Miss Spitfire

by Sarah Miller

  On especially good days I take our lunch out into the yard, and we picnic under the trees. Helen gathers wildflowers to weave into clumsy chains, and I pluck blossoms from the azalea bushes to fit over our fingertips like caps for elves. Bedecked as finely as any fairy queen, she snuggles into a large grandfather oak with a crotch of roots like an armchair. While Helen sits, stroking a sheltered clump of violets, I play the muse, spelling songs and poems into her free hand.

  I only wish I knew more music than laments and tavern songs. Once, a palsied old man told me he knew a reel called “Annie Is My Darling,” but nothing so rare as a fiddle existed in the almshouse, and no tune of any kind would sputter from his toothless gums. Even the melodic poetry my father used to recite for me in Gaelic is no more than a hazy recollection. Little wonder—I couldn’t understand a word, but the mournful sound of it thrilled me. Giving up on the words, I hum with Helen’s hand on my throat, trying to recapture the cadence and coax the contours of the sounds from my memory.

  In the end I recite everything from nursery rhymes to Byron and Shakespeare. Helen pays most attention to the childish ditties and finger plays, for I make my hands leap and skip like rabbits to their bouncy rhythms. The pertinence of “Bessie’s Song to Her Doll” tickles me so, I recite it over and over.

  Matilda Jane, you never look At any toy or picture-book. I show you pretty things in vain—You must be blind, Matilda Jane!

  I ask you riddles, tell you tales, But all our conversation fails. You never answer me again—I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!

  Matilda darling, when I call, You never seem to hear at all. I shout with all my might and main—But you’re so deaf, Matilda Jane!

  Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind, For, though you’re deaf and dumb and blind, There’s some one loves you, it is plain—And that is me, Matilda Jane!

  I inch toward affection with her, but Helen dances out of my reach. She accepts my touch, so long as I’m spelling, helping her dress and wash, or teaching her a new pattern with the beads or crochet needle. If I try to kiss her or hold her in my lap, she wrests herself away. At least she’s stopped screaming at the touch of my skin.

  At night I dare to caress her. Propped on my elbow beside her, I trace the fine bend of her brow or brush my fingers under the curve of her chin. Such a pretty child she is, with her brown-gold hair and round cheeks. I wish I could draw her in close to me, to feel the murmur of my voice humming the old Irish songs.

  Instead I have to settle for the Perkins doll. She nestles near and tight, rests her cheek against my skin, and lets my eager fingers stroke her curls. But oh, how I wish she had breath and weight and warmth.

  I try to remember I’ve been hired as Helen’s teacher, not her friend, not her companion. I came to earn a living, and kisses from a blind child, no matter how dear, won’t pay my way in the world.

  “And yet, touch is all she has,” I whisper to the doll. “Why isn’t mine good enough?” I’ll confess, those first days I was hard on her, but I never harmed her. I never thrashed her without reason, the way my father beat me.

  And what if I had? Children forgive so much for the sake of a tender moment. I know I did.

  Many a night my mother hid me at the sound of Dad’s footsteps, yet there were times when I’d crawl like an adoring pup into his lap. I remember how often he came stumbling home, the bawdy songs spilling from his lips. Verses from “John Barleycorn” and “Ugly Mrs. Fen” made my poor mother stir in her bed, but she never said a word unless he started into “Easy and Slow.” Then she’d be up shouting, “Shut that mouth in front of your daughter!” Sometimes I’d dare to creep from my corner, for if he spied me, he’d wink and whisper the last verse for my ears alone:

  Now if ever you go to the town of Dungannon, You can search till your eyes are empty or blind. Be you lying or walking or sitting or running, A girl like Annie you never will find.

  Oh, how I loved him then.

  If I can find a reason to love as worthless a man as Thomas Sullivan, I don’t know why Helen can’t feel the kindness in me.

  Chapter 19

  You will be glad to hear that my experiment is working out finely.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  How strange to think there was a time when my fingers and lips worked separately. It’s been only a few years since I learned to spell my own name, and now all day long I spell—speak, the curve of Helen’s fingers riding the waves of my hand like a small boat. When Captain Keller appears at the window, I have to wind my fingers together to keep them from weaving words as we talk.

