A Girl Named Alabama

By Richard Ford

Alabama Valens is a pretty, young woman who is secure in the belief that she is in charge of her life—until a phone call from her brother brings her to the sudden realization that life can change abruptly and with frightening speed.

When tragedy strikes and upends her whole world, Alabama is forced to quit her job, bury her beloved father, and return home to take care of her now incapacitated mother. As she desperately clings to what remains of her now shattered life, she unexpectedly meets a handsome, charming stranger who quickly captures her heart. He grasps the enormous weight of her responsibilities and eagerly helps her as she begins to rebuild her life. But it is not long before Alabama is confronted with the need to change and move far beyond her former life in order to stay with the man she has now fallen deeply in love with, and to a world she never dreamed existed and where character is everything.

In this intriguing tale, a young woman whose life is upended by tragedy falls in love with a stranger who introduces her to a new reality she never imagined in her wildest dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663251534

Richard Ford

Richard Ford is the author of The Sportswriter; Independence Day, winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award; The Lay of the Land; and the New York Times bestseller Canada. His short story collections include the bestseller Let Me Be Frank With You, Sorry for Your Trouble, Rock Springs and A Multitude of Sins, which contain many widely anthologized stories. He lives in New Orleans with his wife Kristina Ford.

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GIRL NAMED ALABAMA

Copyright © 2023 Richard Ford.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5152-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5154-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5153-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905266

iUniverse rev. date: 04/14/2023

FOR ANNETTE,

MY

LOVING WIFE

Among the various objects found in one of the oldest tombs

in Egypt, which is believed to be the tomb of a woman who

lived some five thousand years ago, were several inscribed with

hieroglyphs that translate as Benerib¹—quite literally, sweetheart.

Is there not, here, an evocation of our deepest of human emotions and

a sense of the timelessness of our shared humanity across the ages?

Women have one mission in life: to be beautiful.

—Agustina del Carmen Otero Iglesias, La Belle Otero

November 4, 1868–April 10, 1965

Spanish actress, dancer, and courtesan

Never married, numerous wealthy and prominent lovers

Front cover: Photograph of Maude Fealy, stage and film actress, taken

around 1901, by Lizzie Caswell Smith. Picture courtesy of Lucien P.

Smith (1901 Antique Maude Fealy, Photograph Dressed in Lace—Etsy)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1     Turning Point

Chapter 2     Alabama and Maude Fealy’s Picture

Chapter 3     Alabama’s Dance with the Eyes

Chapter 4     Shaundra

Chapter 5     A Weekend Getaway

Chapter 6     Breakfast

Chapter 7     A Day at the Beach

Chapter 8     A Romantic Dinner

Chapter 9     Getting to Know One Another

Chapter 10   Dinner with Shaundra

Chapter 11   Johns Hopkins

Chapter 12   A Falcon’s Perch

Chapter 13   Getting Some Perspective

Chapter 14   Tallah Carter Thompson

Chapter 15   Dressed Like Royalty

Chapter 16   Guest of the Manor

Chapter 17   The Proposal

Chapter 18   The Walk with Cynthia

Chapter 19   Flying Back Home

Chapter 20   Breaking the News to Shaundra

Chapter 21   Transitioning

Chapter 22   Cynthia

Chapter 23   Bringing Kobe Parker Home

Chapter 24   Engagement Rings and the Announcement

Chapter 25   Trashy Behavior in Girls

Chapter 26   Alabama after Midnight

Chapter 27   Sisters Catching Up

Chapter 28   A Gathering of Beautiful Birds, Daughters of the Light

Chapter 29   Forever and Ever

Chapter 30   Tragedy Strikes

Chapter 31   A New Beginning

Chapter 32   Decision Time

Chapter 33   Rough Times for a Mother and Her Daughter

Chapter 34   My Son, Robert IV

Chapter 35   The Unchanging Order of Events

Chapter 36   Thousands and Thousands of Days

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My deepest gratitude to Michelle Wagner, who helped enormously with the character development, storyline, and overall direction of this book and with its editing. Without her timely comments, recommendations, and advice, this book might never have been finished. Thank you!

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ONE

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TURNING

POINT

W ithout doubt, it was the biggest turning point in my life, marking the end of my youthful innocence and the beginning of true adulthood. Until that moment, I’d just drifted along, secure in the belief that I was in charge of my life. Then a phone call from my brother brought me to the sudden realization that life can change very abruptly and with frightening speed.

My brother informed me that our parents had been in a terrible car accident. They had been visiting friends and were heading back home when they had been broadsided by a drunk driver. Since my brother lived hours away, and I was close to the hospital where they’d been taken, he asked me to check on them.

