Afternoons with Emily

by Rose MacMurray

  School was closed. I missed Miss Lowe, my classmates, the hum and shuffle in the halls. When Father rented a sleigh on Monday to go to his college office, he agreed to drop me off at Emily’s. Because of the weather, it had been a few weeks since our last meeting. I was astonished at her delight in seeing me. Perhaps I was a more significant event in her schedule than I knew.

  “How did you manage to leave your igloo?” Emily cried. “Oh, Miranda, I need you for my snowdrop — my reminder there is LIFE under all this! January has always been my nadir.”

  “I’ve been lonely too,” I responded, removing my coat. I stomped my feet to knock off more snow. “I miss Lolly, though we try to walk back and forth when we can. And I’ve missed you, Emily.” The moment I said it I realized it was true. Emily’s company was like none other that I enjoyed. I loved Aunt Helen and Kate, and I enjoyed the fun of Lolly and the girls at school. But my visits with Emily were different. She was a singular experience, an arena in which to test words and concepts, a companion in the way characters in my favorite books were.

  “I never said I was lonely,” Emily corrected me. “I’ve spent years learning to be a solitary, you know. But January in Amherst is very like a tomb, a white TOMB — and there will be no snowdrops calling in there.”

  Her image amused me; it seemed so overly dramatic. “I know what you mean, Emily. I don’t like it when it’s too quiet either.” I suppressed a smile. “But it doesn’t make me think about death.”

  “Sometimes that’s all I think about.” Emily sighed and looked out at the hedge, sagging under its weight of snow. “Death has always been close by. I’ve known it almost as long as I have known myself.”

  This surprised me — from what I knew of the family, all were living. There were no lost siblings in this household as there were in so many other families.

  “When I was a very small girl, not yet three, I spent a spring in Monson with my aunt, Mother’s sister,” Emily explained. “That was truly a HOUSE OF DEATH, Miranda.

  “My uncle had just died of consumption. His wife, my aunt, was dying too, and one of their little children had it. And my own dear cousin, who was like a sister to me, was infected too. She died while we were still at school together.”

  I sat riveted, no longer feeling the cold in my feet. This could be my own story. This was an experience Emily and I shared.

  “Everyone was more or less dying,” Emily continued. “In that house, Death had always just left the room — but he hadn’t gone far. And there was a custom in those days that no dying person should ever be left alone. We called it ‘keeping watch.’ So I often sat up at night with someone who was dying, and once that person was a CORPSE by morning. I was four years old.”

  “How terrible for a young child!” I exclaimed, a bit more passionately than I intended.

  Emily gave me a soft smile. “January always reminds me of that death-in-life time.”

  I was moved by her story, but for some reason I chose not to confide that consumption stalked my house too. Something held me back. Perhaps it was the relish with which Emily seemed to regard death’s hovering presence.

  Emily studied me a moment longer. “I am not very old — did you know I am twenty-seven? But I have already lost three beloveds from my dearest CIRCLE. These three are with me every day. I see them more clearly than those who remain.”

  Then I looked so downcast that she called me “a regular catafalque” and was pleased when I did not know the word.

  “Now wouldn’t that be a fine name for a cat, I ask you!” She took both my hands in hers — a rare physical gesture. Her hands were small but strong. “I must cheer you! And myself. We are not to succumb to the wintry solemnity. How can I spark this winter day?”

  She stood and bustled about her room as if seeking inspiration. “If there must be winter, let us find in it some beauty! Or entertainment.” She clapped her hands together as if she were a little child. “I have just the thing.”

  Her excitement was contagious, as so much was with Emily. When she felt sad, I felt sad; if she felt gay, suddenly my spirits lifted.

  “What brightens the doldrums of winter?” she asked in a teasing voice. “Valentines! This is the true reason for the holiday being celebrated in stark February. To bring us some color.”

  She went to her bureau and brought out a big flowered box of old valentines. She sat at the desk chair, holding the box on her lap.

