Miss Spitfire (3 page)

“I'm sorry, Miss Annie,” Mrs. Keller interrupts, her face pink. “Helen is used to our friends bringing sweets for her in their bags.” She takes Helen's free hand and puts it against her cheek, shaking her head no so the child can feel it. Flushing to the roots of her hair, Helen purses her lips and jerks the bag closer to her side with a grunt. Short sounds, the same sort of noises that leaked from the throats of Tewksbury's insane, accompany Helen's every move. Mrs. Keller takes the bag by the handles and wrestles it away from her daughter-no meager feat, for Helen is large, strong, and ruddy, and as unrestrained in her movements as a young colt.

When the bag disappears from her reach, Helen's face contorts into such a theatrical pout that for an instant I want to laugh, but her outrage is so intense
it's almost frightening. The Kellers, too, brace themselves for a storm.

Suddenly I realize what troubled me about Helen's appearance at first glance. Her features show none of the subtle ripples of thought and emotion that pass over normal faces. Only blunt reactions to pleasure or physical pain penetrate her vacant expression.

Desperate for a distraction, I dig in my pocket, wishing for the peppermints I ate on the train from Chattanooga. Instead I find my watch and put it in Helen's hand, wondering if I shall ever see it in one piece again. I show her how to open it, and instantly the tempest subsides. Helen takes me by the arm, and we go into the house and straight up the stairs together.

“Dr. Bell let her play with his watch in Washington, DC,” Captain Keller muses from behind me. I wonder if he means Dr. Alexander Graham Bell. Either way, I take it as a compliment.

Upstairs I open my bag, and Helen rifles through it. Now and again she turns to me, bringing her hands to her mouth as though she's eating. She expects to find a treat, but I have no such thing; the doll from Perkins won't arrive until tomorrow. Reaching the bottom of the bag, frustration reddens her face.

Somehow I have to tell her that my trunk is on the way and there are good things for her inside. Such a simple thought. But how do I say it without words? How do I show her with no trunk and no treats?

Seized with an idea, I take Helen's hand and pull her into the slope-ceilinged sewing room off the hallway. With my hands over hers, touch the large trunk standing in the corner, then point to myself and nod. She puzzles over this until I repeat her gesture for eating and nod again. Like a flash she dashes from the room.

I follow Helen halfway down the stairs and watch her make emphatic gestures to her mother. She seems to be showing Mrs. Keller that there is candy in my trunk for her. My chest begins to unknot. Helen's attempts to communicate are crude, but they make me hopeful that she can learn. Nodding, her mother shoos Helen back toward the steps.

With Helen's help I put my few things away. Her hands explore everything that comes from my bag. Nothing reaches its drawer without being touched and smelled, then modeled or paraded round the room. I can't help but laugh at the sight of her standing before the dresser mirror wearing my bonnet, cocking her head from side to side just as if she could see.

“Where did you ever learn that? You must be quite the little mimic.”

While Helen amuses herself with my things, I look about our room. It's a large, comfortable room, with little in the way of knickknacks or decorations—probably more to do with Helen's roving hands than anything else. My bed stands behind the door, facing the window. On one side of the window is a fireplace
with a narrow painted shelf boasting a handsome mantel clock and a pair of painted china vases. On the other is the dresser and the only other breakable objects in the room-a large washbowl and pitcher. Helen's little sleigh bed sits in front of the dresser, facing the door. Her playthings lay piled in a heap between the foot of her bed and the doorway. A school desk also has its place in that corner. A writing table with two rocking chairs sits before the window.

So this is what a child's room is supposed to look like,
I think. What would Jimmie and I have done in a room like this, up to our knees in toys? Jimmie, who sneaked the scissors from the doctors' bags so we could make paper dolls out of the
Police Gazette,
and never complained when I snipped off their heads by mistake. When one of the doctors caught us, he shouted, “If either of you so much as looks at my instruments again, I'll slice off your ears!” But Jimmie only laughed and told me, “You're a better slicer with those scissors than any doctor, Annie.”