  Today Helen and I have a long conversation about “mug” and “milk.”

  No matter what I do, Helen confuses the two. Each time she points to the mug, she spells “milk.” When she spells “mug,” she mimes pouring and drinking.

  “That’s what I get for trying to show two words at once,” I sigh. I should have given her the empty mug first and added the milk later. Now everything’s muddled. I wonder if she thinks the milk is part of the mug.

  “Milk,” I tell her, dipping one hand into it and spelling into the other. I pat her hand, and she makes the letters m-i-l-k. Next I let her drink the milk and make her spell it again.

  “Now it’s empty, you see?” She feels the mug inside and out. “Only a mug. No milk.” I spell m-u-g over and over into her free hand. “Let it settle, now.”

  One at a time I give her a doll, a hat, a key, a card. She makes all the word-shapes without a single mistake, and I pop a nibble of cake into her mouth after each one. Then I turn the tables: I spell the words, and Helen picks out the matching object. Again no mistakes. Until we come to “mug.” She touches everything on the table but seems confounded. Finally she brings her hands to her lips as if she’s drinking a cup of air.

  “Ah, no,” I groan. As an experiment, I spell m-i-l-k. “What do you think of that?” She points to the mug. “That’s what I thought.” I try to smooth the frustration from my forehead with my fingertips. The sockets of my eyes sting from the effort of watching her nimble fingers leap from one letter to the next.

  Helen reaches for my hands, looking for her customary bit of cake. I shake my head. A scant few days ago this would have erupted into a tussle. Now a shake of my head vexes Helen but doesn’t provoke her fists. To be safe, I busy her hands with a crochet needle and a length of red Scotch wool. She learned a simple chain stitch earlier this week and seems intent on making a chain to reach across the room.

  While she works, I pace, pondering the mug-milk difficulty. It seems as if she’s confused them both with the notion of drinking, but I don’t dare introduce another word into the mess. How can I unsnarl the words in her mind when she doesn’t know what a word is? All this time I’ve been preaching that my arbitrary signs are superior to Helen’s gestures-now I’m kicking up a fuss over confusing two words that don’t mean a thing to her one way or another.

  I hear Helen scuffling about and turn to see her crawling across the floor, yarn in hand. She’s tied one end of her chain to a chair leg by the window. She crochets incessantly, scooting toward the opposite wall as she stitches. Bored with my thoughts of mugs and milk, I watch Helen labor over her yarn. I’m anxious to do something else—exercise, romp in the garden, anything—but she doesn’t slow.

  “Will you never stop?” I flop on the bed, grumbling, “Inventions of the devil, sewing and crocheting. I’d rather break stones on the king’s highway than hem a handkerchief.” Serves me right, I suppose. It took me nearly two years to finish sewing an apron at Perkins. Finally the teacher shut me into a closet with the model skeleton as punishment. I only laughed and rattled its expensive bones until she came running to let me out again.

  When Helen succeeds in stretching her woolen snake from the chair to the fireplace on the other side, she plunks herself down on the hearth and pats her arm.

  I join her on the floor and pat her head. She doesn’t flinch. Ignoring me, she lifts the length of wool to her che
ek and rubs it lovingly against her skin. Her affection for the first work of her hands puts a twinge in my heart. Quickly, I lean in and peck her cheek. She jerks her neck away and turns her attention to the wool. That’s all. No screams, no fits. Still, it’s enough to make a shiver of resentment run through me. I smother it, making my hand spell w-o-o-l. After I pat her hand, she duplicates the word. “Like a little spelling machine, you are. Drop in a coin, turn the crank, and out comes a word.”

  And what good is all this spelling? Sometimes I think Helen will learn quickly enough, by and by, that everything has a name. Other times I feel lost. I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I’m only feeling my way myself, every bit as blind as Helen. How do I move forward? How do I connect one thing with another? I wish I knew this work was taking root somewhere in Helen’s mind. All these words, do they linger in her fingers after her lessons are through?

