Miss Spitfire (7 page)

I hear the sound before I understand what's happening.

Thwack!

The table topples onto its side, spilling my lesson over the floor. Helen's booted foot swings gaily in the space where the table stood. As usual, she doesn't smile, but a hint of smugness plays across her face. I don't care for it in the least.
I will if I want to, and I won't if I don't,
that look says—the very thing I said to the first teacher who tried to command me.

I give her a wry half smile as my hand lands on her ankle with a
snap
. “If I didn't know better, I'd think my teachers had sent you to avenge them,” I tell her, stilling her boot and resisting the temptation to squeeze until I hear the shoe leather creak. “Think you can get the better of me, do you? Not today, my little spitfire. Not today.” She squirms against the pressure of my grip. After a moment I release her.

I right the table and replace all the objects. Helen reaches out for an instant to feel the table, then crosses her arms in a sulk.

“That's right, you. There's no stopping me today.” I reach into the crook of her elbow, grabbing for one of her hands. She hunches up like a turtle, clamping them up under her armpits. Her resistance only stokes my resolve.

Crouching on my knees beside the chair, I lunge in with both hands to wrestle one of her arms free. She grunts like a bull, clutching her hands to her sides. Suddenly all her defiance falls away, and I hold one wrist in my hand like a trophy. I don't realize my mistake.

Her other fist flies like lightning. I hear a
crack
inside my head and think for a moment of thunder, until something in my mouth distracts me. Something small and cool as the hand of a china doll.

A tooth.
My
tooth!

I slap a hand over my mouth and hold my breath, waiting for the pain. There is none. Only a slow-waking ache in my jaw. I open my mouth and gasp for a breath.

Searing cold slices across the broken tooth's edge. Tears boil up in my eyes, and my throat swells, but I can't cry, for fear of the scalding pain. I press both palms to my mouth and try to breathe slowly through my nose. Brassy-tasting blood runs from a split inside my lip.

I stumble toward Helen, and she scrambles away, warned by the clumsy jolts of my feet. “Come back here, you beast!” I cry after her. The exposed toothstump throbs with every word. A sob breaks out of my chest, slowing me for an instant as I stagger out of the room and stampede, moaning with each step, down the stairs.

I'll demolish that child. No one has hit me since I
learned to fight my own father, and I'm not about to let anyone start.

I wheel round the banister, hell-bent on getting my hands on Helen. Drawn by the pounding of my feet, Mrs. Keller appears in the parlor doorway, her face a question. “Miss Annie?”

“Where is she?” I snarl through the fist pressed against my mouth.

Her glance darts toward the back door, but the fire in my eyes keeps her from answering. “What is it?” she asks. Her composure amazes me.

“Where is Helen?”

My tone puts her on guard. “Miss Annie, what is it?”

“What is it? I'll show you exactly what it is!” With a wincing flourish I spit a messy gob of tooth and blood into my hand and thrust my palm under her nose. “There! Your lovely little girl did that to me. Now, where is she?”

Mrs. Keller pales. “Miss Annie, please. You must consider …” She hesitates a moment, uneasy at the force of my anger. “Helen doesn't know any better.”

“That won't be so when I'm done with her.”

My threat makes her lips stiffen. “It's hardly fair to punish her for something she doesn't understand.” She lays a hand over the newel post, subtly blocking my path to the door. The poise I admire so much in her suddenly infuriates me.

“You want to talk about fair when I'm standing
here with a mouthful of blood and a gap in my jaw? I'll tell you something, Mrs. Keller, there'll be no ‘fair' in this house while that she-devil runs loose!”

Her eyes lower for an instant, but her body doesn't budge. “I'll have Viny bring in some ice and rags for your mouth,” she says, meeting my gaze at last. Frost tinges her blue eyes; the corners of her mouth waver.

I shudder as my fists clench, digging the broken tooth into my palm. My voice rasps, “I'll be in my room.”

She looks me over once more, then turns and hurries down the hall toward the back door. Once, she sends a nervous glance over her shoulder. I haven't moved an inch, though my fist grips tighter and tighter round my ruined tooth, until I think my knuckles will burst open. When the door shuts at last, I scream and fling the bloody handful down the hall behind her.