Stooping down, I pull a small book from the pile Helen has cast aside. It's the little red dictionary Mrs. Hopkins gave me as a going-away gift. My spelling has always been atrocious. I would have liked a book of poems or Shakespeare better, to remind me of what I loved best at Perkins; the fastest friendships I made were within the lines of
Macbeth,
King Lear,
and
The Tempest
. Though their words twine constantly through my thoughts, I'd relish the look of them on the page.

Still, the stoutness of this dictionary, its size and shape, please me. I run my fingers along the spine, savoring the feel of the leather. I lay it on the nightstand with a satisfying
thump
.

It almost looks like it belongs there.

I wish I felt the same.

Next morning it takes me a moment to remember where I am. It seems I've overslept. Helen's bed lies empty, and there's not a sound in all the house. I wash and dress quickly, then go downstairs in search of company.

Alone, I explore the house. Mrs. Keller gave me a quick tour last night, but I was too tired to notice much more than my held-over supper plate and my bed. On the first floor are four square rooms, divided into pairs by a wide hall. The parlor and dining room lie to the left of the stairway, and two bedrooms to the right. The captain, Mrs. Keller, and baby Mildred sleep at the front of the house; the captain's spinster sister, Eveline, has the room at the back. Last night I discovered that James and his teenage brother, Simpson, share the upstairs room across from mine.

There's no sign of anyone about—not a breakfast dish or an unmade bed to be seen, so I wander out the back door into the sunshine.

Outside it's much more lively. Genial voices holler to one another in the carriage house, and chickens scuffle about the yard. Nearby, an old setter laps at a puddle under the pump. The light reflecting on the water needles my vision. More buildings are scattered about the property; the one next to the pump looks like a child-size Ivy Green. As I stand squinting with my hand shading my eyes, a boisterous racket claims my attention. Following the sound, I enter the small, barn-shaped kitchen.

The place is in an uproar. Through the yeasty dimness I spot Mrs. Keller, hunched over Helen, who sits at a flour-covered table pounding her fists and kicking her feet. A mound of bread dough trembles under the assault, and two patty pans bounce and jangle with every blow to the tabletop. A young Negro woman I assume is the cook has pressed herself into a far corner, her floury arms wrapped round a cowering colored child of about eight. The little girl clutches a limp piece of dough in one hand.

“What happened, Martha Washington?” Mrs. Keller cries over the clamor.

Wide eyed, the little girl answers, “We were just making our bread. She tried to tell me something with her hands, but I couldn't understand her quick enough.”

In desperation Mrs. Keller's eyes sweep the room. When she sees me in the doorway, her face cascades through myriad emotions: surprise, embarrassment, then relief. “Miss Annie,” she says, trying to sound calm and hospitable despite Helen's lashing fists, “would you please bring the butter churn to me?”

Confused, I look about. The churn stands beside me, its dash lolling out of the lid at a cockeyed angle. With a grunt I haul the full churn round the table to Mrs. Keller's side. In one darting move Mrs. Keller snatches one of Helen's hands and places the churn dash in it, moving the dash up and down, up and down, in a regular rhythm.

Quick as a summer storm, Helen's tantrum ends. She slides from her stool and takes up churning as though the devil himself were driving her. Gingerly little Martha and the cook resume their places at the table and begin working their dough.

Mrs. Keller gives me a weary look.

“I shouldn't have slept so late,” I tell her. “I'm sorry.”

“Nonsense,” she says, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair into place. “You needed a good rest. Anyone could see that.”

“That child's gonna make cheese outta that butter,” the cook says to no one in particular.

“Oh!” Mrs. Keller cries, and whirls round. She tries to slow the rhythm of her daughter's churning, but Helen gives her a fierce shove and continues at her
own wild pace. Sighing, Mrs. Keller wipes her hands on her apron, twisting the cloth round her fingers. “Are you hungry, Miss Annie? I had Viny save you a plate.” Before I can sputter an answer, the cook has the plate in her hands, ready to whisk me off to the dining room.

“Oh, no, I can eat right here.”

