Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  I tucked it down into my pocket to put it with the others in my trunk, wondering when she wrote it. Could have been anytime, but I’m guessing it was a morning in spring.

  Vinnie was in the kitchen pouring cream into the cats’ saucers. It was odd seeing her there—the morning kitchen was Emily’s space. She didn’t speak, but scooped up Buffy and rocked him like a babby. He squirmed and switched his tail. I tried to summon the pity I’d felt for her at the cemetery. But all I saw was a silly old woman pampering her cats.

  I asked how she’d slept. She said she hadn’t, and was glad it was finally daylight. Said she still felt the night chill on the back of her neck. She didn’t need to say she was missing Emily. The house felt hollowed out and cold even with the sun lying in a sheet on the floor and already starting to creep up the wall.

  I got busy, lighting the fires, pumping water, and filling the wash kettle. When I went back in the kitchen, Vinnie had moved across the room to the west window, rubbing her face on Buffy’s head and purring like a cat herself.

  I set a pan of oatmeal on the stove. I couldn’t help wishing she’d choose another window. That was Emily’s window—the one she looked out of when she was making her bread. She once told me she liked looking west because the sun was heading that way, so it was a way of seeing into the future. I wasn’t persuaded it was her real reason—figured it was more because it was the direction of the Evergreens, where Sue lived. But her words always made me think. Sometimes she’d recite one of her poems. “I’m tasting the words on my tongue,” she’d say, as if they were tuneful as little songs. In truth, her words were more like hammers, opening holes in the walls of my heart.

  Already I was missing the sound of her.

  “I suppose we should sort out Emily’s room,” Vinnie said.

  I didn’t say anything, it surprised me so. I stirred the porridge hard. After a minute I said, “ ’Tis too soon to be thinking about that. There’s cleaning to be done first. The house is a terrible mess.” I opened the firebox and threw in another stick of wood. “I’d best be setting the table.” And quick as Hell can scorch a feather, I hurried into the pantry to get the plates.

  The truth of it was I dreaded sorting Emily’s things. If I had my way, we’d be locking the door to her room—same as Sue did after Gib died—and never setting foot in there again.

  * * *

  The next two weeks were heaving with work. I aired out the downstairs rooms, sorted the linens, polished brasses, blacked the cooker, made the meals, did the washing up, and was out and about all over Amherst shopping and carrying notes for Vinnie. I visited the Evergreens every day to see if Sue was needing anything. Vinnie’s friends were in and out and I was busy feeding them. It was a whirlwind, surely, but at least it kept my mind off grieving.

  It was strange caring for the Homestead without Emily in it. She was like a perfume that still filled the air. Sometimes I’d glance out the window and spy a flutter of white amongst the stalks of purple foxglove in the garden. It didn’t give me a ghosty chill like you’d expect, just made me smile, thinking of herself flitting about.

  Then came the day I was dreading. At breakfast Vinnie said we couldn’t delay any longer. We had to start sorting Emily’s room. She wouldn’t listen to my complaining it was too soon. Stalling, she called it. She ordered me to lay a fire in Emily’s stove so we could burn her letters when we found them.

  “We?” I said. “Emily didn’t tell me to burn any letters.” I wasn’t going to be part of that. It was bad enough I promised to burn the poems.

  Vinnie gave me a sideways look. “Do you think I want to do it? Do you think I would if I hadn’t made a sacred promise?”

  Sometimes the dying ask too much is what I thought. But I didn’t say so, not to Vinnie. “I’d best get busy, then,” I said, and started clearing away the breakfast things.

  It was a bright morning, with birds singing outside the windows. The hens were clucking away near the back door and there was the sound of a buggy passing on the street. I wondered how many letters we’d find, and if Vinnie would be reading them before putting them in the fire.

  I took as long as I could with the washing up and kitchen chores, so it was nearly ten when I went upstairs. We started our sorting in the closet, hauling out Emily’s frocks and laying them on the bed. They were made of wool and cotton and linen, every one of them white as chalk. Some were trimmed and pleated with a bit of lace, but most were simple styled. There was not a flounce to be found. Plain as my own work dresses and wrappers, they were.