Immediately after talking to my brother, I called my best friend, Shaundra, and told her what had happened. I asked her to meet me at the hospital. We arrived at about the same time and went to the front desk to inquire about my parents. We were directed to the waiting room of the emergency center, where we were met by a trauma surgeon. He told us that Mama was in critical condition, but unfortunately, my dad had not survived. He expressed his condolences to me, and I burst into tears.

After a couple of minutes, he asked, Do you feel up to identifying the body? We need a positive identification.

Yes, I said quietly.

Your mother is in the Intensive Care Unit, he said. You can see her, but she’s unconscious.

OK. It didn’t feel that it was me speaking; I was in a state of shock. I tried to gather my thoughts as I turned to Shaundra.

She held me close and asked, What do you want to do first, Homes? Alabama?

I just shook my head without speaking.

She grabbed my shoulders and shook me gently. Alabama, what do you want to do first?

After several seconds, I said, Mama.

Shaundra held me close by her side as we walked to the Intensive Care Unit. A nurse met us and led us to my mother’s bed. She was connected to all kinds of tubes and monitors. I barely recognized her, but then I saw her left hand on top of her covers, and I knew it was her from her wedding band. I picked up her hand and held it close to my face, saying, Mama … Mama. She didn’t respond.

Shaundra put her arm around my shoulders as I leaned into her. Neither of us said a word. I let go of Mama’s hand and turned to hug Shaundra. I put my head on her shoulder, as she pulled me close and rubbed my back.

After several minutes, the nurse returned. An orderly is waiting for you whenever you’re ready to go down to the morgue, she said.

Shaundra and I stayed locked in our embrace, but I softly said, No, no, no, no, no, no, and then I went quiet again. After several minutes of standing in Shaundra’s arms, I said, Let’s get this over.

Are you sure? Shaundra asked.

Yes. Let’s just do it, so this nightmare can end.

As we both turned to leave, Shaundra put her arm around my waist and held me close.

In the waiting area, a young orderly approached us and said, Follow me, please. He led us down a hallway and into a large elevator. He pressed a button marked MORGUE, and the elevator began its descent. When the elevator doors opened, we exited, and the orderly led us down a short walkway, past some double doors and into a very brightly lit, cold room. A large window ran almost the full length of the wall to our left. Just below the window was a bar at waist height.

Beyond the window was a brightly lit room with several tables with very bright lights over them. Several people with masks and gowns were going about their business. The orderly stepped up to the window and picked up a phone mounted on the side of it. As he did, the lights in the room beyond the window blinked noticeably several times. One of the people in the room came to the window and answered the phone.

The orderly said, Survivors of George Valens, here for a positive ID.

The person beyond the window nodded and walked toward a wall that contained about a half dozen metal drawers. He opened one of the drawers, and another person in the room wheeled a gurney toward it. The two of them then pulled out a long tray with a body bag on it and placed it on the gurney.

The orderly turned to us and said, Please grab firmly onto that bar, and when you are ready just say OK, and we’ll start the viewing. As he finished his instructions, the gurney arrived at the window in front of Shaundra and me.

Shaundra pulled me close to her and held me tightly. Are you ready, sweet girl?

I stared at the body bag in front of me and nodded.

Shaundra looked at the orderly and said, OK.

Inside the room, one of the men unzipped the bag—and there was my beloved daddy … my beloved daddy with his familiar nose, his hair, his ears. In wild-eyed terror, I screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed and felt my entire body crumble to the floor. Shaundra tried to hold me up but couldn’t. I found myself on all fours, and Shaundra sat on the floor in front of me, holding my head tightly to her chest. I continued screaming until my breath seemed to give out, but then I babbled at Shaundra, Please let me go, Shaundra, please! I can’t stay here. I just can’t. Please, Shaundra, let me go. Oh God, Shaundra, please let me go!

She held me tight. And then my tears came, along with deep, prolonged sobbing. I reached up to hold Shaundra with both arms and rolled over onto my side as I did so.

Many long minutes passed, but everything that happened after I saw my father lying there on that gurney was a blur. Later, I remembered falling to the floor and Shaundra holding me, but I couldn’t remember much of anything that happened after that. At some point, we left the morgue and went to the hospital’s small chapel. Shaundra held me close, and I cried. Then I gathered myself together and told Shaundra that I needed to call George, my brother.

When he answered, he asked what was going on.

It’s very bad, George, I told him. Dad died, and Mama is in critical condition in the Intensive Care Unit in a coma.

He asked a few more questions, but I didn’t have any answers for him. I’ll be in Birmingham in a couple of hours, he said. I’ll call when I get there.

