What Is Visible: A Novel (28 page)

T
he breeze from the pines dries the sweat trickling down my back as we walk to the river, but by the time we are on the bank, I am growing sticky again. It seems ridiculous to be wearing a corset and petticoat, much less the heavy ceremonial robes, but Mama insisted I shine in my full respectable ladyhood for this occasion. She has made me a new white muslin dress with satin trimmings. Of course, I helped; no one can thread a needle quick as I can. I can thread even the finest needle by placing the twisted thread and the eye on the very tip of my tongue. Every day at Perkins I stop by the girls’ afternoon sewing class and thread their needles for them. Wonder would anything get made there without me.

This is the most important day of my life, the most important choice I have ever made, and I have never been so nervous. I have been over and over all the instructions with Pastor Herrick (Pastor Hyland has gone off to fight the rebels), and he has found me sound of spirit and ready for baptism and membership into the Hanover Baptist Church, the church at which my grandfather and my uncle also preached. I am being born again into my faith and the faith of my family. It is all right that none of the Howes, whom I’ve always considered my other family, are here to support me. I respect their religious choices, and yet they refuse to respect mine, as if I am not capable, spiritually or emotionally, of choosing the best vehicle to transport me heavenward. But how I do wish Doctor was here to behold me at my bravest moment—would he not be proud of his little dove in spite of himself?—and my dearest Wightie, who has helped in ushering me toward this day. And if Kate and Laura could watch, then my blessings would be complete.

Mama holds my right arm, Papa my left. I am so thrilled I am finally doing something that makes Papa happy, though he has postponed the ceremony twice, fearing that Doctor would not allow me to return to Perkins if I went through with it. But now he is at peace also with my decision and has not even brought up the fact that I’m still no closer to speaking than a donkey. I know my darling Mary is here, holding court with the other angels above the trees as they wait to applaud me. But it is not for them I come; it is for Jesus Christ, to be baptized in the Holy Spirit. I know that this has already happened in my heart, but the baptism will serve to mark the victory for all. I am still frightened of the water, of having my whole head held under, no matter how many times I have tried to meditate on the moment of immersion. There is nothing left but to do it.

As Mama helps me off with my robe and slippers, I realize that all gathered will probably see the cuts I made last night in remembrance of the nails hammered into my Lord, the greatest sacrifice I have ever given of my body. I knew better than to mark my hands, so I only carved my feet and one a bit deeper in my left side, where the Roman soldier pierced Him with a sword. That one I have covered with a plaster so that the blood won’t leak through my dress, but I had forgotten about taking off my shoes. Doubtless I have alarmed them all, but this is no time for an explanation. All I have time to tap into Mama’s hand is “No worry” before Reverend Herrick takes me from Papa like a bride, and the ground changes beneath my feet, tiny wet pebbles wobbling between my toes. The river’s first lick is icy and I shudder, but I will not turn back. The freezing water slides up my ankles, then soaks my hem, as we walk slowly forward in absolute faith and trust. When the river is up to my waist, we stop, and I try to imagine what we look like to the parishioners and family on the shore: a woman in white, no longer young, a green ribbon tied over her eyes, her brown hair parted in the middle and bunned low, and a tall man with a crooked nose dressed all in black, hat still on, as he places his long-fingered hand on her head, blessing her in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And then I am going down and time stops.

At first, all is dark, as I am accustomed, but then a cool blue light rushes in, and I see the water undulating around my outstretched hands, the brown reeds below bobbing between my bare calves, my skirts aswirl. My hands and feet glow, pearlescent wonders in the new and moving universe. I cannot breathe, but I can see! A fish―what I recognize as a fish from the shape―small and iridescently scaled, swims up to me, close to my chest. Is this the Holy Spirit entering? No, it swims away, tail flashing. I want to stay down here where all life suddenly exists and I am fully part of it, but then I feel the reverend’s hands tugging me upward. I resist, bending my knees toward the bottom, my arms thrashing against his. But he is stronger than I am, and I am pulled up, up, up toward the surface of the water, the light ribboned through it as I rise. Just as I reach the luminescent crown, just as my face is fully bathed in the light, I explode from the river, and all is black again. I gasp, fighting for my breath, and look down, but again meet blackness. I shake my head out like a dog and reach for my shade. Still there. It was never off when I was under, so how could I see? Was this vision the Lord’s gift to me for just that one moment, plunged into His natural world, His sign that I have done the right thing and that I am now one with Him? I will never know.