  “What shall we do with them all?” Vinnie said, shaking her head in a mournful way.

  “Likely the Poor Farm will take them,” I said.

  Vinnie’s face pinched together. “Not Emily’s dresses!” she whispered.

  I rubbed her back to steady her. “Of course not,” I said. “Sure, I was acting the maggot.”

  “You must take them,” Vinnie said. But neither of us moved to do anything. We just stood looking down at all those white frocks stretched across the bed where Emily died.

  * * *

  Vinnie found the first bundle of letters in the top drawer of the chest and the second in a hatbox in the closet. Some were tucked in envelopes and tied with ribbons, but it was plain they’d all been read again and again.

  Vinnie plucked up a handful and held them out to me. “Put them in the fire, Maggie.”

  I didn’t take them. “Aren’t you going to read them first? See what’s inside?” I moved so I was standing between herself and the stove.

  “Read them?” She looked like I’d blasphemed.

  I felt sad and desperate. It struck me that if Vinnie spared the letters I wouldn’t have to burn the poems. “Shouldn’t we be sending them back to the folks who wrote them? That’s the way it’s done, I’m thinking.”

  She shook her head. “I shall keep my promise to my sister. I couldn’t save her, but I can at least abide by her wishes.”

  It was plain there was no stopping her. She was set on doing Emily’s bidding, no matter how it pained her. I should have known—she’d spent her life doing what Emily wanted. But I tried one last time. “You don’t have to burn any today,” I said. “There must be more somewhere. Why don’t we collect them all first?”

  She stared at me, like she was wanting to agree. But then she frowned and stepped around me. I heard her open the stove, a fluttery sound when she threw the letters in, then the fizz of flames whooshing up.

  I didn’t turn to look. I went quick to the bed and piled up the frocks. “I’ll take care of these,” I said. “Then I’d best be making dinner so you can keep up your strength.” And without looking back, I hauled them out of Emily’s room and down the hall to my own.

  Soon as I dropped them on my bed, I knew I’d been foolish to carry them off, for I’d no idea what to do with them. I looked around the room, at the wall pegs over the chair, at the little chest of drawers stuffed full of my things. At my trunk under the window.

  It was empty except for Emily’s poems. The ones I’d promised to burn. There was plenty of room for the frocks. I took care folding them and opened the trunk. For just a minute I stood looking down at the booklets. I’d dipped into them so many times I knew some of the lines by heart. If I meant to keep my promise, I’d gather them up right now and throw them in the kitchen fire and be done with it.

  Instead, I laid the frocks over them. Gentle as a mam laying a babby in a cot. When I closed the lid, there was a catch in my throat, as if Emily was going into the ground all over again.

  * * *

  Three weeks it took me to sort through Emily’s things. I had to do it alone—Vinnie said she didn’t have the heart after burning the letters. She told me if there was any small thing took my fancy, I should keep it. But Emily didn’t have much to suit me—a brooch and a bracelet, some pretty shawls. One afternoon as I was cleaning out her chest o
f drawers, I chanced to wonder why I’d not come across the rosary I gave her. If she’d thrown it out I would have seen it in the trash. Sure, I was glad I hadn’t, for it would have torn my heart. But I was flummoxed by what became of it. Seemed there was no end to her riddles, even after she was gone.

  When her room was sorted, I worked my way through Emily’s frocks, dyeing them one at a time in an old laundry barrel when the weather was clear. Near brought tears to my eyes each time I dropped one in the dye. A quare thing, for I’d complained so many times because they were white and now I couldn’t bring myself to be coloring more than half of them. When I was done, I took the lot to Mary for making into dresses for my nieces. The last one I ironed and put back in Emily’s closet. It was a way of keeping part of herself tucked away in the room she loved.

