Miss Spitfire Read online

  I fix her with a hard stare. “The last thing I intend to do is spoil that little bully,” I inform her. “And as for her appetite, Helen’s more likely to whistle ‘Dixie’ than refuse a bite to eat.”

  Viny laughs to herself and shakes her head. “You sure right about that, Miss Annie,” she says, heading for the platter. Her laughter makes me strangely confident. I smile as she hands over a generous plateful. “I’ll bake another this afternoon.” She winks. “You keep Missy Helen from cryin’, and Cap’n won’t give you a bit a trouble.”

  I cock my head and squint to make out her expression.

  “I hear what I hear, is all,” she replies, turning to her biscuit dough. “You really got her washed up yesterday?”

  “I did.”

  “Humph,” she grunts, “ain’t that somethin’!”

  I can’t keep from grinning as I hurry back to my room. Helen is still asleep, so I set the cake on the floor between the dresser and her bed, then lay everything I need within reach. Dress and pinafore; stockings, high buttoned boots, and buttonhook; soap, brush, and towel. If I can wake her gently, I’m certain this will work. Perhaps by the end of the day I’ll have won over more than Viny.

  Kneeling beside her bed, I run my fingers over her hair. It’s in dire need of a brushing but surprisingly soft. Delicate brown tendrils curl round her face. I could wind them into ringlets like the doll’s, if she’d let me. The thought makes me smile. I lean in to kiss her cheek, and she stirs. One of my fingertips drags through a snarl of hair. With a jerk she sits upright, throwing her hands out to see what’s disturbed her. She catches my hand, gives it a sniff, then snorts and tosses it aside.

  “You’re not so sweet-smelling yourself,” I grumble, reaching for the cake with one hand and trying to hold her still with the other. She kicks free of the bedclothes and tries to scramble past me.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I spell c-a-k-e into her hand, then pop a morsel into her mouth. While she chews, I grab a stocking and hold it up for her to feel. “S-t-o-c-k-i-n-g,” I tell her, then slip the end over her toes. She wriggles like a garter snake, but I don’t give in until I have one leg covered, then the other. In between I placate her with more cake.

  And so it goes. Before I put each item on her, I spell the name of it into her hand. At every step she resists, but if I keep feeding her, she stays reasonably quiet.

  Until the boots. When she feels the leather, her patience breaks. As I’m spelling b-o-o-t, Helen launches the shoe into the corner, where it lands with a thud, scuffing the wall as it falls. Undaunted, I pick up the other boot and jam it onto her foot. Not about to be undone herself, Helen rolls across the floor, kicking, while I fetch the first boot. Then comes the buttonhook. She twists and claws at my face, forcing me to shut my eyes, but I wasn’t half blind most of my life for nothing—I’ve been able to fasten a pair of high buttoned boots without looking since I was a wee thing.

  Next I try heaving her over to the washbowl. But she refuses to stand. If I don’t hold her upright, she collapses like a rag doll.

  “So that’s the way you want to do it?” I hiss at her. “Grand.”

  Leaving Helen where she lies, I lather up the little towel, then plant one foot on either side of her. “Think you’ve won, do you?” I drop a chunk of cake into her mouth to shush her. Before she can consider sitting up, I kneel over her, straddling her so my weight pins her to the floor. In two swift moves I grab each of her hands and wedge them between my knees and her sides.

  “Make a fool of me, will you,” I pant, and scrub until her face gleams pink from the rubbing, then red from her temper. She flails, grunts, and sputters. Her bellowing cry, “Wah-wah,” sends cake crumbs flying into my face and her hair, but I don’t care—her hair is next on my list, and washing my own face will be a joy after this.

  W-a-s-h, I spell with deep satisfaction when I free her hands and scrub them, too. I can hardly wait to see the Kellers’ faces when they see their girl shined up like a new penny.

  Her hair is another matter entirely. I can’t very well run a brush through it while she’s lying down. After some grappling we end up sitting one in front of the other, my legs wrapped round her waist. I clamp a hand over her mouth and chin to keep her from howling, then set to work with the brush.