We wade through the water, and it leaves me, inch by inch, until my toes are again on the rocks. I am shivering violently, and Mama takes me in her arms, and then the pastor and his wife. Papa leans in and gives me a little pat. Mama covers me with a shawl so the crowd won’t see my wet dress stuck to me. Would any find it alluring? How can I have such sinful thoughts after my baptism! As we climb up the bank toward the carriage, I think of the flat, dark eyes of the fish, so close I could’ve poked them out. If He was going to grant me a brief miracle, then instead of the blasted fish, I would rather have seen the sun and sky or my mother’s face, or more than anything, my own. God is a strange and mysterious master, and I no doubt am a strange and mysterious servant, but from this day forward I am His. I am forever changed, by my own
choice
, and I wonder if He is too.

D
octor buys us all Ribbons for Victory for forty cents each. I pin mine to the side of my spoon bonnet, and then we are out the door into the April wind, a procession among processions. I will save my ribbon to give Laura on her next visit; I pray that she and Kate are able to celebrate within their circumstances. So many people we can barely move through the streets, so we hold hands with Doctor at the fore and Jeannette at the rear. We stop so that we can touch the decorations on a shop’s windows, and I reach as high as I can until I feel the tip of the flag hung over the awning. Jeannette says that the Stars and Stripes are flying everywhere. Lee has surrendered at last, and though my Addison was on the losing side, he has written that he is safe and on his way back home. Gloria in excelsis Deo. Everyone is laughing and crying, and I am as caught up in the revelry and high hopes as anyone, though I still feel shame at my refusal to speak out against slavery until the eleventh hour. I have tried to right myself, but it is wearing to fight against the extreme conditions that have bent my nature. Forgive me, Lord, for allowing myself this pitiful loophole to a sane and useful personhood.

Tonight all the students are invited to join with the Howes in a celebration banquet. The best of Boston are in attendance: five of the Secret Six; Sumner, unfortunately; the Horace Manns; the Peabody sisters, who are said to still be among the greatest beauties of the metropolis; and one who gives my heart pause—Julia’s dear friend, Mr. Edwin Booth, the actor. I have met him before, and he brought my hand to his lips and kissed me with the very mouth that is said to give the greatest glory to Shakespeare. I have read
Hamlet
and
Romeo and Juliet
, the only two plays that the Perkins press has printed, and stand in awe that Mr. Booth has played the title roles in both.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I hope that this sentiment includes me, especially in the presence of one so exalted. Tonight in the parlor he kisses my hand again, and I ask Doctor if I may sit beside him, but he says no, that I would take up all his attention. Few men tempt me, but the idea—and maybe it is only an idea—of this man manifesting the depth of love and tragedy stirs something in me, though, of course, I will never know the power of his actual performance. Doctor is right; if I were to sit beside him, I don’t think I could stop touching him. He is said to be very handsome, one of the few who can compete with Doctor, so that I would like to get my fingers on him. And tonight I am wearing my new boots in the latest style, with one made for the left foot and a different one for the right. I’ve only ever worn straights before.

Even all the blind girls are given half glasses of champagne; it has been over ten years since my adventuring with drink. The memory of the first time is relived almost daily. I wonder what Mr. Shakespeare would have made of the story of me and Kate. It is a tragedy, after all, but also a tale that blossoms with beauty, a rose with the thorns twisted into my flesh. Champagne is very different from wine and whiskey. I taste nothing, but still enjoy the fizzing on my tongue and the way it lifts my spirits even higher on this hallowed eve, something I would not have thought possible. We toast to the Union, to President Lincoln, to God’s wisdom and bounty. In excelsis Deo. I am surprised with all the blinds that no one breaks a glass. Luck and happiness reign, and it is one of the loveliest evenings of my life.

How can the world be so transformed in only five days? President Lincoln has been shot in his box at the theater by John Wilkes Booth. We are doubly in shock, because not only is our savior dead on the heels of victory, but it is our dear Mr. Booth’s brother who has performed the unspeakable deed. As soon as we get the news, Julia rushes out to see her friend, but returns in tears. Mr. Edwin had already fled to New York. He is said to be in agony, as he loved the President as much as any of us. Mr. Booth and his brother, now there is a tangled web worthy of Shakespeare. Doctor says that throughout the city, the bright decorations of victory have been draped over with mourning cloth. We all change into our black crepe. The war took so many lives already; why did God feel the need to take this one most holy? Yes, John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger, but it is always God’s decision. In the last years, He has taken Mary, Asa, little Sammy, and now President Lincoln. Every time I think I have regained my trust in His wisdom, He destroys it. I pray that this lapse of faith will pass, and yet it is the one I’m praying to who has betrayed me. Betrayed us all.

