had chosen someone so unlike herself as his wife. Or perhaps it was that one could not look at Margaret without the mind drifting, however briefly, to the more carnal aspects of marriage. Louisa thought of the skin of Joseph’s neck that sloped along the top of his collar, brown from the sun with a narrow white strip along his hairline. As soon as the image appeared, she banished it, recoiling. Perhaps it was all the heat that was making her behave so queerly.

 

 

The sisters said their good-byes
to Mrs. Parker and Margaret, and turned down Washington Street toward the shops. When they entered Singer Dry Goods, the bell above the door jangled, summoning Joseph from the back room. Louisa couldn’t help but be buoyed by the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg that permeated the shop.

“Well,it’s the Misses Alcott. Goodmorning.” He wore a half-apron around his waist, and a pair of dusty boots. His face was pink and the tips of his ears looked tender. “What brings you here today?”

Louisa felt her voice wither in her throat like a cluster of drying leaves and it filled her with frustration. She had been around plenty of young men as a girl and thought nothing of it. In fact, she’d always
preferred
the company of boys over other girls—boys loved to run and shout; they carried pocketknives and knew how to coax shad and speckled trout out of the river. What could girls do that compared with that? So what was it about
this
young man that made her so nervous?

Anna squared her shoulders and placed the rag money on the counter with all the dignity she could muster.

“We’ll be needing some flour, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” He wiped his hands on a cloth. “How much would you like?”

“Well, you see,” she began, clearing her throat to eke out the lie. “We’d already walked halfway here when I realized I forgot my purse. This is just what I had in my pocket.” She slid the coins toward him. “Will it stretch to cover a few pounds?”

“Well,” Joseph stalled. “Ah . . . let me see what I can do.” He disappeared behind the canvas curtain between the front of the store and the back room. Anna grimaced, and Louisa gave her a weak smile.

A moment later Joseph reappeared, ten pounds of flour in a cloth sack cinched closed with twine. “Here we are. Is there anything else I can get you today?”

Anna’s mouth made a small red circle. “Surely ten pounds of flour costs more than what is here on the counter.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. We are having a sale.” He winked at the sisters, his hands on his hips.

Louisa twisted her mouth to the side. To stand in the shadow of his pity, to see his self-satisfied ease, transformed her shame into fury. Stepping up to the counter, she asked, “How much is the discount?”

“What’s that?” Joseph asked, busying himself with sliding the coins into his palm and dropping them into the sections of the drawer.

“The sale. What percentage have you deducted from the total cost? ”

He looked uneasily between the two of them and rubbed his palms together. “Ah, I’ve never been one for math. It all works out in the end—that’s what my father always says.”

“Well,” Anna said, shoving in front of Louisa to take the flour. “I’m glad we didn’t wait until tomorrow to come.”

Louisa pushed her sister’s hand away from the bag. “Anna, we can’t take this.” She turned back to Joseph. “You are generous, but we cannot accept charity.”

“Please don’t think of it as charity. Anna forgot her purse—she said so herself. You can make up for it next time.”

Louisa sighed. “Anna doesn’t even own a purse.” In her peripheral vision she saw Anna close her eyes, radiating embarrassment. “I suppose it’s all over town that we can’t pay for things. Well, I won’t be pitied.” Her voice had grown louder and two elderly women examining folded cotton scraps stopped and looked in their direction.

“Louisa, please,” Anna hissed into Louisa’s ear. “You are making a scene.” She composed her face and turned back to the counter. “Thank you, Joseph. We will, of course, pay the balance next week.” She clamped her hand on Louisa’s forearm and wrenched her toward the door, the sack of flour perched on her hip like a baby.

They were a hundred yards down the lane when he came running up behind them. He put his hand on Louisa’s shoulder and turned her to face him.

“Here.” He held up a yellow paper and then pressed it into her hand. “This is what you owe. You can pay it next time you come in. Do you understand? It’s not charity.” Eagerness raised the pitch of his voice and his eyes searched her face for pardon.

Louisa stared at him a moment, and when no words would come she nodded. She tried to call up the righteousness that had propelled her to anger a moment before, but the weight of his palm on her shoulder had caused it to evaporate.

“Agreed?” he asked, his forehead still creased with concern.

“Yes.”

“All right.” He nodded as if that settled the matter and turned back toward the store. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

“Good afternoon,” Anna called. Louisa felt the oxygen coming back into her brain. Anna twisted her lips into a coy smile. “Well, he was certainly worried about upsetting
you
.”

Louisa gave her a blank look.

“My brilliant sister, the idiot.
He likes you
.”

 

 

In the evening
the family sat in the parlor. A book lay facedown and open over Bronson’s knee like a tent. He stared into the fire. The expression on his face had in Louisa’s mind always been associated with
silence
, from the first time the word’s sibilant pronunciation skated across her tongue. As a little girl she had asked him about it.

“Father,” she whispered, appearing at the side of his chair, twisting the end of her braid between her fingers. “Why do you stare so?”

He had turned to her with a startled look on his face, his eyes softening into his temples as his mind returned to the present and he recognized this sprite as his daughter. “My child, I am thinking about grand ideas, enormous ideas with a collection of smaller ideas inside them. And so I must be still to allow my mind to work.”