Miss Emily (27 page)

I knock on the door of the Evergreens until my knuckles are sore, and still no one comes. I curse Susan for her shopping flits to Boston and Springfield; I curse Austin for his attachment to his town office. I peer in the windows of the front parlor—I am grateful to be hidden from the street by the hemlock hedge—and then I go to the back of the house. I knock madly, and their girl answers at last; she looks at me as if I am the worst kind of intruder on her day. If President Johnson himself had arrived at the door, she could not appear more irritated. I push past her.

“I will wait within for my brother's return,” I tell her, and she, slack-jawed, merely nods.

In the parlor I pace the floor, my steps clicking, then muffled as I pass from wood to carpet. There is a fire smouldering in the marble fireplace, but still I shiver and hope the maid will come and make it blaze. My poor, poor Ada. How could this have happened to her, and in
our
home? What anxieties she must have been suffering since. Feeling cold with rage against Crohan, I go nearer the fire; the mantel is adorned with Canova's Cupid and Psyche sculpture. Psyche is waking from the sleep that Proserpina tricked her into; Cupid has performed the kiss that woke her, purging Psyche of the spell. There is huge tenderness between them, it strikes me, such a delicate passion. I run my fingers over Cupid's hand, the one that cups Psyche's breast; I relish the cold skin under my own. How well man and woman can come together at times, and how badly they meet at others. I agitate my hands and sit, then stand again. Crohan must be expelled; Ada must be seen by Dr. Brewster.

I look around the parlor: its gilt and autumnal silks annoy me of a sudden, and I flop into Sue's green chair. But my heart is giddy and unconcentrated, and I rise again, needing movement to soothe me. I walk the edges of the room and come upon a doll on the floor. It is a sailor doll of Ned's that Mother gifted him at birth; it has an angry little face and lamb-fleece hair. I have never liked this doll—his ill temper alarms me—but looking into his blue glass eyes now, I see Ada's eyes. I kiss the doll's cold porcelain skin and set him on a chair to wait for Ned.

Surrounded by her things, her taste, I think about Susan, about her elegance and her learning. Some, I know, find her haughty and frivolous, but they have her wrong. She is sensitive and cosmopolitan; she is imagination itself. Sue is luminous, a living Psyche. Though I would never style Austin as Cupid—her match.

I hear voices and go into the hallway; its pulsing reds seem to
beat down on me. I look up at the painting of Abram and Sara— he ancient and swarthy, she young and virginal. I had not noticed before that her breast peeks from her white robe and that she looks coy, almost flirtatious. The scene makes me shudder, and I wonder why Susan has hung it in the hallway of all places.

Sue is out of sight in the passageway; I can hear her talking to the maid. Like me, she has come into the house through the back. She pushes the curtain aside and steps toward me, removing her cape; little Ned is behind her.

“Emily,” she says, kissing my cheek, “how pleasant to find you here.”

Ned runs to me and pulls at my skirts; I bend to hug him. I go forward and look into Martha's baby carriage, to enjoy her sweet face; she is swaddled and sleeping.

“I have come to see Austin. I must speak with him as soon as possible.”

Sue looks at me. “Are you all right, Emily?”

“Not really. I am dismayed over something that has occurred under my roof, and I wish to gain Austin's counsel.”

Sue unpins her bonnet and tosses it onto the hall table; she turns the handle on the call button to summon the nurse, who appears quickly.

“Ma'am. Miss Dickinson.”

“Take the children upstairs.”

Susan leads me into the parlor and sits into her velvet throne; I take the slipper chair opposite. Baby Martha whimpers as she is lifted up and spirited with Ned to the nursery; then it is silent save for the
crick–crack
of the wood settling in the grate. All is quiet between us, but my silence is agitated, while Susan's is contained.

“Can I be of assistance, Emily?” she says after a spell. “You seem much grieved.”

“No, Sue. It is my brother I need. It is a delicate matter.”

“Are you well? Is everyone well at the Homestead? Your mother?”

“We are fine, all of us. It concerns Ada.”

Susan tuts and looks into the fireplace; she pushes a snort through her nose. “Ada!” she says, and the word is bitter on her tongue.

“Yes,
Ada.
Why do you say her name as if it pains you to do so?”

“I warned you about being too free with her, and look where it has ended. Austin spoke to me of what occurred.”

I stand and go to her. “Susan, a young girl has been harmed. Surely you do not condone that?”

“Emily, I am just saying that you are too friendly with the help. I told you not to encourage that girl.”

“But you cannot blame her for that Crohan man's sin?”

“Indeed I do not. What happened is despicable. Miss Con-cannon seems a capable, hardworking girl. But can you keep her in your home now? My concern is for you, for your family.”

“Well, my concern is for Ada, first and foremost.”

“And I commend you for that, Emily. It speaks well of you.”

I pull my shawl together and knot it. “I will go now, Sue. Tell my brother I need to talk to him. Today. Tell him it is vitally important.”

I leave her.

Miss Ada Has an Encounter in Cutler' s Store

I
WAS IN
C
UTLER
'
S, BROWSING CANNED PEACHES AND WONDERING
if Mrs. Dickinson might enjoy them. Her stomach was at her again, and I wanted to make digestible dishes to please her. I can feel her ire with me these days; it rises off her like steam. But canned fruit costs, and Mrs. Dickinson is one grouse who likes to spare the heather, so I hesitated. Perhaps, I thought, if she saw the price of the cling peaches listed in the account book, she would not be pleased. But then again, maybe their silky goodness would trump the cost and she would applaud my thoughtfulness.

