Miss Emily (29 page)

“Bobolink, go well to the south and think of me when you are there.”

I step back from the window and am glad of the blocks of light that flood my room; they ease my heart. And if I cannot be outside, at least I may welcome the outside in and I may try at least to capture it in words.

Ada comes to my bedroom with a trio of Indian pipes in her hand. She gives the stems to me and stands in the doorway; I bring them to my nose.

“
Monotropa uniflora
,” I say. “Did you know these are my favorite of all the flowers in the world?”

“I saw you plucking one for your herbarium, miss. I thought
any flower that has you sit on mud under a tree, in your white dress, must be worth something to you.”

“I thank you, Ada. Come in.” I pour water from my ewer into a vase and put the flowers into it. I look under their waxy skirts to see their flesh-pink innards. “Indian pipes don't need sunlight to grow, Ada. That's why they are sometimes called the corpse plant.”

“That seems morbid, miss, for a thing so delicate and beautiful.”

“They own beauty now, Ada, but they take revenge on us for picking them. Shortly, they will turn black.”

Her look of horror is almost comical. “Oh, I didn't know that, Miss Emily, or I wouldn't have brought them.”

“How could you know? Sit, sit.” She sits on my bed, and I turn my chair toward her.

“I wanted to say thanks, miss. I wasn't listening in to what went on below, really I wasn't, but I heard you defend me to the others, Mr. Austin and the rest of the family. You have been more than a mistress to me.” Her Nebraska-agate eyes look lighter than ever, and there is worry in them. “You have been a friend, and it has been my pleasure to serve you.”

“Ada, this is beginning to sound like a farewell.”

She wrings her hands. “It is my feeling that I should go, miss, before I am told to leave. I have cousins in California, Uncle Michael's boys. I can go to them.”

I lean forward and take her hands in mine. “You will do no such thing. There isn't any question of your having to leave. There has been a misunderstanding, and I am putting it to rights. Trust me.”

“I was probably only ever the dirt before the broom anyway, miss. You'll find someone good to replace me, a girl who will make Mr. Austin happy. I can't do that.”

“My brother is not master of this house.”

“And you are not mistress of it, Miss Emily,” she says quietly.

I kneel before her on the rug and place my hands on her lap. “Listen to me, Ada. I do not want to be without you. I will speak to Father, and all will be well.” I lift one hand and caress her cheek; she has the peach-soft skin of the young. “All
will
be well.”

Miss Ada Makes a Confession

M
Y BED SPOKE TO ME ALL NIGHT; EVERY TIME
I
MOVED, IT
answered me back in a voice measured out in sighs and groans. Now I stand at the back door, blear-eyed, trying to get the dawn air to stir me into wakefulness. The water for the family's wash cans is heating, and I have dyspepsia crackers in the oven—I found a grand recipe for them in the
American Farmer
—and there are fiddleheads ready to steam, to go with the morning hash. These days I always have a bit of green on Mrs. Dickinson's plate; the fern tops have a delicate grassiness to them that I am hoping will please her. The crackers, too, are for her, to aid her biliousness.

When I put on my shift and pantalettes this morning, I noticed that both felt loose. Peering at myself in my pocket mirror, I could see that my face looks scrawny; I set my hands on my hip bones and felt their jut. I have not been eating properly, and I must right that; my appetite has been poor, and I see now that if I am to be fully strong again, I will have to eat more heartily. I still paint on the calomel, and I bought a new bottle of sarsaparilla, telling the boy at the drugstore that it was to liven up my complexion. I thought he could see through me, see straight to the heart of my sin, but he wrapped the bottle with no comment.

There is mist hanging over the property, and my breath makes
cloudy puffs on the air. I can hear the
trup–trup
of the horses in the barn, eager for their oats, no doubt. I leap like I have been scalded when someone walks out of the barn and moves toward me across the yard. I slip back into the kitchen but keep my face to the door, for if it is Crohan, I will not let him come up behind me.

There sounds a soft rap on the back door; Daniel opens it and walks in.

“Good morning, Ada.”

“Hello, Daniel.”

“I saw you taking the air.”

“Trying to wake myself up, that's all.” I turn to the stove to move the water pot nearer to the edge, to stop it bubbling over.

Daniel comes behind me and, with his arms around my arms, helps me lift the pot.

“There,” he says. He turns me to look at him. “I have not been to visit your uncle, Ada, to test the truth of what you told me—that he forbids you to see me. I think it would be a waste of his time and my own.”

“As you wish.” I move away from him and stand with my back to the table.

“Patrick Crohan mentions you often, Ada. Already I have flattened him to the floor twice for things he has said.”

“Crohan's a pup, and you know it. He would say anything.”

“He is, and that is why I have come to you, because I want to hear what you might say. It struck me that I can't keep thumping the shit out of Crohan if I don't know what you have to say about the things he spouts.”

“What has he said?” I step up to Daniel, and instead of backing away from me, he comes even closer.

