A few speculated Souliers was behind it, that it was all a part of an elaborate ploy to get Bobby to agree to sell. Me? I never bought it. A huge conglomerate like Souliers? They’d never take that kind of risk. They have too much to lose. If Eva had help, it came from someone else. Not that I bothered pointing that out. No, ma’am. All I cared about was that people were finally seeing the truth: that Bobby had been innocent all along.
Or at least most of us did.
Alice didn’t, of course. I heard she was still hanging around Gina, trying to force-feed her feminist agenda on her. That’s probably the reason why Gina didn’t take Bobby back, because at that point she’d been brainwashed by her bully of a sister-in-law.
Sorry, I know you guys are friends. But you asked me to be honest.
And I honestly think Alice is to blame for all this.
Thirty
Alice
Tuesday, October 15th
The guide looks like Santa Claus: full, white beard, rosy cheeks, protruding belly. All that’s missing is the outfit. And the attitude—this man isn’t exactly jolly. He’s been giving Alice and Antoinette a tour of the factory for the past twenty-five minutes with the enthusiasm of a zombie. Alice stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago, and not just because she took an oxy before heading here.
“If you look to your left, you’ll see the quality-control table. Sheepskin can be a very fickle material to work with…”
At least Antoinette looks entertained. Alice does not envy her job: writing about Alma seems almost as tedious as having to live in Alma.
“I feel like I’m getting high,” Alice whispers, twitching her nose, taking a whiff of the unsurprising stench of glue and rubber. The comment elicits a smile from Antoinette.
“We also have our own tannery,” the man continues in his deadpan tone. “Which means that we can keep up with the changing trends…”
Santa Claus directs them to the far end of the elevated platform. Standing at the railing, Alice peers at the factory floor below, teeming with activity. The figures—men and women wearing matching overalls—move with speed and purpose. Like a group of ants or bees or some other industrious-but-unthinking insect.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Antoinette begins, eyeing the hive below. “I can see why the #KeepAlmaBootsAmerican campaign is so popular. This place is massive. I’d hate to see all these jobs go to China—and I’m not even an Almanac. Or American.”
“It would mean more Americans would be able to afford Alma Boots’ shoes,” Alice says. “Alma Boots would be able to lower its prices by as much as forty percent.” This is something she knows for a fact. Alice had run the numbers back when Souliers first approached Alma Boots. Back when she still held on to hope that Nick would convince his brother to sell so they could get out of Alma. But time has taught her that Bobby is too sentimental to see the logic in a sale.
Which is why Alice is thankful for the scandal. If basic math won’t convince her brother-in-law, maybe fear will.
A few days ago, she had tried broaching the subject of a sale with Bobby—but he refused to listen to her. Bobby plays the patriotism card, but Alice is entirely convinced that this is about his small-minded ego. Souliers have revised their terms: same amount of money, plus a promise to keep the factory in the United States for at least three more years. It’s an incredibly generous offer—they could’ve lowballed it, given the recent controversy surrounding the brand—and it protects American jobs. But Bobby won’t even consider it. Never mind that two more department stores have canceled their late-fall orders. Never mind that the #BoycottAlmaBoots campaign is gaining supporters. Never mind that Alice has pointed out that selling would also be a good thing for his family. If they moved, Calan would get to go to a new school, make new friends. He wouldn’t be the lonely, bullied kid, anymore. He could use the fresh start. But Bobby had looked at her like she had grown an extra head. “We’d never move, Alice,” he’d said. “Alma is our home. We love it here.”
There really is no accounting for taste.
“Do you mind if I go?” Antoinette looks at Alice expectantly.
“Go?”
“To see the industrial press?” She turns to Santa Claus. “Justin says he can only take one of us at a time.”
Alice glances at Justin—she’s just learning his name. He’s looking in her direction, with his vacant eyes. Is it possible he’s sniffed too much glue?
“Of course,” she says to Antoinette, forcing herself to smile. Maybe she’ll take another pill while she waits for Antoinette. She’s feeling a bit too present. “Take your time.”
Antoinette follows a dispirited Justin towards a wide staircase. Alice takes a step closer, clutching her hand on the railing. Antoinette is right: the place is massive. And impressive: spotless, brightly lit, organized. Safety is obviously a top concern—several of the workers are sporting goggles, gloves, and helmets. She pictures the space as it must have been back in Backer Dewar’s day, when it was just a modest shoe shop. It’s extraordinary, what her husband’s family has built here. An empire. It’s entirely possible that she would also glow with pride, were it not for the fact that she is forced to live in a town so small it might as well be one of the shoeboxes stacked in the corner. A town where she is disliked—possibly despised.
Alice’s mind flashes back to the ASC meeting that had sealed her fate.
It was Alice’s first meeting since Allegra was born. As soon as she had walked in, the women were all over her, fussing and clucking. Demanding to know why she hadn’t brought baby Allegra along.
I bet you can’t take your eyes off her!
Don’t they just smell delicious all the time? I could eat them up.
Bless you, dear—children give
