Miss Spitfire

by Sarah Miller

  “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.”

  His pinky rises under my hand, then his thumb. “Y,” he says.

  Helen lets out a triumphant cry, frightening both of us breathless. My eyes fly open, surprising me, for I didn’t realize I’d shut them. Helen flings her arms round Percy’s head, practically mauling him with the force of her pride. My laugh rings through the little house at the sight of him squinting up between the clutch of her arms.

  In the next instant he is forgotten. Helen’s fingers patter over my frame, probing for her promised treat. I reach into my pocket and present a glistening stick to each of them—plain for Helen, stripes for Percy. His eyes feast upon the decoration. Before he can so much as lick it, Helen grabs him by the arm, hauling him out the door. Outside she plops down onto the edge of the piazza, yanking Percy to the floor beside her. There they sit, swinging their legs, sucking their candy like old chums. Propping myself against one of the posts, I ease myself to the floor beside them, hugging my knees to my chest.

  Percy looks up at me. “Don’t you have one?” he asks, waving his treat in the air.

  I smile. “No, this afternoon’s been sweet enough.”

  Chapter 21

  My heart is singing for joy this morning.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  The morning starts like any other. Helen washes and dresses herself as I’ve taught her, but it falls to me to brush her hair. The brush is something she tolerates only because it’s a point I refuse to compromise.

  The change begins with a ribbon, a length of yellow satin from one of Mrs. Keller’s forgotten sewing baskets. I’ve always loved pretty things, fine clothing especially. The weave of well-made cloth, the precision of neat rows of stitches, and the intricacies of lace and ribbons delight my fingers.

  “Once upon a time,” I muse as I guide the brush through Helen’s hair, “there was a little girl named Johanna, but everyone called her Annie. Her father worked the Taylor farm, and Annie wished more than anything in the world to have a hat as beautiful as the Taylor girl’s. Well, one day her father bought her a hat—a white one, with a blue ribbon and a pink rose.” My hand stills a moment, remembering. The Taylor girl never had such a beautiful hat. Nor has anyone since.

  Through brushing, I send Helen to the dresser to fetch the bit of string I use to tie her hair away from her face. Today, though, I’ve replaced the worn cord with the satin ribbon. Helen’s wardrobe is plain and practical—no wonder, given her rough-and-tumble ways—but after yesterday’s lesson she deserves a bit of finery to charm her fingers. Confused, she sweeps her hands over the entire surface of the dresser top, then gives up and brings me the ribbon wadded in her fist.

  “Like this,” I tell her, pulling the crumpled ball from her grip. “Smooth it over.” Guiding Helen’s fingers to and fro, I show her how to appreciate its fine surface.

  Almost immediately she responds to the silky texture—her movements become nearly dainty, fingertips skimming across the ribbon’s length like water bugs skating along the surface of a pool. Playful now, I take the ribbon up by its ends and shimmy it back and forth over the tip of Helen’s nose as if I’m polishing the toe of a shoe. She wrinkles up her face in ticklish pleasure. I move to her chin, and she nuzzles against my swishing movements.

  Hooking one finger round the ribbon, she tries to pull it from me. Her desire to touch it, her attraction to its softness, makes my heart thump. I snap the ribbon back and weave it between my fingers, then rub them across my cheek, like Helen’s mother-gesture. When she senses my movement, Helen crowds in close to me. Finding my arm, she feels her way along to my shoulder, up my neck, and to my face. There she follows the movement of my beribboned hand. Her touch is abrupt and awkward, but it makes no difference to me. My breath comes faster at the feel of her fingers against my cheek.

  Still not satisfied, Helen jerks my hand to her own face, dragging my satin-adorned knuckles from her ear to her chin. I will myself to stay calm, but the delight of it makes my skin ripple.

  “I touched her,” I marvel to the empty cottage. Who would believe it? I hardly believe it myself until I hear my own voice say it. My mind pauses, lingering on the moment. Unmoved as ever, Helen uses my distraction to unravel the ribbon from my hand.

  Her fingers twisted in satin, Helen waggles her hand before my face. Daring now, I duck forward, brushing my lips across her fingertips. She squeals and jumps away, then capers forward, shaking the ribbon at my face like a banner. Heart racing, I snatch it from her, baiting her to come nearer. When she does, I capture her between my knees once more. She squirms at first, but I stay her with a touch.

  “Here,” I tell her, dangling the ribbon over her fist, “let’s put it in your hair.” I let her feel it, then move her hand to her hair. She muses a moment, then grabs the ribbon from me and presses it against her head.

  “That’s right, little woman.” Feeling me nod, she pushes the ribbon into my hands and turns about, presenting her hair to me. Holding my breath, I draw her up onto my knee. Her body lurches once, searching for balance, then stills. I smother a gasp and gape at her.

