Miss Spitfire

by Sarah Miller

  When she feels me next to her, she leaps from the bed like a spark from a fire. “Now what?” I wonder, raising my head from the pillow. I scoot over to Helen’s side of the bed and pull her back in. Arms flailing, she rolls herself right back out onto the floor. Hanging my head over the side of the bed, I reach down and lay a tentative finger across her hunched shoulder. Like a rankled crab, she waves a threatening arm my way, then scuttles across the floor.

  “Lord above,” I groan, climbing out of the bed. The chill of the floorboards against my bare feet makes me shiver. Wrapping a shawl round myself, I march to the window and grab a doll at random—a big, pink-cheeked, fuzzy-haired member of the family—then wave it under Helen’s nose.

  “Here, sleep with her instead.” Backing toward the bed, I try to lure Helen under the covers. She follows only as far as her arms will reach. Exasperated, I fling the doll to the floor at Helen’s feet and sulk.

  Next I try cake. Helen follows the scent to the edge of the bed, but when I lay the mouthful on the quilt just out of her reach, she grunts and slouches to the floor in a pout.

  I know if I were willing to lie on the floor, she’d sleep in the bed without me. I’m almost tired enough to do it. My eyes ache from squinting through the firelight; they’re dry and rigid as two panes of glass every time I blink. I’d love nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and close them for good. But now that I’ve wrested Helen from her indulgent parents, I’d be a fool to let her cow me, too.

  With a sigh I resign myself to the storm I’m about to cause, then bend over and toss Helen into the bed. The sight of her face as she bounces across the mattress chokes a laugh out of me. Her furious jabbering puts me in mind of a chipmunk’s chatter.

  My amusement doesn’t last. When I try to climb onto my side of the bed, Helen crawls away. I race round the foot of the bed and block her. She howls and moves aside. From one end of the bed to the other the battle rages. At every turn Helen finds me barring her path. Each time she touches me, she screams with fear and frustration, until I’m ready to scream myself.

  “Stop it,” I cry at her, shaking the bedstead with both hands. “You’re the monster here, not me!”

  I lunge across the mattress at her, crazy with the fury, but she dives under the bed, out of my reach. Blind to reason, I drop to the floor and plunge in after her. The advantage of size keeps Helen just out of my grasp, but I wriggle along behind her, taking up the chase as we emerge on the other side of the room.

  The rampage roars on for another hour at least—round and round the bed, over it and under it too. I’ve never seen such strength and endurance in a child. More than once Helen climbs the wooden headboard to avoid my acid touch. I even have to strip her, shrieking, from the heights of the bedposts.

  Nothing I do holds her. I can’t keep a grip on her limbs or pin her down with my own weight. Thrashing, bucking, kicking, or biting, Helen finds a way to squirm away from me every time. She has an uncanny knack for seeking out my tenderest spots for abuse—clamping her teeth onto the soles of my feet, slamming her palms against my nose, jabbing at the soft flesh under my ribs, or sinking her sharp little heels into my breasts.

  Finally exhaustion and rage drive me outside myself, and I tear the quilt from the bed, obeying an impulse I hardly understand. Perched on a pillow near the headboard, Helen seems wary of the shuddering bed as I yank the covers from the frame.

  Panting, I creep toward her, clutching the quilt to my chest and dragging my feet softly across the floor so she won’t sense my footsteps. With a wild whoop I unfurl the quilt like a canopy over Helen’s head, chortling as she tries to bat it away. Working quickly to avoid her sailing fists, I bring the corners of the cloth together at her ankles. A sharp tug topples Helen from her feet, capturing her like a rabbit in a snare. She claws and howls from inside the makeshift sack, but I pay no attention. Instead I roll her up tighter than a caterpillar in a cocoon, allowing her only the luxury of air. All she can do is yell, but that doesn’t keep me from straddling the whole bundle to keep her from unrolling herself.

  As the minutes stretch by, her screams melt into a sort of drone, and I struggle to hold my eyes open. They’re so sore I feel as if my eyelids are dragging over a layer of sandpaper each time they droop.

