After Alice Fell(17)

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s hot. You know that makes me tiresome.”

“You’re forgiven.” She tips her parasol to the sun so the flowered pattern repeats on the road. She peers up through the lace and ribs. “I should have worn a hat.”

“You can buy one at Mrs. Emmet’s.”

With a shrug, she lets her fan drop and swing from her wrist. “You could do with a new one. Although the straw suits you. Even if it is black.”

The trees thin out, leaving the dirt road bare to the sun. A row of clapboard cottages line the edges, laundry hanging on ropes between the houses. Petticoats and undershirts and children’s dresses. A wicker basket sits by a pole and awaits the folding. On the right, the mill pond is glassy green. Terrence Markam’s house reflects like white stone in the water. The image is solid enough it seems one could step onto it and glide to the millworks on the other side. The water slips over the mill gates to the canal beyond, and the rush of it gives us a spray of cool mist as we walk by.

“Nothing’s changed here.”

“The train went to Harrowboro. And where the train goes, the industry follows.”

There is the Congregational church, bright white, black door, as if it knows the souls of men contain both. A chestnut horse lolls his head from a stall at the livery. He stares across at the steps of the church, then swings his head and whinnies.

We stop at the general store, its porch and stairs boasting tin tubs and rakes and a hand plow. Mrs. Emmet’s is the next door over. A cat, matted and soot gray, settles in the shade of a washboard. It hisses once at Toby, then pushes its head to his palm.

“Don’t touch that.” Cathy hurries to catch up to him. She grips his wrist. “Now you’ll have to wash your hands.” She pulls him to the water pump near the store’s siding, forces his hands under the spigot, and then levers the pump until the water belches and flows. “You can die from touching a cat like that. You don’t want to die from that, do you?”

I pick up the stick he abandoned for the poor cat and bring it near. Toby’s scarlet now, his mouth a line of white.

“Oh, don’t go into a snit.” Cathy steps back from the pump and shakes water from her skirt. “You know what happens then.”

He blinks. Holds his arms straight to his side and waggles his hands. “I’m not in a snit.”

Cathy smiles. “Good.” She takes his hand. “Put the stick down, Marion. He doesn’t need it.”

Toby trails after her, waits on the landing as she opens the screen door.

“Go on.” She keeps the door swung wide and looks at me. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be right there.”

The post office is just two doors down and the letter quickly delivered. Across the street, in a small square park, three women huddle, bonnet to bonnet, then separate and point at various spots on the grass. Another woman lifts a triangle sign and moves it from one spot to the next, obeying the directives of those pointing fingers. She blows out a breath and pulls in her lip, nods and jogs from one spot to another. The sign remains in one spot long enough for me to read. Honor Your Brother: Future Home for the Statue of the Fallen Soldier, Donations to Orinda Flowers.

“They’re asking for a statue and a fountain.” I startle at Cathy’s voice just behind me. “Here.” She hands me a waxed paper cone of lemon ice, then lifts her own to her mouth and shaves off a bite with her teeth. She pastes on a smile and waves.

The women look but none comes closer; they return to their huddling and pointing.

“I could pay for it all and they’d still be like that.” Cathy takes another bite. She turns to me, studying me with those dark eyes. “We have a table. Near an open window. We can watch the fat hens cluck and flap about their statue. And you can tell me about the letter you posted. So secretive.”

“It’s not. I’ve requested a meeting with Dr. Mayhew.”

“Why? It’s done, Marion. The matter is done, except for the trunk. You could have just asked for that.”

“But I didn’t. You saw her, Cathy . . .”

“Yes. I can’t stop seeing it.” She crosses back to the general store. Her shoulders pinch, as if she has armored herself.

I follow her and sit at the table while Toby swings his legs and kicks my shins. Cathy glares out the window. Her ice is forgotten, melting and dripping from the paper and over her fingers.

She smirks and lifts her chin. “So much adoration of the dead.”

Toby drops his ice to the wood floor. Cathy tsks and leans down to mop it up. But her ice drips to her skirt, dark round beads of sugar water. She scrubs the fabric with her napkin, leaving me to Toby’s mess.

“You’re in a snit,” he says, pointing at Cathy.

“Be quiet.” She’s rubbed the liquid into long streaks on her thighs. Her eyes move from the task to the window glass.

“I’ll lock you in the icehouse with the spiders.” Toby slaps the sides of his chair and kicks his heels to the legs. He opens his mouth and clacks his teeth.

“Toby,” I say, “lower your voice.”

“They’ll bite your toes and tie you up in leathers.”

Cathy presses her hands to fists. “Be quiet.” She grabs his arm, jerking him out of the chair, pressing his face to her skirt as she grapples her way to the door and down the steps.