A Voice of Her Own Read online

  “I’ll remember.” I have always tried to be obedient regarding important matters like not being scalded to death by burning oil, but when public opinion takes a route far from one’s inner conviction, one cannot value disobedience too highly.

  When I finished beating the eggs and sugar together, Mother instructed me to grate the lemon rind while she melted the shortening. I asked her if she didn’t think the Church Ladies would consider doughnuts a frivolous dessert for so respectable a celebration. Religion and doughnuts seemed to me “strange bedfellows,” to quote that English playwright of some renown.

  “Doughnuts will please the children,” said Mother. “After all, it is a fair.”

  “That’s true,” I said, but did not think the Ladies would approve. Their favorite sport was judging the acceptability of others, their favorite pastime to gossip—the pilfering of precious time. Their minds had long since been given up to the paleness of common dilution. How gruesome to be estranged from one’s own Soul, lost beneath the dimity and teacups! Mother is an exception to that mindless brood. She has a mind of her own, however quiet it may be, however timid of being discovered.

  We worked in quiet for some time, and I, wrapped in the welcome cloak of Mother’s love.

  “I caught him!” Austin burst through the door, his disorderly hair full of brambles. Mother and I were used to Austin’s untimely declarations and therefore made no attempt to obtain further information on the topic so intrusively brought to our attention. We were certain to be graced with a detailed account of the situation, whatever it might be, without dropping our present occupations in order to chase after it. And so we were! It seems that Austin’s rooster, Albert, had gotten excited over an incident with a neighbor’s dog, escaping into a thicket behind the orchard, causing no end of chaos, not to mention inconvenience. It was no surprise to us when we were blessed with an accounting of the entire episode, acquiring more edification concerning the habits of roosters in fearsome encounters with dogs than either of us deemed necessary.

  “Get these burs out of my hair!” said Austin when he had completed his sprightly tale.

  “Please,” said Mother.

  “Please,” said Austin.

  Mother wiped her hands on her apron and went to help him.

  Otis

  The most disturbing thing about that first summer in the new house was unexpected. It was a hot morning at the end of summer. As was his custom, Austin had strewn several of his belongings about the parlor. His slippers, some books and a wooden soldier lay in random fashion, adding a lively touch to the décor. Austin received many hints ungentle to return his things to his room. Father is insistent as regards tidiness. Mother is less demanding, yet her quiet disapproval weighs heavy.

  That morning, Father being away, Mother was the one to suggest to Austin that he remove his possessions from their unseemly resting places about the parlor floor. Vinnie watched from the lounge, where she sat with her doll, Matilda, a limp, well-worn girl in a long dress, a sorry figure by virtue of the fact that she had only one eye. “You had better pick up those slippers,” Vinnie told Austin as he stooped to obey Mother’s gentle command.

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  A higher-pitched voice continued. “And you’d better not forget those books!” That, we were led to expect, was Matilda herself talking at the end of Vinnie’s outstretched arm. Austin chose not to respond.

  “Austin,” said Mother, “I need you to go to Mr. Cutler’s store.” She was in need of ribbon and a certain kind of thread. “Emily, you can go along.”

  I was well pleased with the plan.

  Every time I went to town there was someone I loved to see. His name was Otis. He was a brown horse, with a shaggy coat, long legs and large hooves, who stood in the road in the shade of a little tree. Otis—Tree—I called it that—was the last one in the row along North Pleasant Street, under the D. MACK JR. & SON sign. Otis would stand there, hitched to his wagon, waiting for afternoon delivery time—a patient soul, accepting of his lot. I remember as a girl of three holding Mother’s hand as we walked up Main Street, past the houses, past the shops—reaching the corner, rounding it—and there beneath the little tree would be my Otis, waiting with patience surpassing all understanding, his wagon attached, his harness about his neck, his broad hooves flat on the dirt.

  I often brought him apples, sugar, a carrot and his special treat—peppermints. When I started at the District School, I was small and very much afraid of so large an enterprise. The night before the first term was to begin, Mother helped by asking what I planned to bring Otis on my way to school. It was kind of her. As I made my decision, fear bolted from my mind as there was no room. Otis was an ever-present comfort to my child’s mind. Life held so many changes—too many, it often seemed. Otis was always there. He could always be counted on—my port in a storm.

