A Voice of Her Own Page 7

  There came a day late in April, when the daffodils were just up and the tulips were beginning, that I shall not forget. I arrived at Sophia’s door as usual after school. I knocked. When the door opened it was Sophia’s father. He told me I could not go into her room.

  “Why not?”

  “Her mind has left her.”

  I felt faint. “She expects me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She will wonder where I am.”

  “Her mind has left her,” her father repeated, his eyes dead, like stones.

  “Please.”

  He bent his head. Silence. In a moment he stepped back, admitting me into the hallway, then closed the door. I could feel my heart beating in my throat. “I will get the doctor,” he said, and left me alone.

  Soon the doctor was in the hallway, his collar open and no jacket and looking tired himself. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I tried to breathe.

  “She must die.”

  My breath stopped and my heart—and Time. Then the thunder in my chest—a heart asked to accept the unacceptable—and still no breath, hundreds of tiny bells in my ears—crickets gone mad—hot and cold at once, and beads of sweat.

  The voice came from my deepest part. “I must see her!”

  The doctor knew it was true, that I must, that it would be my last chance to gaze upon my friend. He nodded. I climbed the stairs to her room on legs not wholly there. I stopped on the landing, Dickens at my heart, a palm’s sweat about the leather, the doctor behind me and his words. “You may look in.”

  The door was partway open.

  I bent down.

  Dickens on the floor.

  I took off my shoes, picked up the book and entered the room. The carpet was soft under my feet as I walked into the quiet before Death. I stopped at the bed.

  Sophia.

  She looked so beautiful, her golden hair—spun by Angels—her face lit from within. And a smile! Unearthly beauty!

  Are you there?

  I could not tell. There some, yet gone too. I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. It was cold. Minutes passed. The doctor’s voice came from the end of a tunnel. “You must leave now.”

  No!

  “It is time.”

  I felt him take my arm.

  No!

  I let him lead me away.

  When I saw her in the coffin she was not there. It was only her body, nothing more. I could not call her back. A terrible stillness was over me. Nothing moved. I shed no tear. To weep would be a break too wide. A space so large would lose my Self, and would I have a mind again?

  That night I experienced a fixed melancholy. Father told me I would be well in time. Mother told me the same and yet I did not believe them. How kind they are, I thought, how caring, but they don’t know how I feel—Leaden, now and forever. It was I who had Reason. Others did not. Reason told me Life was blank, a temporary show of Pain, nothing more. All was foolish and I apart and still.

  Mother brought me tea in a china cup. I had liked the cup in times past, white with trees and houses in muted tones, but now the thought of touching my lips to its narrow rim frightened me. Mother’s hand was shaking. She wanted me to raise my head to accept the nourishment, but I could not. The cup was too thin, the saucer as well. It could break. I wanted the strong about me, but the strong was nowhere and so I sent my mother away.

  Soon Father was in my room with his “cold box,” ministering to me. I had no outward sign of illness, but a tiredness so great that I could do nothing but sleep. A boulder had been set upon me and all my limbs tied down. After Father left I slept for several days. When I began to move about the room, Father made his decision. I would go to Boston. A stay with loving relatives would restore both health and spirits. I did not care to go, but as Father thought it best, I agreed.

  Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Loring were most kind, making an effort to include me in all their activities and to keep things gay. I went along, a lonely apparition. I could have been anywhere, watching others do things and wondering why. After some time there were moments when I was not haunted by the vision of Sophia’s narrow form in the iron bed, not seeing her sunlight hair, damp across the pillow, or her dead body alone in the wooden box. One afternoon I found myself admiring a slice of Aunt Lavinia’s pie. At night I found myself watching the first star, finding it noble. That scared me most. I felt I was accepting the unacceptable—Death, Disease, Decay. I must protest! But I was letting go. I was losing—Lost.

  Every day there were letters from Home. Even Mother wrote to me! Hearing from her pleased me very much indeed, especially knowing how rarely she lifted the pen. Can mother and daughter be so different?

  Father’s letters were edifying in all respects. I must be good and not cause any trouble and not let my feet get wet. Most importantly I should be careful getting in and out of carriages. I must be seated before the carriage moved so as not to be thrown to ground and crushed. That seemed wise.

  When visiting in nearby Worcester, Father forwarded a puzzling proposal. I must be sure to visit the Lunatic Asylum. Perhaps he felt that seeing all the poor tormented souls would be refreshing in some way. As it turned out, I passed the sorry place but did not go in. Thank God for small favors! All in all, the trip improved my spirits some. Once again Life held moments of sense, a welcome state of affairs.

  Have You Ever Seen a Naked Boy?

  Upon my return, Austin was caught up in efforts to produce large eggs. Well, not Austin himself, rather it was Austin’s hens did it. Austin was the supervisor. He measured each egg, keeping a little book in which he noted the dimensions, then proceeded to increase the size of future eggs by feed, temperature, dampness of the coop and amount of sun. He achieved some fine results. It was good to be in the bosom of my family, where all was safe. Life was almost straight.

  I found myself to be tired, by reason of travel I supposed and the shock of recently having met Death face-to-face for the first time. I rested some days before returning to school. When I did return, I was in for a Large surprise.

  Wednesday afternoon. Amherst Academy. Third Floor. Abby was at home and sick, as I had been. It was my first well day. As I had not been to school in some time, the presence of so many young men and girls in the small space caused considerable discomfort. I sat, straight backed upon the bench, attempting a deeper breathing. In, out, in, out, I instructed myself, but found no comfort in the matter. And then, ascending the stairs she came, a girl with composure so remarkable as to be etched in my heart forever, and her hair crowned with dandelions!

