Helen Keller in Love

by Kristin Cashore

  I said nothing.

  “They’re immigrants first, American second.”

  “He’s a U.S. citizen.”

  “And whose side will he be on when the United States enters this war?”

  “He’ll be on my side.”

  I have never told my mother I know the sorrow I brought her. I have never let go of the burden of causing her grief. “We had a few brief months of happiness,” she often said to me about the times before I became blind and deaf. But I want more happiness. My life is not shrouded in grief. I want to live with Peter, have a family of my own.

  She would never allow it.

  But I was reckless. I did not care. I felt Peter’s footsteps as he strode into the dining room, kicked a tasseled ottoman in the corner, and then stood by my side.

  “Have you met my private secretary?” I asked Mother.

  “I haven’t met you but I’ve heard about you.”

  It was suddenly hard to swallow in the warm room.

  “I enjoy working for Helen.”

  “As long as it’s only work.”

  “I do what Helen asks me to do, ma’am.”

  “You work for the Keller family.” My mother stood straighter. I felt the rustle of her floor-length silk dress. “With Annie sick you’ll report to me.”

  I forced myself to stay still. I imagined my mother disappearing, fastening her cloak, climbing up the steps to the train headed for Alabama.

  “You coming, Helen?” Peter’s hand gripped mine.

  I let him begin to lead me out of the room; his fingers were so tense.

  Why couldn’t I have Mother, Annie, Peter, and my own life? Because my responsibility was to be loyal to those who helped me—without them I had no world. I stopped before we reached the door.

  “Helen. Your mother wants me to leave. But I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to help you write your speech for the rally. Meet me in your study at twelve thirty. Will you?”

  Peter’s footsteps moved away. First they gave off a birdlike scratch. Then they grew stronger, heavier with a crack-snap-crack. He walked out like a newly determined man.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’ve always longed to fit in. In my autobiography I wrote that being deaf and blind was like being trapped on a gray, silent island. Far off there was a distant land where people talked, laughed. But I was alone, only able to reach them by tossing out a long lifeline, so desperate to be among the living. I dressed up, learned to read and write, rode horses, learned Latin, French, and Greek, and was the first deaf-blind person ever to graduate from Radcliffe College, cum laude, at that.

  But the more I tried to be like everyone else, the more a frightening space opened up between me and the people I loved. It was always there, that chasm. So I followed Peter onto the porch, and when he slipped his warm hand into mine I was not alone—I was with a man who drew me into the world instead of keeping it at bay. I eagerly let Peter lead me away from the house, where Mother paced the dining room floor and Annie tossed in bed.

  “You didn’t tell me the Kellers celebrated Fourth of July late.” He leaned against a maple tree at the yard’s edge.

  “The fireworks?” I had to laugh, thinking about Mother’s outburst.

  “You got it, missy. But the show’s over.”

  Suddenly I wanted one thing only, to run away with him.

  “Please pardon my rudeness last night,” Mother said. “I had a long trip.” The noon sun warmed the living room the next day. Mother and I faced Peter as he came into the house.

  I felt Peter shuffle his feet.

  “So if you’ll oblige, I’d like to take you both to the Devon House for lunch.” Mother took my arm and swept me alongside her out the front door. Peter followed, just as the heavy maple panels shuddered behind us with a whap.

  “Peter can drive. I assume he is your chauffeur, too?”

  Peter snatched the keys from her hand, and as soon as we climbed into the car he gunned the engine to life. We whizzed up the road, past the murky, mossy water of the lake. Finally Peter pulled the car into the Devon House parking lot.

  “Annie usually takes us here the day after I arrive,” Mother said to Peter, who spelled it into my hand. “But with Annie sick, well, traditions must be kept up, isn’t that right, Helen?”

  “I’m for new traditions.”

  “Fine. As long as I’m in the room when they take place.” Mother walked ahead.

  I followed her, with one hand on the railing, up to the restaurant’s front door. Peter grabbed my elbow, and as he guided me over the step to the lobby I wobbled a bit.

