Miss Emily (4 page)

“I am glad of that, to be sure,” Mother says.

“Does she possess a name, this Irish cousin?” I ask.

“She is called ‘Miss Ada Concannon.' ” Father chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, Emily of the Words, does that not charm you greatly? Concannon! Such a name. And, Miss Concannon tells me, she is from a small Dublin townland called ‘Tigoora.' Tigoora!”

The variety of Irish names always amuses Father. When Austin—who was ever the bravest of our fold—would come home from teaching the Irish immigrants at the Endicott School in Boston's North End, one of the first things Father did was have him recite the family names of the boys. Austin would proud his chest and rattle off as many as came to mind: McLoughlin, O'Gorman, O'Donoghue, Murray, O'Connor, Considine, Foyle, Cooney, O'Brien, Egan, Finley, Griffin, Kerrigan, McIlhargey, Sullivan, O'Neill.

Father laughed at the preposterous Mc's and O's, and this delighted Austin, who was contemptuous of his charges and would thrash them frequently, according to himself. And perhaps rightly so, for they were a rambunctious crew, accustomed to the North End's Black Sea area and its brawls and riots.

Austin told Vinnie and me of the houses of ill repute in Boston, which scattered half-clad women onto the streets at all hours of the day. We loved to hear of the ladies' painted faces and slovenly manners; Austin imitated their talk and their swagger, and we egged him on, thirsty for every detail. He called them doxies and streetwalkers, and we liked to imagine their sordid lives. North End is a place of taverns and stygian slums, and every Dickinson said a prayer of thanks—even the ungodly ones such as me—when my brother tossed away the schoolroom key and came home to Amherst for good.

Miss Ada Makes an Early Success

“W
E
'
LL GIVE YOU A FEW DAYS
'
GRACE
, A
DA, AND THEN WE
'
LL
find a position for you.” Auntie Mary sets an egg before me, and I bash it on the head and scoop out its lovely golden heart.

“The eggs in America are much prettier than the ones at home,” I say.

Mary smiles. “You'll be queen of Amherst in no time, Ada. I can see that already.”

“The Dickinsons are looking for a new maid-of-all-work,” Uncle says. “Mr. Frink mentioned it to me when I said our niece was coming to live with us.”

“That's welcome news,” Auntie says. “The Dickinsons are a decent family, and you would have only four to do for: himself, herself and their two spinster daughters. And they live nearby.”

“Are they very grand? Is the house large?”

“Oh, they are not
very
grand, but they are well-to-do. Diligent, devout people, I would consider them. Popular in the town. The Squire is an attorney, and he bought back the family home on Main Street—the Homestead, as they call it. His father, they say, squandered money—well, he was a bankrupt anyway. The house is modestly large, and the Dickinsons are serious, proper people. The
unmarried daughters live with their parents, as I said. Generous, nice young women, though the elder one, Miss Emily, does not go out much anymore, which is remarked upon.” Auntie Mary frowns. “She prefers her own company, I daresay.”

“Enough blather now, Mary,” Uncle says. “They are fine people, that is all. I will call on Mr. Dickinson today.”

But he doesn't have to, because Mr. Dickinson and his son, Mr. Austin, come to the house on Kelley Square. Auntie Mary receives them in the parlor, and after a while I am brought in to be observed. Mr. Dickinson has a flat, serious mouth, and he is dressed like an undertaker, but he is a stately-looking man. His son is a wild-haired, younger version of the father, and he stands by the window, holding himself apart from us all. Auntie Mary glances at Mr. Austin while she speaks, as if she doesn't trust herself not to say anything foolish in his presence.

“Ada is a strong girl, Mr. Dickinson.” Auntie holds me by the shoulders in front of the older man. “You couldn't ask for a hardier lassie. My own family are long-lived, but the Concannons are powerful people. Ada's father is round as a hog, but he can lift a rain barrel.”

Mr. Dickinson holds up his hand. “You have convinced me, Mrs. Maher,” he says. “We will receive Miss Concannon on Monday. Where do you hail from, miss?”

“Tigoora in County Dublin, sir.”

“Tigoora? Very well,” Mr. Dickinson says. “Come, Austin. The lawbreakers of Amherst await us.”

The son walks from his spot by the window and surveys me. He grunts, and I take it for some sort of approval. “Good day to you, Mrs. Maher,” he says, and his voice is solemn but not un-pleasant. Both men tip their hats and are gone.

Auntie Mary takes me by the shoulder. “Well now, Ada, isn't that marvelous? I will write to your mother immediately and tell her what a success you have made of your very first day in Amherst.”

“Am-erst,” I warble, imitating her pronunciation. “Am-
erst.
”

Auntie looks at me as if I am half mad.

Miss Emily Dickinson Finds a New Companion in the Kitchen

I
T IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY THAT
I
WILL REMAIN ALWAYS AND
forever under my father's roof. I am, of course, happiest in my home circle—this is where I bloom—but something in me also longs for the peace of a place of my own, somewhere to withdraw to completely. I do not wish for travel or brave new lands, only a house surrounded by a sprawling orchard that holds orioles and bluebirds that trill for my ears alone, a cozy home with a kitchen uncluttered by others. I do not desire a man or babes; a husband would demand too much, I fear, of my time, of my very self. And there is no doubt that I would make an opinionated, quarrelsome wife.

