Emily's House

by Amy Belding Brown

  I stood a long time at the window, still smelling the roses and feeling the weeds furring along the tips of my fingers. In the dark it seemed like I was even now holding the warm, satiny book, its gold letters winking under my palms. Seeing Emily’s smile.

  Part VII

  Porches

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  1916

  Word comes in the middle of April the Homestead is sold. No matter I’m reconciled to Reverend Parke living there, I feel a pang that it no longer belongs to a Dickinson. But I keep the feeling to myself, and when folks ask, I tell them the rector will be taking good care of the dear old place. Mostly I’m grateful Mattie D has the means now to live her own life and look after Emily’s poems and letters.

  Two weeks go by and there’s no sign of Reverend Parke moving in. The Homestead still stands empty in the spring rain and sun with the only sign of life the slow-greening grass. I wonder if Emily’s crocuses came up this year, if they’re blooming by the back door, all bright and new. “Don’t they remind you of soldiers,” she used to ask me, “standing so brave and martial in the cold?” Sure, I couldn’t see it then. But now I can’t lay eyes on a crocus without thinking of soldiers.

  Seems I’m not the only one thinking of soldiers. There’s more and more talk of the great war in Europe—my boarders bring it up every time they sit down to a meal. Some are saying America will soon be joining in.

  “If they start drafting lads here, it’s back to County Cork for me,” Dan Casey says. “I’ll sign up with the Sinn Féin if it comes to it.”

  “What do you know about Sinn Féin?” There’s a dark side to Martin O’Day—I warrant he knows more than he ought about wicked goings-on.

  Dan gives him a quick frown. “I know they’re for an independent Ireland,” he says. “ ’Tis enough for me.”

  Martin shakes his head and puts down his fork. For a minute I’m afraid he might be planning to land a blow on Dan’s nose. But he just crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. “Sinn Féin is falling apart, lads. You’d best be joining the Irish Republican Brotherhood if you’re after dying for Ireland.”

  “You don’t have to go back to Ireland for that,” says Joseph Connor. “You can be joining Clan na Gael right here. They’re all of them Fenians.”

  Hearing the word brings up feelings I thought were long gone. For a minute seems like Patrick himself has walked in the door. “All right, lads,” I say. “That’ll be enough fighting talk today. If you’ve nothing cheery to say, best tend to your eating.”

  They are all of them good lads and eager to be pleasing me. And from the looks on their faces, I’m guessing they’re as glad as myself to stop talking of Fenians.

  * * *

  The next day is grand with wind and sun and leaves budding out on the trees. Nell has promised to help make tonight’s supper, so I take my time doing the afternoon errands. I’m on my way home from Murphy’s Drugstore with my basket on my arm when who should bump into me but Mabel Todd herself? She’s coming out of the jewelry store, not looking where she’s going, and jolts me hard with her elbow. I rock back a bit. Though I haven’t seen her in years and her hair’s gone white, there’s no mistaking her—her eyes are big as ever and she has that look on her face like she’s the Queen of Amherst in spite of the stutter in her step from the stroke she had a few years ago.

  Something twists inside me—a sparking vexation rising from my belly. I flash on the months Vinnie sent me to the Dell to do Mabel’s cooking and cleaning so she could be editing Emily’s poems. How I witnessed every day the sinning between herself and Austin. How I found Emily’s booklets taken apart with the papers and strings strewn all over Mabel’s desk. How I saw Mabel had scribbled changes to the verses she didn’t like. Puts me in a mood, it does, so instead of going on my way, I step in front of her, bold as a bucket, and say, “Bless me, if it isn’t Mabel Todd.”

  “Maggie,” she says, all cool and proper. But the scorn on her face is plain as day. Just makes me crosser.

  “Sure, I’ve not seen you since the trial,” I say. “Fine weather to be out and about.”

  Her eyes go hard and I feel a fizzle of satisfaction. It’s plain she remembers the trial that cold March in 1898 when she and Vinnie sued each other over the strip of Dickinson land. I’ll never forget the fancy hat she wore in court with its silly white bird wings. Looked a proper fool, to be sure. Vinnie’s lawyer made her admit she didn’t buy the Dell—Austin gave it to her. He got the truth out of her about Emily too—that Mabel had never laid eyes on her except as a shadow flitting down the Northwest Passage.

