Miss Spitfire (4 page)

Mrs. Keller looks down at me with watery eyes, but her mouth goes hard with conviction. “No. She couldn't do all those things, or communicate at all, without a mind. Helen's still a bright child, Miss Annie. Isn't she?”

Searching for a bit of tact, I flick Helen's cake crumbs to the floor. “Well, she certainly knows how to get what she wants.”

When my trunk arrives, I go out in search of Helen. I find her with Martha Washington on the kitchen steps, a mess of chickens and turkeys swarming thick as mosquitoes round their legs. Helen scatters their feed from a bowl in Martha's arms. Wading in among them, I try to catch Helen's hand, but she slaps me away and lunges for Martha.

The bowl tips.

Chicken feed rains down about our shoes. Helen's face darkens like a thunderhead as she feels the empty bowl.

“Uh-oh,” Martha says, backing away. Even the chickens seem wary. Before Helen can make a fuss, I take her hand and point toward the house with it.

Helen shakes her head.

“She won't follow anybody anywhere,” Martha tells me, “'less you give her a good reason.”

“Is that so?” I snap, annoyed by Martha's knowing tone. When I came to Perkins, the little girls spoke to me that way. Big Annie, they called me when I was put to weaving mats with the kindergarten classes, though I was fourteen years old. I'd sooner eat chicken feed myself than be outdone by a spoiled six-year-old now. “She'll do what I say and nothing else,” I declare, grabbing Helen's other wrist and holding tight, though she struggles almost hard enough to wrench my arms from their sockets.

After some vigorous jostling I see Martha's point—a bit of reasoning might not do any harm, provided I can jar Helen's attention.

Gripping her by the arms, I give Helen a good rough shake. Martha's mouth drops open at my harsh tactics, but I don't care. Judging from the little I've seen of her, the last thing Helen needs is another gentle hand.

My ploy works. Rattled but subdued, Helen appears to have forgotten the spilled feed. With her hands in mine, I trace the shape of a large rectangle in the air. She quiets. I make the trunk shape with her hands again and pat my chest. “Trunk, mine,” I tell her, then point to the house. Quick as a monkey, Helen repeats my gestures. There's a fleeting moment of stillness, then her hands fly to her mouth.
Eat,
she mimes. A
rapid succession of gestures follows:
Rectangle, eat, house.
A thrill runs down my spine as I interpret them. She remembers the treats I promised her yesterday!

I nod. Helen's face narrows, focusing with want. Kicking her way through the turkeys and chickens, she barrels down the steps in the direction I pointed. I dash after her, trying to lead her, but she flings my hand aside and lurches forward, arms outstretched and fingers splayed, groping through the air about her.

Once my trunk is open, Helen's hands prowl through my things like a pair of weasels. Nothing holds her attention for long; there is no fashion parade today. She dumps everything on the floor after a brief inspection, and it's all I can do to keep up with her as I stow each discarded item in the dresser.

Finally one of the doll's hands peeks out among the cloth. I hold my breath as Helen's fingers brush the cool porcelain. Her eyebrows crinkle for an instant, then she paws away the layer of skirts and shirtwaists and snatches the doll into her arms. Though she doesn't smile, a funny sort of delight shows on her face—more like satisfaction than pleasure.

I don't blame her; the doll is a blue-eyed beauty with smooth rosy cheeks, a mop of golden curls, and Laura Bridgman's fine lacework peeping out at the collar and cuffs of her delicate blue dress. A pang of jealousy stings my heart as I watch Helen mechanically
rocking her new baby. Her plaything reminds me too well of the doll I discovered years ago among the Christmas gifts hidden in the parlor of Uncle John and Aunt Stasia's house. For weeks I coveted that doll, visiting her in every spare moment, longing for Christmas, when I was sure she'd be mine. But when Christmas came, my much-petted darling went to one of Aunt Stasia's little girls.

The doll in her arms, Helen scrambles over to me and pats first the doll, then herself with my hand.

It, me,
is all the gestures say, but I fill in the blanks.
This mine?
she seems to be asking.