  This August day, as Austin and I headed up the street in search of Mother’s ribbon, I carried a peppermint for Otis. It was hot. Austin had soaked a handkerchief in cold water and had tied it about his forehead. His ample hair stood up in several directions. Water dripped down his face and about his ears.

  As we approached the corner, I noticed that Otis was not under his tree. I straightway felt a fright. “Where’s Otis?” I asked Austin.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s always under his tree.”

  “Well, he’s not there today.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “I can’t guess,” said Austin. “I have no idea. We’ll ask Mr. Cutler.”

  When we entered the shop, Mr. Cutler was sitting behind the counter, his head in his hands. “Where’s Otis?” I asked.

  Mr. Cutler didn’t move.

  “We need some thread,” said Austin.

  “He’s not under his tree,” I continued.

  “And some ribbon,” added Austin.

  “Where’s Otis?” I repeated.

  Mr. Cutler looked up. “He died.”

  The world tipped—and I about to fall.

  I had learned a sorry lesson. Even the things of which we are most certain may sometimes disappear.

  Father was at home next month, when school began. I was awfully glad about it. My new school seemed large and indeed it was when compared to the District School, at which I had previously pursued my studies. Starting at Amherst Academy was a milestone in my girlhood life, an adventure I cared not to embark upon without I had Father. And he was home! How grand a thing! Oh, he was busy with his briefs as always and with his long work as treasurer of Amherst College.

  Father’s being in residence had its undesirable side—the need to sit up straight at the table, quiet demanded, punctuality required, the early-morning prayers, not to mention the numerous encounters when ill with his ever-present “cold box” full of remedies. At the same time, when Father is at home all is right with the World. He is proud of his children and would most certainly go to any lengths to protect us, I know. When the time is right, one catches a sparkle in his eye that lifts one to the Heavens! It is quite wonderful, really!

  That first Academy Morning, Father was precise in his instruction as regarded the subject of Austin walking Vinnie and me to school. Austin greeted Father’s announcement with heavy silence. I could see he cared for the arrangement not one bit. When Austin had a mind to join his friends on some occasion, we were not to be included. This was clearly such an occasion.

  “You will walk your sisters to school,” Father repeated, following Austin’s telling silence. No one questions Father when he is firm on a matter, and so it was. We would walk to school, the three of us, in perfect safety and obedience to Father’s Word.

  After breakfast we said good-bye to Mother, who stood next to our wooden baby cradle—a poignant touch. She appeared sad. It may have been due to the occasion of all her children leaving the nest and attending such a grown-up school, but I don’t know. Mother feels many thing
s, but rarely tells. Vinnie was too young to be attending the Academy but was let in as an exception by the teacher, Caroline Dutch Hunt, an old friend of Mother’s. Father felt Vinnie would be better off with her brother and sister and not “alone” at the District School, and it was arranged.

  So there we are at the door and ready to leave straightway when Vinnie takes it upon herself to sit down. Lip aquiver, she makes her point: Roughnaps simply cannot spend the entire day without her as he has been used to her company throughout the summer, and if she leaves for school, he will not eat or drink any water, and she will not leave him to waste away and dry out during the many hours he would have to spend without her. She is convinced that when she returns, she will find him lying on his side, flat and dead, with his tongue hanging out. Snugglepoops, being older, might have a chance of surviving, but Roughnaps is sure to dry out and die.

  At this moment Roughnaps enters the hallway from the parlor and stands, orange and questioning, by the edge of the stairs—motionless—in a pose suggesting curiosity as to what is going on. Father tells Vinnie that her cats will weather her absence with no ill effects because Mother will see to it. When Mother promises to attend to Roughnaps—each and every need, Vinnie’s terror is somewhat assuaged.

  There had been rain through the night. Although the morning sky was clear as glass, the mud was deep. Our boots squoosh-squooshed as we made our way along, slowing us down considerably in our efforts to arrive at school on time.

