Miss Emily (18 page)

I get her settled in bed, and she seems to want me to linger, but I am thinking of my butter, melting in the heat from the stove, and the cake still to be made and now rags to fashion, too. And all this on a day when Daniel is about the Homestead and I will barely get to glimpse him, for I am up to my shoulders in work.

“Your Daniel is a good man,” Miss Emily says.

“He is, miss. Kindness is as rich as yolk in him.”

“You make a fine pair.”

I fidget with my apron. “I'll go and see to the rags, miss. We'll get you comfortable.” She nods, and I unclip her snood and let her hair fall free on the pillow. “Now, take your rest.”

A lipping fish sits on the table in the kitchen when I come down the stairs. The back door swings wide, sending in a breeze that at least has saved my butter. The poor fish looks like he is trying to say something from his jutting mouth—a plea for mercy, maybe, a last gasp for water. I think Daniel must have left it for me, but no, he wouldn't throw it here and leave. The fish's gills puff and drop; its blood and scales mark the table. I wrap it in a cloth and give it a blow to its head with the back of the ax. When I am sure it is not moving anymore, I cut off its head and put the body into the scullery sink.

One of Miss Vinnie's cats comes sauntering in; she must have smelled the fish from her perch in her mistress's room.

“Well, what can I do for you, madam?” I say, and the cat stares at me with her steady eyes. “Pssshhh, now.” I flick my hands at her, but she doesn't move. “I have enough to be doing without entertaining you.”

Me and Miss Vinnie disagree over the cats; I don't want them in the kitchen, but she says they do no harm. None except their falling hairs and muddy paws on my clean floor. I take the fish's head and toss it out the back door, and the cat goes haring after it. I linger a moment to see whether Daniel is around the yard. Patrick Crohan steps out of the barn and grins over at me; he waves his two hands and does a little jig, then disappears back inside. He is a broth of a boy. But there is no time to get het up over Crohan. I have to see if Mrs. Dickinson would like fish for tea, with pickled oysters, maybe, and a posset to follow. And there is much to be done besides.

With the rags made and given to Miss Emily and the butter wrapped in burdock leaves, I take my duster to the parlor and run
it over the ornaments—the wax flowers under their glass dome always remind me of dead things. There is no one about—I had been hoping to catch Mrs. Dickinson—and the room is as silent as if it has been empty for years. I think, not for the first time, how forsaken the house feels without children to run through its rooms. I miss the rush of small people underfoot—there was always a clatter of them at home, and if they didn't belong to us, they belonged to someone not far away. Miss Vinnie's cats are like silent, spoilt children, but real little ones would liven up this house. Ned comes and goes sometimes, of course, but Miss Susan always keeps him quiet when she brings him, the poor lad. He should be beating a hoop through the yard, not sitting still with a picture book, like a little scholar, under his mother's eye.

I lift the blue-and-white tureens and dust under them; I move Mrs. Dickinson's bandboxes, heavy with trinkets, and wipe them carefully. The pictures on one box show the city of Paris: sand-colored buildings and ladies in skirts like fancy cakes. The paw-feet on the china fruit bowl unsettle me, so I just flick the feathers across them, not wanting to touch; they remind me of Van Amburgh's lion. I finesse the drapes, sweep out the room and ready a speech about dinner for Mrs. Dickinson. It is only when I have the lines rehearsed that I realize I know neither what the fish is nor where it came from. The missus is sure to ask both those things. I scoot back down to the kitchen and go out to the yard in search of Daniel.

Once more Crohan steps from the barn; he appears and disappears like a púca.

“Do you like the fish I brung you?”

“What's that?” I ask, knowing well what he has said.

“I caught that bass myself this morning. It's a largemouth.”

“Poached it, more like.”

“I brung it for you, Ada,” he says, and I dislike the sound of my name on his tongue.

“There was no need to bring it,” I snap. “And I thought I told you before not to set foot in that house without an invitation.” I turn on my heel and head back to the kitchen.

“You could thank me!” Crohan calls. “You might have manners and say, ‘Thank you, Patrick, for that fine fish.' A good word won't rot your teeth. Hah!”

I slam the back door and stand against it. Do I want a fish that Crohan has touched? What harm could he have done it? It's a magnificent bass for sure, and cooking it would certainly save me a trip to the town, for I was going to seek out a nice bit of beef to stew. It occurs to me I could use the liquor from the pickled walnuts as catsup for the fish; Mrs. Child says the two go very well together. I decide the fish will do, Crohan or no Crohan. Once again I go in search of Mrs. Dickinson, this time armed with enough to coax her into having freshwater bass for tea. Either that or Miss Vinnie's cats will have the feast of their lives.