“Well, my little woman, this is as good a place to begin as any. Your first word will be ‘doll.'” I take her hand, and instead of repeating her gestures, I form my fingers into the letter
d
. Helen's fingers spider over mine, exploring the shape I've made. When she seems satisfied, I make an
o,
then an
l,
then another
l
. This is the way Dr. Howe taught Laura, and the way I shall teach Helen. Every letter has a sign, every object a name. I point to the doll, point to Helen, then nod.
D-o-l-l, this, yours, yes.

She blinks blankly and feels my hand, so I make the letters over again.
D-o-l-l
. I put my hand over hers and tap her fingers.
Your turn,
I'm telling her.

The letters come slowly but accurately; Helen's fingers curl in my hand like a small, warm shell.
D-o-l-l,
she spells, then points to it as I did. My heart wants to swell with pride, but I have to be cautious. To her, this
could be little more than a game of monkey see, monkey do.

“Let's see if you can ask for it by name.” I slip the doll out of her arms and try to spell the word into her hand. Her temper flares like a brushfire before I can form the first letter. In an instant Helen flies at me, kicking and swinging her fists. I catch one of her hands and try to bend her fingers into the letters, but she rakes the nails of her other hand over my face. Pain explodes against my eyelids.

“You devil!” I shriek. Ignoring my throbbing eyes, I tackle her, wrapping my arms round her waist. When Helen feels herself hoisted from the floor, she erupts into an extravagant tantrum, snapping and snarling like a wolverine.

Now what?
I wonder, stranded in the middle of the room with a raging savage dangling from my arms. I'm tempted to dump Helen into my trunk and sit on the lid, but satisfying as that might be, it could cost me my job. And I can't expect Mr. Anagnos to find me another—he hardly knew what to do with me during summer holidays. On the other hand, if she takes another stab at my eyes, it might well be worth it.

Instead I heave her into one of the rocking chairs by the window and pin her down with my knee across her lap. Grabbing her hands, I cross her arms straitjacket-style over her chest. “I'd like to see you try that again,” I growl into her face. Not about to be undone, Helen
squirms and bucks under my weight so I can't keep the chair still, but I refuse to let her go.

Twenty minutes later I'm nearly exhausted, but Helen shows no sign of giving up—she has the temperament and tenacity of a sewer rat. Finally it occurs to me that she'll continue the struggle unless I do something to turn the current of her mind. The only thing I can think to do is bribe her with a piece of cake.

To distract her, I pull the rocker as far forward as it will come, then let go, flinging her back toward the wall as I bolt across the floor. The move buys me enough time to slip out the door and lock it behind me. From the hall I hear her wild cries of dismay as she barges through the room, searching for me and her doll, which I clutch against my heaving chest. Her voice sounds hollow and unfocused, as though even her throat is uncivilized. Shuddering, I head down the stairs.

The doll still in my arms, I burst into the kitchen. “I need a piece of cake!”

Viny gives me a queer look, which only fuels my impatience. “Supper'll be ready in an hour, Miss Annie,” she says.

Brushing past her, I take the knife myself and carve out a large slab. “It's for Helen,” I retort. “She's raising the roof in there.” Cake in hand, I march out the door.

From the back of the house I hear Helen careening
through the room above. When I reach the bedroom door, I cross myself before turning the key. “Saint Christopher, protect her,” I mutter, wiping at my running eyes, which still broil with pain.

Reluctantly as if I'm entering a lion's den, I open the door. Sensing the vibrations of my footsteps, Helen tears across the room toward me. For a terrifying moment I wish I had the wire mask and leather gloves Dr. Howe used against his fiercest deaf-blind pupil. I have only a slice of cake for protection.

Tossing the doll to the bed, I wave the cake under Helen's nose and fill her groping hand with the letters
c-a-k-e
. At the scent she turns wild with want, trying to climb my frame and reach the cake, but I hold it high over my head and pat her hand.

“Tell me what you want, little savage.”