  “They’re so pretty,” I said, carefully lifting a few delicate paper hearts from the box. As I examined the intricate paper cutting, Emily rummaged through the collection, seeming to search for a particular example.

  “Here we are!” she said triumphantly.

  I gently laid the hearts on the side table. Emily handed me a small newspaper bearing the college seal. “This is the Indicator,” she explained. “It used to be the college student publication. Look on page two, at the top.”

  There was a box, bordered with hearts and flowers, and a witty parody of a valentine.

  Sir, I desire an interview; meet me at sunrise, or sunset, or the new moon — the place is immaterial. In gold, or in purple, or sackcloth — I look not upon the raiment. With sword, or with pen, or with plough — the weapons are less than the wielder. In coach, or in wagon, or walking, the equipage far from the man. With soul, or spirit, or body, they are all alike to me. With host or alone, in sunshine or storm, in heaven or earth, some how or no how — I propose, sir, to see you.

  And not to see merely, but a chat, sir, or a tete-a-tete, a confab, a mingling of opposite minds is what I propose to have. I feel sir that we shall agree. We will be David and Jonathan, or Damon and Pythias, or what is better than either, the United States of America. We will talk over what we have learned in our geographies, and listened to from the pulpit, the press and the Sabbath School.

  The delightful letter frothed and bubbled on, full of literary and political jokes and veiled flirtation. It ended:

  But the world is sleeping in ignorance and error, sir, and we must be crowing cocks, and singing larks, and a rising sun to awake her; or else we’ll pull society up to the roots, and plant it in a different place. . . . We will blow out the sun, and the moon, and encourage invention. Alpha shall kiss Omega — we will ride up the hill of glory — Hallelujah, all hail!

  “What a perfectly charming girl!” I exclaimed. I wished I had the talent to have written the piece.

  “The editor agreed with you,” Emily said. “Read just above the valentine border.”

  Sure enough, the smitten young man had stated longingly:

  I wish I knew who the author is. I think she must have some spell, by which she quickens the imagination, and causes the high blood to “run frolic through the veins.”

  “She certainly knew how to keep him interested!” I let out a romantic sigh. “What a wonderful way to meet and to fall in love. Oh please, tell me that they did!”

  “Yes and no.” Emily enjoyed teasing me, and in this instance, the game was one we could both enjoy. This wasn’t always so. “That is, they met many times, but he never knew she had written that valentine letter to the Indicator. He thought she was just his classmate’s sister. Actually, he came to the house often in those days.”

  My eyes widened with the realization of the author’s identity. “Emily, you wrote it! You wrote that valentine!”

  “Of course.” She smiled an impenetrable smile. I couldn’t interpret it at all. Was she pleased that she had tricked the boy? Or was she pleased that she had shown me some of her writing and I enjoyed it? More likely, it was her tantalizing storytelling that pleased her — my eagerness to learn more.

  “Why didn’t you tell him? There he was, madly desiring to meet you and all set to fall in love with you.” I crossed my arms and gave her a look of grave certainty. “I can tell.”

  Emily turned to her window and looked out on the silent white village, its web of secret lives hidden in the deep snow.

  “I had many reasons, Miranda. I
knew my conversation, face-to-face, could not live up to my writing. I was sure he would prefer the lively flirt he imagined to the girl he already knew — the plain, freckled Miss Dickinson.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t have been true,” I protested. “He would have adored you.” I held out the newspaper as if the printed words would verify my opinion. “His response makes that clear.”

  “You are young, Miranda.”

  I took a step back and placed the newspaper on the table with the other valentines. Emily had never held up my age as a barrier to my understanding before. Then, we rarely discussed beaux — and in that area, I certainly was young. She could teach me, perhaps, but I was uncertain if I wanted those lessons to come from Emily.

  “I was no recluse in those days,” Emily reminded me. “I was quite the BELLE of Amherst! There were young people in and out of our house all day and all night. I played the piano for polkas and reels, and I wrote all the songs and charades.

