Miss Spitfire (6 page)

At last the supper bell rings, and I surrender. Appeased by the sudden stillness of my fingers, Helen allows me to lead her into the house. As we near the dining room, Helen's nose comes alive, sniffing as though she's bent on tearing every scent from the air. But I march her past the dining room and the Kellers' bewildered faces, straight up the stairs to the wash-bowl on my dresser.

I can hear Captain Keller calling after me to come down for supper, but I pay no mind. If Helen's going to paw through my food, I'm at least going to see that it's with clean hands. As far as I can tell, she hasn't washed in at least two days, and her fingers have been in everything from the rose garden to the cow stalls this afternoon. Besides, I'd like to see the Kellers' faces when I present them with a well-scrubbed Helen.

“Miss Annie?” Mrs. Keller's voice drifts up the stairs behind me. “Are you all right?”

“Only a minute,” I shout back.

I put Helen's hands on the pitcher and wait. Nothing. I dip my hand in the water and dribble a little over her fingers.

“Wah-wah.” The syllables spurt from her hollow throat as automatically as a dog challenges an intruder. The wordlike sound shocks me for a moment, but Helen's blank face tells me it's nothing more than a lingering reaction, just as Mrs. Keller said.

W-a-t-e-r,
I spell into one hand. She flicks the water at me and tries to back away.

“Think again, little witch,” I tell her, pressing her between my body and the dresser. “You'll wash whether you like it or not.” Clamping her hands against the pitcher, I force her to pick it up and pour the water into the bowl.

“Miss Sullivan? Miss Sullivan! Supper is on the table.” The captain's voice is more substantial than his wife's, but I've no time to answer. Plunging Helen's hands into the water, I scrub for both of us. She does her squirming best to hinder my efforts, dousing me to the elbows. When the captain comes in, I'm having my revenge with a cake of soap and Helen's face.

“What is the meaning of this?” he thunders. Startled, I spin round. Helen twists away, still dripping, and flings her wet self into her father's arms.

I stand there, bewildered and blinking. “Meaning?

There's no meaning. We're washing for supper.” He looks at my sodden shirtwaist, all the while stroking Helen's heaving back. “Are clean hands worth so many tears from an afflicted child?” His voice carries genuine distress. For a moment I wonder if the captain himself isn't about to cry.

My insides curdle. I don't know what to say.

Without a word he picks Helen up. She wraps her legs round his waist and buries her face into his shoulder. With a snap that makes me jump, Captain Keller yanks a hand towel from the dresser top.

“We've seen enough tears in this house,” he mutters. In the doorway he turns, mopping Helen's face, and says, slowly and deliberately, “Supper is
served,
Miss Sullivan.”

Rooted to the spot, I watch him go. The soap goes slimy in my hand. Here I thought they'd be pleased, and Captain Keller acts as though I've done nothing but rub salt in their wounds. My lips tremble. I don't know if it's because of the captain's harsh words or the sorrowful look in his eyes. Below me I can hear the scrape of the dining-room chairs on the floor as the Kellers nudge themselves up to the table. Then, an awkward silence.

They're waiting for me. I don't know if I can face them, red eyed and dripping, a failure once again. I'd much rather shrink into the rocker with Helen's doll. But if I want to keep my position, I have no choice.

Helen's beaten me again.

With a heavy sigh I press my eyes into the cool elbow of my damp sleeve, then head down the stairs.

The next day I rise early, determined to make some headway. Washing for supper may not have been enough to please them, but I'll dare the Kellers not to be impressed when they wake to find Helen dressed, combed, and washed.

First I dress myself and creep down to the kitchen. Viny is already preparing breakfast in the half-light. “I need cake,” I tell her, “and plenty of it.”

She gives me a dubious look. “You gonna spoil that child's appetite,” she chides.

I fix her with a hard stare. “The last thing I intend to do is spoil that little bully,” I inform her. “And as for her appetite, Helen's more likely to whistle ‘Dixie' than refuse a bite to eat.”

Viny laughs to herself and shakes her head. “You sure right about that, Miss Annie,” she says, heading for the platter. Her laughter makes me strangely confident. I smile as she hands over a generous plateful. “I'll bake another this afternoon.” She winks. “You keep Missy Helen from cryin', and Cap'n won't give you a bit a trouble.”

