Miss Spitfire (12 page)

“Now it's empty, you see?” She feels the mug inside and out. “Only a mug. No milk.” I spell
m-u-g
over and over into her free hand. “Let it settle, now.”

One at a time I give her a doll, a hat, a key, a card. She makes all the word-shapes without a single mistake, and I pop a nibble of cake into her mouth after each one. Then I turn the tables: I spell the words, and Helen picks out the matching object. Again no mistakes. Until we come to “mug.” She touches everything on the table but seems confounded. Finally she brings her hands to her lips as if she's drinking a cup of air.

“Ah, no,” I groan. As an experiment, I spell
m-i-l-k
. “What do you think of that?” She points to the mug. “That's what I thought.” I try to smooth the frustration from my forehead with my fingertips. The sockets of my eyes sting from the effort of watching her nimble fingers leap from one letter to the next.

Helen reaches for my hands, looking for her customary bit of cake. I shake my head. A scant few days ago this would have erupted into a tussle. Now a shake of my head vexes Helen but doesn't provoke her fists. To be safe, I busy her hands with a crochet needle and
a length of red Scotch wool. She learned a simple chain stitch earlier this week and seems intent on making a chain to reach across the room.

While she works, I pace, pondering the mug-milk difficulty. It seems as if she's confused them both with the notion of drinking, but I don't dare introduce another word into the mess. How can I unsnarl the words in her mind when she doesn't know what a word is? All this time I've been preaching that my arbitrary signs are superior to Helen's gestures-now I'm kicking up a fuss over confusing two words that don't mean a thing to her one way or another.

I hear Helen scuffling about and turn to see her crawling across the floor, yarn in hand. She's tied one end of her chain to a chair leg by the window. She crochets incessantly, scooting toward the opposite wall as she stitches. Bored with my thoughts of mugs and milk, I watch Helen labor over her yarn. I'm anxious to do something else—exercise, romp in the garden, anything—but she doesn't slow.

“Will you never stop?” I flop on the bed, grumbling, “Inventions of the devil, sewing and crocheting. I'd rather break stones on the king's highway than hem a handkerchief.” Serves me right, I suppose. It took me nearly two years to finish sewing an apron at Perkins. Finally the teacher shut me into a closet with the model skeleton as punishment. I only laughed and rattled its expensive bones until she came running to let me out again.

When Helen succeeds in stretching her woolen snake from the chair to the fireplace on the other side, she plunks herself down on the hearth and pats her arm.

I join her on the floor and pat her head. She doesn't flinch. Ignoring me, she lifts the length of wool to her cheek and rubs it lovingly against her skin. Her affection for the first work of her hands puts a twinge in my heart. Quickly, I lean in and peck her cheek. She jerks her neck away and turns her attention to the wool. That's all. No screams, no fits. Still, it's enough to make a shiver of resentment run through me. I smother it, making my hand spell
w-o-o-l
. After I pat her hand, she duplicates the word. “Like a little spelling machine, you are. Drop in a coin, turn the crank, and out comes a word.”

And what good is all this spelling? Sometimes I think Helen will learn quickly enough, by and by, that everything has a name. Other times I feel lost. I don't know what I'm doing, really. I'm only feeling my way myself, every bit as blind as Helen. How do I move forward? How do I connect one thing with another? I wish I knew this work was taking root somewhere in Helen's mind. All these words, do they linger in her fingers after her lessons are through?

A few days later I have my answer. On his nightly turn by the little house Captain Keller announces, “Miss
Sullivan, I've brought an old friend to call on Helen.”

My heart sinks. Helen and I spent half the afternoon struggling over “mug” and “milk” with no success. I don't have the strength for another battle. Hands clasped, I go to the window, trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice. “Captain Keller, we agreed. No visits.”

He chuckles and holds up a hand, nodding, “I know, I know. But I assure you, Miss Belle won't undermine your authority.” The captain slips two fingers into his mouth and whistles a shrill note. A large, red-coated setter trots round the corner and positions herself at his feet with military precision. “Miss Sullivan, meet Belle. One of the finest hunting dogs in the county, in her day. And the most patient creature this side of Mobile, where Helen is concerned.”

