“What else?” I shook Peter.
He said that across Park Street throngs of protesters held signs, chanting against the war. “And the sidewalks are crammed with the usual reporters, gawking at the whole scene. There’s O’Rourke, and Danson …”
“The ones who came to my house?”
“The very same. O’Rourke’s a real troublemaker. Let’s steer clear.”
Peter led me across the street; I was set to talk in five minutes, but someone pulled my sleeve.
“Great,” Peter said. “The boys from the Globe have caught up with us. They want to ask you some questions before you go onstage. Danson is first. Watch out for him—he’s a joker.”
“Fire away.”
“All right. He asks if you can tell the color of his coat?”
“It’s blue.”
“Wrong. He says it’s black.”
“Well if he knew, then why did he ask me?”
I felt laughter in waves. But then the air turned heavier.
“O’Rourke’s asking your take on the war.”
“Tell him President Wilson is as blind as I am.”
Then Peter leaned forward, his hands tense. “O’Rourke’s a real crank. He says you have no right to speak here, no right to speak out against the war.”
“What he means is how can I, blind and deaf Helen Keller, have any thoughts worth hearing about something I can’t see. That’s his point, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“Let me finish his sentence then—I’ve heard it only about a hundred times before. He’s saying, ‘Has Miss Helen Keller experienced war? Has she seen the battlefields, heard the soldiers’ cries?’ He wants me to stay away from topics of national interest and stick to the sole topic allowed me: blindness. Am I right?”
“Right as always, my pet.”
America’s leading newspaper editors said over and over that because I was deaf and blind I could have no real knowledge of politics and the world. When I wrote about anything besides blindness or deafness they said, “Why, Miss Keller, thank you for your lovely article on the state of our economy. But we don’t want to hear your opinions on labor, jobs, or peace. Better minds than yours are working on those subjects. But please, won’t you enlighten us on what it’s like to live in the dark?”
Do they think that just because I can’t see or hear I don’t have a brain? I am trained to think, and unlike most editors I know, I can do so in five languages. I read papers daily in German, English, Italian, and French. I’ve read both Marx and Engels in German Braille. I dare any of them to surpass that.
I felt O’Rourke’s footsteps on the sidewalk.
“Peter,” I said, “ask Mr. O’Rourke if he has read Le Monde lately? I certainly have. Would he like me to update him on firsthand reports from the front?”
“He says he doesn’t speak French.”
“Oh, then maybe the report from yesterday’s Der Spiegel?”
“No, not German either.”
“A shame. Tell him it’s easier for me to learn about the world because I can read all night in the dark.”
O’Rourke’s footsteps were behind us when suddenly Peter moved away and I stood alone, unanchored, with the crowds of people bumping and jostling past me. When he returned he took my arm. “The coast is clear. That O’Rourke kept buzzing around. I told him to get lost.”
“You’re my hero.”
“But do you know what O’Rourke said next?”
“No.”
“He said that I’m the one who’s lost.”
“He’s just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“He’s chasing you for a story while you’re heading onto the stage with me.”
“Right. I’m next to the beautiful Helen Keller while he’s filing stories people stuff in windows all winter to keep out the chill.”
The cheers of the crowd were so strong, I felt them in the air as we approached the stage area. “Jesus, Helen, they’re stamping their feet. The crowd is all riled up, and I’ve got to get through this mess. Let’s take a minute.” We stepped off the path and moved behind a grove of trees. “Helen, my dear, if I get you through this I believe I deserve a raise.”
“A raise? How about this.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
“Well, that’s one kind of raise. But I meant the cash kind. Do you realize what I need to do before we leave here today?”
“I have the feeling I’m about to find out …”
I felt him tick his fingers together. “I’ll strong-arm my way through your adoring crowds, then call out your words from the stage. When it’s all over I’ll get you out of here safely.”
“Your work never ends.”
He plunged through the crowd, me by his side, and we began to climb the stairs to the stage. “Watch your step. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
But neither of us would come out of this unscathed. I had violated my word to Annie, lied to Mother, and Peter had become something of a joke among some of the reporters. But I was at his mercy. If he had regrets, I couldn’t bear to hear them. So I turned and smiled at him. “Lead on,” I said, and he lifted me, in one fell swoop, over the last step and onto the wooden stage.
As I spelled my words to Peter he called them out to the crowd. “Rumors have begun to spread about this war,” I said. A wave of applause rippling, moving the air. “Rumors that this war is just, that it is necessary, or called for, for us to intervene in the lives of other people when they have the right, the need, to stand on their own two feet.”
“Helen,” Peter spelled rapidly. “You’re departing from our speech. The one we wrote together in Wrentham.” But I went on pressing my words into his palm.
“These countries were our friends, and we respected their independence,” I said. I stood still while Peter repeated the words, then I went on: “Then the imperialists came in, demanding they bow down. It is their right to determine their own futures, their right to make decisions on their own.” I felt Peter’s arms as he began to rouse the crowd. “It is our absolute need to let them determine their own futures, whether we like their futures or not.”
“You tell them, Helen.”
The audience burst into rousing applause.