Her fingers flutter out the letters, and I hand over the cake. She crams it into her mouth, thinking, I suppose, that I might steal the treat away from her. When she's finished, I take the doll from the bed and graze its silky curls across Helen's cheek. Again she lunges for it but finds only my hand spelling
d-o-l-l
into hers. Grudgingly she spells
d-o-l
. I wait a moment, then slap the other
l
into her palm and relinquish the doll. Like a thief, she snatches the doll and runs from the room, smack into Mrs. Keller and her sewing basket.

As they collide, Mrs. Keller's hand drops over her daughter's. At her touch Helen's fingers jerk reflexively, spelling
d-o-l-l,
as pretty as you please. Mrs.
Keller stands thunderstruck, for the finger signs look identical to the letters they represent. The basket falls from her arm. “Miss Annie, what is this?” she gasps.

“Monkey chatter,” I tell her, rubbing my forehead, which suddenly aches. “She doesn't have any idea what she's doing.”

“But that was a word.”

“No. It's nothing to her.”

“She's holding the doll, Miss Annie. How can she not know?”

I sigh, searching for a way to explain it without disappointing her. “She's a parrot. I've taught her the letters, but she doesn't realize there's a link between them and the doll any more than a bird knows that ‘Polly want a cracker' means, well, anything at all. A parrot only understands that mimicking the right noises produces a treat. There's no more to it than that.”

Mrs. Keller frowns at my comparison. “Then what good are those letters?”

“If Helen can feel words, like this”—I take Mrs. Keller's hand and spell out the words as I speak—“the way a baby hears them day in and day out, one day she'll discover these letters are more than shapes. She'll realize signs have meaning, that they're symbols for the world around her.”

“But what about the signs she's already invented? They're her own private language.”

“I wish they were,” I tell her, suppressing a
halfhearted laugh. “Her pantomimes are a mixed blessing—they show me her mind is alive, but they'll never be enough. What about the things she can't touch?” Mrs. Keller doesn't seem to grasp my meaning. “Imagine describing the difference between the taste of a peach and the taste of an apple with nothing but your hands.”

She nods, and her arms encircle Helen. To my surprise, I feel a nip at my heart at the sight of Helen submitting so willingly to her mother's affection. “Her thoughts are trapped in her mind,” Mrs. Keller says.

“They are,” I tell her. “If you call a wordless sensation a thought.”

I cup Mrs. Keller's troubled hand over mine and spell as I speak, hoping the shapes will soothe her. “But words, Mrs. Keller, words bridge the gaps between two minds. Words are a miracle.”

Fighting to fall asleep that night, I curse myself for speaking of miracles with Mrs. Keller. After what I saw at supper tonight, I'm afraid nothing will draw Helen's mind from its darkness.

Her table manners are appalling. Like a grazing animal, she wanders from plate to plate, plunging her hands into whatever takes her fancy. We may as well eat from a trough, the way Helen mingles our food together into mash.

Each of the Kellers handled Helen's foraging through their plate differently, telling me volumes about their attitude toward her. James did his best to maintain an air of cool indifference, though a few times I caught sight of him swiping her fingers out of his supper. Simpson enjoyed the commotion Helen caused, for it left his own sloppiness overlooked. Although Helen never touched it, Mrs. Keller insisted on assembling a plate of the choicest morsels for her daughter, while the captain pressed on with business as usual, telling stories and pontificating on the glorious days of the Confederacy as though nothing out of the ordinary were going on right under his nose. His sister, Miss Eveline, doted on Helen, petting the child like a kitten as she wandered by and feeding Helen from her own hands.

I hardly know which of them is worse.

The sight of Helen's dirty hands reaching for my food made me cringe. Foul memories of Tewksbury's own dining-room bully dredged themselves up inside me, the way scum surfaces on a bubbling pot of lye: Beefy, with his great, meaty hands—hands he often tried to put where they had no business when he was in charge of the women's eating hall. The meals he served looked just as appetizing as Helen's handiwork.

Mrs. Keller's cooking is pure magic, but between remembrances of Beefy and Helen's insistence on turning my supper to slop, I hardly swallowed a bite. I longed to fling her away, but under her parents' eyes I felt trapped between responsibility and obedience. Now, lying here miserable with heat and hunger, I'm fuming at the thought of letting her go unpunished.