Helen Keller in Love

by Kristin Cashore

  “What?”

  “You heard me. How many women just like you—deaf, blind, unable to get around on her own, dependent on a surly teacher—”

  “Peter—”

  “Or a handsome man to take her around all day and night—how many of those women have kids?”

  “Do I look like a walking encyclopedia of the blind?”

  “No. You look like a woman who’s been dropping hints right and left about children. The day Annie ransacked John’s apartment and brought home that baby stroller, I remember you said, ‘Peter, what if someday you and I …’ You didn’t finish the sentence, but I’m a word man, remember? I filled in the blank. ‘Had a baby’ is what you meant. So what’s really going on, missy? Anything I’m missing?” He leaned against the door.

  “Peter. The only thing you’re missing is the chance to unlace my dress.”

  “Like this?” He slid his fingers inside my dress.

  “Yes.”

  “And this?” He pulled my dress up over my head, and kneeled down. I arched my back, and he pulled me closer. The warmth of his mouth on the inside of my thighs made me gasp, then I felt his warm breath at the very center of me.

  He wrote on my thighs, “This is how fingerspelling was invented.”

  “For monks to talk during holy hour,” I spelled on his neck, his curly hair in my hands. “They didn’t want to break their vow of silence.”

  He slid his mouth closer, and I arched my whole body back and eased him into me. “How would you feel about having a baby with me?” I spelled impetuously into his hand. But he didn’t listen, he pressed his hips to mine and the world fell away again.

  Later he rolled to the farthest edge of the bed. I stiffened as I lay beside him, afraid of what he’d say. “Helen, I heard you.”

  “So, what if I were pregnant … someday?” I said.

  “That would be an unwanted complication.” He gave off the scent of a metallic fence, part seaweed, pulling him out to sea. “We can’t afford—”

  “Can’t afford what? The farmhouse is on the market. And Andrew Carnegie sends my pension every month. I told him to keep sending it.”

  “You did that? Even when you knew I was against it? Well then I’ll let you in on some news you won’t like, either. Did you know that the New York Times returned my article about shell shock? They hire prominent journalists, not stringers like me.”

  “Peter, you know I publish there; I could have gotten you in.”

  “Don’t you get it, Helen? I’m not going to ask you. Not ever. If we have a child we will have nowhere to live, and little money at all.”

  I moved closer to him, breathing heavily.

  “I thought you wanted a child,” I said.

  “Yes, but not now.” Something jittery, wrong in his palm. “I’m still draft age, I could be drafted—President Wilson will be calling up troops to fight this war.”

  “You want a baby,” I repeated. “Just not now, or not with me.”

  My own voice seeped out. Loose like rolling pebbles. I was talking to him, unsure if my speaking voice was pitching up, or down, raw as I was.

  He said nothing. I fished in the air for him, my hands touching pockets of emptiness.

  All the air left the room. At that moment I understood Annie’s self-hatred, sharp as a knife. I was an unexpected complication. He did not want a baby, or did not want one with me. Deep inside my body, I felt a tell-tale, familiar cramping.

  “I’m not saying never.” Peter took my hand. “Just not now.”

  I pulled my hand away and made a fist.

  Peter did not reach for me.

  The whole long minute we sat in silence.

  “We have a lot to do before tomorrow.” He stood up and left the room. I felt the ssssup, ssssup of his bare feet on the pine floor.

  I got up, slipped on my dress. Peter was in the kitchen making coffee. I sat on the edge of the bed and put on my shoes. The silence around me was deeper than any silence in my thirty-seven years.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  As if nothing was wrong, I followed the scent of Peter’s cherry tobacco into the kitchen and sat at the table in the corner. Outside a truck rumbled up the road, and the heat of the overhead lamp warmed me, but the heaviness of Peter’s footsteps as he rapped across the floor by the stove told me he ached to leave.