The new Irish girl started some weeks past. I have not seen much of her, as I have been scratching ink across pages, but she seems lively and capable. She is a compact person, tidy in her dress, and has dark hair and icy eyes. Mother complained today that Ada is “prone to speechmaking,” which makes her appeal grow tenfold for me. Not that I mentioned this fact to Mother. I allow myself so few companions that I do enjoy a person who likes to talk.

I entered the kitchen last week, and Ada stopped dead.

“Miss Dickinson?” she said.

“I am a regular here, Ada. Loaves of bread have been born into the world under my guidance.” She stared hard at me. “I like to bake,” I said.

“
Like
to, miss?”

I had to hold back a laugh so as not to wound her. I suppose for her baking is mere work, whereas for me it is ease and alchemy.

“Perhaps we might bake together soon,” I said, and left her alone.

Now it occurs to me that she will have fresh methods of fashioning cakes and breads to share. What new tricks will she have brought from her mother's table to ours? I lift my eyes to the window to see rain falling; I love the kitchen on a dreary day. I put down my pen and go there to question Ada about what she knows of cake making.

Rain sleets against the kitchen window, but all is warmth and industry. Ada is scraping the leavings of a stew from a pot into a bowl.

“The birds use their wings as umbrellas on days such as these,” I say.

She stops midscrape. “Is that so?” She fills the bowl, lays down her spoon and looks at me. “Begging your pardon, miss, but you talk a lot about birds. You must be very fond of them.”

“Do I talk about birds so much?” I ask.

“The other day you said something about a nightingale.”

“ ‘
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, / That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
' ” I was quoting Shakespeare to amuse Mother. We need nothing else when we have Shakespeare, Ada.”

“That's as may be, but your mother didn't look very amused, miss, if you don't mind my saying. And I have pots to scrub.”

Ada has a superior, petulant face, but when she smiles, she glows like a window opening on a bright day. I want to make her smile.

“I hear that you Irish love rain,” I say. “My sources tell me you are not happy unless soaked through by a torrent.”

“We're used to rain, miss—it is constant in Ireland—but that doesn't mean we welcome it.” She turns toward the scullery, and I have to stand in her way to stop her going.

“Margaret O'Brien brought variety to our table, Ada. I wonder if you have any particular things you like to bake? Cutler's store can order in even the most unusual items. We have an account there, of course.”

“I know that. Miss Vinnie has already instructed me.” She smooths her apron with one hand and looks at me as if she would like to be left alone. “The Concannons, the same as most Irish people, are plain eaters, Miss Dickinson. My mammy looks at salt as if the devil himself brought it to her table. If you like unfussy food, then I'm happy to share what I know with you.” She wriggles past me, a saucepan held out in front of her like a chalice.

“My Indian round bread took a prize at the Amherst Cattle Show, you know,” I say to her retreating back, and even as the words leave my lips, I know how silly I sound.

Ada turns. “Do cows like the taste of rye bread, Miss Emily?” she asks.

Is she teasing? The Irish employ a canny innocence that has fooled me before. Then she smiles, that lit-up grin of hers, and winks slowly.

“Oh, Ada.”

“I think you should get out from under my feet, Miss Emily, and let me move on with my day.”

“Let me perch here. I will be quiet as a nestling, and you won't even know that I am in the room.”

She tuts. “Miss Emily, you're more of a turkey than a wren, truly, and I will know quite well that you're here.”

But she smiles again, and I know that, like Margaret O'Brien before her, she welcomes a chance to chatter as she goes about her work. The Irish put great store in spinning a narrative around every small thing, and although I may view life New Englandly, I think I must be somewhat Irish at my core, for I love to do the same.

Sue comes to me; she rolls in the door, her front a muslin-draped melon, and I lead her by the hand to the library, our favorite spot for conferring.

The first time I ever saw Sue, a cascade of sun fell from her head to her shoulders to her feet. She was entirely lit up, standing in the hallway of her sister's home when we came to call. She was Susan Gilbert then, a new face in our orbit, and we all loved her instantly. Her composure, her china-white skin and her even features all drew me to Sue, before I knew of her boundless intelligence. She was as luminous then as she is now.

“You cultivate possessiveness,” Vinnie once told me. “You smother Sue, and every other acquaintance, with friendship.”

She meant it kindly—in an instructional way—but it set me thinking about Vinnie and whether she knows the real me, the me of my deepest desires. Vinnie has never been a good character judge; she runs with a lot of sillies who care more for Holland lace and ensnaring men than the finer things of the mind and heart. It strikes me that perhaps it is not possible ever to know another, no matter how much we long to. Sue is bridled to Austin, but he does not know her as I do. Before they married, he complained to me that she did not respond to him as he might have liked.