Miss Emily (9 page)

Miss Emily tells me that I look drawn, and it is no surprise to me, as I am not getting much sleep.

“I'm very tired, miss,” I tell her. “My cousin Maggie has turned me out of her bedroom. I couldn't argue, of course, when she has lost her mother, but truly, I'm fit to be tied. I was comfortable there. Maggie marches around Kelley Square like the queen of Sheba, complaining about every small thing. Thankfully, I rise to come here before she gets up. And I'm so fagged out by evening that I take to the bed the minute I'm home, but she certainly lets everyone know that she is back.”

Miss Emily is showing me how to make quince jelly, and the apple perfume of the fruit fills the air until I feel I might swoon. “I've only met Maggie Maher once,” Miss Emily says. “I thought her ferocious and mighty.”

“Huh. Maggie would love that. Every evening she sits around the place, bawling over Auntie Mary. She keens like a crone when she'd be better off staying quiet. Even Uncle Michael is fed up with her carrying on. She ruins every meal he tries to take, with her histrionics.”

Miss Emily begins to mash the fruit. “I could write to Mrs.
Boltwood and ask her to summon your cousin back to Connecticut.”

“Oh.” I look at her. “Would that be fair, miss? She's mourning the same as myself. More so. She has no mother now.”

“A little sparrow tells me she is needed. We will say nothing more of it.”

Her decision quietens me. I wonder if it is fair on Uncle for Maggie to be sent back to Connecticut. But surely he would not mind so much? Maggie upsets the house, from dawn till dusk. It would most likely be a relief to him to have some peace. Miss Emily hands me the cheesecloth to flatten out and gives me a conspiratorial smile. Together we place two layers of the cloth over a pot and pour the fruit onto them. The way she takes the jelly making in hand reminds me of Mammy. I the pupil, she the teacher.

“I've had no mother to speak a word to this three months, miss. I'm only realizing that Auntie Mary was as good as a mother to me, now that she's gone.”

“Yes, a mother is one to whom you go when you have troubles, I suppose, to get them smoothed over. I rarely run to mine.” She wipes her hands briskly. “But I am here for you, Ada. You may speak all your sorrows to me.” I don't know what to say to this; I am grateful for her care, but does she mean she never talks to her own mother? I have nothing to say, so I say nothing.

The last golden leaf of autumn is hanging from a spider's thread at my bedroom window. I sit on my bed and watch it reel and twirl, as surely as if there is life inside it. I am so entranced by the leaf 's mad dance that I am startled to realize there is somebody standing in the room. I turn to see my cousin peering down at me.

“Maggie! There you are—I didn't hear you knock.”

“That's because I didn't knock,” she says. “This is my father's house.
My
house. I don't have to knock.” She gives me her bossiest look. “I'm going back to Connecticut. But before I leave, you'll have to find somewhere else to live.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Ada. Daddy is a widower now, and I can't have the two of you alone here together. It's not right. Father Sullivan raised the matter with me after the funeral.”

Maggie is not looking at me; rather she glares over my head and out the window. She wears a Florence bonnet trimmed with electric blue ribbon that surely once belonged to Mrs. Boltwood and a smart wool cape. It's far from Slievenamon she is in her rigout; imagine her tripping down the mountain to Fethard with those ribbons flying.

I stand up to face her. “Your mother would have wanted me to stay and take care of Uncle Michael.”

She snorts. “Take care of him? And you kowtowing to that Emily Dickinson with every hour that God sends.”

“I work for the Dickinsons, Maggie, the same as you work for the Boltwoods. And I do my bit here.”

“That pair of auld ghouls. And their two daughters, with neither chick nor child between them and not a hope of it either.”

I don't bother to point out that she is a spinster the same as the Misses Dickinson.

I feel homesick; I want Mammy and the sweet repose of home. I look straight at Maggie. “Where will I go?” I ask.

“How am I to know? You'll not stay under this roof anyway, if I have to turn you out myself.” She pulls on the ribbons of her silly bonnet and ties them under her chin. “I'll speak to Daddy.
For now I have an appointment with Father Sullivan before I leave for Connecticut.” She waves her hand like departing royalty. “You keep the bedroom nice, I'll say that for you.” Maggie turns and goes, and I hear her humming a tune to herself as she walks down the stairs. The strap.

Miss Emily Welcomes Miss Martha Dickinson to the Family

S
USAN BRINGS THE BABY TO ME, FOR
I
DO NOT WISH TO LEAVE
the house, even for the short jog along the path to the Evergreens. I went to Kelley Square for the waking of Ada's aunt and felt gut-punched for days afterward. But, for Ada, I went.

Baby Martha is a bonny girl, stout and alert, even at eight days old. She was born one day after Thanksgiving, so Sue managed to enjoy her pumpkin pie and turkey before the joyous— and no doubt arduous—event.

Last night I picked white chrysanthemums from the garden for Susan. I peered into their tightly wadded, half-ugly faces and bade them watch over my dear Dollie and her baby daughter.