  Suddenly she sways again, motioning at her hair. I steady her with a hand at the small of her back. Impatient, she grabs a fistful of curls and shakes them at me. Fingers fumbling, I sweep a handful of hair into a bundle, then fasten it with a clumsy bow. With a tap I signal I’m through. Entranced by the decoration, Helen’s fingers creep up into her hair, winding in and out of the ribbon’s tails.

  My steadying hand still rests at her waist, but she doesn’t notice. I watch the way her fingers move, flipping the length of satin back and forth, back and forth, like a Jacob’s ladder. Turned in profile, her misshapen eye is hidden from my view. I see only half of her face—the pretty half. I fancy it’s also the bright half, the obedient half. Is this the side of Helen that let me touch her moments ago?

  I scarcely dare to move, for fear of breaking the spell. The softness of the satin has almost bewitched her. I imagine the way it must feel, slipping between her fingers, warming like a second skin. Is there warmth and softness in Helen, too?

  My arm laces closer round her, sounding for the depth of her tolerance. When she doesn’t squirm, I take a chance. Quick as a hummingbird, I lean in and plant a kiss on Helen’s cheek. Soft and sweet as an apricot.

  She blinks. Her fingers cease twining through the ribbon, though she doesn’t let go. Her free hand rises to her face, brushing as if she expects to feel something lingering there. Finding nothing, she reaches for my face, touches my lips.

  I work my hand into hers. “Kiss,” I whisper, forming the letters with unsteady fingers.

  I feel as if a soft breeze has replaced the hot blood that so often thunders through my veins.

  Puzzled, Helen reaches for my lips. I kiss her fingertips. Letting the ribbon loose, s
he touches my face with both hands. I spell “kiss” again, my voice too tight to speak the word. She copies the letters and mirrors my gratified nod.

  My heart swells with a laugh while tears squeeze against my throat. The place where they meet feels ready to burst. I want to wrap my arms round her and rock her like a baby, but I quell the urge—the weight of my pent-up affection would smother her. Instead I press my cheek to hers for the length of a breath, then shoo her from my lap.

  A shudder runs through me as Helen slides from my legs. The place where she sat feels blank. It’s an ugly sensation. Desperate to shake it, I follow Helen across the room to where she busies her hands with the crochet needle. My lips brush her cheek once more. She accepts my affection as a matter of course.

  I want to throw the windows wide open and shout. I want to hug her again and again. But I can’t—I have to keep from vexing her with my attention. I need to fill my arms and thoughts with something besides the memory of our momentary connection.

  My hands dance with excitement as I draw out pen, ink, and paper. Joy spills across the page: “A miracle has happened! The light of understanding has shone upon my little pupil’s mind, and behold, all things are changed!”

  I gaze at Helen and smile dreamily at the thought of Mrs. Hopkins reading these pages to my friends. Helen looks so serene, laboring over her chain of wool with gentle hands. To think the little savage learned her first lesson in obedience, and finds the yoke easy! The great step—the step that counts—has been taken. I write grandly of my achievement to Mrs. Hopkins: “It now remains my pleasant task to direct and mould the beautiful intelligence that is beginning to stir in the child-soul.”

  I should know by now that with Helen nothing is so easy as it seems.

  Chapter 22

  When she is in a particularly gentle mood, she will sit in my lap for a minute or two.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  Helen will not return my caresses.

  For a little while the days floated by. Morning, noon, and night I found reasons to pass near her, smoothing her hair or patting her cheek on my way, if only to remind myself of her approval. At night I drifted to sleep with my temple resting against her shoulder, or my fingers twined into her curls while the Perkins doll watched from her place among her china sisters on the window seat.

  But as time passes, the magic of our brief connection fades. Helen allows me to touch her but makes no response. Before long the charm of such one-sided affection evaporates. I find myself holding back. She never cringes or swats at me, never grunts or pulls away. She gives me as much regard as the table edges and doorways she bumps into from time to time.

  I hadn’t expected there could be something more difficult to live with than the wild Helen, who screamed if even my skirts brushed near her. This phantom child is far worse. Each time Helen disregards my touch, I feel a strange patter in my stomach, as if I’m violating her somehow. Her indifference digs at me; I come away from her feeling splintered.

  “‘A devil,’” I mutter to her, borrowing the harsh words from Shakespeare, “‘a born devil, on whose nature nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost’ …”

  By the third night I find myself stealing into the rocking chair with the Perkins doll. But even her oblivious submission doesn’t satisfy me—her cold china skin only leeches the warmth from my body into hers. Weary, I set her aside and try to soften her abandonment with dulcet words.

  So, we’ll go no more a-roving

  So late into the night,

  Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.

  For the sword outwears its sheath,

  And the soul wears out the breast,

  And the heart must pause to breathe,

  And Love itself have rest.

  Though the night was made for loving,

  And the day returns too soon,

  Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

  By the light of the moon.

  In the afternoon I let Helen outside for a good romp in the garden. With the ivy and flowers at her fingertips, Helen is at her happiest. Watching her fondle the mimosa and azalea blossoms or press her face into the wide leaves of the ivy should bring me some comfort. Instead I feel as if something in the center of me has sunk like a weight, closing my throat and pulling the corners of my mouth down with it. How can she be so tender with the plants and leave me to wilt?