I cock my head and squint to make out her expression.

“I hear what I hear, is all,” she replies, turning to her biscuit dough. “You really got her washed up yesterday?”

“I did.”

“Humph,” she grunts, “ain't that somethin'!”

I can't keep from grinning as I hurry back to my room. Helen is still asleep, so I set the cake on the floor between the dresser and her bed, then lay everything I need within reach. Dress and pinafore; stockings, high buttoned boots, and buttonhook; soap, brush, and towel. If I can wake her gently, I'm certain this will work. Perhaps by the end of the day I'll have won over more than Viny.

Kneeling beside her bed, I run my fingers over her hair. It's in dire need of a brushing but surprisingly soft. Delicate brown tendrils curl round her face. I could wind them into ringlets like the doll's, if she'd let me. The thought makes me smile. I lean in to kiss her cheek, and she stirs. One of my fingertips drags through a snarl of hair. With a jerk she sits upright,
throwing her hands out to see what's disturbed her. She catches my hand, gives it a sniff, then snorts and tosses it aside.

“You're not so sweet-smelling yourself,” I grumble, reaching for the cake with one hand and trying to hold her still with the other. She kicks free of the bedclothes and tries to scramble past me.

“Oh, no you don't.” I spell
c-a-k-e
into her hand, then pop a morsel into her mouth. While she chews, I grab a stocking and hold it up for her to feel. “S-t-o-c-k-i-n-g,” I tell her, then slip the end over her toes. She wriggles like a garter snake, but I don't give in until I have one leg covered, then the other. In between I placate her with more cake.

And so it goes. Before I put each item on her, I spell the name of it into her hand. At every step she resists, but if I keep feeding her, she stays reasonably quiet.

Until the boots. When she feels the leather, her patience breaks. As I'm spelling
b-o-o-t,
Helen launches the shoe into the corner, where it lands with a thud, scuffing the wall as it falls. Undaunted, I pick up the other boot and jam it onto her foot. Not about to be undone herself, Helen rolls across the floor, kicking, while I fetch the first boot. Then comes the buttonhook. She twists and claws at my face, forcing me to shut my eyes, but I wasn't half blind most of my life for nothing—I've been able to fasten a pair
of high buttoned boots without looking since I was a wee thing.

Next I try heaving her over to the washbowl. But she refuses to stand. If I don't hold her upright, she collapses like a rag doll.

“So that's the way you want to do it?” I hiss at her. “Grand.”

Leaving Helen where she lies, I lather up the little towel, then plant one foot on either side of her. “Think you've won, do you?” I drop a chunk of cake into her mouth to shush her. Before she can consider sitting up, I kneel over her, straddling her so my weight pins her to the floor. In two swift moves I grab each of her hands and wedge them between my knees and her sides.

“Make a fool of me, will you,” I pant, and scrub until her face gleams pink from the rubbing, then red from her temper. She flails, grunts, and sputters. Her bellowing cry, “Wah-wah,” sends cake crumbs flying into my face and her hair, but I don't care—her hair is next on my list, and washing my own face will be a joy after this.

W-a-s-h,
I spell with deep satisfaction when I free her hands and scrub them, too. I can hardly wait to see the Kellers' faces when they see their girl shined up like a new penny.

Her hair is another matter entirely. I can't very well run a brush through it while she's lying down.
After some grappling we end up sitting one in front of the other, my legs wrapped round her waist. I clamp a hand over her mouth and chin to keep her from howling, then set to work with the brush.

It's tedious work. Even with my legs restraining her, Helen thrashes so it's impossible for me to do anything but tear the brush through her hair. A sickening rip accompanies each stroke. In the end I make a concession: Any more brushing and Helen's tearful morning will be impossible to hide from the captain. Already I hear stirrings in the rooms below me.

Satisfied as I'm going to be, I turn Helen loose. She fairly rockets down the stairs. Paying her no mind, I tend to my rumpled hair and dress. Before I leave the room, I glance to where the Perkins doll sits propped against my pillow, smiling her coy china smile. I grin back. “She looks as lovely as you now, doesn't she, dear heart? Won't Captain and Mrs. Keller be pleased?”