  Across the street was our old District School. Children laughed beneath the familiar tree in front, taking no notice of our little band trudging past, as if we had never laughed beneath that selfsame tree, never been the ones to strive at recess in the field behind, as they would do some short time hence.

  Father said the walk to school would take five minutes. I was still in the dark regarding my ability to read a clock, and with no reason to doubt Father’s word on the matter, accepted the statement as fact. Nothing is far in Amherst, not scientifically at any rate. I must say, however, that the distance from Home to my new school felt Large inside, where the meanings are.

  Vinnie was quiet as we walked, no doubt wondering whether her beloved Roughnaps, the guiltless bird murderer, would survive the morning. Although he might currently be devouring an innocent sparrow, or otherwise engaged in some equally gruesome of his thoughtless pursuits, I wished the cat no serious harm. He was but an honest creature, making his way as best he could throughout this troublesome land alone, as we all must do in the end.

  The gentle hill felt steep, the mud sucking back each boot on its way up for air. And then it started, a pointless and intense topographical review, which went like this.

  “No hill here,” Vinnie announced as we began our gradual yet by all means obvious climb toward the corner.

  “There is a hill,” I argued, some little miserly voice within grabbing at my own supremacy. The moment I heard myself contesting the fictitious proclamation, I thought the better of it. Some thoughts are better left unspoken, yet it is often hard to tell which ones they are.

  Vinnie stopped, feet planted firm, mud to the top of her boots. “It’s a grade,” she said.

  I stopped, turning to face her. “It’s a hill.”

  Vinnie looked me squarely in the eye and then, at penalty of death, “It’s a grade!”

  “It’s a hill,” said Austin, coming to my defense. “It’s a hill and we have no time to argue about it.”

  “You are wrong, brother,” Vinnie said, “very wrong and very tall.”

  “What has that got to do with it?”

  No answer from Vinnie.

  “Let’s go,” said Austin. He was getting impatient.

  “No.”

  “I’m not leaving you in the street!”

  “Maybe you are.”

  “Let’s go!”

  “It’s not a hill.”

  Seeing the seriousness of our situation as regarded the possibility of tardiness on the first day of school, I reached for my most democratic self. “We are both right,” I said in as reasonable a tone as I could manage. “It is a grade and it is a slight hill.”

  “That’s true,” said Austin.

  Vinnie paused to think about it. “Emily is right and I am right.”

  “Yes,” said Austin.

  “But I am more right than she is.”

  Austin looked at me. “Can you accept that?”

  I thought for a moment. I wanted to speak the truth but also wanted to get to school on time, so I had to tell it slant. “I accept that she said it and that it’s what she believes,” I said. That did it, thank God, and we continued along our way.

  When we reached the corner, I remembered my Boltwood Lion. He used to be pictured most elegantly on a sign that hung just there, in the center of Amherst, for all my remembered life until I reached the age of seven. It was really quite amazing the way he had been painted with a human face, except for the breadth of the nose and the two dark triangle ears that pointed to the sky. He looked right at you and lay by a tree, his two front legs before him like human arms, complete with elbows. Between his paws was some meatlike thing of flesh, a scarlet surprise, and blood dripped from his jaws! The words AMHERST HOTEL took their place above—BOLT-WOOD below. The offhand way the lion held the meat, the bloody jaws and riveting gaze all conspired to capture my girlish imagination. Abby found him gruesome. None of my friends liked him one bit, but I adored him. My Boltwood Lion!—So daring, so bold, so red!

  At the corner we were joined by Helen Fiske and her younger sister, Ann, a gentle little girl. Ann is Vinnie’s age, having beaten her to the cradle by two months. Helen beat me to that place by two months as well, an orderly foursome. Ann differs from her sister most dramatically, being delicate and somewhat shy. Helen is of a hardy stamp, always ready for a wrestle. Ann had her own concerns that day as regarded her cat, Sooner, informing us that on Sunday last she herself had stopped believing in God.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “My minister told me Sooner won’t go to Heaven, so I’m not going and I stopped believing in God.”

  “Why don’t you stop believing in your minister?” I asked. It seemed the most logical choice, to me at any rate.

