The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  When it was time to leave, Gwendolyn hugged Emma warmly. Her father’s face contorted as he fought his distress. It was a matter of fatherly love, sorrow, and pride.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Emmaline, sweetheart, the doctor says that it’s better if we don’t see each other too often, until you get better. We have to trust the doctors here, don’t we?”

  Emma nodded, but loneliness gnawed at her. Bravely, she swallowed despair for a few minutes longer, and watched her father disappear past closed doors.

  In the weeks that followed, Emma worked hard and found herself looking forward to something again. She had a purpose. It may have been only the garden. It may have been more, though she tried not to think too hard about getting better or getting out. She was content to wake up and look forward to going outside, where she tended her garden and watched it grow. She looked forward to seeing her friend, Mrs. Hall. She was easy to talk to. More than that, she was equally easy to be quiet with. They had their work. There was no need to fill in the quiet spring sounds with mere talking. She listened and thought. Although she did not always agree, she always listened to what Emma said without judgment. No one else in this place could do that.

  One morning they talked about family. “It must have been hard, losing your mother,” said Mrs. Hall.

  Emma paused and rested her hands on her knees. “Yes,” she said softly.

  Emma dug her spade into the ground. She patted loose soil around a transplanted grouping of irises. When she was done, she brushed the loose soil from her hands and looked up at the sky. It was perfect, a robin’s egg blue. With no warning, tears came to her eyes. She winced and blinked them away.

  “What about your family, Mrs. Hall?”

  Her eyes clouded with tears, something Emma had not seen before. “We’ll save that for another day, Emma,” she said, hastily wiping a tear with the back of her wrist. “I had one. I miss them.”

  They finished planting bulbs and took their tools and supplies to the shed.

  “It thundered last night,” Lucinda said, as she sat down the next morning at breakfast. “Did you hear it?”

  “That must be what woke me,” said Emma.

  “Well, look at you. Look at us. Aren’t we just pretty as a picture?” said Nettie, all smiles.

  They all took turns admiring each other’s dresses and hair. They were wearing nicer clothes than they usually wore. These dresses were reserved for visitors to see. The air crackled with excitement, and everyone felt it.

  Patience finished her oatmeal and started to work on her nails. There was nothing new there to chew. Her eyes settled on Lucinda’s long tapering nails. She looked hungrily at them.

  “Now stop it right now!” Nettie slapped Patience’s hand as it reached across the table. “Don’t make me tell you again.” A sharp look sent a penitent pair of eyes downward.

  “You’re so lucky,” said Twyla to Emma. “You get to go farther than any of us.” Her eyes shone with the dream of such freedom.

  “Just as far as Mrs. Hall’s garden, no further.”

  Twyla was not assuaged. She looked troubled.

  “You’ll get your chance next year,” Emma tried to reassure her.

  “It’s your fault,” said Twyla to someone only Twyla could see.

  “Oh, Twyla, don’t be so hard on her,” said Nettie.

  Twyla looked at her, stunned, until Nettie burst into laughter. Twyla turned away in a huff.

  Emma gave Nettie a chastising look, which meant nothing to Nettie, then tried to catch Twyla’s eye. By now, Twyla was determined to ignore everyone. Emma gave up and turned her thoughts to the coming day.

  Busy hands pinned and fluffed up hair, pinching cheeks to bring color, and smoothing out dresses. They were all lined up, waiting and ready to go out to the garden. Amid all the flurry around her, Lucinda was still.

  “What is it?” Emma asked her.

  Lucinda said, “Look at them fussing—like there’s some sort of Prince Charming out there waiting to take them away. The fools don’t even know that he doesn’t exist.”

  Emma put her hand on Lucinda’s shoulder.

  Lucinda flashed a teary-eyed look back at Emma and turned back toward the front of the line as they made their way into the daylight.