  By the time Helen bays herself to sleep, the fire’s died down to nothing but a glow. At last I roll over and close my eyes. A wave of heat pours over them, until I’m sure they’ve turned to liquid. The last thing I’m aware of before I drift away is Helen inching herself away from me, even as she sleeps.

  Chapter 17

  The more I think, the more certain I am that obedience is the gateway through which knowledge, yes, and love, too, enter the mind of a child.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  Our first fights are brutal but short lived.

  The entire first day Helen will have nothing to do with me and plays with her dolls more than usual. Over and over again she wanders to the door, touches her cheek, and shakes her head. Seeing her so docile and homesick makes me sick at heart, but I show her no mercy. I insist that she dress, wash, and eat like a civilized human.

  All that long day Helen persists in contesting every point to the bitter end. The battles are no easier here, but at least without the Kellers looming over my shoulders, I can discipline her without feeling like a sneak thief.

  Every moment she tries my composure in one way or another. It’s as if she senses my struggle to control myself. Before long I begin to believe she’s trying to bait me into mistreating her.

  But I don’t give in.

  My muscles shimmer with unspent anger when she deals a blow I can’t repay, for fear of mirroring my father’s senseless floggings. When she hurls herself to the floor in a tantrum, it takes all my strength to anchor myself against the window seat until she’s spilled every drop of her energy. Hardest of all is keeping her sealed inside this place when I can plainly see she’s thirsting for a familiar touch. But forlorn as she seems, Helen still spurns the slightest brush against my skin, flaring my compassion into pain. Each time she cringes from me, I press my fists to my mouth to keep from striking her. By the time the urge passes, I can feel the print of my teeth against the insides of my lips.

  In bed at night I cry—angry tears—but they bring no relief. I only grow angrier. Beneath it all, my sympathy for Helen makes me rage against myself. The last thing she needs is pity.

  In my despair I curse myself for slighting the Kellers’ small kindnesses. I imagine them in the big house, playing card games while Captain Keller tells droll tales of hunting expeditions gone awry or men who dared to eat watermelons the size of which would sicken a giant.

  Of them all, the one I’m most like in the world is Helen. I could almost laugh to think of it. She’s every bit as wild and willful as I was. No one but Jimmie has ever been able to tame me, and he did it without ever lifting a finger. I remember his voice, drifting across the space between our cots, You’re going to stay here with me, forever and ever. But in the end he was the one who left. If I could convince her to love me, Helen could never leave me. She doesn’t know it, but Helen needs me more than Jimmie ever did. She knows nothing about me—none of the things that matter to everyone else, at least—and still I’m not good enough for her.

  The irony of my plight bites at me as I sink to sleep: Helen lies only inches away from me, and I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

  Our grappling continues the next day, with less zeal. As the day wears on, Helen’s resistance falls away piecemeal. Perhaps she senses that with no one to rescue her, it’s much less trouble to submit to my will than challenge my fists. By evening I think she fights only because it’s all she knows how to do.

  That night I watch her eating her supper with a spoon and try to feel triumphant. The thought of ceasing our violent rows leaves me giddy, but something troubles me. I can’t take my eyes from her.

  “Something isn’t right,” I murmur, but I can’
t see what it is. For long minutes I watch her spoon go up and down, up and down, with methodical precision. I feel sick, and I don’t know why. Then it hits me.

  The way she moves is wrong.

  Eating is one of Helen’s true delights, but tonight she takes no pleasure from it. She’s listless, as if the food has no taste. For days I’ve fought for calm, and now it frightens me. It’s as though a light’s gone out.

  By midmorning my anxiety curdles into irritation. Helen’s next trick is almost effortless but every bit as infuriating: She sits still as a lump of clay, doing nothing at all.

  At first I’m paralyzed with the thought that I might have snuffed her spirit out. But when I try to force her to wash and dress herself, I sense a spark of something in her. I don’t know how, but I know she’s paying attention. Something in her lies coiled up tight, waiting for a reaction. If she were an affectionate child, I’d call it mischief. Knowing Helen, I’m inclined to name it spite.

