Miss Emily

by Nuala O'Connor

  I lift the blue-and-white tureens and dust under them; I move Mrs. Dickinson’s bandboxes, heavy with trinkets, and wipe them carefully. The pictures on one box show the city of Paris: sand-colored buildings and ladies in skirts like fancy cakes. The paw-feet on the china fruit bowl unsettle me, so I just flick the feathers across them, not wanting to touch; they remind me of Van Amburgh’s lion. I finesse the drapes, sweep out the room and ready a speech about dinner for Mrs. Dickinson. It is only when I have the lines rehearsed that I realize I know neither what the fish is nor where it came from. The missus is sure to ask both those things. I scoot back down to the kitchen and go out to the yard in search of Daniel.

  Once more Crohan steps from the barn; he appears and disappears like a púca.

  “Do you like the fish I brung you?”

  “What’s that?” I ask, knowing well what he has said.

  “I caught that bass myself this morning. It’s a largemouth.”

  “Poached it, more like.”

  “I brung it for you, Ada,” he says, and I dislike the sound of my name on his tongue.

  “There was no need to bring it,” I snap. “And I thought I told you before not to set foot in that house without an invitation.” I turn on my heel and head back to the kitchen.

  “You could thank me!” Crohan calls. “You might have manners and say, ‘Thank you, Patrick, for that fine fish.’ A good word won’t rot your teeth. Hah!”

  I slam the back door and stand against it. Do I want a fish that Crohan has touched? What harm could he have done it? It’s a magnificent bass for sure, and cooking it would certainly save me a trip to the town, for I was going to seek out a nice bit of beef to stew. It occurs to me I could use the liquor from the pickled walnuts as catsup for the fish; Mrs. Child says the two go very well together. I decide the fish will do, Crohan or no Crohan. Once again I go in search of Mrs. Dickinson, this time armed with enough to coax her into having freshwater bass for tea. Either that or Miss Vinnie’s cats will have the feast of their lives.

  Miss Emily Takes the Path Between the Houses

  THE RAIN FALLS, DRENCHING ALL AROUND US; IT SLAP-PATTERS on the eaves of the house and sounds like a chorus of protesters, wanting some wrong to be righted. Looking at the downpour from my bedroom window, Ada says, with some satisfaction, “It’s like Irish rain.”

  “Longfellow assures us that rain falls into everyone’s life. So we must endure it.”

  “Yes, miss.” She sniffs deeply at the open window. “It’s scenty, too. Do you get that?”

  I go to her and stick my nose up beside hers and breathe. She is right—this rain has a headiness like lavender or jasmine. “So crisp,” I say.

  “That’s the spring on its way, miss, for sure,” Ada says, as if she herself has manufactured the season and will shortly lay it out before me.

  “Spring comes late in Massachusetts, Ada. We may have to wait another few weeks for its gifts.”

  Last night I wrote by the light of the moon, and I, too, thought of the end of winter. The moon sailed past in her plated gondola, the stars her gondoliers, and all that sparkling light pushed my mind forward to springlight and sunlight and summerlight. It is hard when you love light so but it does not love you and merely stings your eyes. Tonight I will garden a little by moonlight in the conservatory. I will coax adder’s tongue into speech and cause bloodroot to hemorrhage under my hands.

  For some reason these thoughts of herbs, brightness and gardening make me long for Mother’s honey-sweet figs and their unctuous hearts. They are dry now, of course, so not nearly as luscious, but still I want to eat them.

  “May we have some figs with our custard this afternoon, Ada?”

  “You can, of course. I’ll plump them up in a pan of water. Or better yet in apple juice.” She lifts my wrapper over my head and helps me with the sleeves. “But breakfast first, miss. Don’t be galloping through the day when it’s only started. I have a big egg for you below that I mean to poach as soon as you’re ready.”