  I might be able to teach Helen what words are, but can I teach her to feel? The way she brushes off any sort of affection makes me wonder if she’s capable of becoming anything more than a two-legged pup who can fetch and carry and sew. “At least a dog wags its tail at a gentle touch or a kind word,” I sigh, feeling myself droop. Irritated with my own self-pity, I straighten up. “There’s many a heartless human, but not a beast in history has uttered a single word,” I tell myself. And Helen spoke at only six months old.

  I glance over her head toward the house. No one in sight. I do wish Mrs. Keller would look in to see us the way the captain does. I miss her company. I’d like to hear thoughts and voices besides my own, and my eyes are too sore to be scouring books for comfort. But Mrs. Keller quarantines herself from Helen absolutely. Perhaps complete separation from Helen is easier than tempting herself with secret glances from afar. Still, her affection won’t be stifled—I often notice Mrs. Keller going to and from the kitchen, and she spends hours at a time tending her lavish flower beds. It’s no coincidence Percy delivers meals more sumptuous than anything served in the big house or that sweet-smelling flower cuttings find their way onto Helen’s tray.

  I wish I could find such an easy path to Helen’s heart.

  By the time Captain Keller stops at the window that evening, I’m so glad to see another feeling human I could throw my arms round his neck. I settle for sitting as near the casement as I can manage. When he sees Helen stringing beads, he remarks, “How quiet she is!”

  It’s small praise, but I can’t help beaming at his amazement.

  The captain leans against the windowsill, one fist propped on his hip. “Helen seems a different child entirely, Miss Sullivan.”

  I answer carefully, so as not to betray my nagging dismay. “She is. I haven’t seen a fit of temper in nearly a week. She’s every bit as stubborn, but she doesn’t resist my control. A shake or nod of my head has become a fact as apparent to her as the difference between pain and pleasure.” Indeed, I’ve built such strong links between the two ideas, they’ve likely become much the same in Helen’s mind. But I don’t dare tell him that.

  Nodding, he surveys the ordered space of the room. Reading the satisfaction in his face, I puff up my chest like a mother hen on her roost. Then his eyes fall on Helen’s abandoned supper tray. Almost a third of her food lies untouched. His beard jerks as his lips straighten.

  “How is Mrs. Keller, Captain?” I ask, hoping to distract him.

  “Fine, fine,” he answers with a wave of his hand. “Is that Helen’s supper there?”

  “It is.”

  “And why haven’t you given her the rest of it?”

  “I have. She doesn’t want it.”

  “Doesn’t want it?” He crosses his arms and drums his fingers against his elbows. “She must be homesick. If this keeps up, you’ll have to return to Ivy Green.”

  My stomach twists like an overwrung shirt. “But she’s so much more docile, Captain Keller,” I implore. “If she doesn’t spend half the day whirling about like a cyclone, she’s sure to eat less.”

  “Perhaps, Miss Sullivan, perhaps,” he says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “But the child must eat. See that she gets enough. I shall not see her deprived.”

  I nod. I don’t agree with him, but for once I’m afraid to argue. Worn as I am by loneliness, the idea of returning to Ivy Green hardens my worries into a cold brick. I’ve worked so hard to bring Helen under my control. Even if the Kellers are willing to dis
cipline her, I’m not fool enough to think Helen will obey another master without a fight.

  Turning to go, the captain smiles and shakes his head. “She’s learned more than I thought possible, Miss Sullivan.” The words tumble from my ears to my stomach like a tubful of wet laundry.

  More than he thought possible?

  What have I taught Helen these last ten days? Nothing remarkable—how to wash herself, feed herself. How to knit a scrap of wool. I’ve taught her no more than the average imbecile can learn—keep clean, keep quiet. And this from a child who spoke at six months old. Would the Kellers settle for so little?

  A fluttering catches my eye. I look down and find my own fingers spelling out my agitation. Clasping them together, I thrust my hands between my knees to steady them. But I can’t keep my thoughts from whirling.

  I don’t know which is worse: returning to Ivy Green and the endless tug-of-war over Helen’s behavior, or the idea that Helen’s own parents would leave her mind to rot in her head so long as she keeps quiet and doesn’t make a mess. It’s hardly more than anyone expected of me, and I was nothing but a blind poor-house orphan. It’s hardly more than anyone expects of a well-trained pet.

  The thought drives me from my seat by the window, propelling my feet round and round the place where Helen sits stringing her beads in endless patterns. “I’m supposed to be a teacher, not a monkey trainer,” I tell her. The procession of beads continues: precise, perfunctory. “But I’ve hardly taught you a thing, have I? I’ve done no more than mold you into a copycat.”

  Picking up one of the strings, I run it through my fingers like a rosary, examining its design. This is not one of the simple wood-glass-wood combinations I showed her. The pattern is more than a dozen beads long.