Viny freezes and glances at Mrs. Keller with raised eyebrows. I have a feeling no one has volunteered to eat in the kitchen before. “I don't want to be any trouble,” I rush on. “I'd much rather sit with you and Helen.” Viny looks unsure, but Mrs. Keller nods, and Viny makes a place for me between the coffee grinder and the apple corer. I take Helen's empty stool and plant it before my plate of biscuits, gravy, and eggs.

No sooner have the legs of the stool hit the floor than Helen appears at my side. I try to give her a goodmorning hug, but she throws my arm from her shoulders. Instead she grabs a leg of the stool and pats her chest with her free hand. Her meaning—
Mine!
—is clear. When I don't budge, Helen bunches up her lips and thumps harder on her chest. Even in the dim kitchen light I can see Mrs. Keller's face turning pink again.

“Viny, get Helen some cake so Miss Annie can have some peace,” she says. With a subtle roll of her eyes Viny complies and waves a hastily cut chunk of cake under Helen's nose. Like a vagabond, Helen snatches the cake and stuffs it into her mouth. Crumbs shower onto the table, a few of them lingering on her sticky
mouth and chin. Some work their way into her tangled hair.

Her attention diverted, Helen sniffs about for anything else worth eating. Licking her lips, she hovers next to my plate of eggs.

The room halts.

I can feel everyone's eyes upon us. Suddenly Helen turns to the colored child and yanks at her dress, then stoops to the floor and doubles her hands like a ball. Martha says, “Awright, Helen,” and out the door they scamper. A collective sigh of relief heaves all about me.

“What was all that?” I demand.

“Eggs,” Viny says, turning back to her kneading.

“Eggs?”

“Helen likes to hunt for guinea hen eggs in the fields with Martha Washington,” Mrs. Keller explains. “I'm sorry she was such a bother. She's been impossible all morning.”

“Is that why her hair still isn't combed?” I say over a forkful of food.

Viny muffles a snort. Mrs. Keller stiffens. “A person can only fight so many battles, Miss Annie. I don't see the use of sparring over something she can't understand.”

“There's a difference between understanding and simple obedience,” I remark.

Mrs. Keller picks up the churn dash and begins to churn almost as fervently as Helen, but her voice
sounds wistful as a wilting vine. “There was a time when Helen seemed to understand everything, Miss Annie. At six months old she could say ‘how d'ye,' ‘tea-tea-tea,' and ‘wah-wah.' On her first birthday she took her first steps. She nearly ran across the room. And such sharp eyes! Why, she could find dropped needles, buttons, and pins before anyone else. Before that fever hit her, she was the brightest child I've ever known.”

I'm intrigued. “And now?”

“She hasn't been sick a day since.” She falters. Her melancholy smile fades. “I don't speak of it often. Living with it is enough. But I suppose you should know.”

“Please.”

“I don't know how much of Helen's mind is left,” Mrs. Keller confesses. “She still says ‘wah-wah' whenever she feels water, though I don't know if she realizes it. Everything we do, she follows with her hands, repeating every motion. She can sort and fold the laundry, and never makes a mistake. She feeds the chickens and turkeys, grinds coffee, and stirs the cake batter. One day I found her in the parlor with her father's glasses on, holding a newspaper in front of her face. Even things that don't make sense to her, she imitates.” She stops short. I've cornered her, and she knows it.

“There's not much Helen can't do, provided she wants to do it,” Mrs. Keller admits, “but she's so miserable I can't bear to punish her.” She stops churning;
her grip on the dasher turns her knuckles white. “She wants so much to understand, Miss Annie. I've counted at least sixty signs she's invented for herself, but they're not enough anymore, as you saw this morning.

“Helen knows she's different. She touches people's faces as they talk, and I can see her wondering why her mouth doesn't work the same way. When she can't make us understand her, she moves her lips and gestures so frantically you'd think her little head was on fire with what she wants to say, but all she can do is scream herself into exhaustion.”

“How often does it happen?”

“Every day. Sometimes every hour. We can't stand to see it anymore. My own brother says Helen behaves like she has no mind at all. He thinks we ought to lock her up somewhere.”

My bones feel like hot wax at the thought of Helen in an institution—Tewksbury, southern style. “Do you believe that, Mrs. Keller?”