But since Harvard, and since Sue and the babies, Austin has hardened; levity has been leached from his very blood, it seems. We rarely banter anymore, for my brother takes the world very seriously now. Being in his company sobers me. Still, I love him with all my heart, but I know, too, that I vex him keenly.
Just yesterday he sought me out to speak with me about Ada. He came upon me in the library, where I had gone to choose a literary companion for the afternoon. Austin stood by the window and addressed it instead of me.
“Are you aware of Miss Concannon’s ailment?” he said.
“I am aware that Patrick Crohan hurt her.”
“Yes, but do you know what this might mean?”
I looked at Austin, waiting for him to tell me. “Is she ill?”
My brother turned to me and clicked his fingers like a man taming a dog. “You exasperate me, Emily,” he said. “Can you be so not of this world that you fail to grasp my meaning?”
“If you explained your meaning, perhaps I might understand.”
“You know nothing of anything,” he spit, “cooped up here in your gilded cage.”
“It is hardly gilded,” I said, but either he did not hear or he chose to ignore me.
“I am not sure that Miss Concannon belongs in this house. In any respectable house. She has loose morals.”
“For shame, Austin. There is nothing wrong with Ada’s morals. She is eighteen years old, far from home and bereaved, besides. Have you forgotten that her aunt is so recently committed to the soil?” I smoothed my skirt. “Ada has a steady young man—Daniel Byrne. And she works harder and more cheerfully than any other help we have had.”
“She is from Ireland, and one sure thing about the Irish is that they disdain the truth. They have two, nay, three faces apiece. Do not be fooled by her mellifluousness—all Irish people lie.” The subject was heating him, and he began to expand his thoughts. “You have to understand that there is a certain island madness about the Irish, Emily. They are unhinged and vicious. Oddly, one could say that they display generosity and viciousness in equal measure. But a cataract of lies is all you can expect from them. Truly.”
I waved my hand at him. “We are all capable of flowers of speech, Austin. Even us New Englanders. But Ada? I do not think she would make a gifted liar. She is good, she prays a lot and sings hymns. She is devout.”
“All Roman Catholics are devout, Emily. It doesn’t mean that they are not devious sinners also.”
“Austin, Ada went with her uncle to the church in Chicopee. She wished to visit a church. Amherst lacks one of her faith, and she misses it.”
My brother tossed his head. His hair—always a big, devilish halo—bounced and shook. “She is steeped in Romanism, Emily. She misses the pomp of her Holy Mass, that is all.”
“It is my belief that she wished to speak to a priest.”
“Does she converse frankly with you? Of intimate things?”
“Yes. No. I do not know. Is Ada compromised in some way, Austin? You must tell me if she is. I count her a friend, and I wish to help if she is troubled.”
“A friend?” he snarled. “That girl is less than you. She was raised on swill milk, no doubt, in a Dublin tenement. She is not your friend, she is your servant.”
“My friends are my domain,” I murmured.
Austin stared at me for a few moments, then took his leave. Yet again he was grieved with me, and yet again there was little I could do about it. But what could he mean about Ada? Had Crohan done more to her than she had told me? And under my father’s roof?
A thunder shower offers itself to the town; I run up to the cupola to welcome it. Cardinals and chickadees start to sing faster, and there is frenzy to their music. Soon a scorched smell wends in through the window, and I know it is about to pour. The rain drops like honey at first, big, slow drips but soon there is a raucous din and all four windows are thrashed as if the weather is angry with us and cannot decide which part of the house to beat first. I revel in the storm, my turbulence about Austin—and about Ada—a match for it. The rain stops, swift as it began, and the town is as golden as someone newly bathed, glistening and clean. In the relaxed aftermath of the thunder shower, I resolve to speak plainly with my brother and get him to speak candidly with me. And I will also do my best to love him anew.
Miss Ada Makes a Decision
I THOUGHT I WAS MADE WITH MY POSITION HERE. THE DICKINSONS are a good family to be sure, and the house is comfortable. My room is small but pleasant, or at least it was once. Now it is a burden, for its walls seem to scream my sin to me, night and day. I whisper to myself after my rosary, “You have been absolved. You have been absolved.” But it doesn’t help.