I held the can and studied its label: it showed peach wedges floating in a sea of syrup in a glass bowl. The curved slices made me remember a recent dream. I had tipped peaches into a dish and was beginning to eat them with a fork when the slices turned into swimming, golden fish. The dream disturbed me greatly when I had it, but by the time I stood in Cutler's, spit loosening on my tongue at the thought of the fruit and its thick juice, I found it funny. Peach fish. Fish peaches. I gazed at the peach can, smiling, when I felt a waft of wrongness come from near me. I did not need to look over my shoulder to know that Crohan was there. I couldn't
smell him, but my whole body stiffened against him; my skin and my scalp knew he was nearby, as sure as eggs. I put the can back on the shelf and began to walk toward the door.

“You're nothing but slum lice,” he hissed, and his mouth was so near my ear I felt the heat of his breath.

My heart beat like a windmill, but I kept moving. He poked me in the small of my back, and I stumbled. The thought of him touching my coat made me sick, for it brought back the rough feel of his hands on my skin. I trotted faster, bumping in my haste against a woman who was buying ribbon at the glass counter near the door.

“Mind your manners, miss,” Mr. Cutler called out.

“I'm sorry,” I said, getting out the door and away. I looked wildly up Merchants Row, hoping to find one of the Dickinsons or Kelleys coming out of Kendrick's or Burt's, that I might walk back to Main Street with them. I willed my Uncle Michael to come shambling toward me. I saw no one that I knew.

Crohan was upon me quickly, but I would not look at him. I did not want to see his eyes or his awful mouth. I did not want to smell him. He said things in a low, mean voice.

“You jackeens are all the same. Scum. High-and-mighty scum. I've seen you in your glory. Don't forget
that,
Ada Con-cannon.”

I walked quickly across the common, toward Main Street. He would not leave me alone, and he tried to dance in front of me to continue his taunts, but I broke into a run. Crohan followed and lunged before me; I had to stop so as not to bang into his chest. I stared at him. He was truly like one of the horribles from a parade, but his own face was the ugly mask and his clothes the tattered costume.

“Leave me be,” I said.

“I will not. Where is your lovely Daniel now, hah?”

“Get out of my way. The Dickinsons know what you've done.”

He grabbed my wrist and twisted it. “What have I done? I've done nothing at all, save what you begged me to do.”

“Get off me!” I shouted, hoping to get someone's notice but there was no one to be seen in any direction.

When I roared, he dropped my arm, and I launched across the grass and down the street toward the Homestead. He caught up and kept behind me, whispering vile things about my body, about what he planned to do to me next. When I gained the steps of the house, he pulled my arm, hurting me.

“If you tell Byrne anything, I'll kill you,” he said. “I'll strangle the fucking life out of you. Do you hear me?”

I turned and pushed him away, though I did not want to touch him at all. I ran up and stepped inside the gate, closed it against him and jogged up the path. He stood there, for I glanced back, and when he saw me look, he spit on the ground and walked away.

Miss Emily was watching from the window and witnessed it all; she came to me in the garden and questioned me about the truth of what I had told her before. I did not want her to guess the nature of the attack, and I do not know that she had; despite her age she is sheltered, innocent. But I was rattled after Crohan's chasing me home like a dog, and in the end I told Miss Emily what he had done. And in telling her I released a beast that will not be caged. She will go to her father now, or her brother, and all will be lost.

Daniel comes to his door in shirtsleeves; his face is creased with sleep. He looks both more boyish and more manly, with his tired eyes and trouser braces on show.

“Ada,” he says, and then he asks me to wait a moment.

I stand on the steps of his boardinghouse, and his landlady stands inside her window, watching me. She is turned sideways, as if to hide herself, but she stares at me, both brazen and sly. I turn my back to her and look down into the heart of Amherst, where the railroad carries men and goods to and fro all day long. Daniel returns with his coat on and his hair combed; he gestures for me to accompany him to the side of the house, out of the window's sight.

“I heard you were back,” I say.

“We traveled by night most nights, so I am worn out. I was going to come up to the Homestead today to see you. I'm sorry I didn't send a letter. There was no opportunity for that.”

“No matter, Daniel.”

“I missed you, Ada.”

We step into a grassy alley that runs along the gable wall. He reaches for my hand, but I slide it behind my back so he cannot take it. My face is healed—there is no trace of anything on me— but I do not want him to touch me. He looms over me, and I want to let him take my body close to his and hold me there, but I cannot.

“Daniel, I have come to tell you that we won't be walking out together anymore.”

He winces and drags his two hands through his hair. As he lifts his arms, I smell sweat and earth and smoke.

“I didn't mean to be away so long, Ada. Old Crohan kept wanting to go further upstate to look at different horses. He knew I wasn't happy about being gone so much time. The weeks were a curse for me, too.”

“It isn't because you went away, Daniel, it isn't that. I think, maybe, we are not a good match. My Uncle Michael says it. I'm sorry.”

He hitches his jacket close around him and purrs through his throat; it is a sound meant to tamp down annoyance or stray words. “We get along well, Ada. We are decent to each other. You are dear to my heart, you know that. Your uncle knows it, too.”