The sound rips through my jaw, leaving me in a panting heap on the bottom step. All I can do is sit with my hand cupped over my lips, sucking cool air through my nose to warm in my lungs before I let it touch my throbbing mouth. The feeling is as raw as my memories.

•   •   •

The lamp gutters low, and my mother moans in the bed. My brothers and sisters are asleep, but in the next room I hear voices, their edges dulled by drink. My father's is one of them. Roused by the wavering melody,
I grope my way out of bed. Inside the doorway I stop in surprise when my hands blunder into a feathered lump hanging from the wall. My fingers find a fanned tail and scaly claws—a turkey! Around the table I make out the shapes of four men, joking and singing to the tune of “Seven Drunken Nights.” I hear the slap of cards on the table, and I know they're gambling. Up to the table I go, determined that my father should win. I put out my hand to touch one of the cards, and someone slaps it away. My temper flares, but another hairy hand pats mine, lingering a moment too long. Someone sniggers across the table, and I yank my fingers out from under the heavy paw. I scurry back to my mother's bedside, but she's too ill even to toss or turn.

The night wears on and the lamp flickers lower. Before long the men are guffawing and making up their own verses to the song. In the bed my mother whimpers and cries softly as their language grows more powerful and the house begins to rattle with the stomping of their feet. “Annie,” she whispers, “ask them to go. Please.”

Back in the next room, I creep to my father's elbow. “Dad, Mam says would the men please go home.” My father's hand explodes across my cheek, and the group lets out a raucous laugh. One of the men sways up from his chair and falls to the floor.
I hope he dies,
I fume to myself, but he wobbles to his feet, pulls the turkey from the wall, and staggers out the door. Away they stumble, one by one, and I hear them calling,
“Merry Christmas!” through the icy wind. At last the lamp goes out, and I vow no one will hit me again.

•   •   •

With a sigh I turn and climb the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail. When I'm nearly to the top, the light fixture mounted on the ceiling of the hall catches my eye. Up close like this I can see for the first time a design frosted into the glass globe. Leaning over the rail, I squint, and my straining eyes widen in disbelief.

Plump children frolic among the trees etched into its surface. One of them is blindfolded.

Blindman's bluff.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. In this house, of all places, a game of blindman's bluff carved into the light itself.

I feel their eyes on me when I arrive at breakfast next morning. I don't like it. The day feels strange enough already. As soon as I woke, something in my room felt different. When I looked about, I saw Helen's bed hadn't been slept in. It was easy to guess she'd spent the night downstairs with her parents. A harder question is why. I doubt Helen had any choice in the matter. I'd like to think the Kellers kept her away out of courtesy, to let me recuperate undisturbed, but seeing their faces round the table, I'm sure the truth is different.

Maybe they were afraid—afraid of me. The idea makes the swarm of hunger in my stomach sour into dread. Do Helen's parents really think I'd hurt her?
What do you expect them to think,
I sputter to myself,
after you stood there with a fistful of gore, baying for blood?

I nod good morning and take my place at the table. Helen, rumpled and tousled as ever, sits alongside her mother. Avoiding the sight of her, I turn my attention to breakfast. The white tablecloth is so bright it stabs at my sore eyes, but the smell of the food overpowers my unsavory thoughts. There is sausage and eggs, fresh bread, canned sliced fruit, and Mrs. Keller's delectable homemade preserves. The coffee, piping hot, is already poured, and a frothy pitcher of fresh milk stands ready.

Helen begins to squirm before Captain Keller finishes the blessing. This I overlook. Soon, though, I can't help notice every platter of food passes by Mrs. Keller and Helen before it comes to me. Helen gets first pick of every dish. I might tolerate this if she actually ate the food on her plate. Instead Helen begins to wander like a stray animal from chair to chair, dipping her hands into whatever pleases her. She has no limits: plates, serving dishes—even the sugar bowl, the butter dish, and the jars of honey and preserves are fair game. For a while she settles in with a pot of blackberry jam, scooping out great fingerfuls, then slurping away like a bear at a honey tree. The sound makes me cringe.