When Miss Emily produced almonds in the kitchen, the smell of Crohan wound like wraiths around my head. It was as if he were in the room with us. I cannot explain how that happened, for I couldn’t even smell the almonds, but the sight of them conjured him and his stink as sure as flames engulf paper.
Everything is smells with me these days. The caramel scent of old blood assails me when I undress. The whiff of alcohol—any sort of alcohol—makes a blur of stars appear before my eyes, because it brings back his breath, heavy with whiskey. I—normally as tough as teak—am bending under the weight of a few smells.
I lie into my bed earlier each night, for I know that sleep will not come easy. I close my eyes and dread the musical burr of the train as it passes beyond the house, for it sang its lonesome note when Crohan left my room that night and the two have become a match in my head. Sure enough the train’s blare begins, and it brings back the look of brutish wonder on Crohan’s face after he had done with me. But I must not let him conquer my thoughts, so I milk my mind for memories of home; I force myself to remember days under the eye of Slievenamon with Mammy, when we would go to stay with Granny Dunn in Killusty.
As I got older, the state of Granny’s house distressed me—it was little more than a shack in my eyes. I slept on a shakedown bed of straw there, close to the fire, and I woke one morning with a crow sitting on my heart, its head waggling from side to side as it inspected me. I leapt up, and the bird flew into the rafters, where it primped its feathers. It wouldn’t come down despite all of Granny’s and Mammy’s coaxing with the broom.
“It will bring her nothing but bad luck,” Granny said. “The crow on the cradle, as they say.”
“Shhh,” Mammy said. She grabbed the cooking fork and lunged at the crow; he just peered down at her.
“The black on the white,” Granny said. “Oh, I rue the day Ada came here.”
“Well, so do I,” I said. “The place is that cold and stinking the crow thought it was a byre. That’s why he came in.”
“I’ll give you a clout if you talk like that again,” Mammy said, glancing at her mother. I could see from Granny’s face that she was injured. She loved her little cabin, damp and smoky as it was.
When I was younger, I liked nothing more than to go there, just Mammy and me on a jaunt from Dublin; we would leave my sister Rose sulking in Tigoora, looking after Daddy and the others. It took a long time to get to Tipperary, by mail coach, by cart and on foot, but we were always cheery on the journey, and we talked and talked. We would knock off landmarks happily: the motte at Naas, the fever hospital in Athy, Castlecomer’s coal mine and, as we got nearer to Granny’s, the avenue up to Knockinclash Farm and the big gates at Kiltinan Castle. By the time we crossed the last humpback bridge and could see the mountain, we were nearly galloping. Granny Dunn was always waiting outside, as if she could smell us on the wind. She opened her arms, and we ran to her and let her hold each of us for as long as it pleased her.
“Mam, ah, Mam,” Mammy would say, over and over.
“Shhhh, a leana, shhhh, Ellen.” Granny Dunn held tight to Mammy because she was always her favorite. At last she would let Mammy go and take me in her arms; I sucked up her to
bacco smell and enjoyed her firm, lingering hug.
I used to chase Granny’s fowl and eat a big blue duck egg for my dinner. I would go and visit the farmer’s bull, who had a back so broad you could sleep on it. I remember the bull standing in a field of dandelion clocks that looked like a gathering of moons; he was huge, a statue of an animal. The bull startled if I shouted or jumped, and I did that purely to scare myself. At harvest time I would lie in the aftergrass of other fields and let the sweetness gather me in.
Granny Dunn always set me to work: hulling loganberries, gathering wild garlic or plucking gooseberries—I hated the look of those snotty, bitter globes. We would sit outside her house, Granny under a cabbage leaf to shade her from the sun, me with my head bent over a bowl of fruit, and, if it was gooseberries, picking off their tops and tails with my fingernails. When she boiled them up with sugar, they made a tart red jam that I loved; it always amazed me that the berries changed from green to russet as they cooked.
Granny would fuss over me and fuss over her peat fire and fuss over Mammy besides. Auntie Mary would come from her nearby house, and she was as kind then as she was later. She liked to plop spoonfuls of honey into my mouth and giggle about the neighbors with Mammy, like a girl. She and Uncle Michael always got along well—a love match, Mammy said—but times were hard after the Hunger, and eventually they would make the decision to take off for America.
