“Indeed, a roaring red.”
This Dennis had a razor in his mind even if he hadn’t conquered College Hill. His Treasures were far more natural than mine. I asked him to carry me over to my chair, and he did. He covered me in a blanket as you might a doll, swept me up in his arms with a lyrical motion that seemed to defy the air, and put me down with such a lightness, I seemed to float into my seat.
I was hungry to have him around. Dennis had work to do, but after he was gone I seized the cowbell that Vinnie had placed near my bed and rang for the Boy in the Barn.
I had spots of blood in my napkin when I coughed. I dared not show them to Lavinia. But the spots had a certain symmetry, as if they were part of some celestial puzzle. I did not believe that my blond Assassin had become the Boy in the Barn. Still, I saw Tom in his every move. And therein lay my delight. I did not have to worry that Dennis would disappear into some mysterious Circus. I shook the cowbell, and lo! Dennis was there.
He chose to live in a barn rather than a boardinghouse. He wasn’t an orphan, but his father had rented him out as a beast of burden, and Dennis ran away. He didn’t become a handyman at Holyoke. He felt more comfortable with cows. And sometimes, when the mood struck him while he was carrying me from the chair, Dennis would dance with me in his arms, whirl his maiden aunt gently until she thought there was no other such pleasure on earth.
I never grew dizzy in Dennis’s arms. The room did not spin, and I fancied myself Emily the Dancing Cow. It was one more name, one more niche, to put in my Treasure box.
Suddenly, amid April’s racket of insects and birds, I could no longer rise out of bed. My mind would wander. I lacked the force to reach my bell. I drifted into dreams and then could not rid myself of them. I’d waken to discover Austin at my side, clutching my hand.
“Dear God, do not leave us, Em.”
I did not even have the strength to speak. I pitied my brother with his purple pantaloons and his hair painted green, but the tin in my skull started to reverberate and kept pulling me back to that draft during the late Rebellion and all the Union dead. Austin and Tom had both escaped battle, but Tom had to hide in a Circus, while Brother had found a substitute for five hundred dollars. And in my own selfish way I wished the five hundred had gone to Tom. I was a shameful, tempestuous girl, even as my eyes slid out from under me.
There were no more visits from the Boy in the Barn. And how could I call for him when I couldn’t shake the clapper? And so I decided to visit the barn. Without wings I could not travel far. But I girded myself in my own feeble will, and moved with each palpitation of my heart. I wore my Dimity gown, like a bride who had to season herself. My slippers were made of velvet, tulle, and air. I do not remember bumping into the ground. I floated past Margaret, at work in the kitchen while Vinnie slept in a chair, her snores like a silver trumpet. I tried to touch her hand as a little goodbye, but our hands did not meet in the giddy atmosphere of Father’s house.
I sneezed as I left the kitchen—a soundless sound that could not even wake a pack of field mice—and spied the barn’s open door, with its slant of light softened by swirls of dust. I sneezed again.
The light of the barn shimmered like a soft wound that could still pierce skin and bone. I shed not one drop of blood while my feet were off the ground. I was the conqueror of all. I had a clarity I did not have when I was housebound, with my pencil for a shield. Centuries unfolded in front of my eyes. But Daisy was particular. She don’t want to meet David or Goliath. What she discovered were the hills of Holyoke in that crooked light of the barn.
Carlo didn’t appear, and then he did. I was delirious to see my dog. I didn’t recognize him at first. He’d lost his shaggy black coat somewhere. He was all gray around the ears. Carlo wouldn’t greet his mistress, wouldn’t even wag his tail. And then he was gone. I could not find a single face. It was Missy’s yellow gloves that held me in their thrall. They must have flown from the attic, followed me down the stairs. But I could not capture them, wed my fingers to the fingers of the gloves. They flew in the wind like flapping birds or magnificent butterflies, between myself and the barn, but I’m not an old maid anymore who deals in whispers. I was as ferocious as one of Vinnie’s cats. I trapped the gloves in midair and wore them on my way to the barn.
I put on their power and their certitude. But it’s not my writing desk and my Lexicon I long for—it’s my moon blindness in Cambridgeport and my horse blanket, with its fleas, when I lived on Austin Street. I had a lot of lightnin’ when I couldn’t use my Pen.
I shake the gloves once and see my own Pa-pa courting his Emily, Ma-ma. I’d never have imagined how beautiful they were in their courting clothes. Mother isn’t meek. She smolders at her man. And Father, who never stumbles, is caught within her halo. Ma-ma, I want to say, why didn’t you teach me a few of your tricks? But I must be moving too fast. The halo is gone. And Pa-pa’s the backwoods lawyer I remember with a blizzard between his eyes. And then the territory shifts.
I see Zilpah Marsh in front of a mirror. She has freckles and my red hair. A man is grooming her, and it could be Tom, but he’s hidden from me. She tilts her head back and lets him brush her hair. I start to cry, because I can feel the bristles of Tom’s brush while I’m afloat. And it’s like putting honey on top of a toothache to realize that I wouldn’t have needed much certitude if Tom had ever combed my hair.
Suddenly I have flashes of Austin and Sue on my ride between house and barn, but it’s Sue before her marriage. Austin is a young swain again with a burst of red hair, his own mark of manliness. And I long to shout, Do not marry, my dears. It will all come to bitterness and strife. But even with the advantage of yellow gloves, I ain’t much of a Sibyl. Where else did Brother and Susie have to go?
And then Pa-pa reappears without a single shake of my gloves. He isn’t in his courting clothes. He’s wearing a nightshirt, and he’s all alone. Perhaps he’s been with the fire brigade, because his nose and ears are covered in ashes. He puts on his silk cravat, and Pa-pa starts to dance. He holds his arms out, embracing a partner who isn’t there. I long to dance with him, but I’m flyin’ far too fast.
I’m all a-shiver now. I haven’t heard any angels sing from within the barn. I wonder if the Devil is stationed inside the door with some insidious song to send me howling. But Daisy will match his own meter. And the shivering stops. I am wearing a bridal gown with my slippers and yellow gloves, though I’m not certain whose bride I am.
And thus I travel in my Dimity and tulle, but that barn could be Peru. I seem nearer and nearer, but never near enough. My bridal gown could be in tatters before I arrive.
About the Author
JEROME CHARYN has been a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award in fiction. His work has been translated into seventeen languages, including Polish, Finnish, Korean, and Greek. He lives in New York and Paris. His most recent novel, Johnny One-Eye, was also published by Norton.
The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson Page 29