Belle rolls her great eyes up at me and blinks. Her tongue sags from her mouth.

“Now, you don't mind seeing if Helen recognizes her old playmate, do you?”

I turn to Helen, bathing one of her dolls in our washbowl. I worked her hard today—too hard, perhaps, judging by the way she jostles the doll. She deserves a treat. “No. No, I don't mind a bit, Captain. Bring her round front.”

I let Belle through the door. From across the room she gives a contemptuous sniff in Helen's direction, then skulks to the window, making no attempt to attract her attention. I imagine she's been roughly
handled by her little mistress more than once.

To our surprise, Helen takes no notice of Belle's arrival. Usually the softest step makes her throw her arms out, searching for anyone within reach. Captain Keller shrugs.

After half a minute Helen's nose comes to life. She dumps the doll in the basin and feels round the room, sniffing as she goes. Near the window she stumbles upon the dog and throws her arms round Belle's neck.

At the sight of her clinging to the dog I notice Captain Keller's smile quaver. Masking a sniff, he lifts his chin and clasps his hands behind his back. I feel a jealous sting myself and swipe my knuckles against the corners of my eyes.

Her fit of affection done, Helen plops down next to Belle and takes one of the dog's paws in her hand. “What's she doing there?” the captain asks, watching Helen manipulate Belle's claws with her fingers. Puzzled, we lean as close as we dare. Helen's face wrinkles with concentration as she works to shape the dog's claws under her hands. Belle only blinks and yawns.

After a minute she gives up and balances Belle's paw on top of her fingers. I gnaw my lips, biting back a grin as I watch Helen's fingers move.

“D-o-l-l,” I translate for the captain. “She's teaching the dog to spell!”

The next day, Friday, I invite Percy to attend Helen's lesson. I'm eager to see what she'll make of a pupil with hands and fingers instead of paws and claws. Besides, showing Helen that other people can make these signs might spark some understanding of their usefulness.

Percy's spent time with Helen before, that much is clear. At first he teeters on the edge of his seat. Each time her hands move, I notice the corners of his eyes squinch up; he's too proud to flinch but shrewd enough to brace himself.

Percy has trouble from the beginning. Helen demands to follow every bit of his lesson, blocking his view of his fingers and mine with her meddlesome hands. Percy's task becomes as awkward as carrying on a conversation with an ill-mannered hound prodding its nose into all the wrong places. Helen leaves him no choice but to learn the letters with his fingers instead of his eyes.

Despite her blindness, Helen proves a much quicker pupil; poor Percy isn't used to recognizing shapes with his hands. Even easy signs like
d, c, o,
and I give him trouble, which puzzles me. The signs look as similar to the written letters as four fingers and a thumb can.

“Percy, you can't read, can you?”

He looks at me as if I've no more sense than a goat. “Read,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes like Viny. “'Course I can't read.”

Grand. I've insulted him and made a fool of myself. There's no more chance for a black boy in Alabama to learn to spell than I had in the poorhouse. If God had seen fit to give me a brain as quick as my tongue, I'd have the brightest mind in creation. Hoping the speed of my tongue will redeem itself, I keep talking.

“This is reading hands instead of paper. When you learn the letters, you'll have your own secret language.”

“Yeah,” he says, fixing his dark eyes on me. “How?”

“I learned the letters in Boston. No one in Alabama will understand you unless we teach them. You'll be able to spell under anyone's nose, and they'll be none the wiser.”

He nods, trying not to grin at the thought of such mischief. Earnest now, he trudges through the lesson.

For better or worse, Helen's attention never falters. Keeping a close grip on both our hands, Helen mimics my every move for Percy, right down to prompting his response with a pat of her hand. Eventually Percy gives up on his eyes altogether, shutting them tight as he memorizes the shape of a new word or staring off at nothing in particular when he works to recall the letters on his own.

Percy's mistakes delight Helen, and for once her pleasure isn't selfish. His struggles drive Helen to excel him, while at the same time she refuses to continue until he's mastered each new word. I've never seen her so ambitious. Somewhere in her head I sense a flicker of life-could it be something I've put there? My stomach flutters at the thought.

