A Voice of Her Own

by Barbara Dana

  In a month’s time I improved enough to return to join “the snorer,” leaving the cats to fend for themselves. Vinnie and I had many good times, my strength returning and me able to tell my famous disaster stories before falling into sleep. Vinnie especially liked the one about the dwarf carpenter who fell through the window of a house he was building and was impaled on the iron spike of a fence below, the spike going into his stomach and out his narrow back. That was my version of a piece in the Republican that had somehow escaped Vinnie’s attention.

  I stayed at home for the duration of the term, enjoying the absence of fever and in general reassuring my parents with my presence. It was a time of peace, with long-awaited spring flowers, yellow violets, trailing arbutus, not to mention liverleaf, adder’s-tongue and bloodroot. What gruesome names they have! And always there was the church bell tolling its sad announcement—Another Gone. The number of rings signaled the age of the dead—relative, neighbor, friend—and always the prayer to keep that black-clothed Angel at length from the nest.

  Bowdoin stopped by from Father’s office to inquire after my well-being. I was awfully happy to see him. Abby visited too. We had many serious discussions about religion. Abby was about to surrender to those Waiting Arms. She expressed such a desire to be good that it took my breath away.

  The day set to return to South Hadley offered a surprise in the form of a sudden storm so wild as to delay the trip. It was Thursday. Why do I remember that? The mind has mysterious ways that I for one shall never understand. But Thursday it was and rain and wind howling and Father’s pronouncement that travel would be unwise. Friday was beautiful, however, as if Mother Nature’s commotion had been only a dream.

  There was considerable schoolwork to make up, I having missed so great an amount while away. But I had done some at home and the rest I worked extra hours to complete. It was warmer now and I enjoyed my quiet room, with oil lamp, water pitcher, washbowl and gentle cousin.

  The term passed quickly. News from home included the sad recounting of our neighbor Jacob Holt’s death. Austin’s persistent rooster had failed in his attempts to keep poor Jacob awake. So many deaths. And always more. Most memorable in the line of lighter news was the entertaining circumstance of Bowdoin attempting to deliver letters to me from home and being nearly overcome by the hysterical teacher watchdogs poised to discourage any and all contact with the “Whisker Set.” The rules were strict on the matter. No visits without prior notification and approval of the watchdogs, brief visits in the parlor in the company of selfsame guardians! It was a good thing Bowdoin didn’t have his head cut off, appearing as he did unexpectedly with the mail. That would have been less than paltry payment indeed for his performance of so gracious an errand!

  So went my final days at school. I enjoyed the springtime walks in the woods with Cousin Emily, dear Jennie, who had a bit of time for me at last, and my many classmates. I often went alone—except for the mountains and the birds, the trees and the sky and the constant stream that runs through the grounds. There was piano practice—one hour a day only—Composition, Astronomy, Reading—that being King Lear as well as a merry little book called The Stone, and the ever-popular Rhetoric. I enjoyed that class quite a lot, although at times found it to be a somewhat arbitrary business. I looked up the word in Mr. Webster’s book. “Rhetoric: The study of the elements used in literature and public speaking, such as content, structure, cadence and style.” A succinct appraisal, yet lacking in the mysterious elements that add the “bite.” How capital a thing it is that all those words can be gathered under one roof. I marvel at the beauty of it! What Miracles exist that my wondrous Friends can be put together in as many ways as there are grains of sand on all the beaches in all the countries of the world! Words put in certain order can lift the heart and pierce the darkness! God is grand indeed! And so is Mr. Webster! I saw his portrait at school. He looked extremely serious, but perhaps one must be serious for such Large work.

  At the end of school—our Holyoke Anniversary—I had an awful shock. We were gathered in the hall. The Reverend Beecher—Edward, to be exact—delivered the address. I looked up to see far across the way—Abiah! What joy! Her letters had warmed me all the year through, but never once did she mention attending my graduation.

  Abiah!

  My heart raced! I wanted to run and embrace her but could not until the minister had had his say. Moments Eternal! At last he was done. There was a great shuffling, crowding, congratulating. I pushed rudely through the mass of people.

  She was gone.

  My world tipped.

  Did she forget me?

  Breath short, heart quick, knees weak.

  Does she hate me? Has she ceased to care?

  I searched the room and down the stairs and in the yard and down the road. She was nowhere. In a troubled state I ended my time at Mt Holyoke, returning to the bosom of my family where solace has always been a noted companion.