  I eat my egg. Ada has poached it to my liking; its vinegar tang and pink sheath put me in mind of oysters. Oysters skip my thoughts to poor Hypatia, her skin pricked and torn open by oyster shells in ancient Egypt and her death from that stabbing. I shake this vision from my mind in favor of Venus borne from the ocean on her clamshell. From Venus I travel to Susan, and I think that this morning I will leave my nook and go to her. Writing a letter to Sue would not be enough for me today; I must sit in the same room as her and hear words fall from her own lips.

  I thought of her last night as I potted herbs in the dark. The moon was an opal-bright roundel in the black, a conduit to another world. I fancied that Susan was the moon, the clouds around her a shawl. She was lit up and drifting, the clouds draped around her in gauzy wreaths. Into the clay went my fingers and the delicate stems, out of my mouth came the name of Sue. She makes me think of the biggest things, the best things, and it is my hope that we will lie together in the churchyard at the end. She may be Austin’s truly, but she is also mine.

  “I will go across to the Evergreens today, Mother,” I say.

  Mother stops scraping butter onto her toast. “Will you, Emily? I am pleased. Are you not pleased, Edward?” Father grunts from behind his Republican and shakes it a little to indicate both his pleasure at my outing and his displeasure at being interrupted while he reads. “I will send a note to keep Susan at home that she might greet you. She has her finger in so many pies about the town that I fear she is rarely in the house. She makes it so awkward for callers.”

  “Sue is sociable, Mother. It is hardly a crime. A woman of her intelligence needs a variety of companions,” Vinnie says. “I will accompany you to the Evergreens, Emily.”

  “I prefer to go alone.”

  Vinnie pulls a cat into her lap and dips her face into its neck, to hide her eyes. “As you like.”

  I now wish I had not mentioned my plan, for Mother is overly excited at my leaving the house and Vinnie is put out that I will not let her come with me. Why can they not be more like Father—somewhat indifferent to my movements?

  “I will run a ribbon through your worsted cape to brighten you up, Emily,” Mother says. “What color would you like? I do believe I have a floret gauze with pink in it that will do nicely.” She rises to go to her workbox.

  “Do you have a blue, Mother? I should like a goose-blue ribbon—one the match of Ada’s eyes.” And with that they all turn to stare at me—even Father lowers his paper—and I smile. “What is it? Yes, Father? I notice things like the color of people’s eyes. It cannot be helped.” I wave my hand at Father and go to the sideboard to refill the coffee cups.

  Mother follows me; she unpins her large buff cameo and fastens it to my breast. “There, now, that will do. You look brighter already, my dear.”

  The air swoons around my face, sharp and fresh. I love the way air astonishes me every time I take great new gulps of it. It arouses greed in me for even more air—more and more! The air in the house—even when it enters by open windows—never stirs as sweetly as it does in the garden. I stand on the pathway between the Homestead and the Evergreens and hold my face up to the sky and let all the cold, clean Amherst air press down on my eyes, my nose, my mouth. A robin flits from the elm, its belly flaming; pip-pip-cheerio, it cries, and looks at me as if it might stop and ask a question, if only it had the time. It is good to be outdoors, though I am glad of the hedge that hides me from the street. I stop a moment to listen to carriage wheels and horse hooves; I wonder who is passing by so busily, but I daren’t look in case I am seen. I dash the short stretch between the houses.

  Sue is ready for me, knowing I am to come to her. It is so long since we have spent an afternoon and a twilight together, letting a whole day slide to its close without paying any heed. When I am alone, the days have more hours; they like to trick me. Daily I am duped by the clock. But today is a day for
Sue, and time will be of no consequence.

  Susan meets me at the back door, Martha in one arm and Ned clinging to her skirt. Foolishly, I had imagined it would be Sue and me, the two of us alone. She must read this on my face, for she hastily says that the nurse will shortly take Ned for his nap. I grab her free hand in mine and pump it.

  “Happy St. Brigid’s Day, Susan.”

  “Saint who, Emily?” She turns into the kitchen, and I follow.

  “Ada says the first of February is St. Brigid’s Day in Ireland. A celebration of the new spring there.”