  My Tenth Birthday

  It was a sprightly fall. I enjoyed my new school very much indeed, it being “forward thinking,” as the term goes, in many respects. It had recently opened its doors to girls. Classes were held on all three floors of the building, the second being the one most often inhabited by Abby and myself and Vinnie and all the other “delicate flowers.” Small boys sometimes joined us there, but the larger boys were kept apart. There was one exception to this—“Speaking and Composition,” an enjoyable class held once a week on the third floor. Here both sexes assembled in a large space with an arched roof and many windows. Ladies and gentlemen together—how daring!

  Besides school, the fall offered many treasures, all set within the celebration of the trees—Mother Nature’s flaming show! There was the Ploughing Match in October, followed by that Grateful Day, Thanksgiving, with Mother’s Feast—her gentle and unnecessary fluttering, the shiny apples, the cider cake—from Mother’s personal “Bible,” The Frugal Housewife, page 71—and most wonderful of all, the laughter, Father’s included! Holidays never cease to put Father in the highest of spirits. There is a special comfort in Home that transcends all. I must include here Vinnie’s new cat, Pussy, a pliant individual whom Vinnie enjoyed draping about her shoulders like a shawl.

  Last, but by no means least, one cannot forget the inspirational and most edifying sermons delivered with admirable regularity by Reverend Colton on many varied subjects, including charity, obedience, love—unfortunately, not of the romantic kind—and redemption, a lecture to chill the blood.

  Before I knew it, it was December 10—my birthday! When I awoke, I was greeted by the most beautiful snow! It must have fallen silently throughout the night without telling a soul. Only the birds knew and the groundhogs and the sn
akes, maybe. We other upstanding Amherst citizens had been told not one word about it and missed the whole event, being far away like stones on our pillows. When I looked out the window, there it was—Snow! And the sunlight so bright I had to shut my eyes from the pain and the glory of it. A blanket of the whitest snow covered the gentle hills and slopes of the cemetery, untouched by travelers, with the exception of a feather-light line of bird tracks, the crisscross news left by an early chickadee, a tufted titmouse, or a small woodpecker. The gravestones, those patient reminders—past waiting now—quiet, with snow like rounded white caps on their heads.

  School that day was longer than I could bear, and all the while my mind on the many fine presents I was sure to receive. How greedy I am and not a bit proud of it. How unsuitable for the “best little girl in Amherst.” Abby gave me the dearest little pressed clover inside a folded paper with the words “Abby and Emily—Particular Friends.” That loving remembrance carried me through the morning.

  At home we have a custom for birthdays, which is to celebrate with the five of us alone. We never have parties with strangers roaming about. I have always enjoyed our unusual habit and wonder that others can bear the intrusiveness of lightweight connections at such important times.

  That year Mother made my favorite meal. It was a dainty chicken—not stuffed—served upright, a merry idea. The cooking is not swift as the chicken must be soaked in milk for hours and browned on the coals.

  When we finished eating, it was time for the much-anticipated gifts, and fine they were indeed—a flower press and a calico apron, just as I had hoped! Vinnie gave me several yards of embroidery thread, which was startling in its collection of the boldest colors, perfect for my new sampler. Austin gave me the most beautiful pocket handkerchief with the smallest Daisy embroidered on with a careful hand in yellow, straight from the field to my heart.

  Just as we were about to rise from the table, Father pulled a book from behind his back, having hidden it throughout the meal in an extraordinary display of inert composure. My heart raced. I took the book, holding it as if it were gold. Never had I seen a more beautiful cover! There was a dog, large as a bear, golden red, in shafts of light, with the most soulful eyes. Next to him stood a girl, the top of her head reaching just to the dog’s shoulder, and all about, red, green, orange and blue, and gold leaf to complete the event. It was the story of a small girl and an enormous dog who go from a quiet garden life to the sea, where they have many adventures. What a Large thing to do! How thrilling the first league out from land must have felt! What was the dog’s name? Thurston? Torbold? I can’t remember. Whatever his name, it don’t affect the story any. He always comes to the girl’s rescue. I longed for such a companion.