That night, Shaundra drove me to her apartment and insisted that I stay the night with her instead of returning to my apartment. I agreed, and we sat up almost the entire night, talking and crying. Later, I would marvel at Shaundra’s courage and presence of mind in helping me to cope with the tragedy. If she had not been there, I think I would have died. When she told me about the morgue scene and how distraught I had been when I saw my daddy’s face, it seemed that I had wanted to die right then and there.

The next morning, both of us called in to our workplaces and explained that we wouldn’t be in that day. Then we went to the hospital to visit Mama and pick up my car. On the way there, George called me to say he had gotten to Birmingham very late and had spent the night in a hotel. He said he’d meet us at the hospital.

Shaundra and I arrived just as George did, and after talking for a couple of minutes, we went up to visit Mama. She was still in a coma and in critical condition. George and I held her hands and talked to her, but she was totally unresponsive.

The three of us left the ICU and headed down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat and talk some more.

I’ll handle the funeral arrangements for Dad, George said, and all of the financial aspects, but I need to get back home soon.

I understand, I told him. I’ll handle Mama’s care and treatment.

We both agreed to stay in close touch with one another.

After our meeting, Shaundra went home, and George and I returned to Mama’s bedside. We then met with her attending doctor, who said she was still in critical condition. The worst injury she had sustained was brain swelling, which was why they were keeping her in a medically induced coma. Other than that, she appeared to be OK, with no visible injuries or other internal damage.

Later that day, George and I returned to our family home so that he could retrieve Dad’s financial records. They included a will, funeral instructions, bank account information, Social Security records, and all his insurance records, including car insurance.

I’ll start working on everything immediately, George said. I can handle it all, so if you want go to work or whatever, feel free to do so. Maybe we could go to dinner later.

I’m not going back to work today, I said. I want to help with the various issues that needed attending to so that I can keep my mind off things.

I called the bank and the local Social Security office, but both said they couldn’t do anything without Daddy’s death certificate. When George called a local funeral home, he learned that they would get the death certificate and pick up Dad’s remains from the hospital. Then George called Daddy’s attorney who had completed his will.

We were finished with everything in a little over an hour so we had time to sit in the living room and talk for a while.

I understand that you need to go home and get back to work, George, I said. It’s OK with me if we skip dinner together.

Thank you. I should get back. Are you going to be OK?

I nodded. Shaundra will take care of me, and I’ll continue looking after Mama. I’m thinking of going back to work too, but I’ll probably wait until tomorrow.

We said our goodbyes, and George left.

I sat in the living room for a while, thinking about old times. Suddenly, I found myself mentally back in the morgue, staring at Daddy’s face. I wanted to scream again; instead, I started sobbing uncontrollably. I lay down on the sofa, curled up, and let my emotions go. I think I cried for about an hour, and then Shaundra called. I updated her on everything that had happened.

She said, If you’re up to it, go back to your apartment, and I’ll meet you there in about an hour. If not, I can meet you at your parents’ house.

I’m OK, I told her. I’ll meet you at my apartment.

I talked to your boss, Shaundra said. She said that she’s very sorry for you and that you can take whatever time you need to take care of things.

Thanks, Shaundra, I said and then hung up with her.

I was getting ready to leave when my boss called. She offered her condolences, and we talked for several minutes.

Not long after that, I left to go to my apartment, but I suddenly decided to visit Mama. When I arrived at the hospital, the doctors were attending to her, and when they finished, they told me that her brain swelling had stabilized. She was still in a coma, but things were looking a little more positive now.

I went in to see Mama and sat in a chair next to her bed. I held her hand for about fifteen minutes and then left for my apartment. When Shaundra arrived, we decided to go to her apartment, where we talked and cried and watched some mindless TV. We ordered takeout food, but when it arrived, neither of us ate very much. We sat up late into the night, talking and crying.

The next day, we both went to work. I don’t think I was entirely ready for it, but I couldn’t sit around and let my mind wander. It was simply too painful to do that; it was better to keep myself occupied.

Later that day, after I visited Mama, I went to Shaundra’s apartment again and spent another long night talking and crying.

And so it went. Day after day was pretty much the same thing—visit Mama, do some work, stay with Shaundra. Then Dad’s funeral came and went. George finished putting Dad’s financial affairs in order, and my parents’ assets, such as they were, were transferred into my control as attorney-in-fact so that I could care for Mama.