As the afternoon passes, Percy's wariness trickles away. Before long the three of us sit clustered in a ring, hands meshed like voices in song. I spell a word to Helen, and it passes like a melody from hand to hand. I show Helen; Helen shows Percy.

For the first time I feel like a teacher.

Helen proves a capable little schoolmarm too. She may be oblivious to the meaning of words, but she won't permit the slightest blunder in their spelling. When Percy confuses the letters, she makes him form them over and over again until she's satisfied. Then she pats his head with such vigor that Percy blinks and ducks his head like a goose with every touch. His smile flashes so brightly beneath Helen's hand that I begin
to wonder if some of his slips are intentional. I'd like to hug him for it, but all I do is grin.

I relish Helen's eagerness, the way her hand lingers under mine, impatient for the next word. Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I give her hand a congratulatory squeeze each time Percy learns a new sign. She makes no objections, and my heart quickens.

When we've marched through all the objects Helen knows, I unveil the finale-two sticks of candy, courtesy of Captain Keller's morning visit. Percy licks his lips at the sight of them. “Is that store-bought?” he asks.

“It is. One for each of you, after you learn to spell it.”

He eyes Helen. “Give Helen her stick before mine,” he says.

I laugh and pat his cheek. His shoulder hunches up toward my hand, and his skin turns rosy as varnished cherrywood. “You watch closely,” I tell him. “This once I'm giving you a head start.” I spell “candy” for him, pausing between each letter. “Now, be ready when your turn comes. The sooner Helen gets her stick, the better.” Solemn faced, he nods.

I turn to Helen. Never letting go of my end of the candy, I lay one stick across her hand. Her body shivers as she recognizes the treat. Smacking her chops, she scoots toward me. I half expect her to knock me aside and tear the sweet from my fist. Instead she huddles up close to me, tracing the candy's path to my pocket.

As I spell, Helen's muscles tense with concentration. At five letters, this is the longest name I've tried to teach her. I hope she has patience enough to learn it, and for Percy to learn it too.

I needn't worry. After a pat to signal her turn, Helen's fingers flit out the letters quickly as the beat of insect wings. She reaches for my face to feel my confirming nod. Instinctively I nudge my cheek against the heel of her palm. Her touch doesn't linger. She buzzes about, searching for her promised treat.

Beckoning to Percy with one hand, I stuff the candy deeper into my pocket with the other. “Do as I've done, Percy. Pat her hand. Ask her for the word.”

Hesitant, he obeys. His request breaks Helen's attention from her search. “Keep your hand on hers, Percy, don't let go.” I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.

Slowly she turns to him. Holding the hand with Percy's perched upon it very still, she gropes with the other. When their free hands meet, she grabs his and arranges all ten of his fingers over her fist. Her face set firm, one hand still clasped on Percy's wrist, Helen moves her fingers from one letter to the next:
c-a-n-d-y
. Twice more she spells it, her movements precise as a drumbeat.

“C-a-n-d-y, c-a-n-d-y,” I chant to him as Helen's fingers shift from shape to shape.

Satisfied with her part of the lesson, Helen shakes loose of Percy's grip, then cups her fingers over his.
My view blocked, I lean in and weave my fingers among theirs. Percy screws his eyes shut and folds his lips between his teeth. Determination hones their features into concentrated points as he begins to spell.

“
C … a
… same as ‘cake,'” I whisper to him, scarcely daring to breathe. “Now the
n
.” He pauses, fishing for the new letter. “Almost like
m,”
I remind him. “Good.
D
like ‘doll.' And now the
y.”

He freezes. I feel Helen fidgeting, her patience twitching away. She pats Percy's hand, prompting him for the rest of the word. His arm jerks at her touch. She taps again, more insistent, more like a smack.

It's no use. He's forgotten. Helen raps at his knuckles, demanding one more letter. His panic vibrates through the tightness of his locked fist. I could show him, tell him, before Helen dissolves into one of her furies, but the thought of cheating after so much success disgusts me. I make the sign behind my back, thinking how to hint at its shape. “Start with
i,
Percy, then add to it.”