report when I came home?”
“I’m going to finish it tonight. It’s almost done. I still have to colour the cover page. And you’re changing the subject.”
“The subject?” Clara asked innocently, popping a wilted french fry into her mouth.
“The pen, Mom.”
“Oh, the pen. A calligraphy pen, no less.”
“With a square nib.”
“We’ll see.”
“You always say that.”
“True. But we’ll see.”
With the kitchen seen to and her mother back to work, Alma completed her report on RR Hawkins, squeezing crayon bits between thumb and forefinger as she coloured the map of Otherworld she had drawn on her cover page.
I wonder why RR Hawkins quit writing, Alma thought. Maybe she died. No, that can’tbe. The newspaper story said she just stopped. Alma looked at her report. She had two pages filled with writing, but still there were more questions than answers. What, after all, did she know about Hawkins? Everything was there; Hawkins was born, went to London, England, at twelve years of age, got her university degree, left home—and disappeared.
So, Alma decided as she gathered up her crayon bits, something happened when RR Hawkins was in her early twenties, something that made her flee human contact. Maybe she came down with a horrible, disfiguring skin disease that ravaged her face and drove her into hiding. Maybe she had become engaged to a handsome young man whom she loved more than life itself, but he was killed in a war (dying a heroic death) and she vowed to remain single and reclusive forever. Maybe she decided to travel the world and was captured by a band of vagabonds who—No, Alma checked herself, that’s silly. Still, you never knew.
Whatever it was hadn’t deterred RR Hawkins from writing stories. She continued to publish. Something made her stop eventually, though, Alma thought as she left her report onthe kitchen table beside Clara’s teacup. Maybe Miss McGregor will have some ideas.
When Alma got up the next morning, Clara was already in the kitchen, humming and flipping pancakes in the iron skillet, her thick braid swinging back and forth across her back as she worked. Alma washed and dressed and combed her hair, then sat down at the table. The stack of pancakes had been topped with a big square of yellow butter. Alma poured maple syrup on the pancakes, licking her lips in anticipation. When her mother had sat down, Alma dug in.
“Bet I know the answer,” Clara said, squinting and arching her brows mysteriously.
Alma couldn’t speak for a moment. Her mouth was full. “Answer?”
“I read your report. Your author left home alone, right? And that would have been almost, what, fifty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So, here’s my guess. She took up with a young man her family didn’t approve of—they were very rich and likely snobbish along with it. They forced her to break it off with him, or bribed him to go away. She was bitter and lefther family. Bitter at him, too, I wouldn’t be surprised. What do you think?” Clara smiled mischievously.
Alma chewed slowly on the last bite of sweet, buttery pancake. “I wonder if I should write that in the report,” she teased.
“No, I wouldn’t. For one thing, you don’t know it to be true. It’s just a story spun by your mother. Second, you wouldn’t want to ruffle Miss McAllister’s feathers with talk of illicit goings on with men below one’s station.”
“I wonder if Miss McAllister has a boyfriend,” Alma mused. Then a thought struck her. “Do you think I’ll ever have one?”
“What, a beautiful, intelligent child like yourself? It’s only a matter of time.”
Alma noticed that the playful look had left her mother’s face. Bet I know what you’re thinking, she didn’t say. Bet you’re lonely sometimes.
Although she had finished her report and handed it in to Miss McAllister, who praised the colourful title page with its Carolingian lettering, Alma went to the library for one more try.
Whenever she saw Miss
“I’m going to finish it tonight. It’s almost done. I still have to colour the cover page. And you’re changing the subject.”
“The subject?” Clara asked innocently, popping a wilted french fry into her mouth.
“The pen, Mom.”
“Oh, the pen. A calligraphy pen, no less.”
“With a square nib.”
“We’ll see.”
“You always say that.”
“True. But we’ll see.”
With the kitchen seen to and her mother back to work, Alma completed her report on RR Hawkins, squeezing crayon bits between thumb and forefinger as she coloured the map of Otherworld she had drawn on her cover page.
I wonder why RR Hawkins quit writing, Alma thought. Maybe she died. No, that can’tbe. The newspaper story said she just stopped. Alma looked at her report. She had two pages filled with writing, but still there were more questions than answers. What, after all, did she know about Hawkins? Everything was there; Hawkins was born, went to London, England, at twelve years of age, got her university degree, left home—and disappeared.
So, Alma decided as she gathered up her crayon bits, something happened when RR Hawkins was in her early twenties, something that made her flee human contact. Maybe she came down with a horrible, disfiguring skin disease that ravaged her face and drove her into hiding. Maybe she had become engaged to a handsome young man whom she loved more than life itself, but he was killed in a war (dying a heroic death) and she vowed to remain single and reclusive forever. Maybe she decided to travel the world and was captured by a band of vagabonds who—No, Alma checked herself, that’s silly. Still, you never knew.
Whatever it was hadn’t deterred RR Hawkins from writing stories. She continued to publish. Something made her stop eventually, though, Alma thought as she left her report onthe kitchen table beside Clara’s teacup. Maybe Miss McGregor will have some ideas.
When Alma got up the next morning, Clara was already in the kitchen, humming and flipping pancakes in the iron skillet, her thick braid swinging back and forth across her back as she worked. Alma washed and dressed and combed her hair, then sat down at the table. The stack of pancakes had been topped with a big square of yellow butter. Alma poured maple syrup on the pancakes, licking her lips in anticipation. When her mother had sat down, Alma dug in.
“Bet I know the answer,” Clara said, squinting and arching her brows mysteriously.
Alma couldn’t speak for a moment. Her mouth was full. “Answer?”
“I read your report. Your author left home alone, right? And that would have been almost, what, fifty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“So, here’s my guess. She took up with a young man her family didn’t approve of—they were very rich and likely snobbish along with it. They forced her to break it off with him, or bribed him to go away. She was bitter and lefther family. Bitter at him, too, I wouldn’t be surprised. What do you think?” Clara smiled mischievously.
Alma chewed slowly on the last bite of sweet, buttery pancake. “I wonder if I should write that in the report,” she teased.
“No, I wouldn’t. For one thing, you don’t know it to be true. It’s just a story spun by your mother. Second, you wouldn’t want to ruffle Miss McAllister’s feathers with talk of illicit goings on with men below one’s station.”
“I wonder if Miss McAllister has a boyfriend,” Alma mused. Then a thought struck her. “Do you think I’ll ever have one?”
“What, a beautiful, intelligent child like yourself? It’s only a matter of time.”
Alma noticed that the playful look had left her mother’s face. Bet I know what you’re thinking, she didn’t say. Bet you’re lonely sometimes.
Although she had finished her report and handed it in to Miss McAllister, who praised the colourful title page with its Carolingian lettering, Alma went to the library for one more try.
Whenever she saw Miss
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