After Granny died, her little house was shut, and that was that; it was as if she never lived and breathed. The fire was blacked out, the fowl were sold, and the door was locked. And we never went back again, for all belonging to us were gone off the mountain.
Tonight I think of Tigoora, too, and the river rushing through the valley and the particular earthy smell of the woods. I miss the sound of the Liffey at night. The way it burbles away like a friendly animal, always there, always reminding us of its constancy by gurgling past.
Here my ears are assailed by Amherst sounds: the clop of horse hooves, the factory whistle, rolling wagons, men shouting in New England voices—all of it strange to me and welcome in its strangeness, but it is not the sound of home, and it rings hollow for that.
I reel my mind back to my own little part of Dublin. I remember the hazelnuts my sisters and I gathered, and the blackberries. I conjure the pigeon with his open-ended song, left on an up note always, as if he had to ponder what he wanted to say next. I fix in my mind the babby house we made in a bush and how we hid there long after Mammy got fed up looking for us and calling our names in one long stream:
“Ada-Rose-Mary-Kitty-Bridget-Peggy-Annie-Deeel-i-aaa.” Sometimes she would just shout, “Concannons! Concannons!” Then, again: “Ada-Rose-Mary-Kitty-Bridget-Peggy-Annie-Deeel-i-aaa. Come home this minute!”
But all this thinking gets me nowhere. Crohan still looms in my head, and Daniel is there with him, a part of the problem, though truly all I long for is his sheltering arms. I haul myself up and lift the bottle of sarsaparilla. Its label is a soothing blue. I read it off in my mind, as I do every night, for the solace it brings: “Daly’s Sarsaparilla and Nerve Tonic, Belfast, Maine. Temporarily cures cancers, tonsillitis, permanently cures gonorrhea, syphilis and stomach aches, and is an excellent antidote for poisons.” Permanently cures gonorrhea. A permanent cure. An antidote to poisons. Patrick Crohan is poison.
I paint on the calomel; it is like a cold tongue licking my skin, and it makes me feel a little faint, which I welcome. It can only mean it is working well, getting all the way inside me. Between them the sarsaparilla and the calomel must be the reason for my sick-smelling shit that looks like boiled spinach in the pot. Though at least the rash is all but invisible now, and day by day I feel a little more gathered together. I decide that I will have a much better day tomorrow, and finally I slide into sleep.
“I won’t put up with laxadaisy hens,” I say, chasing the little madams back to their coop. They poke their heads forward and backward when they run. They are comical, but they gall me, so I shoo them across the yard quickly, to get them inside. “Mr. Dickinson expects a morning egg, and you are not obliging him at all.” The hens raise their shiny, apple-pip eyes to me as if defending themselves. “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell them, and I wag one finger to be sure they get my meaning. “Now, lay!”
I close the door and click the hasp on the coop and wait for them to settle. I listen outside, hoping to hear the satisfied noise they let out when they lay. I wait for the low yelp, that noise that makes me think that carrying the egg has been too much for the hen and she feels lighter for letting it go. No sound—not even a cluck or a yap.
“Silly little strumpets,” I say, “I should give you your walking papers.” I overheard Mr. Austin say that the other day, when he was in the dining room to discuss business with his father. I liked the sound of it so much I asked Miss Emily its meaning. “Yes, I’ll show you your walking papers,” I say again, into a crack in the coop, feeling satisfied to have a new threat for the hens—they ignore everything else I tell them.
The spring sun bakes my hair, making me feel better in myself, so I grab the yard broom and sweep all around. I stand for a few minutes and let the sunshine heat me front and back. It is glorious to feel warm, and I say a small prayer thanking God for the sun. I check on the hens once more, and their fusty smell assaults my nose when I open the coop. They all sit like returned queens, each waiting for her subjects. I ruffle under them, but not an egg do I find.
“The Squire will not be pleased,” I tell them, “and you can stay in there until you mend your ways.”