  “But I soon saw I didn’t have the particular thing that DRAWS men. I used to study those other girls — the beauties, the ones people fell in love with. They had more than charm; they had an intense FATAL quality, a way of promising everything to a man. You must know what I mean. They say your cousin has it.”

  Emily was right; Kate did. And I knew I was learning something valuable from Emily, even if I couldn’t define what it was.

  “Well, for me — this was impossible. I could not REVEAL myself. I could not let anyone come close. I can’t stand people CROWDING me. So I became everyone’s confidante and adviser and go-between. I even wrote several ardent proposals!” She grinned; she could read the disbelief on my face.

  “Anyway, I was safer this way.” She shivered slightly and left the window. “Without the clutter of romance, I have more ROOM for true friendships in my life.”

  This puzzled me. As far as I knew, she saw no one. But I could be mistaken. Did I dare ask another question? She had never talked this freely about her personal relations. This side of her was new to me; I pressed on. “Do you have many men friends, Emily?”

  “Indeed I do, a whole tapestry of them — and of a finer weave than schoolboy homespun.” She was very smug now. “My friends tell me their PERSONAL hopes and aspirations. They do not waste our time together talking about DOILIES.”

  She spat out the word, scorning the trivialities these men doubtless discussed with any woman but Emily.

  I could barely contain my curiosity. Was Emily-the-recluse merely a pose? “Do you meet these men often?”

  “Whenever they choose to write to me. We are in constant touch.”

  She must have misunderstood me. “Do they ever come to The Homestead, I mean.”

  Now her eyes widened as if my question were surprising. “They’re sorry if they do. I see no one; you know that. If we met tête-à-tête, I might fall into ‘doily’ talk myself — and our friendships would never recover. I keep my men friends by keeping them AWAY.”

  So that was her strategy: men as friends through their letters only! I could have talked all afternoon, making these giant strides in knowing Emily, but I heard a sleigh jingling outside. I crossed to the window and saw Father driving up the Main Street hill in the dusk with enormous dash and skill; I hoped Lolly looked out and saw his fine style.

  Emily gave me a farewell touch — the second moment of physical contact in this meeting. These were rare; they underscored the intimacy of the territory we trod today. Usually she permitted only the least possible contact, rarely more than a pat on the shoulder. This was so unlike the embraces of my schoolmates. Lolly and I walked arm in arm; we hugged when we shared news. Kate and I lay side by side on a bed, holding hands and discussing our dreams, our lives. Despite Emily’s objection to winter, her personal style was more like that of a restrained winter garden than that of the lushness of spring.

  Placing her hand on my shoulder, Emily said, “If you can leave the North Pole next week, I’ll try to find another surprise for you. But remember, these things are between the two of us ONLY!”

  I felt flattered by her trust and promised her my total discretion. She counted on me, she confided in me — we were equals. I felt mature in her orbit.

  Riding home in the sleigh, carpet tucked up under my chin against the cold, I pondered this talk of men friends and valentines. Lolly had begun lately to whisper about boys in our class, and I had noticed a distracted quality to Kate. I wondered if our architect, Ethan, had something to do with that. I had noticed that he had been staying more often for dinner and that Kate had been taking extra care with her appearance.

  Would there be someone for me to send a valentine to this coming holiday? I stamped a path to my door. No likely prospects leapt to mind. This was something to discuss with Lolly — what was the proper behavior? I would have to observe the customs very closely to produce the correct Miranda now!

  There was one more wild blizzard, and then our winter was tamed. All the footpaths were kept open by our squeaking, trudging boots, and the streets and lanes were packed down by ringing sleighs. We swept the farm ponds clear, and I learned to skate well enough — but sledding was my true joy. I could not get enough of the slow, portentous start, the gathering speed, and then the headlong downhill flight. I discovered that sledding was intensely social; it changed us all.

