Hank placed the tray on the drafting table. “You won’t drink coffee after noon, so I had to improvise.” He looked over Joe’s shoulder at his sketch pad in the same way he had studied student essays in the classroom. “Her eyes aren’t right. They are wider, more doe-like.”
“Yes, thank you, I realize that.” Joe’s eyes bounced between the sketch pad and Alice’s face. “Hank, if you don’t step away, I’m going to make a sketch of just how I’m seeing you right now. Trust me, it won’t be pretty.”
“Fine, no need to get all bent out of shape.” Hank shot Alice a devilish look before departing. It was easy to forget, in moments like these, that this could not last.
“Alice, you’re fidgeting,” Joe said, although her unconscious movements didn’t seem to keep him from ceaselessly sketching.
“Can we call it a day?” Alice stretched. Seeing Hank and Joe together renewed her guilt at being unable to help them.
“It’s more challenging than it looks, isn’t it?” He flipped the cover of his sketchbook closed and set it on the table. “We want other people to see us, but we don’t truly want to be seen.”
Alice smiled awkwardly. “I need to get going.” Her knees wobbled as she tried to walk.
“Before you go—” Joe held out the plate of cookies “—you must try Hank’s biscotti. They’re heavenly. And if you tell him I told you that, I’ll draw you with horns.”
29
A Visit to the Tavern
Alice did not return to Madeline’s house for over a month. Over that month she felt the loss of Madeline as acutely as she felt the loss of her scribedom. It went without saying that their bet was over, that Alice had lost. Sure enough, Madeline had proven to Alice that their stories were more curse than gift. As promised, she would stop writing, but she was too humiliated to face Madeline, to confront how wrong she’d been.
As more time passed, her mortification waned when her mind drifted to Madeline. Why should Alice’s pride keep them from spending time together? So she hopped in her car to see her friend in the woods.
Alice rapped with the lion knocker, listening as the sound echoed through the dark house. Eventually alabaster feet appeared on the stairs, the bottom hem of a white nightgown, then a veiny hand clutching the banister, a face so ghostly and weathered it was almost unrecognizable. Their journey had given Madeline so much vitality. Now it was gone, drained from her emaciated figure. When she opened the door, she nearly collapsed into Alice’s arms.
Alice helped the old woman to the parlor, settling her into one of the chairs before the fireplace. Cold air whistled down the chimney, causing Alice to shiver as she realized that the fireplace had not lit up on its own the way it normally did when they entered. The room was dimmer than it had been before, and a thin layer of dust coated the coffee table. On the mantel, Alice spotted a clock, one that not only ticked but had three hands, rattling off each second. There were also new paintings on the walls. Cubist portraits and monochromatic scenes of children reveling.
Alice found a pile of kindling beside the fireplace and a newspaper. She tore off the front page, rolled it into a ball, and tucked it between the logs with some twigs.
Once the fire was roaring, she joined Madeline in the other chair facing the heat. The flames reflected off Madeline’s glazed eyes as she stared vacantly into the hearth. Currer, Ripley, Ellis, Acton, and Poirot wove through their legs, the cats’ names reminding Alice that you can never vanquish stories, not entirely.
“I can’t stop thinking about Dee.” Madeline scooped Ripley up and stroked him deliberately. “When she showed up on my doorstep, my first thought was,not you. I wanted to turn her away, but I ignored my intuition. As writers, we should know better than to deny our instincts.”
“You can’t blame yourself for her death,” Alice said.
“I don’t.” Madeline’s fingers disappeared into Ripley’s fur as he purred. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since you’ve been gone.” There was no resentment in these words. “I’ve spent my time reading. Not my stories, the books that inspired me. The books that belong to me as a reader. My Highsmith. My Brontë sisters. My Christie.” She used her chin to point to the cats. “Stories don’t belong to their writers, not once they’re complete. This is especially true for our stories. They have to belong to their readers. That’s what makes the magic work.” In long, graceful movements she continued to comb Ripley. “Do I feel guilt over what happened to Dee? Of course. But I now see that doesn’t make it my fault.”
Alice bent down to cradle Poirot, stroking him mindlessly as she mulled over Madeline’s words. Once a story was written and delivered, it was no longer the writer’s to control. That seemed another testament to why they should stop writing.
“I’ve been thinking about you too, how we are united in tragedy. We both lost the men we loved most. You’ve let that love stunt you. You’ve convinced yourself that it taught you never to love anyone else.” Suddenly galvanized, Madeline stood, swooped Alice’s keys from the table, and walked toward the door.
“Where are we going?” Alice’s voice faltered.
“You forced me to confront the past I feared. In doing so, I learned to let go. Now it’s your turn.” Madeline threw open the door and stepped out into the brisk afternoon with Alice’s keys.
“You’re in your nightgown,” Alice protested as she followed Madeline outside.
Madeline shrugged. “One of the benefits of growing old is that people hardly notice you. I could walk naked, and no one would bat an eye.”
Madeline adjusted the seat, so it was closer to the wheel, which she rotated a few times for good measure before starting the car. Her nightgown blended into the off-white upholstery, almost as if she had no body at all.
Alice hesitated at the passenger door. Madeline revved the engine a few times to taunt her. When that didn’t work, she began honking, gently at first, until she laid the heel of her hand into the horn. It let out an incessant cry. When Alice couldn’t take it anymore, she hopped into the passenger seat. Before she could put her seatbelt on, the car was already in motion, thumping down the dirt road.
Alice involuntary gasped as Madeline pulled over across from the tavern.
“There it is again,” Madeline said, unbuckling her belt. “Let’s go see what exactly you’ve been so afraid of.”
At two on a weekday only a few of the outdoor tables were populated. The car filled with mountain air smelling strongly of grilled meat and pine when Madeline opened the door. She was a strange sight as she walked toward the bar, her bare feet crusted with pine needles, the hem of her nightgown dirtied, her body so thin it was formless beneath the cotton. Even as Alice watched her disappear inside, she wasn’t quite convinced that the moment was real.