  I don’t look away from her like she wants me to. I know the things she’s said about me since the trial—called me a liar and a fool. Said I was a cowardly traitor, a nobody. Just a worthless Irish Paddy.

  Didn’t find out till later it was my deposition made her lose the case. Testimony I gave a whole year before the trial. All I ever did was answer the questions put to me. Told the truth of what I saw with my own two eyes. Didn’t have a choice, for I swore an oath. If Mabel didn’t want things to come out, she shouldn’t have been doing them. Secrets don’t stay hid forever. Instead, she spread her vicious lies all over town.

  In front of me, Mabel wrinkles her nose like she can’t bear my smell and moves sideways to go past. I take a step at the same time, but it’s the wrong direction so I end up blocking her again. Wasn’t my intention but now I’ve done it, I’m not sorry.

  “Excuse me,” she says in her haughty voice. “You’re in my way.” She folds her lips so tight her mouth disappears when she hitches herself past me. I watch her sway her way up the street and feel a shudder of pity at the sight. Surprises me, for she’s the last person in Amherst I’m wanting to be sorry for. But here I am, feeling tenderhearted.

  I walk on down the street, past the Evergreens. Soon as the Homestead looms beyond the hedge, I feel its enchantment come over me again, strong as ever. And then I see the carriage gate standing wide open. Stops me right there on the sidewalk. All the years I’ve lived in Amherst, it’s been closed. Soon as I get close I can see workmen milling around outside the house.

  Makes me cross, it does. I was certain Reverend Parke loved the place as it was—didn’t he tell me so? But it looks like he’s after making changes to the property. I’m feeling as vexed as if he broke a bargain we’d struck.

  I head up the drive. Gives me a shiver, surely. It’s been years since I stepped on the property but they all vanish in a minute. As I round the corner I’m half expecting to see Emily herself coming out the back door, carrying her basket of garden tools, so when there’s a flash of white at the corner of my eye, I’m not surprised. But it’s not Emily—just the old pear tree in full bloom, a cloud of white. Lifts my heart to see it—the pear was always the first tree to bloom at the Homestead and I’m comforted knowing it still is.

  It’s then one of the workmen spies me. He’s carrying a ladder past the old grape trellis and he puts it down and shakes his head at me—it’s plain he’s wanting me to go. I can see the trellis is collapsing and the barn roof sagging. A sadness comes on me, but I’ve no time to nurse it, for the lad is glowering at me now. “You’re trespassing, ma’am,” he calls. “This is private property.”

  I walk over to him. “Indeed it is. And I’m knowing every inch of it too. Looks to me like it’s falling into ruin. I’m guessing you’re here to be fixing it.”

  His eyes go wide and his scowl melts away. “You’re Miss Maher.” He says it like he’s certain, but I can’t think how.

  “I am,” I say. “And who might you be?” Now I’m closer he looks a bit familiar, but I can’t place him for the life of me.

  “It’s Jerry O’Shea,” he says, putting his hand on his chest. “Molly’s youngest son. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Soon as he says her name I do, for he has his mother’s eyes. Gives me a burn in my own, for my dear
friend Molly Ryan passed away eight years ago. I must have seen him at her wake.

  “Jerry?” I say. “I’m remembering you as a rascally spalpeen. But you’ve grown into a handsome lad, to be sure.”

  “You look the same as you always did.” His grin couldn’t get any wider if it was Heaven’s gate itself he was standing before.

  “Wisha, you’ll be turning my head with your blarney,” I say. “Now tell me what you and your mates are doing here.”

  “We’re renovating the place before the new owner moves in,” he says. “It’ll be a challenge too, for he wants it done by July.”

  “What’s he after doing?” Even as I’m asking I’m thinking maybe I don’t want to know.