When I reach the dining room, my smile fades. The place is in shambles. Amid the fragments of a large serving dish Helen sits stuffing her face with scrambled eggs. Mrs. Keller stands beside an upturned chair, holding baby Mildred high at her shoulder, while the captain rubs at his shin, wincing. Simpson is wide eyed; James, frosty as ever.

My heart sinks. I hardly need ask what's happened. None of their eyes accuse me, but I know. This is all my fault. The quiet is horrible, but Viny's voice is
somehow worse when she speaks, for I know that she knows too.

“Give the baby here, Miss Kate,” she says, turning the chair over for Mrs. Keller. “I'll put her down to rock.”

“Viny—,” Captain Keller begins, but she cuts him off, nodding.

“Yessir, Cap'n, I know. More eggs. But somebody'd better sweep up that broken china before Missy Helen cuts her fingers to ribbons,” she says.

Grateful for something to do, I drop to my knees and fish through the mess for bits of the broken dish. “You go on,” I tell Viny. “I'll take care of this.”

Mrs. Keller sighs and sits down. “That was my last serving bowl from this set,” she murmurs.

“The pieces are large, Mrs. Keller,” I offer. “Perhaps a little glue?”

That same tired smile appears. “No, Miss Annie. It's too far gone. Some things just aren't worth the trouble it takes to bring them back.”

Tears prickle at my eyes. I turn back to the floor to hide my face. I wanted so much to please them. I worked so hard, and for what? Even if they noticed how fine I had Helen looking, they'll never remember after this.

I can hardly look at them. The words sizzle in my head, and I want to shout at them,
If Helen were a seeing child, you'd expect me to turn her over my knee for the trouble she's caused!

But how can I? With Mrs. Keller looking as broken as her china bowl, and the captain ready to present me with a one-way ticket to Boston if I lay a hand on his poor little girl, how can I afford to give Helen even a taste of the discipline she needs? It seems nothing I do comes out right.

But in my heart I know what's right for Helen: obedience, love, and language. Come what may and hell to pay, I'll find a way to give her all three.

I start with obedience.

After dinner I gather a few objects for a lesson and arrange them at the table in front of the window upstairs. In spite of yesterday's fiasco I'm not willing to give up on regular lessons yet. A schedule—and with it, structure—shall be Helen's first step toward obedience. Still, I'm going to start small: “doll,” “beads,” and “card” are enough for today. If nothing else, I intend to teach her who's in charge.

Armed with a bit of cake, I go downstairs to fetch Helen. I find her in the parlor, rocking a much-abused rag doll in little Mildred's cradle. She moves the cradle with the same fervor she showed the butter churn two mornings ago. If the poor doll had a brain, it'd be addled into cottage cheese by now. Thinking to appease her, I put the hunk of cake into Helen's right hand and grasp her left one to lead her up the steps.

God above! You'd think I'd tried to drag her up by her toes, the way she fusses—clawing, kicking, and finally going limp and dangling by an arm.

“That's enough of that,” I growl, releasing her hand. She drops like a sack of coal and scuttles back to the parlor. Hot on her heels, I follow and grab her by the arm. She twists and gropes for anything—cradle, doorframe, banister—to brace herself against, but it does her no good. When we reach the stairs, I stop only long enough to hoist her up under my arm, balance her against my hip like an upturned baby, and haul her up the steps.

I plunk her, panting, into the chair and spell
s-i-t
. I tap her hand, but she refuses to repeat the word back to me. More to my surprise, after her tussle over the trip upstairs, she doesn't move at all.

“Is it the silent treatment, then?” The absurdity of the question hits me, and I laugh aloud. “Be a silent witch if you want. I can do the talking for both of us.” I suppose it's every bit as absurd of me to speak aloud to her. Ridiculous or not, I can't see the use in muzzling myself for hours on end simply because she can't hear. Besides, I've never been inclined toward holding my tongue.

Guiding her movements, I make Helen feel the doll with one hand as I try to spell the word into the other. She yanks her closed fist away, shoving it into her lap.
I slap my own hand over her clenched fingers and pull her arm toward me.