About a month later, the doctors said that Mama’s brain swelling was gone. She seemed to be alert but couldn’t talk, and she could provide only minimal effort in caring for herself. She was transferred to a long-term care facility. She could stay there until her Medicare benefits ran out. After that, we would have to find other sources to pay for her continuing care, or she would return home. I struggled with the possibilities until I came to accept that she would be returning home for her care and that I would be the one caring for her; our money simply did not allow for any other alternatives. It also quickly dawned on me that I couldn’t keep my apartment, and I couldn’t keep my job either—it was simply too far away, and I couldn’t keep taking time off to attend to Mama, especially if she needed continuous care. So I was going back home too. I grew depressed at the prospect, but what else could I do? Someone had to take care of Mama, and the only person who would was me.

My life in the big city of Birmingham, Alabama, was over, and I was returning to the small suburb of Irondale, the town of my youth—but for what? I was back in my parents’ house, sleeping in my bedroom in my old bed. Back at the very beginning and starting all over. The life that I’d had was gone, and there was no possible way of returning to it. What would the future hold for me now? Where would I even start? I simply couldn’t see beyond the present; it was all too bleak.

Shaundra stayed in close touch and came to visit whenever she could. We would go running when she visited, and then the three of us would have dinner together. When Shaundra would go back to her apartment, I would watch TV with Mama for a while and then get her ready for bed. That was pretty much my routine. Every day was the same, just marking time, with no real prospects for anything changing—or so it seemed. It was depressing, and I felt so hopeless.

Then one day, I ran into an old high school classmate while out shopping for groceries. We talked for a long time, catching up on things, but then I said I couldn’t stay longer because I had to get back to Mama. She asked if she could stop by my home later so that we could talk some more, and I agreed.

When she came by to visit, she said, I’ve given your situation some thought. Would you consider getting into local real estate sales? I think it would be perfect for your situation. You could work locally while staying close to home to check on your mother whenever needed.

Later that evening, when Shaundra came over, she said it sounded like a great idea. So I made arrangements to get my real estate license. I joined a local agency and became a real estate agent. It improved my life greatly! I was getting out and about and was around people daily, yet I was still close to Mama, so I could stop in and check on her when I needed to. And for the first time in a long time, I was happy. It wasn’t much, but it was a far cry from lying around all day, feeling depressed about things.

The money also helped. Dad’s Social Security and the money that George sent every month were just barely enough to get by. Now, there was extra money, but most importantly, I had hope. It had been a little over a year since that terrible accident that totally changed my life, and now things were slowly getting better. I was meeting friends and coworkers for lunch regularly, and it was oh-so-nice to talk and laugh again.

Dating, however, still was pretty much beyond me for the moment.

At home, things seemed a little brighter too. As my mood improved, Mama showed improvement too. She seemed more alert, and she also exerted more effort to help herself. My thoughts turned away from the accident and the unhappiness it had brought, and I thought of happier times in the past. I remembered so many good moments when I was younger, and Mama and Daddy were still living their lives. Happy times!

I could remember Daddy again without crying at his memory. And my most cherished memories of all were the times I started being Alabama and enjoying who I was. Such marvelous times!

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TWO

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ALABAMA AND

MAUDE FEALY’S

PICTURE

O f all the people who influenced my life when I was growing up, my daddy was at the top of the list. I was always close to him, even when I was a young girl—a classic daddy’s girl. But it wasn’t until my early teen years that I grew particularly close to him, and he exercised a lot of influence over me then.

He was a photographer by trade, and his passion was taking pictures. When he wasn’t working, he was studying everything he could about his trade, its history, and the work of other photographers. He was particularly fond of studying pictures of beautiful women but not in a prurient way. He wanted to learn everything that he could about the image in their photographs and how the photographers had worked their magic in producing it. He wanted to learn to produce the best possible pictures of women.

Years ago, he learned that the first step to producing a beautiful image of a woman was to encourage the woman to live up to her full potential as a beautiful woman from the inside out. In a real sense, he was a gardener who was interested in growing perfect flowers, so that he could take perfect pictures of them. I think this was the real genesis of my name, Alabama.

When Mom was pregnant with me, she and Dad spent hours and hours looking for the perfect name for me. One evening, Mom just blurted out, Alabama. They both chuckled afterward, but Dad started thinking about it and said, That’s it! I don’t know if Mom shared his enthusiasm at first, but Dad explained why it was the perfect name. It’s a big name, and she’ll have to grow into it and become comfortable with it. It’ll take her a while. Probably won’t be easy for her at first, but once she grows into it, I think she’ll love it and be proud of it.

Mom was not so certain, but she gradually warmed to the name. Not long after, Alabama found her way into this world.

