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I said nothing.
“They’re immigrants first, American second.”
“He’s a U.S. citizen.”
“And whose side will he be on when the United States enters this war?”
“He’ll be on my side.”
I have never told my mother I know the sorrow I brought her. I have never let go of the burden of causing her grief. “We had a few brief months of happiness,” she often said to me about the times before I became blind and deaf. But I want more happiness. My life is not shrouded in grief. I want to live with Peter, have a family of my own.
She would never allow it.
But I was reckless. I did not care. I felt Peter’s footsteps as he strode into the dining room, kicked a tasseled ottoman in the corner, and then stood by my side.
“Have you met my private secretary?” I asked Mother.
“I haven’t met you but I’ve heard about you.”
It was suddenly hard to swallow in the warm room.
“I enjoy working for Helen.”
“As long as it’s only work.”
“I do what Helen asks me to do, ma’am.”
“You work for the Keller family.” My mother stood straighter. I felt the rustle of her floor-length silk dress. “With Annie sick you’ll report to me.”
I forced myself to stay still. I imagined my mother disappearing, fastening her cloak, climbing up the steps to the train headed for Alabama.
“You coming, Helen?” Peter’s hand gripped mine.
I let him begin to lead me out of the room; his fingers were so tense.
Why couldn’t I have Mother, Annie, Peter, and my own life? Because my responsibility was to be loyal to those who helped me—without them I had no world. I stopped before we reached the door.
“Helen. Your mother wants me to leave. But I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to help you write your speech for the rally. Meet me in your study at twelve thirty. Will you?”
Peter’s footsteps moved away. First they gave off a birdlike scratch. Then they grew stronger, heavier with a crack-snap-crack. He walked out like a newly determined man.
Chapter Nineteen
I’ve always longed to fit in. In my autobiography I wrote that being deaf and blind was like being trapped on a gray, silent island. Far off there was a distant land where people talked, laughed. But I was alone, only able to reach them by tossing out a long lifeline, so desperate to be among the living. I dressed up, learned to read and write, rode horses, learned Latin, French, and Greek, and was the first deaf-blind person ever to graduate from Radcliffe College, cum laude, at that.
But the more I tried to be like everyone else, the more a frightening space opened up between me and the people I loved. It was always there, that chasm. So I followed Peter onto the porch, and when he slipped his warm hand into mine I was not alone—I was with a man who drew me into the world instead of keeping it at bay. I eagerly let Peter lead me away from the house, where Mother paced the dining room floor and Annie tossed in bed.
“You didn’t tell me the Kellers celebrated Fourth of July late.” He leaned against a maple tree at the yard’s edge.
“The fireworks?” I had to laugh, thinking about Mother’s outburst.
“You got it, missy. But the show’s over.”
Suddenly I wanted one thing only, to run away with him.
“Please pardon my rudeness last night,” Mother said. “I had a long trip.” The noon sun warmed the living room the next day. Mother and I faced Peter as he came into the house.
I felt Peter shuffle his feet.
“So if you’ll oblige, I’d like to take you both to the Devon House for lunch.” Mother took my arm and swept me alongside her out the front door. Peter followed, just as the heavy maple panels shuddered behind us with a whap.
“Peter can drive. I assume he is your chauffeur, too?”
Peter snatched the keys from her hand, and as soon as we climbed into the car he gunned the engine to life. We whizzed up the road, past the murky, mossy water of the lake. Finally Peter pulled the car into the Devon House parking lot.
“Annie usually takes us here the day after I arrive,” Mother said to Peter, who spelled it into my hand. “But with Annie sick, well, traditions must be kept up, isn’t that right, Helen?”
“I’m for new traditions.”
“Fine. As long as I’m in the room when they take place.” Mother walked ahead.
I followed her, with one hand on the railing, up to the restaurant’s front door. Peter grabbed my elbow, and as he guided me over the step to the lobby I wobbled a bit.
“Thank God I’m steady on my feet,” Peter said.
“You?” I said right back. “Between the two of us, mister, I’m the stable one.” I laughed, but I had no idea how right I would be.
Peter led me into the dining room. I smelled the bleached linen tablecloths, felt the dragging of chairs. With my feet I sensed the vibration of musical instruments, a trumpet and drums. “Is there a band?” I asked.
“Yup. Can’t wait to do the fox trot with you.” Peter swung my hand and followed Mother right past the dance floor to a cool section of the dining room, and we sat at a table for three.