  It was a most glorious day. All the patients went to their gardens and made last minute inspections. Soon the gardens would be teeming with visitors eager to stroll through the flowers of spring. For people not housed here, the building was a magnificent sight to behold, tall and majestic, with copper-topped towers turned green from the weather, and fluffy shade trees down below. Walking paths wound through lush gardens that seemed to go on forever. Beyond the flower gardens was farmland that stretched to Scajaquada Creek. It supplied the hospital with fresh vegetables and work for the patients. Thick shrubs lined the fences, providing shelter from the vast world beyond. It was all designed to comfort the patients. If it also impressed and assuaged visiting relatives, then so much the better.

  Emma and Mrs. Hall strolled through their garden, a relatively small patch of multihued flowers clumped to create soft splashes of color. More and more people passed by as they strolled along one of the many paths that led through the gardens. Women in smart walking suits strolled on the arms of gentlemen in sporty sack suits and starched white collars. Emma and Mrs. Hall knew very well that their worn, out-of-style clothes marked them as patients. Some people avoided them. Others looked through them. A few smiled and offered a greeting. Mrs. Hall had warned Emma to expect some awkwardness from the visiting people. For this reason, they remained comfortably distant, offering a modest nod to anyone who acknowledged their presence.

  When they were alone, Emma sighed.

  “Are you feeling all right?” asked Mrs. Hall.

  Only now realizing that she had sighed, Emma apologized.

  “There’s no need. Let’s go find some nice shade and sit down for a while.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  Mrs. Hall studied her as they walked, with a look of concern. Noticing, Emma explained, “I had trouble sleeping last night. I’ll be fine.”

  But Mrs. Hall appeared skeptical.

  Emma knew she was waiting for the rest. There was no point in keeping it from her. “Last night, I dreamed about Benjamin.”

  “Your young man?”

  Emma nodded, frowning. “The same dream. He kept asking me why. And I didn’t have an answer.”

  “Come here. You look flushed.”

  Mrs. Hall led her to a wrought iron bench that surrounded an oak tree. She sat with her for a moment, concerned.

  “I’ll go get you some water, and then we can talk, if you like.”

  Emma watched her head down the path on her way to the administration building. The faint hum of distant conversations was soothing, more normal, as though she were in the midst of a park in the real world, where she could wander at will.

  Emma smiled to herself and looked out at the lawn and the gardens. She could almost believe that she was in any park on any spring day of her choosing. She stopped herself from wondering when it might be that she, too, would stroll freely with no walls to confine her. From here, the dense trees blocked her view of much of the garden, which suited her well for the moment. The sun barely penetrated the leaves to make mottled green shade on a patch of thin grass, beside which was a planting of ferns. She would have been content to rest here for the whole afternoon, but the sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention.

  Emma turned toward the building and saw a man standing there with his back to her, looking back at the building. A pang gripped her chest. He was relaxed, with his hands in his pockets, his linen suit casually rumpled. He was waiting for someone, but seemed in no hurry.

  Then he turned.

  Not thirty yards from her was Benjamin Stark.

  Chapter 15

  Emma clung to the bench and then to the tree as she stood. Her face beaded with moisture. Her frantic eye
s locked to the vision. He stood tall and strong with a self-assured posture that drew attention without ever commanding it. The profile could be no one else’s. Brown hair that looked charcoal indoors now captured the sun with its reddish brown strands. The tips just touched his collar and neck, which was thick where it sloped to his powerful shoulders and arms. And his face—the hard, angular features that hid tender feelings—was the same face she’d loved. Like the breath she could not draw, Emma’s body would not move.

  Moments passed. She felt hot and unsteady. Her knees threatened to buckle. She took a step back and leaned her back flat against the tree, digging her fingertips into the bark to steady herself. She shut her eyes to the haunting. What else could it be? It was not real. It was her dream, but had madness now crossed over from sleeping to waking?

  So now it begins, Emma thought. But what if her vision was real? How she wanted to believe it, but to wish it was futile. Worse yet, it was mad. She would open her eyes and confront the illusion. She would will it away. Emma opened her eyes.

  He was gone.

  Then her heart broke again. She leaned back against the tree and stifled a sob. A tear slipped through her eyelids.

