all will be well
. And it was.
• • •
Alice’s father was a tall man with a trimmed beard, a teller of jokes, an elder of the church, an educated man with a prosperous business. But he died in an upstairs room on Neeve Street, something that was blurted out in those first terrible hours and never referred to again. Their mother took to her bed, the heavy wine-colored drapes pulled tight. Leaving Sarah to talk with the lawyer, to write to the relatives in England, to sit night after night at the kitchen table, her spectacles glinting, working out figures on long sheets of paper. Alice was sixteen then; she’d never given a thought to money, although she knew that the expansion of the shop had meant only one dress that winter and adelay in the new furniture. She sat by the fire through those winter evenings, a book in her lap, the distant scratching of Sarah’s pen.
The way they live now is all Sarah’s doing, Sarah’s plan, but Alice tells herself to be fair, to think about what might have happened, otherwise. It was Sarah’s idea to open the school, the real school, to have Alice help, and maybe their mother if she ever opened the drapes.
What else do you have to do?
she said.
What else do you do but sit in your chair by the window, reading poetry all day
.
Sarah organized everything for the school, found a few texts and primers, ordered supplies from the catalog and placed notices, spoke to parents at church. Mrs. Beck came to call and said that although she had no children to send, she would like to donate several Temperance Readers. She said that she was impressed by Sarah’s discipline, her organization, that she would like to offer her a position in the store, if Alice and her mother were able to run the school on their own.
Of course we can
, Alice said, although before that moment she wouldn’t have thought it. It’s clear to her now that otherwise it wouldn’t have worked, that Sarah would never have had the patience. At first, parents like the Robinsons sent their children as a kindness, but most have stayed and new ones have come and Alice knows that must mean that she is doing something right. It’s been five years and now there’s not really enough room around the long oak dining table, sent from England before she was born. Even with the empty place.
• • •
From downstairs comes the slam of the stove door, the crash of the heavy kettle. Alice thinks of the Orton sisters, who sing so sweetly together, of Lilian and Rachel side by side on their battered porch swing, arms linked. She tries to find one warmmemory of her own sister, one time they might have laughed together, been easy in each other’s company.
Chalk and cheese
is what their mother used to say, and they couldn’t even share a room, let alone a bed, from the time they were small.
When she was a child, Alice thought that her father was a wizard, and his shop was a magic cave, full of potions. Sometimes she sat on the floor in the room behind the counter, lifting the different colored bottles out of their boxes while he pounded and mixed and measured. Sarah sat on a high stool at the corner of his workbench, writing neat labels and spreading them out to dry.
Aconite, Senna, Chloral Hydrate
. When Alice was older she joined her at the bench, but when their father left the room Sarah shook her pen, flinging black drops all over her own careful writing.
I didn’t
, she said loudly,
I did not. Alice made the mess, she did
. Their father raised his voice and sent them home, and once outside Alice gave her sister a quick kick in the shins and then ran, Sarah’s fingers reaching for her flying hair.
That night their father brought home two large bottles, Alice’s blue and Sarah’s amber. He had labeled them
Forgiveness Potion
in flowing black letters, and he told them they were to take a spoonful in the morning and at bedtime, until the bottles were empty. The liquid was pale green and sweet, but with something
. And it was.
• • •
Alice’s father was a tall man with a trimmed beard, a teller of jokes, an elder of the church, an educated man with a prosperous business. But he died in an upstairs room on Neeve Street, something that was blurted out in those first terrible hours and never referred to again. Their mother took to her bed, the heavy wine-colored drapes pulled tight. Leaving Sarah to talk with the lawyer, to write to the relatives in England, to sit night after night at the kitchen table, her spectacles glinting, working out figures on long sheets of paper. Alice was sixteen then; she’d never given a thought to money, although she knew that the expansion of the shop had meant only one dress that winter and adelay in the new furniture. She sat by the fire through those winter evenings, a book in her lap, the distant scratching of Sarah’s pen.
The way they live now is all Sarah’s doing, Sarah’s plan, but Alice tells herself to be fair, to think about what might have happened, otherwise. It was Sarah’s idea to open the school, the real school, to have Alice help, and maybe their mother if she ever opened the drapes.
What else do you have to do?
she said.
What else do you do but sit in your chair by the window, reading poetry all day
.
Sarah organized everything for the school, found a few texts and primers, ordered supplies from the catalog and placed notices, spoke to parents at church. Mrs. Beck came to call and said that although she had no children to send, she would like to donate several Temperance Readers. She said that she was impressed by Sarah’s discipline, her organization, that she would like to offer her a position in the store, if Alice and her mother were able to run the school on their own.
Of course we can
, Alice said, although before that moment she wouldn’t have thought it. It’s clear to her now that otherwise it wouldn’t have worked, that Sarah would never have had the patience. At first, parents like the Robinsons sent their children as a kindness, but most have stayed and new ones have come and Alice knows that must mean that she is doing something right. It’s been five years and now there’s not really enough room around the long oak dining table, sent from England before she was born. Even with the empty place.
• • •
From downstairs comes the slam of the stove door, the crash of the heavy kettle. Alice thinks of the Orton sisters, who sing so sweetly together, of Lilian and Rachel side by side on their battered porch swing, arms linked. She tries to find one warmmemory of her own sister, one time they might have laughed together, been easy in each other’s company.
Chalk and cheese
is what their mother used to say, and they couldn’t even share a room, let alone a bed, from the time they were small.
When she was a child, Alice thought that her father was a wizard, and his shop was a magic cave, full of potions. Sometimes she sat on the floor in the room behind the counter, lifting the different colored bottles out of their boxes while he pounded and mixed and measured. Sarah sat on a high stool at the corner of his workbench, writing neat labels and spreading them out to dry.
Aconite, Senna, Chloral Hydrate
. When Alice was older she joined her at the bench, but when their father left the room Sarah shook her pen, flinging black drops all over her own careful writing.
I didn’t
, she said loudly,
I did not. Alice made the mess, she did
. Their father raised his voice and sent them home, and once outside Alice gave her sister a quick kick in the shins and then ran, Sarah’s fingers reaching for her flying hair.
That night their father brought home two large bottles, Alice’s blue and Sarah’s amber. He had labeled them
Forgiveness Potion
in flowing black letters, and he told them they were to take a spoonful in the morning and at bedtime, until the bottles were empty. The liquid was pale green and sweet, but with something
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