“Looks like the bandleader’s going to make an announcement,” Mother said. “He’s dedicating the first song to the men, women, and children in Britain suffering under the German blockade as starvation sets in.”
Peter grabbed my hands under the table.
“I’m hungry, too. For you.”
“Where are your antiwar sentiments? Shame on you.”
“Oh, I have sentiments, all right.” Just then Peter scraped back his chair and stood up.
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
“The bandleader wants people to donate money to the war effort. I’m going to donate my words: I’ll ask the guy if I can speak. Tell people they should resist this immoral war, this war of useless death and destruction.”
His hand slipped from mine, and as he leaned toward the stage, he gave off the eager scent—I know this comparison is wrong—of Father’s prize hunting dogs, their bodies taut, ready to charge deep into the woods after something tantalizing, exciting, and they were born to go after it.
Cold ran through my veins. What Peter craved was an audience, a voice. That was his instinct, what drove him.
I tasted copper in my mouth.
I was almost certain then that he wanted fame—no, not fame. He wanted to be in the center of things. And I would be the casualty.
Only then did Mother speak up.
“Mr. Fagan. Sit down.”
I wish I had accepted then how much Peter longed to be in front of a crowd, how the more sought after I was, the more diminished he felt. All I wanted to believe was that he craved me, so I sat back, sipped my cherry cola, and did not interfere with Mother as she spoke rapidly to Peter, all the while spelling everything into my hand.
“Don’t be foolish,” Mother said to him. “It’s not you they want to hear. It’s her. You haven’t met presidents, you weren’t beloved by Mark Twain, as Helen was since the day he met her. You never vacationed in Nova Scotia with Alexander Graham Bell.” Mother’s hand shook slightly.
In the summer of 1901, Annie and I had stayed with Dr. Bell at his summer cottage perched high above the Nova Scotia cliffs. His house—thrumming with the activities of his two daughters and his deaf wife, Mabel—was a haven for me: everyone knew manual fingerspelling, so I could talk freely. The guesthouse was filled with aviators; Dr. Bell was flying kites, trying to discover the path to human flight. But he put his work aside one evening and spelled to me that he was concerned about my being so alone. None of the joys of womanhood should be denied me, he said, his hand warm on mine. I had no hereditary handicaps to impede a marriage. Someday Annie would marry, and leave me. I would need a husband of my own.
“I shall never marry,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair; any man who took me for a wife would be marrying a statue.” But Peter had chang
ed all that.
“Mr. Fagan, sit down,” Mother said again.
“It’s a free country, Mrs. Keller,” Peter said to Mother and spelled to me. “Anyone can speak.”
“If anyone is to speak here, Mr. Fagan, it’s Helen.”
“I may not be famous, but I’m—”
“You’re an employee.”
“I’m not just an employee. I’m—”
“Peter.” For one moment I thought he was going to announce our engagement. Mother couldn’t know, not yet. So I changed the subject.
“The band is starting up.”
“I’m not in the mood to dance.”
“What are they playing?” Through my feet I felt the solid, round thump of the drums.
“‘Keep the Home Fires Burning,’” Mother said.
Restlessly, Peter tapped his feet.
My fame drew Peter to me, yet at the same time it pushed him away. He wanted to be up on the stage, bringing the crowd to its feet when he denounced the war, its debauchery, the way France had become a bloodied war zone that nothing could cure. Within moments a strange murmuring moved across the restaurant until it ran up my back.
“They know you’re here,” Mother said to me. “Sit up straight. People are watching. And don’t order the soup. It’s too hard to eat in public.”
“Mother, I know.” I felt Peter push a menu across the table to me. “Peter, did you forget I can’t read regular print?” His hand cool to my touch told me he was bored translating the menu.
“Say good afternoon to the bandleader,” Mother said as she drew my hand into his.
“Miss Keller, we’re so honored to have you here.”
“Congratulations are in order for Peter.” I changed the subject to get the attention off me.
“For what?” Mother sat straighter.
“Peter’s going to write an article on shell shock for the New York Times.”
“Does the Times know that?” Mother said.
“Not yet. But they will.” I sipped my cola.
“You don’t say?” Mother slid a napkin under my drink and I felt the bandleader move away. “You’re having a fall full of successes, Mr. Fagan. Annie tells me you’re engaged,” Mother said.
“That’s true.”
“Who is she? Would I know her?”
“Actually, you know the name …”
“Peter, stop,” I said.
“Do tell.” Mother leaned against me.
“It’s a prominent name.”
I nervously pulled my hair.