  “Is winter not still clutching hold of Amherst? Are we in Ireland?” Susan looks around, pretending to be lost. “Can you see emerald grass, Ned? Run to the window! Do you spy a grass-roofed cottage?”

  Ned goes to the window, looks out and giggles. “No, Mama. All I see is Papa, marching home to see us.”

  “Oh, really?” Sue says.

  Baby Martha drools a long line of spittle and shows her gums to me in a smile. Susan places her in a bassinet in a corner of the kitchen, and we wait for Austin to come through the door. He stops when he spies me.

  “Emily, I did not expect to see you.”

  “Hello, Austin. I have come to wish you all a happy St. Brigid’s Day.”

  “Indeed,” he says. “Well, I shall take my meal here. You ladies should go to the library, much more comfortable. Ned may stop with me.”

  Feeling we have been dismissed, I follow Sue through the hallway. She wheels Martha before her and invites me to sit by the fireplace. She places the bassinet in the corner and struts back across the room like a dancer.

  “You are such a peacock, Sue.”

  “A peacock?”

  “Yes, I mean that. You are no mere peahen or peachick. You are the pouting peacock, complete with tail feathers that wink like eyes.”

  “From you, Emily, I know this is a compliment. And I shall accept it as one.” She bows and takes her seat.

  “Beside you I am a mere turkey.” I go to her and sit by her feet. “Dollie, is everything well with you?” Austin did not greet her when he came in, and it perturbed me.

  Sue sighs. “Austin does not like when I am milk-heavy, Emily. We had a dispute of sorts this morning. I was dressing, and he asked when I mean to tackle my ‘silken layer.’ I told him I have no desire to reduce my food intake while I am nursing, and he would not speak to me again. He watched every morsel I took at breakfast, until I could eat no more and excused myself early from the table. We have not spoken since.”

  “Perhaps he has returned now to apologize to you. Do you wish to go to him?”

  “No, no. Austin and I will speak later. Come, let us talk of pleasant things. Do you have new poems for me to dissect?”

  I look at her and realize I know little of the intimacies and quirks of married couples. I want to cheer her, to make her forget my brother’s thoughtlessness.

  “I have no poem sufficiently ready for your eyes. But you got yesterday’s letter? Did Ned take it safely to you?”

  “Yes. Though, as always, it was delightfully obscure. I attacked it like a riddle. I do so enjoy puzzling you out, Emily.”

  “And did you take its message?”

  “I found love there. Etched onto paper in fine phrases.”

  I lift her sweet, soft hand into my own and rest my head on her lap. “I love you from a distance because I have no choice. But in pen and ink my heart keeps on. Dear Sue. My own Dollie.”

  She rests her hand on the back of my neck, and though it is cool, it burns my skin. I place my hand over hers.

  “Rise now, Emily. The maid might see us. Or Austin.”

  I stand quickly and press my lips to hers before she can object. She laughs and pushes me away, and I sit opposite her. She is one of those women who look happy even when they are not. Her hair pouts outward over her ears, and her fine eyes are steady always. The lace collar she habitually wears throws light up to her face, making her appear as if she is aglow. I am glad now of Mother’s bright cameo and the blue ribbon in my shawl; I might be some match for Sue in gaiety of attire, if never in beauty.

  The maid bustles in with tea, and when she leaves, Sue pours for both of us. We eat spice cake, heavy with maple syrup; I let its dark heat tingle my tongue.

  “There has been a pleasant quiet at home,” I tell her. “I have had time in which to think of you.”

  Sue sips from her cup. “Shouldn’t you fill your hours more productively?”

  “I am productive: I bake, I sew, I write, I garden. But I call you to my mind often, for comfort.”

  “Do you not wish to walk through Amherst, Emily, to see what might be seen?” She sets down her cup. “Do you not wish to go to church once more?” Her look is hesitant, and it pains me a little, for she knows me so well. Why must Susan, above all people, question my need for solitary hours?

  “I have seen my fill of Amherst, and I have heard enough at church. The pictures in my mind interest me more.”