On stage I am the center of the universe. Wherever I am—Boston Common, Carnegie Hall, or under the burning sun of Colorado’s Rockies where dust swirls and wind whips my face—on stage I am in control. Yes, I still need a guiding hand’s help to cross a strange room, to comb my hair, to put on the right clothes, to leave the stage gracefully. Yes, I need Peter or Annie to translate my words, to make them ring out to the crowd, but it is the one place where I am surer of myself than any other. It’s the place where I have a voice, and with any luck it would soon be Peter’s most important place, too. Beside me.
Applause flowed over us and Peter held my hand tight. The thrum of floorboards told me the crowd was inching closer. “Let’s get a move on, missy. We’d better make a run for it, or they’ll keep us here all day.”
“Yes, boss.” A jolt of happiness running through me.
“Hold on.” I felt him wrap his arms around me, leading me down the back steps to avoid the crowd. But they surged forward so forcibly that even with Peter protecting me, when we pushed our way through them behind the stage, they tore at my dress. Peter tried to push people back, but the crowd was too much for one man. I felt the press of people around me, and I felt myself about to fall. Finally, two strong hands on my shoulders and I was pushed free of the crowd.
“You’re my hero,” I exhaled.
“They’re your heroes,” Peter said.
“Who?”
“The policemen lined up outside. They got the crowd under control; they’re keeping this rowdy bunch of Keller worshipers at bay. Not me. I could use a cup of coffee,” Peter said. “There’s a café right across the street.” He hustled me into the café, where we sat across from each other.
“Peter. Let’s get married, today, here.”
&n
bsp; “What? You want to take your sacred vows in a coffee shop?” He laughed.
“No. At Boston City Hall. We’ll be there for our license and—”
“The license takes two weeks. It can’t move any faster than that. As soon as it comes to your house in the mail, believe me, Helen, we’ll marry.”
But I had the distinct sense that if it didn’t happen now, something would prevent it. “It has to be today,” I repeated. “Can’t you …” I fumbled in my purse, found my leather wallet. “Here.”
“Why, Miss Keller, are you trying to buy me?”
I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. I always kept one tucked into my wallet for emergencies.
“Or are you asking me to bribe a public official?”
“I’m asking you to … make things happen.”
“I’m shocked at the things you know.”
“No, you’re not.” I slid my hand into his pocket. “Peter, today, if you can.”
“A Socialist I am, a lawbreaker I’m not. Sorry, Helen. We’ll wait two weeks, then we’ll tie the knot.”
Was Peter stalling? No. I was the one who needed to move fast. Because Peter couldn’t foresee what life would really be like with me. Caring for me every day might begin to seem like a burden. How I wished, for one moment, to be a regular person, less of a responsibility, “normal.”
And at that point Peter did not really know the toll I would take on him. The longer we delayed, the more likely he would realize. I could not take that chance.
I wanted him to marry me before he found out.
Peter led me through the coffee shop door.
Chapter Thirty
Breathless, Peter and I climb Boston City Hall’s granite steps, our coats whipped by the wind. As we cross the slippery hallway tiles the fact that soon I will have a license to marry makes me so dizzy that I grip Peter’s hand. When he pushes open the door to the city clerk’s office I smell cigar smoke, must from old filing cabinets, and the tang of typewriter ink.
“Right this way, lawbreaker.” Peter leads me to the counter. “I’ll have this filled out in a jiffy.” I hold on to the cool edge of the counter while Peter fills out our marriage license. When it comes time for me to sign it he pushes the paper across the counter. There is a pause as he hands the application back to the clerk, then says, “Oh, great. Another Keller fan.”
“What? Someone’s followed us here from the rally?”
“No, it’s this McGlennan, the clerk. He says he saw you raising money for the blind in downtown Boston—hold on, when? Oh, back in 1905. He still remembers it because when you spoke, the women in the audience cried, and the men had to look away.”
“As long as they looked in their wallets, that’s all right with me.”
“You’re a stellar fundraiser, promoting goodwill around the world.”
“I’m an international beggar.”
“I’ll make you beg.”
“Seriously, Peter, if this McGlennan knows who I am, he needs to promise to keep our marriage license a secret.”
“I’ve already asked him. He can’t—or won’t—keep it quiet.” Peter’s hand felt tense in mine.
“What do you mean? He’ll sell it to the highest bidder?”
“A marriage license is public information. According to McGlennan, if anyone asks for it, he’s obligated to show them the application. But if no one asks, well then we’re two free birds.” Peter looped his arm through mine. “It’s okay, no one saw us come in here—I looked. We’re fine. We’ll return in two weeks for the license. Now let’s get back to Wrentham before anyone sees us.”
We slipped out into the warm Boston sunshine. “Wait here,” Peter said. “I’m going to get a cab.” One minute passed, then two. I put my hand on a cool marble pillar of the building to steady myself—under my feet the sidewalk trembled from the subway beneath the street. When his footsteps thudded back across the pavement minutes later, a familiar scent made me take Peter’s arm.
“He’s back.” I held my coat closed against the wind.
“Who?”
“O’Rourke.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s a drinker. I can smell whiskey a mile away.”