  “And what am I to do, then?” I wonder aloud. I’m not about to play nursemaid to an oversize rag doll. It’s an ingenious tactic she’s come up with; I can’t very well punish her for not resisting. “But if I ignore you, you still manage to get your own way, now, don’t you?”

  Just then Percy arrives with the breakfast tray. He’s hardly through the door when Helen’s nose twitches—barely a quiver—but I have my answer. “Still in there, are you? I thought as much.”

  I bring the tray and Helen’s clothes over to her. “I’ll give you one more chance” I tell her, handing Helen her dress and pinafore. She lets them fall to the floor like so many leaves.

  A sharp sigh escapes me. “Fine.” Kneeling beside her, I take Helen by the arm and yank her down next to me. With her hands in mine, I touch her fingers to the pile of clothing, then to herself, then to my nodding head. “Get dressed.”

  She does nothing.

  “Well, listen to this, then.” I drag the breakfast tray over and push her hands from item to item: clothes, Helen, breakfast, nod. Then the gestures I’m sure she’ll understand: clothes, floor, breakfast, no. When I shake my head, a tremor of dismay flickers across Helen’s face. “That’s right, my girl, get dressed or starve.”

  With a dramatic flounce she slumps to the floor, throwing herself across the heap of clothing like a beached fish. “Grand, just grand,” I mutter.

  For a quarter of an hour I watch Helen lie there, limp as a worm, while my breakfast cools. “Not giving up any time soon, are you?” I growl, scooping up the tray and stalking to the bay window. With the tray balanced atop my crossed legs, I glower at her over my plate. When I open the window to let the breeze waft the scent of the food through the room, she doesn’t budge.

  By the time Captain Keller passes by the window on his way to the office, I’ve heard Helen’s stomach gurgle more than once.

  Striding up to the casement, he calls, “Good morning, Miss Sull—Sullivan.” The sight of his daughter sprawled across the floor startles him into choking on my name, but he manages to keep his composure. Until he sees Helen’s untouched breakfast sitting next to my empty plate, that is. Then his eyes narrow and his brows hunch together.

  “Miss Sullivan, do you have any idea what time it is?” His tone is deliberately even.

  “I don’t,” I tell him, returning his glare level for level.

  My insolence stuns him for the length of a breath. “Miss Sullivan,” he says again, a dash of venom lurking under his tight-lipped gentility, “it is nearly ten o’clock. Don’t you think Helen has been deprived of enough in her life?”

  Anger radiates through me until I hear it pounding in waves against my ears. I have it in mind to let him know that she hasn’t been deprived of nearly enough. But the edge in the captain’s voice warns me I’m walking a fine line with him.

  “I’ll deprive her only as long as she disobeys,” I return, battling to keep my voice level. “She’ll have her breakfast as soon as she dresses herself.” He doesn’t answer. I risk a jab. “Is that so unreasonable, Captain Keller?”

  His jaw stiffens. “When Helen is ready, send Percy to the kitchen for a plate of hot food,” he directs, lifting his chin to glance coolly down at me.

  “Hot food is a privilege,” I snap. “If Helen wants a warm plate, she’ll have to dress sooner.”

  Puffing himself up with authority, the captain tugs at his cuffs, then straightens his collar. “Miss Sullivan,” he begins.

  I feel myself shrivel.

  “Do you know what we said to the Yankees when Lee surrendered to Grant?” he asks.

  My head jerks up. “I don’t.”

  “‘You only won because you had more Irish’” the captain finishes, and marches away toward town.

  Openmouthed, I watch him go. “I won,” I murmur to myself.

  And it only took ten days.

  Chapter 18

  The little house is a genuine bit of paradise.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  Helen holds out until just after noon.

  Percy comes in with the dinner tray and stands in the doorway, befuddled by Helen, lying still on the floor amid her dress and stockings. “Walk right by her,” I tell him, “and put it on the windowsill.” When the smell of the hot food passes over her, Helen gives a little snuffle. Percy glances at me, his eyebrows raised. I shake my head and beckon him to the window. The minutes tick past without so much as a tremble from her. And then the slightest puff of a sigh stirs the tangled hair across her forehead, and I see her fingers creep across the floorboards toward a stocking. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it.