  Now all that was left in my trunk were her poems. They were safe there. Nobody knew about them but myself. That would satisfy Emily, surely.

  But I kept remembering the look on her face when I swore I’d burn them. How relieved she was. How she kissed my fingers and whispered, “Bless you,” like a priest giving absolution.

  First thing every morning I’d see my trunk and shame would come washing over me for not keeping my promise. I’d scold myself for failing my duty. I was certain Emily would be thinking I’d betrayed her.

  I tried convincing myself it made no difference to me if the poems were burned to ashes. But I’d spent years watching Emily write them, seen her reaching for those words, rolling them around in her mouth, finally finding the right ones. I’d seen her scribbling in a fever, right beside me in the kitchen. Her eyes would spark with excitement. Sometimes she’d ask a question. “What do you think, Maggie—fasten or sanction—which sounds better?” Since she seemed to be expecting an answer, I’d pick a word. Sometimes she’d smile and say, “Of course!” and sometimes she’d frown and shake her head and scribble some more.

  She worked and worked those poems, like a dressmaker working her cloth—sewing a seam and studying it and measuring and ripping it out and sewing again. Her body near quivering with the passion of the chore. Those poems were treasures, dear to her as life. Each one a pearl.

  * * *

  Came a hot June morning when I saw something glinting at the bottom of the kitchen waste bin. I picked it out. Fit right into my palm, it did—it was in one of those little picture frames that opens like a book, trimmed inside with red velvet.

  It was a likeness of Emily as a girl. Looking serious and waifish with a flower in her hand and not a hint of her rascally smile or the spark in her eyes. I’d seen it before, but nobody in the family liked it, not even Emily. I once heard her complain it made her look like a goose.

  Vinnie must have thrown it out.

  I tucked it in my apron pocket and there it lay all day, bumping my leg when I moved. That night in my room, I opened it and looked at it for a long time. It was scratched and faded and didn’t look much like Emily, but I was glad I’d found it. It was something.

  I propped it open on my trunk. Gave me a familiar feeling, Emily watching me. Like she was standing in the shadows, the way she did.

  I resolved to burn her poems in the morning.

  * * *

  Soon as I got up, I took all the booklets out of the trunk and laid them on my bed. They’d burn quick, kindling to the fire, make a lively start to the day. By the time Vinnie came down, every last one would be ash.

  I pulled on my dress and put up my hair. There were streaks of gray in it now—made me glad to be binding it to my head. I fussed with my collar and peered into the looking glass. I was dithering, and I knew it. Took a deep breath and gathered up the poems. A raw, sick feeling came over me as I started down the back stairs. Just at the turn I saw something white flicker at the bottom. I told myself it was likely one of the cats. But didn’t I go cold all over?

  I stood still a minute, listening for footsteps, but there was nothing. A terrible dread came over me. I turned around and ran back up the stairs, straight to Emily’s room. Don’t know what I thought I’d be finding—herself sitting at her writing desk?

  But nobody was there, neither ghost nor Faery. I stood in the middle of the room, cradling the booklets. Wasn’t much trace of Emily left. Only her one white dress in the closet. The mantel and sills I’d swept clean, put her books on the library shelves and her plants in the conservatory. Even the top of her chest of drawers was empty—all her little bottles and pots thrown away. I knew there were still a few things in the top drawer—combs and ribbons, a silver hand mirror, a corset Emily never used.

  And it was then I knew what to do. I slid open the empty bottom drawer and shoved the poems inside, all helter-skelter, as if Emily had tossed them there herself.

  They filled that drawer right to the brim. I had a time getting it closed. But I felt better when I left the room. I knew Vinnie had a habit of going in there, spending an hour dusting and tidying, though there was nothing to tidy anymore. I knew it was her way of healing. Sooner or later she’d find the poems. And I knew she’d treasure them. There’d be no more burning Emily’s things.