  A few days later I have my answer. On his nightly turn by the little house Captain Keller announces, “Miss Sullivan, I’ve brought an old friend to call on Helen.”

  My heart sinks. Helen and I spent half the afternoon struggling over “mug” and “milk” with no success. I don’t have the strength for another battle. Hands clasped, I go to the window, trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice. “Captain Keller, we agreed. No visits.”

  He chuckles and holds up a hand, nodding, “I know, I know. But I assure you, Miss Belle won’t undermine your authority.” The captain slips two fingers into his mouth and whistles a shrill note. A large, red-coated setter trots round the corner and positions herself at his feet with military precision. “Miss Sullivan, meet Belle. One of the finest hunting dogs in the county, in her day. And the most patient creature this side of Mobile, where Helen is concerned.”

  Belle rolls her great eyes up at me and blinks. Her tongue sags from her mouth.

  “Now, you don’t mind seeing if Helen recognizes her old playmate, do you?”

  I turn to Helen, bathing one of her dolls in our washbowl. I worked her hard today—too hard, perhaps, judging by the way she jostles the doll. She deserves a treat. “No. No, I don’t mind a bit, Captain. Bring her round front.”

  I let Belle through the door. From across the room she gives a contemptuous sniff in Helen’s direction, then skulks to the window, making no attempt to attract her attention. I imagine she’s been roughly handled by her little mistress more than once.

  To our surprise, Helen takes no notice of Belle’s arrival. Usually the softest step makes her throw her arms out, searching for anyone within reach. Captain Keller shrugs.

  After half a minute Helen’s nose comes to life. She dumps the doll in the basin and feels round the room, sniffing as she goes. Near the window she stumbles upon the dog and throws her arms round Belle’s neck.

  At the sight of her clinging to the dog I notice Captain Keller’s smile quaver. Masking a sniff, he lifts his chin and clasps his hands behind his back. I feel a jealous sting myself and swipe my knuckles against the corners of my eyes.

  Her fit of affection done, Helen plops down next to Belle and takes one of the dog’s paws in her hand. “What’s she doing there?” the captain asks, watching Helen manipulate Belle’s claws with her fingers. Puzzled, we lean as close as we dare. Helen’s face wrinkles with concentration as she works to shape the dog’s claws under her hands. Belle only blinks and yawns.

  After a minute she gives up and balances Belle’s paw on top of her fingers. I gnaw my lips, biting back a grin as I watch Helen’s fingers move.

  “D-o-l-l,” I translate for the captain. “She’s teaching the dog to spell!”

  Chapter 20

  Yesterday I had the little negro boy come in when Helen was having her lesson, and learn the letters, too.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  The next day, Friday, I invite Percy to attend Helen’s lesson. I’m eager to see what she’ll make of a pupil with hands and fingers instead of paws and claws. Besides, showing Helen that other people can make these signs might spark some understanding of their usefulness.

  Percy’s spent time with Helen before, that much is clear. At first he teeters on the edge of his seat. Each time her hands move, I notice the corners of his eyes squinch up; he’s too proud to flinch but shrewd enough to brace himself.

  Percy has trouble from the beginning. Helen demands to follow every bit of his lesson, blocking his view of his fingers and mine with her meddlesome hands. Percy’s task becomes as awkward as carrying on a conversation with an ill-mannered hound prodding its nose into all the wrong places. Helen leaves him no choice but to learn the letters with his fingers instead of his eyes.

  Despite her blindness, Helen proves a much quicker pupil; poor Percy isn’t used to recognizing shapes with his hands. Even easy signs like d, c, o, and I give him trouble, which puzzles me. The signs look as similar to the written letters as four fingers and a thumb can.

  “Percy, you can’t read, can you?”

  He looks at me as if I’ve no more sense than a goat. “Read,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes like Viny. “’Course I can’t read.”

  Grand. I’ve insulted him and made a fool of myself. There’s no more chance for a black boy in Alabama to learn to spell than I had in the poorhouse. If God had seen fit to give me a brain as quick as my tongue, I’d have the brightest mind in creation. Hoping the speed of my tongue will redeem itself, I keep talking.

