After Alice Fell(12)

“Come up back with Essa now. We’ll see you to home, and tomorrow there will be a coach. You can rest assured on that.”

Essa pats the edge of the cart. “Climb on up and meet the new one.”

“I need the coach.”

“Climb on in. Can’t stay out here too long, lest you’re courting sunstroke.” Her voice sways and murmurs, like she’s talking to her babe. “Climb on in.”

She takes my hand as I clamber over the back, pulls me close so our shoulders bump when Mr. Runyon turns us around and the wheels thump and drop.

The babe has a thatch of black hair. Bubbles foam and pop along his pursed lips. He grabs her shawl and lets it go.

“What’s his name?”

“Frederick Hiram.” She gives the boy three pecks on the head and leaves her chin to rest there. “Your brother told us the news.”

“Sorry thing, that.” Mr. Runyon gives a hard clamp on his pipe. “She was a good girl.”

“Better this way, though,” Essa says. “Better for her.”

Frederick Hiram gurgles and squeals.

“Shush, love.”

I squeeze shut my eyes, but there’s Alice, falling from the roof. I open them and stare out at the roll of fields dotted white with sheep. A dark shape slips in the grass. A fox.

I wave the quilt piece. “Leave them be!”

The fox startles and slinks under the bramble, but not without a callow glance at me, yellow eyes near translucent.

The nag huffs a breath and shakes her head, flinging saliva and sodden hay.

The boy’s gurgles turn into a high wail. His skin turns a shade of purple, and Mrs. Runyon lifts him up and plops him down. “He’s got a voice on him, he has.”

“That he has,” Mr. Runyon avers. “That he has.”

Frederick Hiram stops all of a sudden, the sway of the cart lulling him to quiet. His lids droop heavy. Mrs. Runyon pats his back and cuts a quick glance to me, then squints at the dust from the road. Her face is wide and flat, too big under the flap of bonnet, and she bites a loose bit of dry skin on her lower lip, muddling whether to ask why I was wandering the road of a Sunday.

I swallow back a laugh. Maybe I should tell her. I’m off to Brawders House, I’d say. I’m off to the asylum. See if she’ll just nod and pat Frederick Hiram’s back. Maybe she’ll give me a queer look, the one reserved in the past for Alice, now turned toward me.

Or perhaps the boy will choose to scream again, so I keep quiet and watch the pastures until we reach the drive and Mr. Runyon stops and sets the brake.

“Will you not come in?” I ask. “I’m sure Cathy—”

But the words catch in my mouth, like cracked stone. I grip the cart edge. Alice stands at the side of the road, barefoot and clad in a thin cotton chemise. Hands clasped in front of her, red hair parted in the middle, hanging straight to her hips. Rose lips, a spray of freckles, eyes the color of moss.

“Alice.”

Mr. Runyon clambers down from his seat, blocking my view as he walks to the back of the conveyance and unlatches the gate. He reaches a rough-worn hand to help me down.

Still Alice stands there, the skirt of her dress stained black, half-moons of earth under her nails, a swipe of mud on her neck. She stares at her bare feet, then watches as I descend from the cart, my legs tangling in my skirts. My body shakes. I step toward her.

“Give our condolences,” Mrs. Runyon says. She covers Frederick Hiram’s head with her shawl to protect his scalp from the high sun.

Her husband returns to his seat.

Alice is no longer on the roadside.

A rush of breeze, hot and sharp, flattens the seared grass and scatters the few sheep, setting them to bleat and trot to the shadows of the old barn.

Then a thick quiet before the nag shakes her head and jangles the bit.

“Our condolences,” Mrs. Runyon repeats. “Our condolences.”

The drive waves and shifts as I walk to the house. Toby stares from the dining room window, his palms flat to the glass. He’s talking, his mouth moving, brows pulled down in a concentrated focus. But he watches me. Keeps talking and watches me. Gives a little wave that I return before taking the steps.

The door is ajar, the hall cool. Toby stands in the frame of the dining room door. “Shh.” He looks to the top of the stairs, then reaches for my hand, slipping his in mine. His fingers curl, plump and sticky. He leads me into the dining room and points at a seat.

“Here she is.” He lets go my hand and struggles with the chair, pulling it out. Pointing for me to sit. Patting my shoulder when I do.

It faces the mirror. The crepe has been removed, folded, and set to the cabinet. I stare at the silvered glass. A little boy and a plain woman with a swatch of dirt on her cheek peer back.

His lips are moving, hot sweet breath, no sound, focused on the chair across.

“Toby.”

He clicks his teeth, the only sound from his wordless mouth, and his fingers drum the fabric on my shoulder.

“Toby.”

My stomach twists. No. I shrug his hand off, then turn to grapple for his arms. His thighs push against my knees, and he looks at me with colorless eyes, those lashes so long and curled, furling and unfurling.

I shake him. One hard shake. “Toby!”

He smiles and then turns to the doorway. Cathy rounds the corner. She fans a riot of flowers on the table: goldenrod, chrysanthemums, an armful of asters. “Aren’t they . . . Are you all right?”