When I was a little girl, I wore the name easily and proudly, but as I grew older, I was ridiculed for it, and some of it was cruel. I was a gangly, awkward, introverted preteen and stayed that way as a young teenager. As such, I wanted nothing more than to fit in, to conform, and to de-emphasize myself and who I was. Alabama seemed such an odd, almost ridiculous name to me, so I decided to change it to Ally—just plain old Ally. I also did everything I could to erase who I was. But that didn’t work. It never does, but you can’t tell that to a young girl. She’s convinced her whole life has been a mistake and that somehow, she needs to start over again to make it right. I grew depressed and very withdrawn. Mom and Dad tried to coax me out of it, but it didn’t work. I began to fantasize about running away and starting a new life.

I was sitting in my room one night, absentmindedly reading and mindlessly fooling with my hair, when Dad knocked on the door.

Got a minute? he asked.

Sure, why not?

He said, I need your opinion as a young woman. I can’t ask your mother, as she’s very busy at the moment. He sat on the bed next to me, and I noticed he had a stack of photographs in his hand. I have this client who wants me to take pictures of her seventeen-year-old daughter. She wants the pictures to capture her daughter’s beauty as a seventeen-year-old, but the pictures also should be sort of timeless. You know, not depict a seventeen-year-old girl from the late twentieth century but a seventeen-year-old beautiful girl not frozen in any particular time period.

Daddy showed me the pictures of the girl that her mother had given him so he could offer her any advice before the photo session. As you can see, Dad said, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, but look closer at her pictures. Pay particular attention to her hairstyle, her makeup, and her clothing. Look very carefully at how she’s holding her head and how she’s smiling.

As I did, I noticed all sorts of detail that had escaped me at first. She was a remarkably beautiful young woman.

Dad went through his stack of photographs, all of actresses and models from the past. We looked closely and critically at each of them. They were very beautiful women, but it was easy to tell their hairstyles, makeup, clothing, and facial expressions that they belonged to different eras. Dad told me their names and the time period that each picture was from. After we examined each photograph, he spread them out on the bed so that we could make side-by-side comparisons.

"Now that you know what you are looking for and which look belongs to which era, look at this photograph and tell me what you think. Compare it to the others to see if you can tell me when it was taken. Be careful, though. It might be an old photograph, or it might be one that was taken just last week. The fact that it’s black-and-white will tell you nothing about its era. Take your time." He handed me the picture of a beautiful young woman, one of the prettiest pictures I had ever seen.

Oh, Daddy, she is absolutely gorgeous! Who is she?

Her name is Maude Fealy, and she was around seventeen or eighteen when this picture was taken. When do you think that was?

I stared at her photograph and looked up at the other photographs on the bed. I shook my head while keeping my eyes on at Maude Fealy’s picture. I can’t tell you anything about when it was taken. She is just a very beautiful young woman.

Indeed. That picture is over a hundred years old; it was taken around 1901. Few people even know her name now, but in her day, she was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world and one of the most photographed.

I was stunned! Wow! I stared at it in total disbelief. Wow.

"Now, let’s look at Maude’s picture more closely. Notice that her hairstyle and clothing are all classically feminine. Notice that her pose is also classically feminine. She is clearly a very beautiful seventeen-year-old. And her photograph, because fashion plays so little part in it, is as captivating now as when it was taken a hundred years ago. And a hundred years from now, people will still admire it for these reasons. Notice the artistry of the photographer who took her picture. The lighting is extraordinary; it casts her face perfectly. The photographer also perfectly positioned the angle of her body, the tilt of her head and chin, and the placement of her arms and hands. The overall pose the photographer created for her is simple but extremely captivating. The photograph also does precisely what a good portrait photograph must do; it draws the eyes into it and focuses them on the subject’s face, holding them there while permitting glances at the other parts of the photograph. But—and this is very important in my line of work as a photographer—the photograph is perfect because the seventeen-year-old girl in it is also perfect.

"You can appreciate the influence of fashion in how beauty is portrayed and how it influences public taste. Its influence is felt everywhere, and it is very hard to resist. If you go with fashion, you’re rewarded and glamorized in public. If you resist it, quite often you are simply ignored. As a woman, particularly a pretty woman, people will always be drawn to your face, so when you select a hairstyle or makeup, try to avoid styles that detract from your face. The same rule applies to your clothes. Select clothes that enhance your face and that don’t detract from it. Fashion is extremely influential here. Sometimes if you go with a certain fashion trend, it will significantly detract from your face, and this is where you must decide. Are you going to follow a certain fashion, even though it detracts from your face, or will you simply ignore it or compromise with it? Not an easy proposition for any woman, but one that you won’t be able to avoid. You’re going to encounter constant pressures from fashion throughout your life, so