  “Ah, it’s a long list,” says Jerry. “Sandblast off the yellow paint to show the red brick. Raze the barn and build a garage. Take off that boxy room in the front—the one with all the windows. It don’t fit with the rest of the house, he says.”

  “The conservatory?” I feel a hot stone in my chest. I think of all the hours Emily spent there, how happy she was tending her plants. How I’d smell the sweetness of flowers coming off her the rest of the day. I try to picture how the house will look without it, when the bricks are red instead of yellow. How the yard will feel without the barn. “ ’Tis a pity, surely,” I say. I feel like the rector’s betrayed me, though in truth he made no promises. I hope it won’t be too distressing for Mattie D. She’s invited me to tea next week and I’m certain we’ll be talking about it. Maybe I’ll bring her another loaf of gingerbread.

  “I wonder if I could take a peek inside,” I say. I wait while he’s studying the idea. Likely makes him uneasy, for it’s surely against the rules. “Just for a minute,” I add, the need boiling up in me. Urgent. Hard.

  Most lads admire a bold woman, no matter her age. So I’m not surprised he says he’ll let me have a quick peek inside the Homestead. He even promises to guard the back door so nobody will be stopping me. He’s a good lad, Jerry is. A credit to his mam.

  Stepping over the doorsill sets me remembering my first time doing it, that snowy morning near fifty years ago. It’s as if the smell of split wood is in my nose again and I can see pots stacked in the sink waiting for their washing. I stand still a minute, letting the place fold around me. There’s a sweet, melty feeling in me—like warm honey filling my chest.

  After a minute I walk through to the kitchen. My footsteps sound quare, echoing off the bare walls. Most everything’s been cleared out. The missing cupboards have left dark patches on the floor and the big worktable is gone. There’s nothing at all on the pantry shelves—not even a broken plate. The windowsills are empty of everything but dust. I run my finger along the one Emily liked to look out and it comes up dark gray.

  I promised Jerry I’d hurry but every step is heavy and slow. The Northwest Passage is shadowy as it ever was. I stumble twice for no reason—like I’m tripping over things that aren’t there. I keep stopping, listening for echoes and stirrings—listening for ghosts. But there’s no sound except myself.

  The front hall is fringed with light and I see water stains over the front door and a long smudge running down the wallpaper. I wonder how many times I opened that door to strangers I then turned away. For Emily’s sake.

  The parlor’s bare—the carpets and drapes gone. All the paintings taken off the walls. The only thing left is a blue and white vase on the front windowsill. It isn’t one I’ve seen—it must belong to one of the tenants—and it’s covered in dust. When I pick it up I see why it was left. There’s a crack running from lip to base. A knot rises in my throat and I put the vase back on the sill, thinking of the broken things folks leave behind when they move on.

  In the library the Squire’s desk is gone and the shelves are empty of books. Likely the books and furniture are stacked somewhere in the Evergreens. But it feels like the room’s been defiled. I go through into the conservatory, where those shelves are empty too. All that’s left of Emily’s plants is a faint smell of mold and dust.

  Upstairs, I look into my old room and there’s my bed in the corner, topped with its thin mattress. Didn’t expect that, surely. Whoever cleared out the place must have thought it as useless as the cracked vase. I sit on it for a bit. It’s lumpy as it ever was, but it comforts me some. I look out the window, see the apple trees are starting to bud. There’s a scatter of purple underneath and I smile—Emily’s violets and wild hyacinths, surely. A couple of workmen are walking along the hedge behind the fence. At the end of the orchard, they turn and one of the lads sweeps his arm toward the garden. The other one’s nodding and pointing to the house. Feels like he’s pointing right at myself. Gives me a shiver, it does. Makes me feel like a ghost.

  I save Emily’s room for last. In truth, I’m shaking when I open her door. Don’t know what I’m expecting to find, but it’s bare as the rest. Only thing makes me think of herself is the wallpaper—all those roses rioting up the wall.

  I stand in the middle of her room for a long time, watching the light slide into the trees west of the house. Tears prickle but I still stand listening, waiting for something that doesn’t come.

  Don’t know how long it is before I hear footsteps in the hall below and come back to myself. Likely it’s Jerry, come looking for me. I turn and leave Emily’s room, closing the door soft and slow behind me. The hollow sound telling me she’s gone.