“He was able to tell me that you have a small mirror in your
bedroom, a mirror with a red rose painted on it. He was able to tell me that there is a smell of lavender about your nightclothes.”

My legs jellify, and I sit. “Oh, Daniel. I never wanted you to know.”

His mouth seems to disappear. “Know what, Ada?”

“What difference does it make? He ruined everything, is that not enough?”

“Tell me, Ada. I want to hear.” His voice is coaxing now, the tone he uses with horses to get them to do his bidding, to soothe them. “If something happened, we can fix it.
I
can.”

“You cannot fix anything, Daniel. Leave it go.”

“No, no. I won't be leaving it go, Ada.” He takes my arm. “I'll murder him if he touched you.”

“Patrick Crohan attacked Ada, Mr. Byrne. He injured her and forced himself on her.” Miss Emily is standing in the inner doorway, a chamber stick in her hand that makes her face glow. “He came to this house—
my
house—and he violated her.”

We both stare at Miss Emily. Daniel turns to look at me. All the soft lines of his face have flattened out; he has an ugly look that I have never seen before. I don't understand this look, and it frightens me. He drags out a chair and sits, solidly, and then he spits tears like a baby and tries to fight them back at the same time, but they come hard and free. He lurches forward, and I hold him. Daniel sobs onto my shoulder, and his body jerks; I hug him tightly and say nothing, for I do not know what to say. He rubs up and down my back, as if trying to wipe away the stain of what he has heard.

“He forced me, Daniel. He was drunk, and he came to my room, and if I could have stopped him, I would have. I'm sorry, Daniel, I'm so sorry. I was frightened.”

He doesn't answer me, just keeps moving his hands over my
back. I look up at Miss Emily, and she stands there, triumphant, as if she has resolved things.

“You had no right to tell him that,” I say.

“This needs to be finished, Ada.” Her voice is even but grim. “The truth makes us free.”

I loosen my arms around Daniel; he is no longer crying. I bend my head to his to try to see his eyes. He pushes back his chair and stands. He pulls on his cap and tips it at Miss Emily and then is gone out the door, quick as a hare.

Miss Emily rushes across the kitchen. “Mr. Byrne! Mr. Byrne! Daniel!”

I run to join her, and we see him disappear into the barn. He is out again in a moment, slipping something inside his jacket; he is swallowed up by the mist after he strides through the back gate.

“Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what will he do?” Miss Emily grabs my arm. “Run, Ada. Get my shoes.”

I tear up the stairs and into Miss Emily's bedroom, and I have to scuttle under her bed to find a pair of outdoor shoes. Back in the kitchen, I shove them onto her feet, and I bless Miss Vinnie for choosing shoes with elastic sides, that I don't have to be fiddling with laces. Miss Emily takes my hand, and we rush out the back door. She gasps when we get to the gate, pauses and gulps, like a child entering the sea for the first time.

“Are you all right, miss?” She looks scared, but she nods, and we plunge on. “Where are we going?”

“Does Crohan reside with his aunt and uncle?”

“They evicted him. I heard he's in the shanties now by the mills in Cushman, with some other men.”

“Well then,” Miss Emily says, “that is where we must go.”

Miss Emily Leaves the House

W
E HALF RUN, HALF WALK UP
E
AST
P
LEASANT
S
TREET TOWARD
Cushman. Everything is gray-mottled, and buildings hulk around us like shades. The mist hovers in a cloud over the streets; it seeps downward and keeps everything fixed. I wish the fog would lift that we might have some sun to brighten our way. Trees are swagged with white. We are the only creatures abroad, Ada and I, and our scurry and scamper seems to disturb the very air. We cannot see Daniel Byrne up ahead, though I am sure he is making a long tunnel through the fog that will lead straight to Patrick Crohan. It is very strange to be out, to rush through Amherst like this; I feel as if my legs are directed by a mighty force. It is as if my actions are being decided by a mind more unwavering than my own.

We pass large and small houses, their residents still abed, no doubt, shuttered in and safe. We come up on the common school where as a five-year-old I learned to spell and chant verses. One by one the mills loom in front of us, and I fancy I can feel around me their cotton, paper, wool and grist. Each of them spills an amount of its wares into the yards in front of it; I see patches of grain and curls of wood, stray scraps of paper and a broken spinning jack. I sniff deeply, but I cannot smell anything of them,
though I long to. Men are ghost figures in the yards of the mills, started already on the day's toil. They pay us no heed as we hurry past. Both Ada and I pant after short spurts of running, so we walk a little before we run again. She blesses herself when we pass the edge of West Cemetery—a rapid flit of one hand that ends in a thumping to her chest.

I remain sequestered at home by my own choice or by some reason that is mine but lives outside me. But oh, the morning air fills the lungs with such vigor when you move through it at a pace. The street air holds Ada and me, and it passes us along with a high energy, handing us from one step to the next. It does not feel the same as when I run through the Homestead's garden. I have forgotten the exotic, expanding nature of simple town air.