  “This is reading hands instead of paper. When you learn the letters, you’ll have your own secret language.”

  “Yeah,” he says, fixing his dark eyes on me. “How?”

  “I learned the letters in Boston. No one in Alabama will understand you unless we teach them. You’ll be able to spell under anyone’s nose, and they’ll be none the wiser.”

  He nods, trying not to grin at the thought of such mischief. Earnest now, he trudges through the lesson.

  For better or worse, Helen’s attention never falters. Keeping a close grip on both our hands, Helen mimics my every move for Percy, right down to prompting his response with a pat of her hand. Eventually Percy gives up on his eyes altogether, shutting them tight as he memorizes the shape of a new word or staring off at nothing in particular when he works to recall the letters on his own.

  Percy’s mistakes delight Helen, and for once her pleasure isn’t selfish. His struggles drive Helen to excel him, while at the same time she refuses to continue until he’s mastered each new word. I’ve never seen her so ambitious. Somewhere in her head I sense a flicker of life-could it be something I’ve put there? My stomach flutters at the thought.

  As the afternoon passes, Percy’s wariness trickles away. Before long the three of us sit clustered in a ring, hands meshed like voices in song. I spell a word to Helen, and it passes like a melody from hand to hand. I show Helen; Helen shows Percy.

  For the first time I feel like a teacher.

  Helen proves a capable little schoolmarm too. She may be oblivious to the meaning of words, but she won’t permit the slightest blunder in their spelling. When Percy confuses the letters, she makes him form them over and over again until she’s satisfied. Then she pats his head with such vigor that Percy blinks and ducks his head like a goose with every touch. His smile flashes so brightly beneath Helen’s hand that I begin to wonder if some of his slips are intentional. I’d like to hug him for it, but all I do is grin.

  I relish Helen’s eagerness, the way her hand lingers under mine, impatient for the next word. Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I give her hand a congratulatory squeeze each time Percy learns a new sign. She makes no objections, and my heart quickens.

  When we’ve marched through all the objects Helen knows, I unveil the finale-two sticks of candy, courtesy of Captain Keller’s morning visit. Percy licks his lips at the sight of them. “Is that store-bought?” he asks.

  “It is. One for each of you, after you learn to spell it.”

  He eyes Helen. “Give Helen her stick before mine,” he says.

  I
laugh and pat his cheek. His shoulder hunches up toward my hand, and his skin turns rosy as varnished cherrywood. “You watch closely,” I tell him. “This once I’m giving you a head start.” I spell “candy” for him, pausing between each letter. “Now, be ready when your turn comes. The sooner Helen gets her stick, the better.” Solemn faced, he nods.

  I turn to Helen. Never letting go of my end of the candy, I lay one stick across her hand. Her body shivers as she recognizes the treat. Smacking her chops, she scoots toward me. I half expect her to knock me aside and tear the sweet from my fist. Instead she huddles up close to me, tracing the candy’s path to my pocket.

  As I spell, Helen’s muscles tense with concentration. At five letters, this is the longest name I’ve tried to teach her. I hope she has patience enough to learn it, and for Percy to learn it too.

  I needn’t worry. After a pat to signal her turn, Helen’s fingers flit out the letters quickly as the beat of insect wings. She reaches for my face to feel my confirming nod. Instinctively I nudge my cheek against the heel of her palm. Her touch doesn’t linger. She buzzes about, searching for her promised treat.

  Beckoning to Percy with one hand, I stuff the candy deeper into my pocket with the other. “Do as I’ve done, Percy. Pat her hand. Ask her for the word.”

  Hesitant, he obeys. His request breaks Helen’s attention from her search. “Keep your hand on hers, Percy, don’t let go.” I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.

  Slowly she turns to him. Holding the hand with Percy’s perched upon it very still, she gropes with the other. When their free hands meet, she grabs his and arranges all ten of his fingers over her fist. Her face set firm, one hand still clasped on Percy’s wrist, Helen moves her fingers from one letter to the next: c-a-n-d-y. Twice more she spells it, her movements precise as a drumbeat.