  I have every intention of going down. Last thing I want is to get Jerry in trouble. But right in front of me are the stairs to the attic, and when I look up, I think I’m seeing something move at the top of them. A shadow—and then a sound, soft as a whisper. The skin on my back is swarming with gooseflesh, but next thing I know, my feet are carrying me up all on their own.

  There’s not much light here—just what sifts in from the gable windows on the east and west. There are a few crates under the eaves and a big steamer trunk. The place smells of dust. In all my years with the Dickinsons I was only up here a dozen times. Once when Mother Dickinson asked me to fetch an old basket for a picnic. Another time when I was chasing one of Vinnie’s cats. Soon as I remember that, I know it wasn’t a ghost drew me up here, but a cat. Don’t know where it’s got to now, or how it found its way into the house, but every cat I ever knew had secrets.

  I take a look around, walk the length of the attic and back again, but there’s no sign of the cat. I’m about to leave when something makes me turn and look behind me. God help me, I don’t know why, but without even thinking I start up the stairway that goes to the cupola. Something’s drawing me—as if a cord is stretching from my heart to the tiny room at the top.

  I step up and into the cupola, holding the newel post to steady myself. The place is just as I remembered—silent and light struck. The old chair is still sitting square in the middle. And for the first time since I walked in the back door, I feel Emily is near.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slow. After a minute I walk around to look out every window. It’s just a step and a turn to move from one pair to the next. I look at the Homestead lawn sloping away from the house—the orchard and what’s left of Emily’s garden. I see the hat factory chimneys and the Pelham hills—at the next window the barn and the grand houses beyond that the College bought on Lessey Street. There’s a flash of gray and white when a bird flickers by. It’s not till I turn to face the west windows that I see it. Hanging from a nail driven into the sash and glowing in the light. The rosary I gave Emily.

  Near knocks me to the floor, the sight of it. There’s a sharp buzzing in my ears. I sink down on the chair, for I’m shaking too much to stand. Don’t know how long it is before I hear Jerry calling my name.

  I get up slow. Feels like I’m standing in a crown of light. I draw the rosary off its nail and tuck it in the pocket of my skirt.

  * * *

  It’s just after four when I get back to my house.

  Inside it’s quiet, wi
th the still, roomy feel a woman’s home has when she’s the only one in it. Spacious, Emily called it. I close the door behind me and listen for the click of the latch like Emily did when she shut herself in her room. For years I didn’t understand why she took pleasure in shunning the world—thought it was a kind of sin. Took owning my own home for me to know she wasn’t shutting out anything at all, for she carried every bit of life in with her.

  She had a spacious heart, Emily did.

  In the kitchen, I wet the tea for myself and sit at the table by the window where the afternoon sun’s coming in. Birds are singing their supper songs in the trees. It was Emily’s favorite time of day, an hour before sunset, when the air turns gold.

  “Do you see how the world shines?” she’d ask me. “How everything in it is alive?”

  In truth, I didn’t see it then. But now it’s plain as the tea in my cup. I wish I’d thought to tell her she was shining too. It’s what she did with her poems—reflecting the brightness she saw back to the rest of us. And truth be told, I did my own shining by saving her poems and setting them where Vinnie would find them.

  I remember something Emily said not long before she died. It was an afternoon like this, with the sun coming in. I was dusting her room and she was telling me about Carlo, the dog her father gave her when she was young. How she took him on long walks in the countryside. How he made her feel safe. “There was never a more steadfast companion,” she said. “When he died the world broke to pieces.”

  Across the room, I felt her sorrow. “We had dogs on the farm,” I said. “My favorite was Rory. He went everywhere with me, even to school. He’d lie down outside the gate till lessons were done. Never saw such patience. I loved that dog, surely.” I wiped the heavy sandglass on her mantel and slid it over so I could run my rag underneath. “Sometimes I remember Rory and myself running across the upper field—the memory so sharp I can smell the green of Tipperary itself. Feels like I’m still there and we could run forever.”