“Chrysanthemums smell of Thanksgiving, don't you think, Sue?” I say, handing them to her. She smiles and nods, and I help her out of her sealskin cape. She looks wan and tired; guilt plucks at me, but she had assured me in a note that she was strong enough to walk the path to the Homestead.

Before sitting, Susan hands Martha to me, and the baby looks out from under her lace bonnet like an old soul delivered from the heavens. Her weight on my arm, the heavy heat of her head, is
wondrous to me. I sit on Mother's chair, opposite Sue, who is settled on the sofa.

“ ‘For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.' ”

“Is that something you wrote, Emily?” Susan asks.

“For shame—you do not know your Psalms, Mrs. Gilbert-Dickinson!” I dip my head to Martha. “You are both fearfully and wonderfully made, my little one.”

The baby feels gangly in my arms—an uncontrollable parcel of limbs, torso and head. But she is soft—so soft—too, and fragrant. She has that sweet, creamy smell that hovers around all babies. I gather her closer to me, and she nuzzles into my chest.

“Greedy, like her father,” Susan says, and we giggle at this small betrayal of both Austin and Baby.

Susan unbuttons her bodice, then stretches over and takes Martha. I watch amazed as the baby catches herself expertly onto Sue's breast and begins to suck contentedly. I do not have any recollection of seeing Sue nurse Ned, though of course she must have. The baby makes a bundle of sweet noises as she suckles, little snuffle-clicks and grunts.

“I can hear the milk hitting her throat,” I say, and Sue smiles, justly proud that she has succumbed to neither wet nurse nor goat's milk.

I look shyly at Sue's exposed breast, so white and full, and veined, too, with a tracery of blue. I sit beside her on the sofa and link her arm.

“I have missed you, Sue.”

“I have not been anywhere lately, Emily, save at home.”

“No, but when you carry a baby, you change. You become a remote Madonna, wandering the world slowly with head held
high. You're unreachable in that state.” I lean in to stroke Martha's cheek while she feeds.

“Really, Emily, you say the most provocative things sometimes. A remote Madonna indeed!” Sue smiles and slots her pinkie into Martha's mouth. Her breast falls, heavy but deflated, while the baby bucks, her face collapsing into outrage. Martha wails, and Susan struggles to settle her wriggling daughter. I am about to speak when there is a short rap on the door and Ada comes in with our coffee.

“I brought you some beef tea as well, Miss Susan. Mammy always took it in the weeks after birthing, and she swore it was why she got back to herself so quick.”

“How thoughtful,” Sue says. “I thank you.” She places Martha on her shoulder and rubs her back to soothe her cries.

Ada lingers by the parlor door, and I can see that she is itching to speak again.

“Yes, Ada?”

“Could I lift the baby? It's just that I miss my sisters, and . . . well, I'd like to hold her for a moment, if you didn't mind, Miss Susan.”

“Of course, dear.”

I have Ada sit in Father's wing chair, and Susan places Martha in her arms. The baby stops whimpering and looks up into Ada's face. As Susan walks back toward me, I see Ada spit on her finger and rub a cross onto the baby's forehead. She lifts Martha close to her face; they stare at each other like two old friends getting reacquainted after a long separation. Ada puts the baby to her shoulder and strokes her back, up and down, eyes closed; she looks content and whole, every inch the little mother. Martha emits a long, gurgling belch, and we all three laugh.

“Well now,” Ada says, “you have room in there for more, Miss
Martha.” She stands up, carries the baby to her mother, then leaves us.

“I am sure that is the happiest I have seen Ada since her aunt died,” I say, to fill the silence that she has left in her wake.

“That girl makes me shiver somehow,” Susan says, lifting Martha to her other breast. “Does she quite know her place?”

I look at my friend and will myself to defend Ada vigorously. The best I can manage is, “Yes, she does. And she is lovely, truly,” to which Susan shrugs.

Sue is a puzzle to me sometimes. We are sisters, and we love each other, but she does not always see the world as I do, and often this takes me aback. Foolishly perhaps, I want those I love the most to be as
I
am, to see everything as
I
do. And, therefore, to like
all
of those who are dear to me, which now must include Ada.

“Martha is a good, solid name,” Ada says, lining up our jars of quince jelly, ready for the cellar. The jelly is amber-colored and nicely set, a successful batch.

“Yes, it is. A bequest from the Bible. But I think Ada is the most perfect of names. A palindrome, complex in its very simplicity.”

“Miss, you may as well be talking gibberish for all I understand you.”

“Your name is the same front and back: A-D-A.” I draw a line in the air first forward, then backward. “A-D-A.”

“But sure I know that,” she says. “Come on, get the basket, and we'll bring these jars below. It gives me the all-overs going down there by myself.”

I stack the jars into the big wicker, and we take either side of the handle and shuffle down the back stairs.

“Why were you named Ada?”

“Why is a fly a fly? Why were you named Emily?”

“For my mother, of course.”