  “Emma.”

  She opened her eyes with a start.

  Mrs. Hall was beside her. Taking her arm, she led Emma back to the bench. “Drink this,” she said, handing her a cup of cool water.

  She trembled, unable to speak.

  Mrs. Hall stayed beside her and urged her in calm, gentle tones to sip the water, and then to breathe deeply and slowly. When Emma’s breathing was steady, Mrs. Hall said, “Dear girl, what is it?”

  She looked up with shadowy eyes. “It’s happened.”

  “What has happened?”

  “I’m losing my mind. It’s begun.”

  “Stop right now. Before we make hasty conclusions, why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  She swallowed the last of the water and looked up with eyes that were painfully urgent. “I saw him.”

  “Saw him?”

  “Benjamin Stark. He was there. He was standing back there. And then, when I looked back again, he was gone.”

  “That’s his name? Your young man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s just think for a moment.”

  Emma could not get the words out fast enough. Her voice took on a frenetic edge. “Don’t you see? He’s not only haunting my dreams, he is here in the daylight—in my mind. He looked real. I can’t tell the difference anymore.” Her head tilted back as she blinked back the tears, then succumbed to silent weeping.

  A couple strolled by and, seeing her, abruptly changed their direction. Seeing this, Emma felt shame for her distraught appearance.

  Mrs. Hall put her hands on Emma’s shoulders. “Let me help you inside. A good rest is what you need. You told me you didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Emma nodded.

  “You’re exhausted. It’s no wonder you sat here and dozed. You just dreamed he was here.”

  “I should know the difference between waking and sleeping,” Emma said sharply. But she heard her own words and had doubts. It crept into her aspect, distorting her features.

  Mrs. Hall did not contradict. There was no need.

  Emma looked back to the place where the vision had been. He was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Stark House: Two Months Earlier

  Fletcher pulled into the drive that led up to Benjamin’s house while Benjamin lay wincing in the back of the wagon. Each bump and mud hole in the road sent throbbing pain through his skull until he felt as though it might crack. As it ebbed, it gave way to the din of the next crashing wave. There was barely a lump on his head, but the aching this morning was beyond toleration.

  “You’re a lucky man,” the doctor had told Benjamin as they were leaving his office. “A blow to the head can be deadly.”

  “Lucky,” Benjamin thought as he pressed upon his temples.

  He tried not to feel. He had too much to do to give in to the ache. Where was Emma? It was his first waking question, which no one could answer. They told him what had happened. He could not believe Emma could have attacked him. Yet, he could not remember. He remembered her fiancé. His presence was bitter to dwell on. Emma was betrothed to another man. She’d run away from him and their marriage. She was frightened. They’d caught up to her close to the cliff. What a fight she put up. Hers was a sad, animal desperation to escape from the trap.

  When had Emma hit him? How could she, when hours before that had been by the fire? They had dozed and awakened in the night, still together, unwilling to part.

  Henrietta Grafton waited by the door. In the days after Benjamin’s injury, she had put her nursing skills to good use as she assisted the doctor. She watched over him with a curious apprehension, and yet she did seem to care. There are things in the eyes that cannot be hidden.

  When Mrs. Dowling came by the doctor’s office to visit, she was torn. Her sister had fallen and reinjured her hip, and would need help at least for a week or two longer. Caring for Benjamin would keep Mrs. Dowling from helping her sister. Seeing the problem, Henrietta offered to come home and help run the house in Mrs. Dowling’s absence. Forgiveness of Benjamin was never discussed, but they both knew it was there. They were friends, like they had been before. At last, she’d forgiven him for taking Daniel from her.

  “She just left and nobody asked where she was going?” Benjamin sat up in bed while Henrietta arranged the bed linens.

  Henrietta stopped and stared. “I wasn’t here, remember? I’ll tell Fletcher you were asking about it.”

  Benjamin altered his tone in an effort to hide his frustration. “Do you know when she left?”

  “No. I got here later.”

  He could not contain his distress. “But you’ve got to have seen her.”