  “Thank God I’m steady on my feet,” Peter said.

  “You?” I said right back. “Between the two of us, mister, I’m the stable one.” I laughed, but I had no idea how right I would be.

  Peter led me into the dining room. I smelled the bleached linen tablecloths, felt the dragging of chairs. With my feet I sensed the vibration of musical instruments, a trumpet and drums. “Is there a band?” I asked.

  “Yup. Can’t wait to do the fox trot with you.” Peter swung my hand and followed Mother right past the dance floor to a cool section of the dining room, and we sat at a table for three.

  “Looks like the bandleader’s going to make an announcement,” Mother said. “He’s dedicating the first song to the men, women, and children in Britain suffering under the German blockade as starvation sets in.”

  Peter grabbed my hands under the table.

  “I’m hungry, too. For you.”

  “Where are your antiwar sentiments? Shame on you.”

  “Oh, I have sentiments, all right.” Just then Peter scraped back his chair and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “The bandleader wants people to donate money to the war effort. I’m going to donate my words: I’ll ask the guy if I can speak. Tell people they should resist this immoral war, this war of useless death and destruction.”

  His hand slipped from mine, and as he leaned toward the stage, he gave off the eager scent—I know this comparison is wrong—of Father’s prize hunting dogs, their bodies taut, ready to charge deep into the woods after something tantalizing, exciting, and they were born to go after it.

  Cold ran through my veins. What Peter craved was an audience, a voice. That was his instinct, what drove him.

  I tasted copper in my mouth.

  I was almost certain then that he wanted fame—no, not fame. He wanted to be in the center of things. And I would be the casualty.

  Only then did Mother speak up.

  “Mr. Fagan. Sit down.”

  I wish I had accepted then how much Peter longed to be in front of a crowd, how the more sought after I was, the more diminished he felt. All I wanted to believe was that he craved me, so I sat back, sipped my cherry cola, and did not interfere with Mother as she spoke rapidly to Peter, all the while spelling everything into my hand.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Mother said to him. “It’s not you they want to hear. It’s her. You haven’t met presidents, you weren’t beloved by Mark Twain, as Helen was since the day he met her. You never vacationed in Nova Scotia with Alexander Graham Bell.” Mother’s hand shook slightly.

  In the summer of 1901, Annie and I had stayed with Dr. Bell at his summer cottage perched high above the Nova Scotia cliffs. His house—thrumming with the activities of his two daughters and his deaf wife, Mabel—was a haven for me: everyone knew manual fingerspelling, so I could talk freely. The guesthouse was filled with aviators; Dr. Bell was flying kites, trying to discover the path to human flight. But he put his work aside one evening and spelled to me that he was concerned about my being so alone. None of the joys of womanhood should be denied me, he said, his hand warm on mine. I had no hereditary handicaps to impede a marriage. Someday Annie would marry, and leave me. I would need a husband of my own.

  “I shall never marry,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair; any man who took me for a wife would be marrying a statue.” But Peter had chang
ed all that.

  “Mr. Fagan, sit down,” Mother said again.

  “It’s a free country, Mrs. Keller,” Peter said to Mother and spelled to me. “Anyone can speak.”

  “If anyone is to speak here, Mr. Fagan, it’s Helen.”

  “I may not be famous, but I’m—”

  “You’re an employee.”

  “I’m not just an employee. I’m—”

  “Peter.” For one moment I thought he was going to announce our engagement. Mother couldn’t know, not yet. So I changed the subject.

  “The band is starting up.”

  “I’m not in the mood to dance.”

  “What are they playing?” Through my feet I felt the solid, round thump of the drums.

  “‘Keep the Home Fires Burning,’” Mother said.

  Restlessly, Peter tapped his feet.