  So I ran my fingernail over the table’s soft wood, and then I rubbed my eyes. Rubbed as if to erase an old, piercing pain, like I was going blind for a second time. But I could not stop what was happening. All I knew was that Peter had teased me into life; I was alive and vulnerable. I could not go back. So I approached Peter, but as I got close enough to feel his warmth the telephone rang. Within seconds Peter hung up. “Just what we need. Your mother is hopping mad. I’m to get you home, now.”

  “Is it Annie? She’s worse?” I pulled my coat around me.

  “Something tells me Annie’s just fine—ready to head off to Puerto Rico to heal on your dime. No, the contempt in your mother’s voice means only one thing: when I drop you off at the front door Mrs. Kate Keller will stand tall outside my car and order me to drive off, never to see you, my dearest, again.”

  Peter backed his car down the driveway, the wheels making the floorboards shake beneath my feet. I knew I had to soothe him, make easy the rough spots between us. I reached across the front seat, put my hand on his, and said, “About the … pregnancy. I’m probably just excited, overstating things, as usual. It’s only been two, three days since …”

  “Since what?”

  I said nothing.

  “Oh. Your …”

  I nodded.

  “Helen, are you kidding? I’m no doctor, but it’s only been two or three days? That’s nothing. You’re not pregnant. You’re probably just …”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Overexcited.”

  “You really mean hysterical. That’s what the press calls me when I get all worked up.”

  “Well, I am a member of the press.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you do get excited.”

  “Right.”

  “So this is probably nothing at all.” He laid his warm hand on mine. “Come on, Helen. Someday, maybe, we’ll have kids, but let a man know he can support a family first.”

  “Why, Mr. Fagan, you’re so old fashioned.” I held the door handle as he rounded a corner.

  “I’m a man, Helen.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Maybe he was right, I was just tense. Maybe some distant day we’d have a child.

  Driving through Wrentham’s streets, I relaxed beside Peter. The tires vibrated on the road as if to say one more day, one more day. Suddenly Peter swerved to a stop. “What’s going on? Are we home?” The scent of willows told me we were close to my house, so I reached for the door.

  “Not yet, Helen,” Peter said.

  I don’t know how long we sat there together. The scent of chimney smoke inched into the car. Finally Peter said, “Helen, your mother is a frugal woman, right?”

  “Frugal? She invented the word. Why?”

  “Because I’m staring up the driveway toward your house, and the whole first floor is lit up. The second floor, too. The damned house is shining like a Christmas tree, and she’s standing in the doorway.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “Nope. She’s got the door flung wide open on a chilly night like tonight …”

  “Does she see us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If there’s bad news,” I said, “I don’t want to know it.”

  “You and me both.”

  Peter idled the car by the curb. “I’m not letting this Keller clan stop our plans. If anything happens tonight, if we get separated—say, your mother boots me out and takes you to Alabama—don’t fret. I’ll follow you down to Montgomery. Remember I told you about my minister friend in Florida? I’ll whisk you to him and marry you before your mother even knows you’ve crossed the Alabama state line.”

>   The car shuddered beneath my feet. For the first time I felt real fear slice through me. Peter stroked my hair. “Helen, I’m willing to chase you all the way to Montgomery if I have to, but please tell me that you don’t have a passel of gun-toting relatives down there.”

  “Mr. Fagan. I come from an old southern family.”

  “My point exactly. Southern families own stacks of rifles.”

  “Well, Warren collects Smith and Wessons. He keeps them in a showcase on the living room wall.”

  “Warren? Who’s Warren?”

  “Mildred’s husband. Peter, if you’re marrying me you really should learn the names of my family members.”

  “Okay. Mildred: your loyal younger sister. You adored her—”

  “Actually, I was so furious at her birth, so jealous, I tipped over her cradle when Mother was out of the room. Luckily Mother came running back and saved Mildred from falling five feet to the floor.”

  “So Mildred still nurses a grudge.”

  “No, she’s a soft soul. Kind as the day is long. It’s Warren …”

  “The husband.”

  “He’s the one who holds a grudge. If a Keller woman offends the family honor—”

  “Let me guess. He gets his gun and brandishes it until the threat to the Keller honor is gone.”