When she's had her fill of jam, Helen circles the table again, sampling from each plate. Blackberry seeds dot the bruise-colored stains on her fingers. Soon she's greasy with sausage from Miss Eveline's
plate and dripping with gooey syrup from her father's sliced pears. At Simpson's place she swipes her hand over his slice of bread, smearing away a layer of honey and crumbs.

My plate comes next.

As I watch her filthy hands grope toward me, trailing a path of muck along the tablecloth, the ghost of a Tewksbury voice hisses in my ears.
Beggars, thieves, whores, and what do you expect?

Beefy.

I can't stomach the thought of Helen's hands in my breakfast any more than I could stand Beefy's misshapen fingers anywhere near me while I choked down his intolerable food. Soggy bread and rancid butter. Eternal corned beef and gray, lumpy stew. My plate will look no better than Beefy's cooking when Helen finishes with it.

Her hand darts in front of me and lands—
smack!
—in my mound of eggs. Like a spider drawing up its legs, she pulls her fingers into a fist, dragging a pile of food into her grasp. The yellow bits slither out between her knuckles.

I stare at the hand-shaped hole in my plate, and the anger dances along my spine. Do they really believe I'll swallow this, too?
What do you expect?
Beefy howls in my head.
Broiled chicken and lobster, I suppose, and cream cheese from the dairy of heaven!

But this isn't Tewksbury. I'm an employee here, not a beggar, nor any other class of degenerate. Grasping
my fork with a trembling hand, I cut away every trace of the eggs Helen touched, and shove the desecrated pile to the edge of my plate.

Before she rounds the table again, I set my arms alongside my plate like a schoolgirl blocking a nosy desk mate. When Helen feels my arms in her way, her eyebrows scrunch together. She tries to reach beside me, over me, under me. I block her each time. Perturbed, she scoots past, heading for her mother's unguarded dish. I look about. Only Simpson has noticed my defense. He watches me with a glint in his eye, as if he senses excitement to come.

Once round the table Helen goes, gathering more greasy crumbs. My concentration on her distorts the Kellers' oblivious conversation into goose chatter. The closer she steps, the more violent her movements become. Something's agitated her. Only Simpson and I know what it is.

As she approaches, I feel I'm being stalked. The family may act as if Helen is a beloved pet fit for spoiling and indulgence, but I see through them. She's no better than a wolf, feeding on their fear.

But I've survived too much to be afraid of anything a six-year-old might do to me.

I catch her hand in midair and place it on the table. She moves to my other side and reaches again. I put her hand on her own plate. She rushes at me, trying to bowl me out of my chair, but I brace myself and meet her charge. Again I grab her hands and slap them
down onto her plate. She grunts and whirls on me, both hands upraised.

Mrs. Keller rises and starts for Helen. Her face wears that soft, shameful look, and I know she'll do nothing but take Helen aside and ply her with cake if I give her the chance.

“No!” I cry over Helen's grunts. Across the table, Miss Eveline gasps at my impudence. A low whistle sounds. I look up and see James, eyebrows raised, and something like a smile on his face. Narrowing my eyes, I sneer back at him, flashing the gap in my jaw. Dodging her fists, I grab Helen by the arms and grapple with her.

“Miss Sullivan,” the captain's voice warns as Helen begins to howl. “I don't care what you do in Boston, this is not how we treat children in this house.”

Beefy's final shout in my brain echoes Captain Keller's sentiment:
One more word and I'll throw you out!

“When this beast starts acting like a child, I'll be happy to change my ways,” I retort, defying both of them. Simpson hoots with laughter, clapping a hand over his mouth. Captain Keller fixes him with a freezing look. “Let her walk all over you if you like, but I'll have no more of this,” I shout over Helen's caterwauling.

“I shall not permit anyone to raise a hand to my daughter, Miss Sullivan,” the captain declares.

“Indeed! You'd sooner see your family and your guests cower like beaten dogs before her.”

“She's only six, Miss Annie,” Mrs. Keller implores, “surely you don't expect—”