  “I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I might have seen her walk out the door.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “I would have, but saving your life was about all I had time for.”

  Henrietta stopped fluffing his pillows and faced him squarely, indignant. “We all did what we could. You’re alive. I’m sorry if you think that it wasn’t enough.”

  Benjamin looked away as his shoulders relaxed. His eyes lifted to hers. “I’m sorry. I know you did your best.”

  After a penetrating look at him, Henrietta walked out of the room.

  For days she fussed over him, cooking his favorites and bringing him the laudanum the doctor prescribed for his headaches.

  “I hope it will soothe that temper. You’re worse than that bear in your study,” she told him.

  He took it and followed it up with scotch whiskey.

  When he was feeling better, he took day trips to places he thought Emma might have gone. He inquired at neighbors in Newport, but no one had seen her since the day of his injury. He checked in town at the train station and the livery. Someone suggested he try some of the factories in the cities nearby, like the Buffalo Starch Factory or the Heinz Factory. Feeling hopeful, he boarded a train for the short ride to Buffalo. He inquired at the starch factory, and at others around it. He walked through the city that day and inquired about her in places a typewriter girl might find employment. He went into shop after shop.

  With no photograph or drawing, he had to rely on his description of her, but the city was full of pretty young women who had come seeking work. No one recalled anyone of Emma’s description having arrived on or near the day she had disappeared.

  He hired a man to continue the search, but the detective offered little hope. Still, he took Benjamin’s money and promised to try. Benjamin left there and walked along, too numb to feel cold or hunger. He wound up walking through Delaware Park. He looked blankly at people in sleighs who rode by. People skated on the lake. Children’s laughter sprinkled the air with their sounds of delight. Mothers picked up fallen children, and a few fell themselves. Benjamin sat on a bench and bent over. His elbows
dug into his knees as he buried his face in his hands.

  He caught the last train bound for home and arrived at his house after darkness had fallen. He collapsed in his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Why?” She had lied to him—let him believe he could love her. “Why did you do it?”

  He wanted her back. She had come into his life, to the place that was empty before. But he’d now lost the part of himself that could live alone. That part was hers, and she took it away.

  What happened to make her leave him? That night, they were happy. They were going to be married the next day. He’d kissed her at the foot of the stairs, and kissed her on the way up the stairs. He could hear her laugh now as he pressed her to the wall. They had staggered together to the top of the stairs, where he’d kissed her and touched her and laughed as he cursed the nine hundred buttons down her back. He had wanted her then. How she’d smiled, and how that smile faded as her lips parted for his. He remembered how harsh her door sounded when, gently, she closed it between them. He did the right thing and left, all the while thinking of what he’d rather have done. He remembered that night. He went up to his room and lay restless in bed, much as he was now.

  And then she came to his room. He opened it and she stood there, not moving. Two seconds later they were inside, pushing the door closed, pressing Emma against it. He’d said between kisses, “You’re not one of those love ‘em and leave ‘em types, are you?”

  She laughed and said, “There’s always a chance while I’m single.”

  He whispered into her neck, “Then tomorrow, first thing, I’ll just have to marry you.”

  How he wished he could go now and find her behind that door to her room. He would bound up the stairs in two strides, maybe three—for his muscles were stiff now, and might slow him down. He would hold her, and kiss her, and awaken her longing. Few words would be shared; only faces and bodies and skin in the flicker of light from a candle. He would pull loose the hair from its twisted knot. Over her shoulders, it would fall and cascade down her spine to the small of her back. He would bury his face in it, breathing its scent. Nimble fingers would unfasten her skirt, and the fabric would rustle to the floor. He would slide his hands inside the blouse that was open and touch her so lightly a tremulous thrill would go through her. Then he would taste her earlobe till she tilted her head and breathed in a soft gasp. With a curse to the whalers for supplying the bones for the corset, he would unhook or unlace it, whichever would sooner set free the imprisoned soft flesh that he wanted against him. And then he would be in her body, arousing her to the sublime.