  Upon my arrival Home the smells from the kitchen told the tale. I do believe Mother to be the most excellent cook in the entire world. Nowhere can a meal be found to equal hers! And there we were—the Special Five—together at the table! Austin looked so handsome, red hair all ascramble, and Vinnie, demure, eyes steady, quite the young lady. Mother possessed a most peaceful look that day, and I’ve never seen Father so happy. He smiled! And not only that, he told the funniest stories. One was about a cow that was found looking into the window of Mr. Cutler’s store. Father suggested she might have fancied a bit of shopping. Mother got to laughing over that. All of us did and Father more than any. I like to think Father’s superior mood that day was due to my return, but it may have been the pudding. Mother’s cornstarch pudding can lift his spirits when all else fails.

  I expected Home might feel different to me now after having been away at school, but it did not. I felt myself straightway back to the old routine and experienced a feeling of safety and belonging I had not felt while away. I wondered if I had grown up at all being on my own those many months and decided that I had not.

  That evening Abby and I sat on the front door stone in the bright moonlight and talked and talked. How grand it was to be with my “particular friend” once more. I told her all about how I had seen Abiah at the graduation and how she had disappeared.

  “Are you sure it was Abiah?” Abby asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “You could have been mistaken.”

  “I know Abiah.”

  “Why did she come without telling you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe she told you she was coming, but you forgot.”

  “I wouldn’t forget.“

  “It’s possible.”

  “It’s not likely.”

  The moon was large and low, a round, flat disc of a moon, so bright it hurt my eyes. I squinted to ease the pain. Abby was holding Noopsie Possum on her lap. “Let’s think about this,” Abby said. “You mean she just disappeared?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “She would if she was angry with me. I asked her to come to Amherst this summer, but she never answered.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t get your letter. She may have been waiting for a response from a letter she had written to you, but it never came, so she thought you were ignoring her.”

  “Then why did she come to my graduation?”

  “Because she wanted to see you.”

  “Then why did she leave?”

  “She wanted to see you, but since she thought you had been ignoring her, when she did see you, she suddenly felt afraid to approach and so she left.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “It could be.” Noopsie Possum was resting in a circle on Abby’s lap, and Abby stroking her soft fur. “Letters do not always reach their destination. You should write to her again.”

  In the midst of a deep drowse, Noopsie Possum took a notion to turn her head upside down on Abby’s lap. Chin to the heavens, sh
e purred loudly.

  I did not immediately write to Abiah, as I did not wish to force a response I might not care to receive. Deep down I am cowardly and not pleased with myself one bit, but I am the only self I’ve got and must make the best of it.

  Whiskers

  Gigantic events were about to unfold for me, and this humble daisy completely in the dark! Things so Large as to defy imagining ahead on the road, and none less informed than the traveler! We think “such and such” or “this and that” but underneath, where the meanings are, another tale is told. Search the Corridors, question the Corners, ask the Stars and the Truth will out!

  Amherst was gay that fall. There were carriage rides, concerts, lectures, promenades, charades, parties, picnics, strolls and hikes—there is a difference in these last two, the former being more of a ramble, the latter driven by purpose—and all accompanied by singing and funny stories, being due most often to the wit of a certain irreverent young lady—me! I must say that I was enjoying life. Home again and Abby and Austin and Vinnie and Whiskers all about!

  Abby and I quickly divided the Whiskers into two groups. Those of the first were preferred. Those of the second were handsome and charming as well and only slightly less enticing. I list them below.

  1st Group

  Henry Vaughn Emmons

  John Graves (Cousin John)

  Eldridge Bowdoin

  Thurston Adams

  (Thomas was gone by then, or he surely would have been included!)

  2nd Group

  Joseph Lyman

  George Gould

  John Milton Emerson

  Henry Martyn Storrs

  Henry Root

  Brainerd Harrington

  The Howland brothers (William and George)

  Emmons was a beautiful friend, his eyes black and bright as stars. One has the feeling those eyes have known some distant pain, making life all the more precious. We shared carriage rides that delighted me very much—just us two and the breeze and the clip-clop of his horse. What was her name? Flora. One day I showed Emmons some of my verses. He responded with verses of his own, which were pleasant, though not in a class with mine, a thought that both delighted and troubled me very much. Handsome Cousin John loved my music. I would often play for him. I knitted him wristlets and asked him in for wine. His gentle features, perfectly molded in casual yet pristine symmetry, held fascination. His philosophical bent added in no small measure to his general attractiveness. Tall Thurston was Abby’s favorite. Although I liked him well enough he did not spark my carnal side as did the others. I am too bold!