  It’s tedious work. Even with my legs restraining her, Helen thrashes so it’s impossible for me to do anything but tear the brush through her hair. A sickening rip accompanies each stroke. In the end I make a concession: Any more brushing and Helen’s tearful morning will be impossible to hide from the captain. Already I hear stirrings in the rooms below me.

  Satisfied as I’m going to be, I turn Helen loose. She fairly rockets down the stairs. Paying her no mind, I tend to my rumpled hair and dress. Before I leave the room, I glance to where the Perkins doll sits propped against my pillow, smiling her coy china smile. I grin back. “She looks as lovely as you now, doesn’t she, dear heart? Won’t Captain and Mrs. Keller be pleased?”

  When I reach the dining room, my smile fades. The place is in shambles. Amid the fragments of a large serving dish Helen sits stuffing her face with scrambled eggs. Mrs. Keller stands beside an upturned chair, holding baby Mildred high at her shoulder, while the captain rubs at his shin, wincing. Simpson is wide eyed; James, frosty as ever.

  My heart sinks. I hardly need ask what’s happened. None of their eyes accuse me, but I know. This is all my fault. The quiet is horrible, but Viny’s voice is somehow worse when she speaks, for I know that she knows too.

  “Give the baby here, Miss Kate,” she says, turning the chair over for Mrs. Keller. “I’ll put her down to rock.”

  “Viny—,” Captain Keller begins, but she cuts him off, nodding.

  “Yessir, Cap’n, I know. More eggs. But somebody’d better sweep up that broken china before Missy Helen cuts her fingers to ribbons,” she says.

  Grateful for something to do, I drop to my knees and fish through the mess for bits of the broken dish. “You go on,” I tell Viny. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Mrs. Keller sighs and sits down. “That was my last serving bowl from this set,” she murmurs.

  “The pieces are large, Mrs. Keller,” I offer. “Perhaps a little glue?”

  That same tired smile appears. “No, Miss Annie. It’s too far gone. Some things just aren’t worth the trouble it takes to bring them back.”

  Tears prickle at my eyes. I turn back to the floor to hide my face. I wanted so much to please them. I worked so hard, and for what? Even if they noticed how fine I had Helen looking, they’ll never remember after this.

  I can hardly look at them. The words sizzle in my head, and I want to shout at them, If Helen were a seeing child, you’d expect me to turn her over my knee for the trouble she’s caused!

  But how can I? With Mrs. Keller looking as broken as her china bowl, and the captain ready to present me with a one-way ticket to Boston if I lay a hand on his poor little girl, how can I afford to give Helen even a taste of the discipline she needs? It seems nothing I do comes out right.

  But in my heart I know what’s right for Helen: obedience, love, and language. Come what may and hell to pay, I’ll find a way to give her all three.

  Chapter 11

  She was very troublesome … this morning.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  I start with obedience.

  After dinner I gather a few objects for a lesson and arrange them at the table in front of the window upstairs. In spite of yesterday’s fiasco I’m not willing to give up on regular lessons yet. A schedule—and with it, structure—shall be Helen’s first step toward obedience. Still, I’m going to start small: “doll,” “beads,” and “card” are enough for today. If nothing else, I intend to teach her who’s in charge.

  Armed with a bit of cake, I go downstairs to fetch Helen. I find her in the parlor, rocking a much-abused rag doll in little Mildred’s cradle. She moves the cradle with the same fervor she showed the butter chu
rn two mornings ago. If the poor doll had a brain, it’d be addled into cottage cheese by now. Thinking to appease her, I put the hunk of cake into Helen’s right hand and grasp her left one to lead her up the steps.

  God above! You’d think I’d tried to drag her up by her toes, the way she fusses—clawing, kicking, and finally going limp and dangling by an arm.

  “That’s enough of that,” I growl, releasing her hand. She drops like a sack of coal and scuttles back to the parlor. Hot on her heels, I follow and grab her by the arm. She twists and gropes for anything—cradle, doorframe, banister—to brace herself against, but it does her no good. When we reach the stairs, I stop only long enough to hoist her up under my arm, balance her against my hip like an upturned baby, and haul her up the steps.

  I plunk her, panting, into the chair and spell s-i-t. I tap her hand, but she refuses to repeat the word back to me. More to my surprise, after her tussle over the trip upstairs, she doesn’t move at all.