  My fame drew Peter to me, yet at the same time it pushed him away. He wanted to be up on the stage, bringing the crowd to its feet when he denounced the war, its debauchery, the way France had become a bloodied war zone that nothing could cure. Within moments a strange murmuring moved across the restaurant until it ran up my back.

  “They know you’re here,” Mother said to me. “Sit up straight. People are watching. And don’t order the soup. It’s too hard to eat in public.”

  “Mother, I know.” I felt Peter push a menu across the table to me. “Peter, did you forget I can’t read regular print?” His hand cool to my touch told me he was bored translating the menu.

  “Say good afternoon to the bandleader,” Mother said as she drew my hand into his.

  “Miss Keller, we’re so honored to have you here.”

  “Congratulations are in order for Peter.” I changed the subject to get the attention off me.

  “For what?” Mother sat straighter.

  “Peter’s going to write an article on shell shock for the New York Times.”

  “Does the Times know that?” Mother said.

  “Not yet. But they will.” I sipped my cola.

  “You don’t say?” Mother slid a napkin under my drink and I felt the bandleader move away. “You’re having a fall full of successes, Mr. Fagan. Annie tells me you’re engaged,” Mother said.

  “That’s true.”

  “Who is she? Would I know her?”

  “Actually, you know the name …”

  “Peter, stop,” I said.

  “Do tell.” Mother leaned against me.

  “It’s a prominent name.”

  I nervously pulled my hair.

  “That’s all I’ve got to say,” Peter said.

  “About the article,” Mother said. “I thought you were a cub reporter?”

  “I’m more experienced than that, Mrs. Keller. I’ve published articles about the labor movement, the war in France …”

  “How nice that you’ve put your work aside to help Helen.”

  “I’m an excellent helper, ma’am.”

  During the return trip Mother sat without comment in the backseat while Peter sped the car toward home.

  Chapter Twenty

  All my life I’ve feared things falling. Now, with Mother upset, it felt as though things were falling apart, but the more unstable I felt, the more closely I bound Peter to me. With Mother napping in the farmhouse, no one knew I was alone with Peter. How easily I let him persuade me to drive up the road to his little house in the woods. Once inside the kitchen, a tiny, sweltering-hot room, I felt the chunk of the front-door lock.

  “All’s secure.” He dropped his head to my neck.

  “Wait. I wish it had been easier with Mother.”

  “Judging by that reception, I think it’s safe to say we won’t need an in-law suite in our house.”

  “Once we’re married?” I leaned against the cool icebox.

  “Yup.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Though your mother’s chill tells me if she did live with us, our house would be cool on the hottest damned days of summer—”

  “Peter. That’s enough. She is my mother.”

  “And she loves you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if she can’t stand the sight of me.”

  “I’ve never disobeyed before.”

  “First time for everything.” He slid one finger inside my blouse.

  “You don’t say?” I leaned farther back.

  “I do say.” He smoothed my hair. “The forces are closing in on us here, Helen. Tell me you’ll go with me to Boston soon.”

  “For what?”

  “A marriage license. Even a radical like you can’t marry without a license from the state.”

  “Tell me when.”

  “How about now?”

  “The day of the Boston rally is better. But let’s practice now. Now is good.”

  He pulled open my blouse. “I say, is this office open?”

  I felt a rush of warm air on my bare skin.

  “Yes,” I laughed. “The office is open.”

  “Is it open all day?” He slid his hands under my shirt.

  “All day.”

  “Nights, too?” I felt his teeth on my neck. The heat of his breath was beautiful.

  “Nights, yes.” I had never known the pleasure of this.

  Peter slid his hands further inside my blouse. He lowered himself so I felt his breath near my breastbone. Then he lowered his hands so they gripped my waist. He unzipped my skirt.

  “You need to relax.”

  “I do.” I could barely move.

  “I can help with that. Let’s go to my bedroom.” He tried to pull me down the hallway.

  “Give me a minute.” I traced the small of his back.

  He slowly unbuttoned the long row of buttons on the back of my skirt. He leaned in and kissed me on the mouth.