  Vinnie knew nothing of our list. Had she offered her opinion, Joseph Lyman would surely have topped the assembly. Though younger than her accomplished and highly alluring older sister, Vinnie was more outwardly romantic, more in the line of stolen kisses and flirtations behind the barn. Her favorite was decidedly Lyman. “Spoony” was their game, with kisses in the shadows and holding hands. Not that I was denied my share of kisses from other quarters, but Lyman and I were friends with nothing more to report. I was satisfied with the arrangement. We read plays in German, sharing the parts, and Vinnie, long chestnut hair flowing, seated on the red ottoman, holding one or another of her precious fang-toothed balls of fluff. I wondered if she might be jealous of our readings, our long walks and literary discussions. With Vinnie and Lyman it was all romance. That may have been enough for her. Lyman told me one day—we were walking in the woods discussing the merits of Edgar Allan Poe—that Vinnie was the most passionate person he had ever known, a point I found intriguing. I trust he didn’t share that bit of news with Father!

  In some ways Life upon my return to Amherst differed little from the time before my sojourn away. In other ways it was different. Before, it was mostly talk. Now, it was action! With both Vinnie and myself under one roof—can you imagine such quantity of loveliness?—the door was always swinging and Whiskers going in and out. Dashing young men were in our parlor every evening—and always the currant wine! Vinnie and I made it ourselves. The recipe was Mother’s, from of her “personal Bible.” Break and squeeze currants. Put 3½ lbs. sugar to 2 quarts juice and 2 quarts water. Put in keg or barrel. After 3 days close bung. Wait 1 or 2 years to drink. Our dashing suitors enjoyed the wine, as did Father, despite his active participation in organizations of temperance.

  On the evenings when Vinnie and I did not receive callers we often went calling ourselves. Father was always in a state of agitation upon our return. We were required to be home by nine and except on rare occasions were home at the appointed hour, but that mattered little. Agitation was the order of the evening. I think it was that he wanted us not to go out at all. Father would like us never to marry. He has never said as much in a sentence, but by inference his preference is clear. Vinnie “must not be flirtatious.” I assume I should not be either, though he has not as yet felt the necessity of saying so. Vinnie “must wear a shawl at parties.” Mother is frail and “needs our help at Home.” He is “in the habit of us.” Bread is the “staff of life” and he will eat “no bread but Emily’s”! Where does that leave him should I marry?

  One evening we were playing charades at Tempe Linnell’s house, the girls against the boys and Vinnie crawling about on all fours, suggesting—or trying to!—“a horse of a different color.” Her idea was to whinny, while throwing her head up and down, then sniffing at all the most brightly colored objects in the room. She would crawl to an object, sniff, then shake her head in a disapproving manner, whinny and move to the next brightly colored thing she could find. We were all laughing so hard that we could scarcely breathe! The gentlemen had not one idea as to what she was driving at, and more laughter and more, and then a knock at the door. It was an angry knock, insistent, loud. We all froze. Tempe went into the hall and then came Father’s voice. “I am here to collect my daughters.”

  The walk home was dark and silent. The occasional oil lamp above a gate did nothing to dispel the gloom. Vinnie went straight to bed without a word from Father. I, with no word as well, went into the kitchen to wait for Austin. It was only slightly after nine. We had over-stayed our time by but a few minutes only. Not a second of grace for such tardy ones as we!

  Austin arrived shortly and heard much on my side of the matter. He was embarrassed for us, being collected like a couple of wayward children. I was awfully vexed about it and needed most especially the comfort of my beloved brother. “Why did Father do that?” I asked as we sat by the hearth with some blackberry tea I had put up. “How could he be so mean?”

  “You know Father,” said Austin.

  “What point are you making?”

  “He’s not mean, exactly.”

  “What do you mean by exactly?”

  “What?”

  “If he’s not mean, exactly, then how?”

  “He’s not mean at all, really, just determined to have things his way.”

  “At all costs,” I said. “I call that mean.”

  Austin moved to secure a piece of gingerbread from the cupboard. We were quiet then. A poem came to mind—well, the idea for a poem—a man decides a thing is true because he needs it to be, and missing a small but crucial fact, allows his House to be destroyed in a hurricane.

  “Would you like some gingerbread?” It was Austin asking. I was completely gone in the world of my Poem.

  “What?”

  “Would you like some gingerbread?”

  “Oh. Yes, I would.”

  We shared our “feast,” with tea as well, going on to discuss Large matters—Immortality, Life after Life, God within and so forth—the two “lingering bad ones” at rest in the territory of what made sense to our Souls. Feeling as I did that moment, I ventured the following. “I have written a few short verses.”

  “So have I.”

  My breath stopped. He had spoken in such a way as to end the subject of my verses. His were the topic now. My chest felt narrow. I felt as if I had left the room.

  “I’ve written several,” he con
tinued.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, and quite good too, if I may say so.” “So.

  We both have written some verses.”

  “I have written many,” said Austin.

  “Be careful not to get ahead of me,” I heard myself say, deploring my attitude even as I spoke. I felt numb. If Austin showed no interest in my Poems, surely no one in my family would ever care. I decided straightway to put the matter of the exigency of my writing verses completely out of my mind. It was too Large a truth to consider all at once.