  “How did you know?”

  “A wild guess. But I hope I never have to find out.”

  As Peter led me up the driveway and toward the house, all I knew was that I was in love, I might be having a child, and I was suddenly filled with the desire to be comforted, soothed, by my mother. More than ever before I wanted to tell her the truth. “I’m getting married, Mother,” I wanted to say. I need you to know. So I pulled away from Peter just a bit; as I approached the steps he slowed me down.

  “Easy does it. That lady looks spitting mad.”

  “My mother never spits.”

  “Well, she reads. She’s got today’s New York Times …”

  Peter stopped.

  “Do you think?”

  We both stood on the driveway, acorns beneath our shoes, and I knew. A thudding started in my chest. “Peter.” I turned toward him. At the steps, I had a hard time moving my feet.

  Peter said, “Whatever happens I’m not going anywhere. We can’t let them hold us back.”

  Then Mother’s footsteps tapped relentlessly on the front porch. I was in front of her. She took my hand from Peter’s. I was breathless as she rapidly spelled the newspaper headlines.

  The New York Times November 18, 1916

  HELEN KELLER

  ENGAGED TO MARRY

  Special to the New York Times

  BOSTON, NOV 18—Miss Helen Keller, the most famous blind and deaf woman in the world, is engaged to marry her private secretary, Mr. Peter Fagan. Confirmation of the engagement comes from Mr. Edward McGlennan, the City Registrar of Boston, Massachusetts, who recently issued the couple a marriage license application at Boston City Hall. A copy of the application shows the signatures of Mr. Fagan and Miss Keller, hers in the square hand used by the blind.

  Mr. Fagan denies both the engagement and any visit to Boston City Hall. However, friends of the couple report that Mr. Fagan has talked with them about his plans to take Miss Keller away from her family for a marriage in Florida.

  “I’ve booked tickets for us to Montgomery tomorrow at eight a.m.,” Mother said. “Now step away from that man. You are never to see him again.”

  My voice, when I use it, slides up and down—first too high, then pitching perilously low, a gargling, choking sound, some tell me. But the moment Mother read me the article I felt for the first time as if I could hear my voice, and as I stood by the door clenching my fists, for the only time in my life I let my voice hurtle wide open, shouting no, no, NO!

  We stood by the front door as Mother went on, Peter spelling her words into my hand.

  “I advise that you leave quietly—now. You’ll spare us the humiliation of a scene. That’s the very least you can do, after acting like a traitor under our roof.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “We fed you. Paid you. Trusted you with Helen …”

  “Two out of three isn’t bad …”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You fed and paid me, that’s true. But trusted me? No.”

  “And we were so very right, apparently. Now stop spelling to Helen. She’s not your property.”

  “She’s to be my wife.”

  “She’ll never be anyone’s wife.”

  “What have you got against—”

  “How dare you interrupt me? Did you raise a handicapped child, Mr. Fagan? Did you fight with your husband for her very life? Did you lie awake night after night with no breath in your throat, trying to see a future for her?”

  “We have a future, Mrs. Keller.”

  “You think it’s a game, taking Helen for little walks, bike riding—did you think I didn’t know where you’d been? Even taking her—my daughter—to your house and compromising her reputation? I know Helen wouldn’t do anything to bring shame to her family, but you … you’re impertinent. When Annie wakes up I’ll tell her and she’ll have your head …”

  “I’m a scoundrel—say it. But a scoundrel who loves your daughter, and she deserves to be loved.”

  “Deserves? Who are you to say what she deserves?” Mother turned to me. “You did this. Now you must undo it. You must choose. Your family or Mr. Fagan. You can’t have both.”

  “Mother, please.”

  “There is no choice,” Peter said. “Everyone knows now. There’s nothing to hide. Helen wants a life—a family—with me.”

  “A family? Helen has a family.”

  “Apparently she thinks otherwise.”

  “Helen, tell Mr. Fagan your choice.”