  “Is it the silent treatment, then?” The absurdity of the question hits me, and I laugh aloud. “Be a silent witch if you want. I can do the talking for both of us.” I suppose it’s every bit as absurd of me to speak aloud to her. Ridiculous or not, I can’t see the use in muzzling myself for hours on end simply because she can’t hear. Besides, I’ve never been inclined toward holding my tongue.

  Guiding her movements, I make Helen feel the doll with one hand as I try to spell the word into the other. She yanks her closed fist away, shoving it into her lap. I slap my own hand over her clenched fingers and pull her arm toward me.

  I hear the sound before I understand what’s happening.

  Thwack!

  The table topples onto its side, spilling my lesson over the floor. Helen’s booted foot swings gaily in the space where the table stood. As usual, she doesn’t smile, but a hint of smugness plays across her face. I don’t care for it in the least. I will if I want to, and I won’t if I don’t, that look says—the very thing I said to the first teacher who tried to command me.

  I give her a wry half smile as my hand lands on her ankle with a snap. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think my teachers had sent you to avenge them,” I tell her, stilling her boot and resisting the temptation to squeeze until I hear the shoe leather creak. “Think you can get the better of me, do you? Not today, my little spitfire. Not today.” She squirms against the pressure of my grip. After a moment I release her.

  I right the table and replace all the objects. Helen reaches out for an instant to feel the table, then crosses her arms in a sulk.

  “That’s right, you. There’s no stopping me today.” I reach into the crook of her elbow, grabbing for one of her hands. She hunches up like a turtle, clamping them up under her armpits. Her resistance only stokes my resolve.

  Crouching on my knees beside the chair, I lunge in with both hands to wrestle one of her arms free. She grunts like a bull, clutching her hands to her sides. Suddenly all her defiance falls away, and I hold one wrist in my hand like a trophy. I don’t realize my mistake.

  Her other fist flies like lightning. I hear a crack inside my head and think for a moment of thunder, until something in my mouth distracts me. Something small and cool as the hand of a china doll.

  A tooth. My tooth!

  I slap a hand over my mouth and hold my breath, waiting for the pain. There is none. Only a slow-waking ache in my jaw. I open my mouth and gasp for a breath.

  Searing cold slices across the broken tooth’s edge. Tears boil up in my eyes, and my throat swells, but I can’t cry, for fear of the scalding pain. I press both palms to my mouth and try to breathe slowly through my nose. Brassy-tasting blood runs from a split inside my lip.

  I stumble toward Helen, and she scrambles away, warned by the clumsy jolts of my feet. “Come back here, you beast!” I cry after her. The exposed toothstump throbs with every word. A sob breaks out of my chest, slowing me for an instant as I stagger out of the room and stampede, moaning with each step, down the stairs.

  I’ll demolish that child. No one has hit me since I learned to fight my own father, and I’m not about to let anyone start.

  I wheel round the banister, hell-bent on getting my hands on Helen. Drawn by the pounding of my feet, Mrs. Keller appears in the parlor doorway, her face a question. “Miss Annie?”

  “Where is she?” I snarl through the fist pressed against my mouth.

  Her glance darts toward the back door, but the fire in my eyes keeps her from answering. “What is it?” she asks. Her composure amazes me.

  “Where is Helen?”

  My tone puts her on guard. “Miss Annie, what is it?”

  “What is it? I’ll show you exactly what it is!” With a wincing flourish I spit a messy gob of tooth and blood into my hand and thrust my palm under her nose. “There! Your lovely little girl did that to me. Now, where is she?”

  Mrs. Keller pales. “Miss Annie, please. You must consider …” She hesitates a moment, uneasy at the force of my anger. “Helen doesn’t know any better.”

  “That won’t be so when I’m done with her.”

  My threat makes her lips stiffen. “It’s hardly fair to punish her for something she doesn’t understand.” She lays a hand over the newel post, subtly blocking my path to the door. The poise I admire so much in her suddenly infuriates me.

  “You want to talk about fair when I’m standing here with a mouthful of blood and a gap in my jaw? I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Keller, there’ll be no ‘fair’ in this house while that she-devil runs loose!”