I slam the door and hear them fuss their feathers, but I resolve to feel no pity. I might take one hen for the pot tomorrow, and that will shake the rest of them. Mammy always said that fowl follow their mistress’s mood, and she would coddle and mind her hens as much as she minded us, her daughters. I realize I have been too distracted lately to pound up bones for them; that sort of pulverizing is a great boon to the energies. And if I mix bone with oats instead of corn, it will have them laying again in no time.
I soften toward the hens and decide to change the sops; maybe they are sodden and uncomfortable. I go to the barn for straw and a fork and am relieved to find that there is no one there. I use the yard broom to sweep out the henhouse, then scatter some gravelly earth to keep the lice away. The hens are settled in their nests and refuse to move while I clean.
“You are the most contrary lot I ever met,” I say. Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter. “I would be much obliged if you would lay.” Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter. I think of my mood and sing a little, to jolly them. Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter. The hens struggle and squawk when I lift them to scoop out the old straw and put in the new bedding. Under Agatha, the bossiest hen, I find a small egg, and I congratulate her. I grab it and slip it into the pocket of my apron. I lift her high to look at her claws to check for bumblefoot, which lately had her tripping over herself, but she has healed nicely since I drained the sores. I put her back in her nest, say, “Good girl, Agatha,” and close the door.
In the kitchen I take down the smallest pot. As there is only one egg, I will have it for myself, an early Easter treat. I lift the egg from my pocket and am surprised to find that it is soft. I look at it closely—it has no shell. I place it carefully in my palm. The egg is honey-colored, and when I hold it to the light, I can see the yolk hanging inside, a perfect golden blob. Whenever Granny Dunn got a shell-less egg from one of her birds, she would say, “That may be the last egg she’ll ever lay.” She called them witch eggs and wouldn’t eat them in case of bad luck. Granny also liked to say if you didn’t crush the shells after eating a boiled egg, a witch would make a boat of the broken bits and raise storms at sea. I suppose she was trying to frighten me; Mammy always smiled at these stories and told Granny to leave off.
I smell my witch egg; it smells of nothing but the usual—straw and hen dirt. I roll it like a ball on my hand, being careful to contain it s
o that it doesn’t fall. It seems a waste to throw it out. Surely it will do no harm to eat it? An egg is an egg.
I take the sharpest knife; the skin is tough, and I have to pierce it, then pull it away. The innards slither out into the pot like something alive, but all looks well—the glair is unclouded. I beat the egg with a little milk and butter and place the pot on the stove; when it has gathered together, I fork it into my mouth straight from the pot. Witch egg or no witch egg, it tastes delicious.
Mrs. Dickinson calls out to me as I go to leave the dining room. I cannot think what she wants, for I have everything served and done. She rises at her place at the table, and I step nearer.
“This meal is unseemly,” she says, waving her hand at her plate.
I look at the dinner: boiled chicken, mashed potato and roast sunchoke. I cannot see what it is she disapproves of; I raise my eyes to hers.
“I apologize, ma’am,” I say.
“It is a badly put-together meal, by any measure. Where are the greens? Could you not have made a little gravy?”
I glance again at her dinner; the plate holds nothing but three pale mounds. It does not look appetizing, because everything in the meal is the same color. “I could shell some peas and steam them quickly.”
“It is too late for that, Ada.” Mrs. Dickinson sits and takes up her cutlery. “You are growing careless, Miss Concannon, and I will not tolerate it. Consider turning over a new leaf, or we shall have to see.”
She forks some chicken into her mouth, and I go to the door. As I pass her, Miss Emily half smiles, and I know it is meant as encouragement, but I do not feel encouraged at all. My witch egg curdles in my stomach; I fear there will be ructions before long.
Mr. Dickinson’s medical book lies open on the library table. I drag my feather duster over the picture rails, fiddle with the green curtains, then dally by the table to look at it. The book is open at a well-used page, the one of concern to Mrs. Dickinson these days—rheumatic diseases. I put down my duster and rag and make sure that no one is coming. I drag the book nearer to me and search for the clap. Nothing. I turn to the “G” pages and finger my way over the thin paper to find gonorrhea and locate it at last.
Miss Emily Page 16
