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“Welcome to my life.” I opened the door with an easy click. “You translate their questions and my answers. We’ll be done with them lickety-split.”
“Lickety-split. Where did you learn words like that?” A rush of air told me he’d opened his door.
What I never learned was this: how a man like Peter did not want to be upstaged by me, and how easily I would do it. I knew about fame. I just didn’t know—or I refused to see—that Peter wanted to be cheered, toasted, revered, yet by my side he would become smaller. I wish now I had paid attention to the distant touch of his fingers as we left the car, the reporters clamoring for me, their notebooks scented with whiskey, tobacco, air.
The reporters clustered by the front door: “Miss Keller.” They peppered me with questions when Peter and I moved up to the porch. Peter spelled their words into my palm, but pulled away slightly.
“Miss Keller, sorry to bother you at home.”
“You’re bothering me, all right,” I said to Peter, who told them.
“Is it true,” they demanded, “that you gave royalties from your autobiography to blinded German soldiers? Isn’t that treason?”
“Yes. I did do it,” I transmitted through Peter.
Peter gripped the front porch railing facing the reporters. I felt him grow more resolute as he spelled to me and said to them that I was right to denounce President Wilson and to call for aid to all shell-shocked and wounded soldiers, not just Germans. He turned to walk me indoors, but then, as if he wanted to linger with the reporters, he turned back.
“Are there any more questions?” He edged so close to the reporters that he moved away, dropping my hand.
I stood alone by the front door. Isolation surrounded me. Where was Peter? Confused, I stepped forward, toward the scent of his tobacco. I reached out, but touched only air. The shudder of porch floorboards told me to keep moving forward until my hand grazed Peter’s arm. I took his hand and relief flooded me. He was my door to the world.
“Tell me what they—”
“Helen, they’re talking to me,” Peter spelled.
“But I need to know …”
“All right. O’Rourke from the Globe wants to know if I …”
“If you … ?”
“If I want to be Mr. Helen Keller.”
The reporters laughed; I felt Peter’s hand flinch in mine. I wanted to pull him away, but he refused to leave.
“We just heard that Henry Ford’s leased a ship for influential Americans to sail to Britain to negotiate a peace.” Peter spelled Danson’s next question to me. “Will you accompany Helen if she goes?”
Peter stepped back, closer to the house.
“Isn’t this house partly paid for by Andrew Carnegie? The same Carnegie whose money supports the war?” Peter’s spelling grew faint in my palm.
“No, the house has nothing to do with Carnegie.”
“Don’t the Kellers—even you—get their support from Carnegie, after all?”
I felt the porch light, so hot on my head.
“Peter, let’s go.”
He tightened his hold on my wrist, and pulled me inside the house.
I was startled by his forcefulness.
You’re deaf. Can you hear music? People ask me this when I go to concerts, or laugh along at musicals and Broadway shows. How? Because as a band plays I “hear” soundwaves along the floor. I sit in a theater or concert hall with both feet flat under my chair and I listen with my feet: I thought of that as Peter and I stood alone in the front hall as the reporters crunched their way down the drive to their cars, but not with the same gait. One of them walked gracefully, with a light step, while the other rushed past to the beat of some inner discord.
That’s how Peter is, I thought, as I slowly walked by his side into the living room. Not the reporter who walked smoothly, in sync with the world, but the other, more agitated one. Did Peter think I wouldn’t notice how upset and confused he was?
We sat uneasily by the fireplace.
“I don’t care about the Germans.” Annie paced the living room, her bathrobe warm to my fingers. She had waited in her bedroom until the reporters drove off, then walked in to confront me, determined to make me tell her where I’d been. I told her what happened on the front porch. She paused beside me and I felt her face. Worry lines, yes, but something new was there, too. There was a parchment-paper thinness to her skin, as if tuberculosis had already drained her. I kept my hand by her mouth to hear her speak, and even her voice was thin as string.
“I was worried they would say you two were marrying. That is a headline I don’t ever plan to read.”
“What would be so bad about that?” Peter said.
“Everything. Especially since you’re fired.”
“What?”
“You’re leaving at the end of this month. Kate is here, and we don’t have enough money to pay you, anyway.”
“I’ll fix that.” I stood perilously close to Peter, even with Annie nearby.
“Helen, for God’s sake, no miracle is going to appear this time. We’re nearly broke. He’s got to go.”
“I’m going to pray about it,” I said.
“You’re not religious?” Peter acted as though he’d touched a snake.
“Yes.”
“Bibles as big as a dining-room table,” Annie said. “You haven’t seen them? Whole passages she’s read so many times the Braille is rubbed away.”
“Good grief,” Peter said.
“She’s a Swedenborgian.”
“A what?”
When I was young, people thought that I couldn’t be influenced by false ideas, sorrow, or death. So no one ever spoke to me of those things. One day Annie and I walked through a cemetery, and without knowing where we were I sensed the stillness and asked, “Who died here?” People wanted to think of me as some kind of angel. At a young age I asked Annie if I could study the Bible. “Who made me?” I asked Annie, and even though she had no belief in religion she said, “God.” I asked, “Who made God?”
I learned in the Bible that people who are blind and deaf are just in a narrow passage in this life, that in the next one their sight and hearing will be restored. Later, in my adulthood, I learned there was a name for this kind of belief: Swedenborgianism.
Yet even as I was comforted by this religion and the Bible, no one knew the dullness of my nights, the chill of winter days when I sat alone, no sound, no motion, no life around me.
I stood between Annie and Peter as if to cause a slight thaw between them.
“You wouldn’t catch me in a church if it had a door straight to heaven,” Annie said.
“Maybe Helen needs something else to believe in,” Peter said.
“Like a soon-to-be-unemployed man?”
“I prefer the term ‘income-free.’”
“I’m not blind,” Annie said. “I’ve been married to a loafer.”
“He was a drinker. I’m not.”
“John was a drainer. When he arrived we had a house fully paid for, and Carnegie money; ten years later the house is mortgaged to the hilt, we’re about to lose it, and our income’s so small a cricket couldn’t make a bed with it.”
“I have news. John’s volunteered to drive an ambulance on the Western Front. Seems as if he wants to change things,” Peter said.
“He wants to help people in foreign lands,” Annie said. “Just not those close by.”
Peter turned serious. “And he left you with nothing but bitterness and debt.”
“He left me, Helen, and …” Annie stopped.
“Maybe Helen wants something different,” Peter said.
“Over my dead body,” Annie said.
At the mention of dying, a single ash seemed to float in the room, and Annie choked, deeply, as if she were drowning.
When she stopped she said, “If death comes to me and Helen marries you, I’ll come back and kill you myself.”
“The second coming at last,” Peter said.
All night I sat
by Annie. Coughs had racked her body so insistently in the living room that she needed my help to make her way down the hall to her bedroom. Once in bed, furiously kicking off a quilt I put over her, she held my hand.
“Get any ideas you’re having right now out of your head.”
“What ideas?”
“Running-off-with-lover-boy ideas.”
She held my hand like a vise.
Chapter Twenty-two
Here are the things I regret in my life: lying to Annie, lying to my mother. What I regret most is that I fell asleep in the chair beside Annie’s bed, and when morning came I did not notice that she had slipped out of the room. If I could go back and change that moment, I would.
Because minutes later she hurried back in and shook me awake. “Come quickly,” she said. “I have news. Helen—now.”
“What?” I yawned. The slow rumbling of a passing car made me turn to the window. Had Peter and Annie argued? Maybe that was his car, leaving.