  The boys from the academy, so childish and clumsy in class, were suddenly mature and competent in the snow. Their vivid scarves and sweaters set off their clear, rosy skin; their bright hair was encrusted with snow crystals. They were protective on the runs, gallant as they towed our sleds back uphill. They behaved like courteous men. I felt I had never met a single one of them before.

  “You shouldn’t hide your hair,” said Caleb Sweetser, pulling off my stocking cap. At school, he barely noticed me — so I must have seemed different too. Perhaps valentines would be in order after all.

  The boys made us big snapping fires at the top of the hill. We brought stone bottles of hot cocoa from home and leaned them by the fire. We stood about between runs, blowing clouds of steam at one another as the drinks warmed us. Caleb was St. George, I was the dragon, and he chased me, laughing, around the flames.

  The older single crowd sledded at the college, and the babies had their little safe hill in another place entirely, so we had our own noisy, mittened world all to ourselves. Above us a company of crows cast elliptical shadows on the snow, their cawing piercing the cold air in exultation. This was our kingdom, our domain; this was ours.

  When I described all this in my letters to Miss Adelaide, she wrote me: “This is the life I wanted for you! You have so much to offer, dear Miranda — and this young society will make you see how attractive and engaging you are.”

  Kate came with me to Prospect Hill once or twice, and each time she disappeared. The second time this occurred, I confronted her in her room as she prepared for bed.

  “Kate, where do you go? Are you sledding with Ethan?”

  Her face told me the answer to that was yes. “Tell me!” I implored her, pouncing onto her bed. “What is going on?”

  “I can’t, Miranda. I don’t know myself!” She sank onto the bed beside me. “It’s so strange. I think about Ethan most of the time I’m awake. I just go over and over the same thoughts. You’d think I’d wear them out!”

  “But what are they?”

  She lay down and gazed at the ceiling. “Oh, I think about the place where his hair grows in a little whirlpool at the back of his neck — and I think about his back. It’s warm and hard when I hold him on the sled, and I can feel his heart beating right through his sweater.” She turned to face me. “It’s true, Miranda. Our attachment is real. More than air to breathe or food or drink, I crave the sight of him.”

  I rolled onto my stomach and straightened her long hair on the pillow. I nodded, understanding yet not quite understanding her feelings.

  Kate sighed. “If you have guessed, others shall as well.”

  I mentioned President Stearns’s r
emark about Ethan’s “particular friend” at the Christmas party.

  A frown creased her high forehead. “Now that we are found out, I will have to talk to Uncle Jos. Do you think he will mind?”

  “That his architect has found a form more perfect than the house he’s designed?” I shook my head and smiled. “He won’t notice — or if he does, he won’t care. He’s done his duty. Now Aunt Helen can do the worrying!”

  I didn’t discover what, if anything, Father or Aunt Helen had to say about the special friendship between Ethan and Kate. I noticed that Ethan’s frequent visits were greeted with a small, secret smile on Aunt Helen’s part and a vague, interrogative stare from my father. That was all.

  We mourned that our merry month of February was ending, and after much consultation with both Lolly and Kate, I decided to send no valentines. I received three: one from Kate, one from Miss Adelaide, and one from Emily.

  There was no good sledding in March, and to compensate I told Emily about the pleasures of Prospect Hill, as if in the telling I could relive the fine adventures. Emily became nostalgic about her own girlhood in Amherst.

  “It was the Goodnows’ hill in those days,” she said. “The whole month of February was a GALA for me and my friends. We had our parties and hayrides and charades all year, but February was the SOCIAL time. What a lively crowd we were!”

  “Tell me about them, Emily.” I was always interested in hearing about Emily’s life before I had known her. I was curious about why she had retreated so far from the world and who she had been before she had.

  “I had two particular friends, Miranda: Abby Root and Mary Warner. We were INSEPARABLE. People called us the ‘Heavenly Triplets’!”

  “What happened to Abby and Mary?”

  “Abby married a minister, a missionary. They are off in some Arabian NIGHTMARE, converting the heathen.”