“If you’re quick on your feet we can get in the cab. Too late. He’s coming toward us.”
Peter turned from me to talk to O’Rourke.
“What does he want?” I took Peter’s hand.
“He’s yammering away about what we’re doing here. Were we at City Hall? Why were we in McGlennan’s office a few minutes back? ‘Miss Keller,’ he wants to know, ‘are you planning on marrying?’”
“If Mother finds out …”
“You forget, Helen. Reporters are trained to tell stories. I just told him we’ve never been to City Hall.”
“You denied it?”
“One hundred percent. I said we have no intention of marrying. I am your humble servant, that’s all. That’s why I’m accompanying you on this trip to Boston.”
“You’re not humble.”
“True, but he doesn’t need to know that. Now let’s get going before he snoops around even more.”
We sat together awkwardly in the cab all the way to the train station. “If he files a story, it would run …”
“Tomorrow. Otherwise, we’re safe. You’re important, Miss Keller, and yes, the world is hungry for news about you, but there’s this little thing called a war going on, and let’s see.” I felt Peter check his watch. “Today’s the third. President Wilson is scheduled to give a press conference tonight, and whatever he says, I guarantee you, will be all over tomorrow’s papers, upstaging any story that says ‘Helen Keller to Wed.’”
“You’re sure?”
“Yup. I’m sure there will be no newspaper story about you.”
“No, you’re sure about today’s date?”
“Positive.”
A wave of happiness ran through me, but not for the reason Peter thought.
From the time I was fourteen, cramps sent me to bed the first week of every month because of “female troubles.” If I had a speech scheduled during those times, I canceled it. If I had classes, Annie let me stay home and rest in bed. So in the two days after Peter and I were alone in the cabin by the pond, I should have felt that familiar cramping, but nothing had happened. I began to think that I might be pregnant. I could have everything: Peter, marriage, a child.
Nothing felt as wonderful as that moment. Annie had told me stories about women who had children after giving themselves to a man only once. I still remember how she paced the hall of our house when she told me this, berating herself because after over ten years of marriage to John she never got pregnant. Mother said women like me should never have families, that God had given me a special role to play in life. But since I’d met Peter, I didn’t want to be a saint anymore. Maybe, just maybe, a miracle had happened.
A thrill, a feeling of new grass, hot stars, moved through me.
After we boarded the train home he led me down the swaying corridor to our sleeper car. I held on to the seat backs as we walked, but the train swayed so much that I stopped. “Peter, I have to … sit down for a minute.” I felt so close to him when he led me to a seat, and tucked a blanket over me because of the window’s chill. In that warm, closed space with Peter I felt the outside world recede. But as the train rattled farther from the station, he leaned toward me.
“Out with it, lady,” he said.
“Out with what?”
“Don’t kid a kidder. What are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you turning your head to the left, the way you do when you’re avoiding something?”
“Well, I am a leftist,” I laughed.
“Okay, lefty. Fess up. What’s the big secret?”
I wanted to say, “Maybe I’m pregnant,” but I knew I shouldn’t say anything. I ran my hand through Peter’s hair. If I were pregnant I’d need Mother, or Annie, with me once I married, to help raise a
child. And the closer that would make me to my mother and Annie the farther away it would take me from Peter.
So I kept it from him. Instead I said, “Mother’s done it. She told me last night she’s taking me to Alabama next week.”
“Just you? Without me?”
“Right. She booked passage on the SS Savannah. She said she’s had enough of you and doesn’t know what to do with me now that Annie’s going away.”
“Mothers,” Peter said.
“Children.” I shifted in my seat. “She wants to protect me.”
“Protect you? She wants to keep you the size of a flea. And she’s made a religion of it.”
“Peter, please—”
“Okay.” He cut me off before I could say anything. “She’s not to be criticized. That bread pudding of hers at dinner last week was fit for a king—but listen, Helen. She wants nothing more than to keep you exactly as you are—outspoken, yes, but not free to be a woman. If she’s scheming to sweep you away, then lucky us. We’ll move up the date of our escape. We’ll marry sooner.”
“But the license takes two weeks.”
“Not if you’ve got this.” Peter put the honorarium envelope from the rally in my hands.
“It’s empty.”
“No, it’s full—of freedom, my dear.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The honorarium. I spent it for a good cause.”
“You gave it to the antiwar people?”
“No. I followed your advice.”
“What advice?”
“I’ve known McGlennan for a while. I’ve run into him at press conferences at City Hall, mayor’s breakfasts, pub crawls. He’s always hungry for a little extra cash. He took the twenty, and while he couldn’t guarantee some bozo wouldn’t get ahold of our marriage license, he did say he could rush the application through …”
“I thought you weren’t a lawbreaker?”
“I’m not. I’m a lawbender, when I need to be.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I need a lock picked.”
“I don’t do break-ins.”
“But you’ve broken me in.”
“I have, haven’t I.” He leaned his knee into mine. “Helen, have I told you …” I held my breath. In all our time together, he had never uttered the word love. I put my finger to his lips, held it there, as if I could draw the word out.
Helen Keller in Love Page 15