  I feel a shift inside me as a smile breaks my face. “Take that cold dish of breakfast away please, Percy. It looks like Helen is ready for dinner.”

  From then on things are different. As if by magic I have not had any trouble at all with Helen since. Captain Keller stops in morning and night, but he never interferes. Both of them have tested my limits and found Miss Spitfire does not budge.

  The first time I take Helen outside for a frolic in the garden, she pushes my guiding hand away and stumbles off the porch on her own. “Go on, then, if you think you know the way,” I tell her.

  Exploring with her feet, she shuffles along, her hands searching the air. Keeping myself between Helen and the big house, I follow along as she muddles her way toward the boxwood hedges.

  As soon as she touches them, her confusion vanishes. She blinks, and without warning, gestures fly from her fingers, one after another. “What’s all this?” I wonder, bemused by her enthusiasm. Mingled between motions I can’t decipher are a jumble of elaborate pantomimes: She tugs at her chin as if pulling on imaginary whiskers, makes motions of hoeing and digging, mimes doffing a cap, milking a cow, and pumping water. I hold my breath, waiting for her to bolt, for the big house stands perhaps twenty paces away.

  “Surely you know where you are now,” I say aloud To my surprise, Helen makes no move toward her home. She only picks her way along the shrubbery, never letting go with both hands at once. Then I understand. The bushes don’t reach to the house, and there is no path here. With nothing and no one to guide her, the space between the buildings might as well be miles.

  Now when we go out, I put my signs into her hands. Every afternoon we tour Ivy Green from end to end. Before long I’ve learned the name of every man and beast on the property and relayed them all into Helen’s palm.

  Her mind tantalizes me with glimpses of brightness. Already she can spell “doll,” “cake,” “card,” “hat,” and “key.” She hasn’t any idea what the signs mean; I could have trained her just as easily to clap hands or turn in a circle instead of spelling. But it isn’t important for Helen to make sense of what she’s doing yet. What matters is her fingers don’t hesitate to make the letters when I give her the objects. Laura Bridgman learned the same way—first matching the words to the objects by rote, then the great leap: understanding.

  My only worry is Dr. Howe never mentioned how he got Laura
to make that leap. I don’t think he knew himself how it happened. All I can think to do is to do my best and leave the rest to whatever power manages what we cannot.

  Even beset with such difficulties, I’m thankful every minute for this little bower. We eat our meals out on the piazza, shaded by vines so luxuriant they cover the garden beyond. Percy brings the meals and takes care of the fire, so I can give my entire attention to Helen.

  The more I find to busy her restless limbs, the more normal she becomes. When I first came, her movements were so insistent that no one could help feeling there was something unnatural and almost weird about her. The simplest things, stringing beads or crocheting, consume enough of her attention to funnel some of that frenzied energy away. Now when the boredom creeps up on her, she comes to me, filling an imaginary string with beads or working her fingers under my nose like the crochet needles until I put something in her hands. I have little fear of her fists now, though she still refuses to be led and knocks everything in her path aside rather than step askance. Far be it from me to judge her for that, though—she blunders into far less with her hands and feet than I do with my tongue and temper.

  In the open fields I show her how to tumble, turn somersaults, and roll down hills. We bend our backs inside out, arching over the ground like bridges. Sometimes I enlist the servant children for a game of crack-the-whip, and Helen frolics among them like any child her age. When they tire and try to drift away, she stands before them and snaps her arms back and forth to show she still wants to play.

  In the late afternoon we return, panting and scented with tramped grass, sweat, and sunshine. From time to time I smuggle crickets home in my pockets, then drop them into Helen’s hands for the impish delight of seeing her splutter with astonishment as they spring from her palms like living firecrackers.

  When the weather turns temperamental, we stay indoors and exercise with a set of dumbbells until she’s mastered the movements I learned to the tune of Verdi’s “Anvil Chorus” at Perkins. Captain Keller is so tickled by his daughter the strongman he’s promised to fit up a gymnasium for her. One cloudy afternoon she feels the rumble of thunder even before I’ve heard it and goes searching for the weights herself, pumping her arms up and down until I understand and pull the dumbbells from their shelf.