  “Time for a quiz, smart girl.”

  “Test me,” I said.

  “Give me an hour.”

  “For what?”

  He raised my skirt, laid his teeth on my skin. “To show you the world.”

  When I was younger I suspected I had a strong sexual drive. But that was nothing like Peter’s rough, tearing hands on my waist. I believed in free love; so did he. I believed in a woman’s right to physical pleasure; Peter did, too. And Annie had talked to me about sexual desire: You must use it, she told me, in other ways: your work, your writing. In that you may be a force in the world. But she never told me what this would be like, to be alone with a man who kissed me without end.

  “Wait.”

  “All right.” His hands traced my skin.

  “I’ve got to get back. Mother and Annie will never forgive me for running off.”

  “Those two firecrackers are burned out.” Peter’s wrist turned as he examined his watch. “Three fifteen. It’s hot; maybe they’re still napping.” He led me to his bedroom, and we stood by his bed. He traced the outline of my breasts and said, “Recite the names of the trees we passed in the woods.”

  “Is this a party game?”

  “Yes. An excellent one.”

  He lowered me onto my stomach, and placed one knee between my thighs.

  “Okay, nature girl. What trees?”

  “Apple.”

  He pressed harder.

  “Spruce.”

  He ran his hands up the backs of my legs.

  “It’s hard to concentrate. Did I say elm?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Elm.” He pressed open my knees.

  “Say pine.” But I couldn’t say it: he slid his hands over mine so my hands were above my head, his whole weight over my body, and as he raised his hips I inhaled the scent of the woods, aromatic and sharp.

  “Helen, what do you want?”

  I flipped over, took his hand.

  We were interrupted by the shirring of the telephone’s ring. Peter grabbed his shirt from the side of the bed, tossed me my skirt and blouse, and then answered the phone, listened for a second, then hung up. “Damned Annie tries to protect your chastity from five
miles away. We’ve got to get back to your house.”

  “I can’t move,” I said.

  Approaching the house, Peter slowed the car. “Helen, I …” Through the open window I inhaled fresh-cut wheat from the farms that rolled up and down the hill from East Main Street, the musky scent of leaves starting to fall.

  “Helen, I forgot to tell you.” He rounded the last curve just before my house and then pulled over.

  “I got a tip this morning.”

  “A tip? What are you, a waiter?”

  “No, a reporter from the Boston Globe tipped me off that they’re onto something. They’re coming out here today to chase down the story.”

  “To my house? What story?”

  “What you said about the war …” We drove up the bumpy drive, but just outside the house Peter left the car running. “Is this place ever quiet? Damned O’Rourke and Danson from the Globe are on the front porch.”

  “It will kill Annie—and Mother—to find reporters here.”

  “Your mother’s too cranky to die. She’ll be around to haunt you for another thirty years. She’s as stubborn as you are. I’ll put money on it: she’s made of more steel than the Manhattan Bridge.”

  “So kind.”

  “By your side, madam, I have a chance to live forever. You put me in one of your books and boom—I’m a household name.”

  He revved the engine so that the car seemed to leap forward, and I held on to the dashboard.

  “Don’t have an accident,” I joked.

  “Accidents happen.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It started that night, the crack in our relationship. Peter eased the car slowly up the drive, where pine needles under the tires gave off a metallic scent. “Jesus, they’re here en masse.” Peter slowed the car to a stop. He reached over and locked my door so I wouldn’t jump out.

  “Who’s here?” I felt him frantic, reaching for the key in the ignition.

  “The reporters.”

  “Let me at them.”

  “Helen, stop. There are one, two—damn—three out there on the steps. Frank O’Rourke, that bastard from the Globe, itching to scoop me on any story he can get, he’s on the bottom step, ready to jump as soon as you get out of the car. That’s one.” Peter held me back with his arm. “Danson, too, he’s worthless. The other one I don’t know, but I do know this: they’ll pepper you with questions the minute they see us.”