  “Mother, Peter, he’s …”

  “He’s what, Helen? He’s not what I think?” I felt her rattling the paper. “He let you sneak around, he led you into an arrangement that you kept from Annie—and from me. What kind of a man would do that?”

  “I did it, not Peter. I wanted to be loved.”

  “Choose, Helen.” Mother said again. Anger like steam rose from her skin.

  Sun came in from the living room window, warming my arms, but my heart was breaking into slivers. I knew it was over then. Peter would go; I would be alone with Mother, who had been lonely in the deep recesses of her being for most of her life.

  “Well, Helen …,” Mother insisted.

  I squeezed her hand tightly.

  “Now, Mr. Fagan,” Mother said. “The door is open. Please leave.”

  “No.” I tried pulling away, but Mother held my hand tight.

  “Don’t tell me,” Peter said. “That old line about blood being thicker than water. Helen won’t choose you, Kate.”

  “It’s Mrs. Keller to you. My lawyer is arranging a press conference where I announce that Helen was never engaged to you—and she never will be.” Mother dropped my hand and I felt cold air rush in through the open front door, swirling my skirt.

  I moved toward Peter. “I didn’t … choose her.”

  “I know. And I’ve chosen you. Damn her and her lawyers. I’ll spin some tale for the press about how this was all a lie, what do I care? I did it when the Times reporter phoned me yesterday about our engagement, and I’ll do it again at the press conference. But when I rap on your door in Alabama one week from today I want you to move so fast to the front porch and my waiting car that this mother of yours—this whole family—can never stop us again.”

  The door banged shut.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Stay right here in this living room.” Mother swung the front door shut. Outside the vibrations of Peter’s footsteps faded, and I was seized with a desire to run out the door after him. As the car thumped away, a pain, tin-sharp, moved through me. I struggled to push past Mother.

  “I need to be with Peter.” I tried to open the door, but Mother locked it with a sshhhk and took my
arm.

  “Helen, that man—I refuse to use his name—is not to be trusted. He’s a liar, and an opportunist. How can you trust a man like that? He has been banished from this house for good. You won’t see him again.”

  The afternoon dissolved around us. I wanted to believe that Peter was trustworthy. But why didn’t I recognize then how easily he could lie? He’d lied to the New York Times reporter, saying that we weren’t engaged, and then lied to me by omission because he didn’t tell me what he’d done. Yet, I see why he kept it secret. He understood that our future was at stake. He wanted to protect me, to cover for me, and for that I am grateful. There are so many ways to show love.

  Mother shook me by the hand. “Now for the last time: What were you doing with that scoundrel? Tell me.”

  “Mother, please. Let me go to him.”

  “No. You’ll stay right here with me.”

  I stood by the front door, searching for the lock, but Mother coolly held my hands. “Yes, life was good to us both for a few brief months,” Mother used to say. She loved to talk about the nineteen months before I lost my hearing and sight, when she was a normal mother, and I a normal child. Ever since my “tragedy” she saw those months as the best time of her life—and mine. Yes, she also had Mildred, and Phillips Brooks. Even two stepchildren. But had father touched her, hungrily, like Peter touched me? His mouth like a furnace, his body all hers, like Peter’s was mine?

  I was her love, and also her sorrow.

  I straightened, head high. If I wanted Peter back, I’d have to fight for him. What frightened me was my anger. If I could have burned, I would have.

  Mother led me farther into the house. “You’re going to have to speak with Annie,” she said. “If you’re not going to tell me what was going on, then at the very least you must tell her.”

  “Mother. She leaves for Puerto Rico soon. She’s already upset; this will make it worse.”

  “Your concern is touching, Helen. But before Annie departs she must hear about your affair. Perhaps you should have thought of the repercussions of your actions earlier.” Mother urged me down the hall toward Annie’s bedroom, and I followed, ready to fight. She pushed me across the bedroom’s threshold and soon I stood right by Annie’s bed. “Tell her,” Mother said. “Now, or I will.”