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The train raced down the tracks, then the Pullman’s whistle shirred the air three times, loudly, shaking us. “South Station,” Peter said, squeezing my hand.
When we clambered off the train, the metal steps clacking beneath my low-heeled shoes, the air was filled with the scent of leather briefcases from commuters rushing past, of pretzels and ham sandwiches from open lunch stalls, and then the sudden rush of chill air as someone, far off, opened the great doors to the streets of Boston.
“Where are we going? What do you see?”
All around us, Peter said, war posters gleamed from the station’s walls: “Patriots! Use cornmeal! It Saves Wheat!” urged a green and red one; “Buy a Bond of the Liberty Loan and Help Win the War!” shouted another.
“Look at that messy pack of kids. Italians, I’ll bet,” Peter said. He described the vast crowds of immigrants, most of them clutching straw baskets filled with matches, their voices a kind of strange music in the vast hall.
“Oh, perfect,” Peter said.
“What?”
“Here comes one of the mothers, barreling toward us. She’s left her six kids sprawled on a bench, and she’s got her baby rocking in a sling in her arms. Jesus, she’s almost here. Let’s get a move on.”
Within seconds I smelled the sharp scent of talcum powder and felt the woman’s hand sticky from a pear she had been feeding the child.
Peter tried to pull me away, but I resisted. “Yes, she’s Helen Keller.” Then to me he said, “You won’t believe this: she wants you to touch the baby for good luck. Is she crazy?”
“People do it all the time,” I said. “Once a lady in Wrentham came to King’s Pond just to swim where I’d been. She said she wanted to be in the ‘angel water.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. They think I’m a miracle. That’s what people want, some of that. So if she wants me to hold the baby, please, yes.”
People believed something magic would be theirs if they touched me. Yet Peter knew, as few did, the price of that miracle: I always needed a constant companion, someone with me, day, night, day—to dress me, lead me through strange rooms, protect me from harm, even at a cost to themselves. It’s why Annie once said, “I sacrificed my life so Helen could have one.”
I wanted to be like that mother, my own hands sticky with pear juice. So when she gave me the child I pulled its warm body close in my arms, and when it bit me, hard, I welcomed the sting. “Is she beautiful?” I asked Peter, my arms cool after he handed the baby back.
“Most babies look the same, squashed faces, kind of like pups. Even John’s daughter—”
“You saw her?” I stood still.
“John couldn’t get to the hospital without me. Two nights ago—he called me when Myla was in labor; I gave them a ride. You didn’t think he’d have cab fare, did you?”
“Was he …”
“Drunk? Couldn’t tell.”
“That should have been Annie’s girl.”
“Judging by the circles under John’s eyes, and the thinness of his wallet, Annie’s better off. It’ll be no picnic raising that kid.”
“Peter.”
“It was right up the street, in fact. Charity ward at Boston Hospital. You wouldn’t believe the scene. If you want to know the truth, Helen, John tried to call Annie that night. Right after Myla gave birth. He went to a pay phone—I know because I had to lend him a nickel.”
“But Annie never heard from him.”
“I know. The minute after he dialed her number he hung up. He had to go back to Myla and the baby.”
“Of course. Babies need attention.”
“As far as I can tell they don’t leave time for much else.” He lifted my bag, smoothed my hair, and turned me toward the exit. “Come on, lady, we’ve got a speech to give in a half hour and a marriage license to track down after that. I can barely keep track of you, and you can barely afford me. Thank God we don’t have another mouth to feed.”
“How right you are,” I lied.
The space around us seemed suddenly too large. Peter led me toward the exit; crossing the station, he eagerly grasped my hand. He hurried me past the children crowding the doors, his whole body pressed forward to get outside, fast.
“So, Helen, if you ever have a … scare. . . you’ll talk with me, right? If you’re in trouble?”
“You mean pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Peter, do you think there’s anyone more important to me than you?”
“What matters is that we’re married.”
“Now you’re talking,” I said.
“We’ll live in Wrentham, cut our expenses, let Annie recuperate.”
“That’s a picture I like.”
I lied so easily, to keep him with me.
Peter turned the revolving door, stepped in with me, and in the crush of people we were swept out to the sidewalk with the city roaring around us. Peter drew in his breath: away we walked, into the sunshine of the day.
Chapter Twenty-eight
We had outwitted Mother. Annie was too sick to push Peter away. But the events that would start to unfold in Boston would prove that the future was out of our hands. We were too delirious with happiness. Peter hailed a cab outside South Station, and as we sped through the Boston streets I rolled down the backseat window to inhale the city’s dense air. The thrum of hundreds of people, the odor of trolley cars and warm brick buildings made me giddy. As we swung closer to downtown I suddenly sat up straight: the car’s engine vibrated at a red light.
“Catholic,” I said. “A wedding.”
“What are you babbling about?” Peter edged closer to me on the warm backseat.
“Church. It’s a Catholic church across the street, right?”
“Yep.”
“And there’s a wedding party. They’ve just come out onto the steps.”
“Right again.”
“The door’s wide open and the bride’s holding lilies.”
“You’re a …”
“Genius,” I said. “Did you think I can’t tell what’s going on outside? It’s the incense.” I told him that’s how I recognize a Catholic church, by the aroma of incense and palm, its open door giving off a different scent from the Episcopalians, whose churches smell of cool marble, leather books, and mothballs.
“St. Peter of Columbine.” Peter read the sign outside the church. “They’re flowing out after a midday mass. Too happy to be Episcopalians. This is perfect,” he laughed. “The divine Miss Keller can tell what kind of buildings we pass. What next? You’ll drive the cab?”
“Why not? We just passed the Trinity Church—the Episcopalian church—three blocks back. It’s across from the Boston Public Library. Annie and I gave a talk there last spring. We’re on Boylston Street, and soon we’ll come to Boston Public Gardens; the Boston Common is just beyond it.” I felt the cab lurch forward, and then turn left. I leaned into Peter as we moved closer to the Common.
“All right, smarty. Thanks for the guided tour.” Peter handed me a Braille copy of my speech. “We’ve got ten blocks to go, so let’s get a little work in. Let’s run through it one more time.” He inhaled the fall air.
“I don’t want to talk about speeches. I want to talk about weddings. Yours and mine. I’ll wear white.”
“There might be a problem with that.” Peter laid his hand on my thigh.
“Are you saying I’m not pure?”
“I’m saying you’re the purest thing I’ve ever seen.”
At times what I say or do is turned against me. In 1891, when I was eleven, I sent Michael Anagnos—the head of the Perkins School for the Blind—a gift that would change me forever. I’d written a story called “The Frost King.” Anagnos couldn’t wait to publish it to national acclaim: “Look at blind and deaf Helen Keller! She can write; she can create; she is not what blind and deaf people are thought to be!” He claimed my story was astonishing.
But soon enough he and the Perkins School charged me with pl
agiarism: the story was too close to one published years ago. Had Annie read me the story when I was a child? Had I inadvertently thought the story was mine? Had I, in my dark and silent world, made the words my own, because words were all I had?
At Perkins, Annie and I were led into a classroom to face a panel of eight officers of the school. Annie was asked to leave; I faced my interrogators alone. The blood throbbed at my temples and I could hardly answer during the hours of questioning: Was I a liar? Had I stolen the story? Did I know those words weren’t mine? Even worse: Had Annie put me up to this, for fame and renown?
I wished I could have disappeared into the sky.