Reverend Thomas Wentworth Higginson pays a call today; there is still much visiting in the aftermath of the assassination. Everyone seeks the company of friends more so than usual, as we are stuck together in our grief. He is always much beloved here, though he and Doctor no longer seem close. His hand in mine is very firm, but gentle, as it has always been since he took the time to learn finger spelling to converse with me. I feel him taking stock in that one touch and yet, in the pause before he begins to write, he allows me to take stock of him as well. Most do not intuit well enough to give me those few needed seconds. From this, I know he respects me as an equal. The patronizing tap I know so well, close at home from Julia, as well as the impatient, indelicate, disrespectful pecks of one like Sumner. And best of all, he lets me twirl the waxed ends of his handlebar mustache. It is almost as long as my hand!

I ask if he is going to Washington to see the President laid out, but he says he does not want to talk about that. “Today a surprise for you.”

He often brings me little treats, and once even a maple fudge so rich that I thought I could taste its sweetness, just barely. That alone has made me inordinately grateful to him.

“New friend reminds me of you.”

“How?” There are so few who are anything like me that I am instantly intrigued, though skeptical.

“Same age. Two sides of coin.”

It’s startling when a gentleman knows your age, but then again I suppose anyone who is interested knows my years, all thirty-five of them. “In Boston?”

“Amherst.”

“Visit me?”

“Does not travel.”

“Nor I. Wish.”

“Shut in.”

“Prisoner? Of husband?” This does not sound like a lady I want myself compared to!

“Of herself.”

“Ill?”

“Sometimes.”

“Blind or deaf?”

“No.”

This I cannot imagine—the girl has all her senses and she doesn’t venture from her home? What ingratitude. “Mad?” I should not have written that; Mr. Higginson will doubtless be offended.

Instead, his chuckle shakes his arm. “All poets mad.”

A poet. I have liked most of the poets I’ve met, Longo especially and his good wife. Many have written with me as the subject, but I think pity the object. Or perhaps mainly to glorify Doctor. Poems spelled into my hand are hard to follow. I have found with poetry that I need time to myself to touch the words again and again until they touch me back. Or not. Generally I prefer the poetry of the Psalms, not because of my religiosity, but because, untutored by the muse as I may be, I find them better verses than most of our current crop. And then of course, there are the endless maudlin rhymes of our Julia, poetess of the house and of the nation. I have decided she is a good enough woman, but not a good enough poet. Mine eyes have seen the glory, indeed.

“Like Julia’s poetry?” I have caught him off guard, poor fellow. He is such a careful one.

“She has a terrible swift sword.”

I love to parry with Mr. Higginson. “And your friend?”

“Mercifully brief. Here―”

He writes very slowly, making sure I understand the pauses that signify the end of each line.

He stops. Of course we are both thinking of President Lincoln in that slow carriage.

“Hard,” he says. “Can rent poem but cannot own.”

“If good, reader becomes owner.” I am not yet sure that I think this poem is good, however.

“So a good poem can have many owners?”

“Even a bad poem, like a woman or dog.”

And so he continues, reading the last three stanzas. I must think before writing. What a profound pity, she seems to me, this lady poet, enraptured with thoughts of the end, instead of the beginning, or for heaven’s sake, the middle, where we all reside. She has gone out there on that limb alone, well before her time, and perches there like a sparrow, hopping on one tiny foot, enjoying immensely the hopping. “Obsessed with death.”

“In your darkness, as much death as life?”

He presumes far too much of my limitations. “No more death in me than you.” I know I am speaking out of turn, out of wits, to so kind and distinguished a gentleman, and a minister no less, but I am helpless to stop. “Christ as full of life as death?”

“Yes, so Miss Dickinson pays court to end.”

“And you are comparing her to Christ. Must think very well of her.” He withdraws his hand entirely. I have gone too far. Quick, quick to remedy: “Please leave me a poem.” I will try to wrap my brains around its heart, for his sake. I have forfeited a last twirl of his mustache apparently.

“As you wish. God blessed with ego to make up for your senses.”

He leaves me more than a little sore. But I relish soreness these days.