  Her eyes lower for an instant, but her body doesn’t budge. “I’ll have Viny bring in some ice and rags for your mouth,” she says, meeting my gaze at last. Frost tinges her blue eyes; the corners of her mouth waver.

  I shudder as my fists clench, digging the broken tooth into my palm. My voice rasps, “I’ll be in my room.”

  She looks me over once more, then turns and hurries down the hall toward the back door. Once, she sends a nervous glance over her shoulder. I haven’t moved an inch, though my fist grips tighter and tighter round my ruined tooth, until I think my knuckles will burst open. When the door shuts at last, I scream and fling the bloody handful down the hall behind her.

  The sound rips through my jaw, leaving me in a panting heap on the bottom step. All I can do is sit with my hand cupped over my lips, sucking cool air through my nose to warm in my lungs before I let it touch my throbbing mouth. The feeling is as raw as my memories.

  • • •

  The lamp gutters low, and my mother moans in the bed. My brothers and sisters are asleep, but in the next room I hear voices, their edges dulled by drink. My father’s is one of them. Roused by the wavering melody, I grope my way out of bed. Inside the doorway I stop in surprise when my hands blunder into a feathered lump hanging from the wall. My fingers find a fanned tail and scaly claws—a turkey! Around the table I make out the shapes of four men, joking and singing to the tune of “Seven Drunken Nights.” I hear the slap of cards on the table, and I know they’re gambling. Up to the table I go, determined that my father should win. I put out my hand to touch one of the cards, and someone slaps it away. My temper flares, but another hairy hand pats mine, lingering a moment too long. Someone sniggers across the table, and I yank my fingers out from under the heavy paw. I scurry back to my mother’s bedside, but she’s too ill even to toss or turn.

  The night wears on and the lamp flickers lower. Before long the men are guffawing and making up their own verses to the song. In the bed my mother whimpers and cries softly as their language grows more powerful and the house begins to rattle with the stomping of their feet. “Annie,” she whispers, “ask them to go. Please.”

  Back in the next room, I creep to my father’s elbow. “Dad, Mam says would the men please go home.” My father’s hand explodes across my cheek, and the group lets out a raucous laugh. One of the men sways up from his chair and falls to the floor. I hope he dies, I fume to myself, but he wobbles to his feet, pulls the turkey from the
wall, and staggers out the door. Away they stumble, one by one, and I hear them calling, “Merry Christmas!” through the icy wind. At last the lamp goes out, and I vow no one will hit me again.

  • • •

  With a sigh I turn and climb the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail. When I’m nearly to the top, the light fixture mounted on the ceiling of the hall catches my eye. Up close like this I can see for the first time a design frosted into the glass globe. Leaning over the rail, I squint, and my straining eyes widen in disbelief.

  Plump children frolic among the trees etched into its surface. One of them is blindfolded.

  Blindman’s bluff.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. In this house, of all places, a game of blindman’s bluff carved into the light itself.

  Chapter 12

  Although I try very hard not to force issues, I find it very difficult to avoid them.

  —ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887

  I feel their eyes on me when I arrive at breakfast next morning. I don’t like it. The day feels strange enough already. As soon as I woke, something in my room felt different. When I looked about, I saw Helen’s bed hadn’t been slept in. It was easy to guess she’d spent the night downstairs with her parents. A harder question is why. I doubt Helen had any choice in the matter. I’d like to think the Kellers kept her away out of courtesy, to let me recuperate undisturbed, but seeing their faces round the table, I’m sure the truth is different.

  Maybe they were afraid—afraid of me. The idea makes the swarm of hunger in my stomach sour into dread. Do Helen’s parents really think I’d hurt her? What do you expect them to think, I sputter to myself, after you stood there with a fistful of gore, baying for blood?

  I nod good morning and take my place at the table. Helen, rumpled and tousled as ever, sits alongside her mother. Avoiding the sight of her, I turn my attention to breakfast. The white tablecloth is so bright it stabs at my sore eyes, but the smell of the food overpowers my unsavory thoughts. There is sausage and eggs, fresh bread, canned sliced fruit, and Mrs. Keller’s delectable homemade preserves. The coffee, piping hot, is already poured, and a frothy pitcher of fresh milk stands ready.