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“Helen. You’ve been weeping.” She handed me a hanky.
“I …”
“You’ve never been separated from Miss Annie for long.” Mildred always called my teacher “Miss.” “She always kept you so busy, connected to everything,” Mildred said in her clumsy fingerspelling. “I’ve found a nice Jewish girl, she lives in Montgomery, and wants to meet you. She wants to learn fingerspelling. She could be a … paid companion of sorts for you now that—”
“Now that what?” I pulled away.
“Miss Annie’s … away. Mother’s older and needs her rest, and I’m so occupied with the babies. You need someone just for yourself.” Mildred put Katherine in my arms.
Katherine sucked my thumb.
Mildred sensed my loneliness. When Katherine started to cry again she said, “It’s not for the faint of heart, a husband, a family.”
“You said it.”
After Mildred put the baby down for a nap she brought me a cup of peppermint tea. “This might cheer you.” She slid a letter into my hands. I ran my fingers over the envelope: the Braille dashes and dots meant it was either from Peter or Annie. I tore it open.
San Juan,
Puerto Rico
November 1916
Helen Dear:
Your mother has told me that you are in love with Peter. Could this be true? She wants me to recover, fast, and return to keep you safe. I want to protect you. But understand: I cannot leave Puerto Rico now. I cannot face the cold of our Wrentham house, the uncertainty about money, the secret that John has had a baby with another woman.
I am trying to get better. Even one short week in Puerto Rico has improved me immensely. I’m sure a large part of my recovery is that this place is an island of joy. When I arrived here I had only a dull ache where my heart should have been. But here I wake to the sound of birds, the scent of fresh pineapple in the warm air. In the heat of the day I eat fruit that has grown to be as large as a tree. As large as the mulberry in front of your house in Tuscumbia—the one we were in when that storm came. Do you remember, Helen? How you shook in that mulberry tree, afraid of lightning, until I came and took your hand?
When I came to Tuscumbia, I wanted someone to love. And you loved me, Helen. Now I am too tired to fight; you must have someone else to love. It may sound strange to you that I believe that you should hold on to Peter. Don’t lose the man you love, as I did.
I have tuberculosis. The White Death. It is unthinkable that I should not live, but if I do not, remember that you were like a daughter to me. I have given you my life. Never have I had the chance to see what talents I might have had on my own. You must see this. Face it: If I die, who will care for you?
Peter will.
Helen, fight for what you have.
Fight for your island of joy.
Love,
Annie
That night I dreamed of Peter leading me into a sleeping berth on a train, his hands on my ribs, then on my hips, as he rolled over me on an unmade bed.
Chapter Thirty-seven
On the day of my elopement, the vibrations of Montgomery were strong around me. Inside the house, Risa, the girl Mildred had hired to entertain me, sat at the sewing machine in the living room. As I walked in Mildred’s backyard, with one hand on the fence, I stumbled over small rocks and children’s toys. Mother and Mildred were shopping in Montgomery and I was alone, when a familiar scent of muskrat and warm rain swam over the humid air.
Peter walked toward me from the piney woods. As he got closer I burst forward to take him in my arms.
“Peter, it’s not until tonight, what are you doing here now?”
“Don’t fret, missy. I couldn’t just hang around Montgomery all day. I was here, and I wanted to see you.” He took my hands.
“But—”
“But nothing. I rang the bell, your new … assistant—though if I may say so she doesn’t look nearly as exciting as me—pointed me out here.”
“You told Risa about us? How did you—”
“Relax, missy. I told her I’m working for the Montgomery Monitor and wanted to interview you.”
“You’re a master of disguises.”
“To get to you, yes.” He pulled me close.
“Ow,” I said, lifting my foot. “Red ants. They’re biting me, like fire.”
“How I love rescuing a damsel in distress.” With one brisk movement we fled the yard and walked down the wooden path behind Mildred’s house to a small clearing where the ants wouldn’t be.
Then I felt Peter turn toward the flagpole in the side yard. “Hey, rebel girl. What’s with the Confederate flag?”
“It’s my brother-in-law’s.”
“And just where is he now? Sniffing around the property, hoping to find me?”
“No. He’s out hunting for the Thanksgiving turkey.”
“He’s quite the patriot.”
“Indeed. He lowers the flag before he goes to bed.”
“So when the flag goes down tonight I’ll know he’s safe in bed. That’s when I’ll creep up the steps …”
“And whisk me away.”
“So good of your brother-in-law to help.”
“He lives to serve.” I laughed.
But there was something distant about Peter. “What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, just two or t
hree things. One: this place looks like a fortress. Two: I’m being hounded by the press, the Keller family, and their damned dogs. And three: Macy wrote that if I marry you I’m …”
“You’re what?”
“I’m like a person boarding the Titanic—ready to go down.”
“John’s hardly a reliable source about life.”
“True. But he has experience with …”
“What? Me and Annie?”
“Well, theirs was a … tempestuous marriage.”
“Tempestuous? John had the best days of his life with us until whiskey soaked him through. He brought his troubles on himself, and don’t you forget it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Besides, I’ll make your life better, not worse. Has one week apart caused you to forget? Then let me remind you.” I pulled him to me and opened his shirt.
“Ah, that’s what I love. My fighting Helen. I love it when you get mad.” He drew me to him.
Then a snap in the woods signaled someone was coming.
“Tonight.” He pushed me toward the house, but I didn’t want to go. I crossed the yard with small steps, as if to slow down time.
I didn’t show up for lunch or dinner that day. It was past seven when Mother pushed open the door to my room, shook me by the shoulder as I read by my desk. “Helen, your house in Wrentham has sold. I’ve engaged a rental agent and she’s found a new house for you and Annie to rent. It’s in Forest Hills, outside Manhattan. When Annie returns, the mover will come to the Wrentham farmhouse and pack up the heavy things. What do you want them to take?”
I said nothing.
“I assume you’ll want your most precious things.”
“Yes, indeed.” I already had my most precious thing. My suitcase was packed and locked under my bed; it would be only three hours until I grabbed it, walked briskly to the front porch, and took Peter’s hand.