  * * *

  Two weeks later I was cleaning the parlor when Vinnie came running down the front stairs, flapping one of the booklets like a flag. “It’s Emily—poems of hers,” she gasped. “They were in her bottom drawer. I don’t know why I never opened it. There must be hundreds.” She crumpled onto the sofa. But it was only a minute before she popped up. “I must go tell Austin. He’ll be so surprised.” And before I could say anything, she was out the back door.

  A sick feeling came over me. All I could think of was Emily saying she didn’t want her poems found. It was why she gave them to me, trusting I’d obey.

  Instead, I betrayed her.

  All that day the guilt nagged me. I saw Emily’s ghost in the shadowy corners of the house and flitting past the rosebushes when I fed the hens. Late that afternoon Sue and Mattie came through the back door and found me scrubbing pots and crying a rainstorm. I pulled my hands out of the dishwater and dried my tears and asked what I could be doing for them.

  “Maggie, what on earth is the matter?” Sue had a kindly side she rarely showed to servants, but that day she showed it to me.

  “ ’Tis Miss Emily’s verses,” I told her. “I couldn’t burn them. No matter I promised her.”

  “Maggie!” Sue’s voice turned snappish. Didn’t take much to make her cross. “What are you talking about?”

  “Her poems that were hid in my trunk. Miss Emily didn’t want anybody to be finding them,” I said. “She made me swear I’d burn them after she died.”

  Didn’t Sue’s eyes spark so? “Burn her poems! What a dreadful idea!”

  “I promised her.” I was mumbling.

  “I’m sure Aunt Emily didn’t mean it,” Mattie said. “Her poems were her legacy.” She was twenty now, lovely and elegant too. But as she stood there by the pie safe, twisting her fingers together at her waist, all I could think of was herself as a girl and how much Emily loved her.

  I started crying again.

  “They were indeed,” Sue said firmly. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to me. “Now, dry your tears, Maggie, and tell me everything.”

  And so I did. It all came pouring out while Sue listened. When I was done, she put her hand on my arm. “Maggie, you’ve done the right thing. You mustn’t feel guilty. It was Emily’s mortal shyness that made her extract such a distressing vow. I’m grateful you couldn’t bring yourself to fulfill it. Those poems were Emily’s children and it’s our duty to care for them.”

  Her dark eyes were warm and glinting with tears. Her love for Emily was all over her face. I thought of all the notes I’d passed between the two of them and how often I’d come on them with their heads bent together in the Northwest Passage. I knew they loved each other but I told myself it was because they were sisters-in-law. Now I
saw it was something more—something fierce and stubborn and lively as fire.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. I saw Mattie’s eyes were red. Seemed my tears had started her own. “Would either of you be wanting some gingerbread?” I asked. “I made it fresh yesterday. ’Tis Emily’s recipe.”

  * * *

  That night I dreamed I was weeding the roses in Emily’s garden. There were masses of blossoms—pink and red and white and gold, all bouncing over my head. Below them was a great tangle of weeds—tall leafy ones with yellow undersides and roots like spiders’ legs. They were killing the roses and I was frantic to pull every last one. But the faster I pulled, the faster they grew around my fingers.

  Then Emily was there. She was holding something out to me so bright I couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Emily?” I took my hands out of the dirt and wiped them on the grass.

  “This is my letter to the world,” Emily said, and I knew from her voice she was smiling. She let go what she was holding and it fluttered down like a bird and settled on my lap. It was a little book, slim and pale and smelling of hyacinths. The cover was white as her dress except for the words Poems by Emily Dickinson spelled out in gold letters. Took my breath away, it was so lovely. I picked it up and opened it. The pages were warm under my fingers. When I looked up Emily was gone.

  The dream woke me with such a start, I sat up straight in my bed. My heart pounded and my ears rang. It was dark but I got up and went to the window. It was a clear night with the Milky Way glistening and a thin slice of moon caught in the trees. It made me think of the time I’d sat all night with Emily and we’d watched the circus leaving town. A secret between us. So many years ago. And then I remembered how, just a few months back, Emily had said a book was a kind of immortality.