Miss Emily Takes the Path Between the Houses

T
HE RAIN FALLS, DRENCHING ALL AROUND US; IT SLAP-PATTERS
on the eaves of the house and sounds like a chorus of protesters, wanting some wrong to be righted. Looking at the downpour from my bedroom window, Ada says, with some satisfaction, “It's like Irish rain.”

“Longfellow assures us that rain falls into everyone's life. So we must endure it.”

“Yes, miss.” She sniffs deeply at the open window. “It's scenty, too. Do you get that?”

I go to her and stick my nose up beside hers and breathe. She is right—this rain has a headiness like lavender or jasmine. “So crisp,” I say.

“That's the spring on its way, miss, for sure,” Ada says, as if she herself has manufactured the season and will shortly lay it out before me.

“Spring comes late in Massachusetts, Ada. We may have to wait another few weeks for its gifts.”

Last night I wrote by the light of the moon, and I, too, thought of the end of winter. The moon sailed past in her plated
gondola, the stars her gondoliers, and all that sparkling light pushed my mind forward to springlight and sunlight and summerlight. It is hard when you love light so but it does not love you and merely stings your eyes. Tonight I will garden a little by moonlight in the conservatory. I will coax adder's tongue into speech and cause bloodroot to hemorrhage under my hands.

For some reason these thoughts of herbs, brightness and gardening make me long for Mother's honey-sweet figs and their unctuous hearts. They are dry now, of course, so not nearly as luscious, but still I want to eat them.

“May we have some figs with our custard this afternoon, Ada?” “You can, of course. I'll plump them up in a pan of water. Or better yet in apple juice.” She lifts my wrapper over my head and helps me with the sleeves. “But breakfast first, miss. Don't be galloping through the day when it's only started. I have a big egg for you below that I mean to poach as soon as you're ready.”

I eat my egg. Ada has poached it to my liking; its vinegar tang and pink sheath put me in mind of oysters. Oysters skip my thoughts to poor Hypatia, her skin pricked and torn open by oyster shells in ancient Egypt and her death from that stabbing. I shake this vision from my mind in favor of Venus borne from the ocean on her clamshell. From Venus I travel to Susan, and I think that this morning I will leave my nook and go to her. Writing a letter to Sue would not be enough for me today; I must sit in the same room as her and hear words fall from her own lips.

I thought of her last night as I potted herbs in the dark. The moon was an opal-bright roundel in the black, a conduit to another world. I fancied that Susan was the moon, the clouds around her a shawl. She was lit up and drifting, the clouds draped around
her in gauzy wreaths. Into the clay went my fingers and the delicate stems, out of my mouth came the name of Sue. She makes me think of the biggest things, the best things, and it is my hope that we will lie together in the churchyard at the end. She may be Austin's truly, but she is also mine.

“I will go across to the Evergreens today, Mother,” I say.

Mother stops scraping butter onto her toast. “Will you, Emily? I am pleased. Are you not pleased, Edward?” Father grunts from behind his
Republican
and shakes it a little to indicate both his pleasure at my outing and his displeasure at being interrupted while he reads. “I will send a note to keep Susan at home that she might greet you. She has her finger in so many pies about the town that I fear she is rarely in the house. She makes it so awkward for callers.”

“Sue is sociable, Mother. It is hardly a crime. A woman of her intelligence needs a variety of companions,” Vinnie says. “I will accompany you to the Evergreens, Emily.”

“I prefer to go alone.”

Vinnie pulls a cat into her lap and dips her face into its neck, to hide her eyes. “As you like.”

I now wish I had not mentioned my plan, for Mother is overly excited at my leaving the house and Vinnie is put out that I will not let her come with me. Why can they not be more like Father— somewhat indifferent to my movements?

“I will run a ribbon through your worsted cape to brighten you up, Emily,” Mother says. “What color would you like? I do believe I have a floret gauze with pink in it that will do nicely.” She rises to go to her workbox.

“Do you have a blue, Mother? I should like a goose-blue ribbon—one the match of Ada's eyes.” And with that they all turn to stare at me—even Father lowers his paper—and I smile. “What
is it? Yes, Father? I notice things like the color of people's eyes. It cannot be helped.” I wave my hand at Father and go to the sideboard to refill the coffee cups.

Mother follows me; she unpins her large buff cameo and fastens it to my breast. “There, now, that will do. You look brighter already, my dear.”