Free My Mrs. Brown by William Norwich Page A

Alice’s case, one of the amazing leather jackets that designers like Rick Owens or Ann Demeuelemeester make but that only heiresses and rock stars can afford?
    â€œSometimes a dress is not just a dress,” Mrs. Fox said. “It’s a symbol.”
    â€œI get it, Granny,” Alice said. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes it’s a penis, a big swinging symbol, that’s what you mean.”
    â€œAlice!”
    â€œOh, come on, Granny. Lighten up.”
    Mrs. Fox would. Lighten up, that is, as she continued to explain to Alice that Mrs. Brown obviously felt she needed this bold plan, this late-in-life odyssey, and for reasons that were none of their business unless Mrs. Brown disclosed them herself.
    â€œWe won’t press her to discuss it and we won’t analyze it,” Mrs. Fox told Alice. “And it’s probably much more respectful not to ask when she planned on wearing it once she gets it, assuming of course that she can and does get it. How is she going to manage that, I wonder.”
    More would be revealed, and their job as friends was to just get out of the way, wait patiently for more details, and be supportive throughout.
    â€œKeep me posted about this, please, Alice?” Mrs. Fox said before they hung up. “I love you and I love how you’re taking an interest in others, especially someone like Emilia. I do realize that she is so different than you or anyone you know.”
    After the call, Mrs. Fox, subdued and concerned, looked out the kitchen window of her place in Vancouver to where a strong oak stood. How well it still looked, and probably would in spring, too, no matter what hell of weather this winter brought.
    Trees survive winter and are revived by spring—so much hope in the cycle of nature—but people? People weather away unless spring keeps in their hearts.
    Mrs. Fox was glad for the news about Mrs. Brown. Even if it was just a dress and jacket, it was a beginning. How people endure the complexities of their lives with faith and cheer, finding their own measure of hope, is one of the constant miracles, and often surprises, of life.
    But her friend’s first trip to New York would be a daunting prospect, just as saving enough money to buy the dress would be.
    Mrs. Fox would do everything to support Mrs. Brown and wished she could be there in person to do so. Instead, she vowed to make sure that her granddaughter, Alice, did a great job in her place. But there was just one more thing . . . was it too late to call home to Rhode Island?
    Mrs. Fox dialed. Alice, who was checking her various social media accounts as she always did last thing before lights-out, answered on the third ring.
    Alice was scrolling through Instagram, her favorite new hashtag—#MarieAntoinetteInBellBottoms—postings of recognizable fashion and other celebrity people wearing outrageously priced bohemian styles.
    â€œGranny, what’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing’s wrong. Just something I wanted to say about Mrs. Brown.”
    â€œYes, Granny?”
    â€œThat book Mrs. Brown read? What was it called? The one you said she wasn’t going to finish reading because she didn’t want to know how it ends?”
    Alice couldn’t remember the title, but she remembered the book.
    â€œI’ve read everything, but I don’t recall this book,” Mrs. Fox said. “I want you to read it. Will you, Alice? See how it ends.”
    Alice promised her grandmother that she would.

I T WAS INTERESTING, SO Mrs. Brown thought, that the topic at the beauty parlor the next morning was money, as it probably was in shops and offices all over the world.
    Mrs. Brown had opened up shop, donned her turquoise work jacket, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping when Bonnie blew into the shop in a state of apoplexy.
    â€œCoffee?” She could barely get the word out.
    When Bonnie wanted coffee, rather than her usual latte, Mrs. Brown