  “I am having a soirée on Saturday,” Sue says. “I insist that you come. And Lavinia and your parents, too, if they wish. The poet will be here again.”

  “‘The Poet,’ you say. Is there only one poet in the world?”

  But Susan does not take my teasing today, and, as always with Sue, I bend to her desire. Her mind is occupied with Austin and with ironing out domestic rucks, which is as it should be. We drink our tea and listen to the clock tick and Baby Martha’s fossicking noises from her bassinet. If Sue cannot come to me in spirit today, all I can do is endure it; there are days when she cools and retreats, and this is one of them, I fear. We sit on, drink our tea, and the clock’s pendulum seems to become drowsy and ponderous, as if the air has grown fat. The ticking sounds sluggish to my ears; it goes slow, slow, slow, then halt.

  Miss Ada Has a Visitor

  A COLD, OLD SMELL INVADES MY SLEEP, A CURIOUS, UNWELCOME sweetness. It sickens and frightens me. I thrash my hand over the eiderdown, half in and half out of wakefulness, sure that there is something on my covers or in the room. My eyes are glued together, but I force them open and shoot upright in the bed.

  “Lord Almighty!” There is someone in my bedroom, I am certain of it. I am afraid then that it is the ghost of Auntie Mary, here to watch over me. I want to see her and yet I dread to. “Don’t come near me,” I whisper.

  I fumble with the lamp chimney and get the wick lit. There is no one at all. I sit back against my pillow, relieved, and release a short spurt of laughter. Thanks be to God for that. I leave the lamp lighted for my comfort is gone. I lie back and notice that my door is open a crack. I get up to close it, and it opens wider. I do not even have time to exclaim when Patrick Crohan slides into the room and shuts the door behind him.

  “Don’t open your mouth,” he says. His breath comes fast, and though he is stock-still, his whole body appears to twitch.

  I cannot speak—a cry gets stuck in my neck and will not emerge. My legs won’t move either, but I fling out my arm and push him. He grabs both my elbows and shoves me back to my bed and onto it. He pins me there, his bulk pressing down on me.

  “You’re a dirty strumpet, Ada Concannon,” he hisses. “Making eyes at me, and you already taken. I saw you at Mass. I see you when I come to the kitchen.” His breath stinks of whiskey, and his lips are salty with cracks. He pulls at my nightgown, and his cold hand lands on my breast and squeezes. “Do you know what happens to girls like you?” He kneads at my breast, hurting me. “You go to hell.”

  “Get off me,” I say, but my words are a squeak that I can barely hear myself. All the air, all the will, is knocked out of me by fear. Still I try to fight him. “Get off me, get off me!” But he holds me down with his weight and pulls and shoves at every part of me.

  I have no wall mirror in my room, so I lift the pocket mirror that Daniel gave me for Christmas. My fingers will not work. I
t is not just that they are cold—they suddenly don’t know how to work. I fumble with the tiny clasp on the mirror until it clicks. I hold it up to my face: my eyebrow has a welt—a purple ridge—my top lip is swollen, and a pearl of blood trickles from one side of my mouth. I am shaking, and I ache through to my bones: in my arms, my thighs and, most of all, between my legs.

  The smell of him is everywhere: ammonia mixed with dirt and something worse, a sort of sweetness that makes my throat close off. My mind fights with my nose, trying to lock down what it is, and then it hits me: it is the smell of almond. He carries the bittersweet aroma of almonds around him. It revolts me.

  Miss Emily Sits for a New Daguerreotype

  I DO NOT LIKE THE CAMERA. I DARESAY THAT THE CAMERA DOES not like me either. And I do not like photographic studios. I do not relish sitting like a stone while a man peers at me through his lens. I curse Monsieur Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre. I curse his mother for birthing an innovator.

  The last time I sat for a picture, I was but sixteen. Sixteen and bold-faced. Velvet-chokered and hopeful, twirling a blossom in my fingers. That there has been no likeness made of me in twenty years or more alarms Father.

  “You might die, Emily,” he says. “How would I remember you?”