Miss Spitfire (16 page)

Without letting go of her, I plop down on the floor beside the cradle. When I lean over her, Mildred stretches toward my face, burbling like a bluebird.

I am besotted, beguiled, and bewitched. Seeing her reach for me nearly cracks me in two. When I bend to scoop her into my arms, a tear drops from my face onto her fat cheek. She giggles. My own laugh nearly chokes me.

I gather her up close to my shoulder and feel her sweet milk-breath on my neck. As I walk her round the room, my hips sway gently as a waltz. The movement soothes me as much as Mildred. Soft as a dove in my arms, she nestles her head against my shoulder and sighs. Her smile, the touch of her dimpled hands, the way her eyes seek mine at the sound of my voice, all these simple things enthrall me. Mildred charms me
so, I don't hear the dining-room door open, nor the footsteps in the hall.

“Was our Mildred bothering you, Miss Annie?”

The voice falls like a chip of ice between my shoulder blades. Heat rises to the tips of my ears. I wonder how long I might have been watched. My face tightens into a grimace. I wish I had at least had the sense to leave the child in the cradle if I was going to make a fool of myself.

Turning slowly round, I try to straighten up, to look less like a child fawning over a live baby doll and more like a proper governess. “I didn't mean—” I stop, seeing it's only Miss Eveline. Her smile is weary, but her kind eyes relax my grip on the baby. “The noise frightened her. I was only on my way upstairs to pack.”

“Pack?” Eveline's smile drops from her face. She glances behind her, as if she, too, expects to be watched. Bustling silently forward, she nudges me to the sofa on the far side of the room. “You mustn't think of packing up now,” she half whispers, placing a firm hand over my knee.

“But the captain—”

“Arthur is a pigheaded fool if he lets you go now, and I told him so.”

My stomach clamps round this news. I have to will strength into my arms to keep Mildred from slipping to the floor. “You told him that? After I insulted him?” My eye sockets seem flooded with boiling water.

“I've told him before, you'll be Helen's salvation if he has the good sense to let the two of you alone.”

“Salvation,” I murmur, shaking my head. Eveline offers me a lace-edged hankie and goes on, rubbing my back like an infant's as I try to suck back the tears.

“I've always believed our Helen has more sense than all the Kellers, but there was never a way to reach her mind. Until you came. You're two of a kind, Miss Annie. If anyone can bring Helen back to us, it's you.”

“Me?” My voice comes out a croak.

“No one here has strength enough to discipline her one whit.” She gulps on a laugh. “Did you know she woke up one night at midnight, demanding her breakfast? And God love her, I gave it to her. I'm ashamed to tell you I fed her, dressed her, and began my day by moonlight.” Her chin trembles. “I shouldn't have done it. I knew it then and I know it now, but I couldn't refuse her.” She tries to catch her brimming tears with her knuckles. I offer the handkerchief. Her lips refuse to obey her impulse to smile. “You see, Miss Annie? Our love leaves us too weak.”

Their love leaves them too weak? My chest collapses like a squeezed lemon at the thought. Is that what they think love is—unbridled indulgence? If that's all they can offer Helen, she's better off without them, as I was without my father. I've never known a weaker man than Thomas Sullivan, and what did his love do for me?

Once, he came to Tewksbury with a box of candy. I didn't know what to think when I saw him. How could
he still exist in the world if Jimmie and I had to live in a place like that? And then he left, never to return. For Chicago, he said, where there was no end of work building canals and railroads. No one can tell me it was for love that our father abandoned us in that place, with nothing but a sorry little box of sweets for comfort. His only strength was in his fists, and that had nothing to do with affection.

Miss Eveline would have me believe I'm stronger than all the Kellers put together, but what if I want to love Helen too? Am I to believe there can't be strength and love together?

My chest heaves, and my heart turns over. Her family's lenience is no more use to Helen than that box of candy was to me. No matter what the Kellers and I think of each other, if I leave Helen now, I'm no better than my own father. The thought of her shut up in her own mind, like Jimmie and I were cast aside in Tewksbury, makes me tearful with shame.

“I … I'll stay,” I whisper.

Miss Eveline sighs with relief and closes her eyes for a moment. “Now, you go upstairs and rest,” she says, patting my knee. “Give Arthur and Kate some time with the child. You can start new tomorrow.”

The mention of the captain sends a flash of fear through me. “But our agreement?”

“Arthur will keep his word.” She squeezes my arm and grins. “It looks as though he does have some shame after all.”

I don't see Helen again until breakfast. When I arrive in the dining room, she's already in her place. Both the captain and Mrs. Keller say, “Good morning,” with lowered eyes and here-and-gone smiles. James cuts his eyes at me, saying nothing. Simpson remains oblivious. Only Miss Eveline shows any ease at my presence.

As I take my seat, Helen pulls at my hand. A corner of her napkin is stuffed into the neck of her dress. Tugging my hand, she calls my attention to the new arrangement. I make no objection. She seems pleased and pats herself.

Breakfast begins with deliberate order, like a military parade. Soon, though, Helen's model behavior slows the meal like the final wobbling turns of a top. Conversations start and sputter out each time she demonstrates a new skill. Using a knife and fork together claims absolute silence.

By the end of the meal my cheeks glow apple-bright with smug satisfaction. Pressed tight together, my lips burn to trumpet,
I told you so!
but I manage to keep a handle on my dignity. As we leave the dining room, Helen takes my hand and pats it. My brow crinkles. There's no emotion to it, yet it's different somehow from the way she asks me to spell for her. Mechanically she pats me again.
Slap, slap
. No more to it than the sound of skin against skin.

And yet I wonder.

“Are you trying to make up?” I turn back to the table and pick up a napkin. If her memory carries this far, I wonder what effect a little belated discipline might have.

Upstairs I arrange the objects for Helen's lesson on the table as usual. The cake, however, I place high on the mantel shelf, out of the reach of Helen's hands and keen nose.

When she arrives, Helen notices the missing cake at once. Her hands grope the length of the table, then fly to her mouth. Like a fist, her face tightens into a concentrated bunch. Her consternation draws a snort of amusement from me.

“Try a taste of this instead, my little imp.” Kneeling beside her, I pin the napkin round her neck, then tear it to the floor, shaking my head. She jerks with surprise, but I'm sure she understands my meaning perfectly well. Still, I repeat the performance several times to make my point.

To my surprise, she slaps her own hand two or three times and imitates my shaking head. A corner of my mouth coils into a smile. “About time you disciplined yourself.” Satisfied, I nod, and we return to our lesson as usual.

But Helen's mind refuses to let go so soon. After spelling half the words, she stops suddenly. Her unaccustomed stillness halts me as well. As I watch, her brow constricts. For the first time it dawns on me.
“You sly little thing. Your body stops when your brain stirs, doesn't it?”

While I ponder this, Helen's fingers dance across the tabletop, searching. They close over the napkin like a cat's pounce, making me jump. Pinning it round her neck, she brings a hand to her mouth, then waits, expectant.

Hands on hips, I cock my head and consider her. “Is this an apology, then?” She gestures once more, smacking her lips, too. I slap the heel of my hand between my eyes. “It's the cake you're after, isn't it?” I spell the word, then tap her hand, and she mirrors it back, frantic with excitement. “I suppose this is a proposition—you'll be a good girl for a bite of cake.” Her ingenuity pleases me, but frustration tinges the moment as well. As I retrieve the plate of cake from the mantel, my mind wrestles a simple question:

If her fingers know the word so well, why doesn't her brain grasp the way to use it?

After an uneventful breakfast on Thursday we go outside and watch the men at work. Much as I dreaded returning to Ivy Green, it's good to be part of a household again. Being near people buoys my spirits. Though I keep Helen nearer to me than anyone else, it's a relief to roam freely among the family, instead of sequestering ourselves in the little house.

“Morning, Miss Annie,” one of the stable hands greets us, doffing his cap. I think he's Percy's uncle. “And how is Missy Helen today?”

“Very well, thank you,” I say with a nod, and proceed to the cattle stalls. Helen particularly enjoys currying the horses, but the cows show far more patience with her probing hands. Obstructing Helen's path with subtle movements, I guide her to Ella, the gentlest of the herd.

Helen's clever hands miss nothing. She runs her palms over the entire length of the beast, alternately smoothing and ruffling Ella's hide. Before long the ruminating motion of the animal's jaw piques her interest. Cupping her hands under Ella's chin, Helen follows the rhythmic movement. Soon Helen's jaw rotates in imitation of Ella's, her lips jutting out like fleshy handles. I shake my head and grin.

When she tires of mimicking the cow, Helen explores Ella's head from her chin to the tips of her ears. With a sweep of her arm she takes in the shape of the cow's head, then stops still.

My eyebrow rises. “Are the wheels in that brain turning again?” I ask her.

With a grunt she thumps on Ella's skull, then her own. Impatient with my conversational spelling, she wriggles free of my fingers and pats the back of my hand. The motion is jerky and artificial, as though she's a puppet who can never appear completely real, no matter how skillful the puppeteer.

It's arresting, though, the way she's adopted that movement. She looks for all the world as though she's asking,
What's this called?
Each time I can't help hoping, but the way Helen disregards the words once they've reached her palm makes me sure they mean nothing to her. Her pat is little more than a grunt, to show her desire to have my hands move in their accustomed fashion. I treat her as though she's asking the question, only in hopes that if a day comes when her
brain is truly ready to ask, her fingers will know how to do it.

This time I don't know what to tell her; I've spelled “cow” often enough, and there's nothing new within reach. My hesitation seems to convey my confusion. Groping for me, Helen pats my head, then raps on my fingers. I understand at once.

“H-e-a-d.”

The word seems to evaporate the moment it touches her hand. When I prod her fingers, she spells the word back to me, her face dulled by the task. A lesson springs to life in my mind. None of it is likely to make sense to her—I simply want to give her the chance to notice the new word when it occurs as part of a larger sentence. I move Helen's hand back to Ella.
This is the cow's head,
I spell. Next comes her own body:
This is the girl's head
.

Her interest holds for half a minute, then she returns to the cow. I wince as her palm lands over Ella's eye. The gentle beast only blinks. Helen flinches at the swish of Ella's long lashes, as if a fly has tickled her. Gingerly she reaches back, one finger extended. The brush of the cow's lashes draws a garbled sort of chuckle from Helen's chest. She rubs the pads of her fingers along the tips of Ella's eyelashes, then tries her luck with her own eyes. Wooden faced, she swats at my hand again. This time I know exactly what's cued her.

“E-y-e.” Helen spells it back at my request, and I continue the lesson.
This is the cow's eye. This is the
girl's eye
. Indeed, the oversize orb of her left eye looks much like the cow's.

Oblivious to my lecture, Helen continues exploring Ella's face and body, picking out more resemblances. She bends Ella's neck from side to side as she twists her own neck. Plunking herself on the floor, Helen probes her kneecaps, comparing them with Ella's. All the while she requests no more spelling.

Until she reaches Ella's hooves.

Flummoxed, Helen runs her hands back up the length of the cow's legs, noting the ankle, knee, and shoulder joints. Up and down her own arm she goes, flexing her shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Then each of her finger joints receives a thorough kneading. Returning to the cow, Helen raps her knuckles against Ella's hoof. After a moment's stillness she touches my hand, indicates her wriggling fingers, then slaps at me to spell.