  I watched her take a seat, so sure, so lovely. I could barely wait until the compositions had been read to approach her. The scramble of the other students leaving was in full force, yet she sat, calmly looking about the room. I wondered at the lack of embarrassment in one new to a school, and all about so many unknown teachers, young men and girls, going about their hurried ways. I would not have been so calm.

  “Hello,” I said, approaching with unconcealed eagerness.

  “Hello.”

  “My name is Emily.”

  “I’m Abiah.”

  “A lovely name.”

  “Abiah Palmer Root.”

  “Emily Elizabeth Dickinson.” How formal we sounded! I sat next to her on the bench. “Welcome to the Academy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How do you like it so far?”

  “It seems nice.”

  “It is! And nicer for your arrival.”

  “Thank you.”

  The room was empty now and just us two upon the bench. “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “Feeding Hills.”

  “Another fine name.”

  “Don’t you love words?”

  My heart skipped a beat. “I sometimes think they are my best friends.”

  “I enjoy them so much,” she said. “I am writing a novel.” Well, that did it! I could not have been more impressed had she said she was climbing Mount Everest! “A roma
nce novel, no less!” she concluded.

  “How daring! Is it shocking and enjoyable?”

  “I hope so.”

  I thought of my poems, but did not consider sharing the news of their existence as it was not yet time. My secret had to be alone and grow.

  Abiah quickly joined our special group of friends. With Sophia gone and Jennie home to Southwick, our special group consisted of me, Abby, Harriet Merrill and another girl, Sarah Tracy, who stayed in Amherst for school only. Now add Abiah! We formed a circle of five, known as the Magic Circle.

  I think this time marked a new and deepening importance of my friends in my life. I had always enjoyed them, but that summer when I was thirteen they occupied so large a portion of my mind and heart as to nearly crowd out my family’s central position. Not really, but almost. We had fine and secret times. Life was once again catching my interest, a fact that pleased me, while at the same time it caused me concern as I felt Sophia slipping away. Death is too Large a thing to comprehend. I don’t believe I will ever understand it.

  Two of Vinnie’s cats died in the fall. She was awfully upset about it. I tried to soothe her mind, but with little success. Tiger Boy and a new kitten named Tom-Tom made up the sorry lot. It must have been a sickness started with one and the other caught it. There was, however, another new kitten by the name of Noopsie Possum that despite being very sick did not die. Sickness and Death are everywhere and yet Father Time marches on. It seems disrespectful the way he disregards Death, keeping apace as if all were well and no one gone forever! Then he goes and brings some new joy so grand as to be forgiven for his random trampling of our human feelings.

  My joys were large that fall. I was doing very well on the piano. I mastered some new and difficult pieces, including “Wood Up” and “Weep No More.” As I wanted to improve my voice, on Sabbath eves I attended Mr. Woodman’s Singing School. I also made Father an attractive pair of slippers.

  Afternoons Abby and Abiah and I would sit beneath the Elm and talk, often starting with Books—Great Expectations, Shakespeare’s Hamlet and forward from there. We could go on “until the cows came home,” a phrase Mother liked but I never understood, as in my experience cows come early to the barn each evening to be milked.

  One October day—it was warm like summer—when Abby had gone on a trip, Abiah and I sat by that handsome tree, our skirts spread out on the grass like girls in a French portrait. Father had just given an illuminating presentation at the Cattle Show entitled “The Report on Horses.” One would have expected the report to be about cows, but it was not. I explained to ’Biah, as I often called her, that Father doesn’t care for horses and doesn’t know much about them and we laughed at how those small points did not deter him from giving his lecture. How glorious to laugh and all the dry, blazing leaves about us, orange, yellow, red and gold—nature’s explosion of fire in the color line!

  We are on our backs in the starched leaves and gazing at the sky. I watch a black-capped chickadee nearing the woods. I wonder what she will do when she gets there and whether she has a plan.

  What mystery propels her weightless form?

  “I have news of interest,” says Abiah.

  I am pulled from my reverie.

  “Harriet said that Sarah held hands with Jeremiah at Watkins Mill.”

  “How exciting!”

  “I told you it was!”

  “You said it was interesting.”

  “Well, that’s what I meant—interesting, exciting.”

  “They’re not the same.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not if you don’t say it.”

  “You carry this word passion too far.”

  “I don’t believe a passion can be carried too far. The point of a passion, as one would expect you to know, being the author of a romance novel, is that it has no end.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “To be sure!”

  Abiah returns to her original subject. “Jeremiah is nothing if not handsome,” she says. “I myself would not object to holding his hand.”

  “And what of your Beau Ideal D.?” He was ’Biah’s favorite boy. She spoke of him in codes—and I sworn to secrecy. “Did he say hello?” I ask.

  ’Biah smooths her skirt. “He did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “A bit late, wouldn’t you say?”

  “A girl must have some secrets!”

  “Not from her special friend!”

  ’Biah is thoughtful. “Have you ever seen a naked boy?”

  “What?” Her comment has me quite beflown.

  “You heard me!”

  “Have I ever seen a naked boy?”

  “That was my question.”

  “No! Have you?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Which one?”

  “My aunt’s boy.”

  “He’s only two,” I say. “That doesn’t count!”

  “That’s true,” ’Biah agrees. “It should be a boy our age.”

  “Or older.”

  “So you never have.”

  “What?”

  “Seen a naked boy.”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  “But I would like to.”

  “Emily!” she screams, shocked to the very core.

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “You would!”

  “No!”

  “Where is your sense of adventure?”

  We laugh. We roll on the grass, the dried leaves crisp beneath our backs. Later we talk seriously about the subject, deciding we would like to see a naked boy, but only if we could be invisible at the time.

  Stain of Death and My First Bible

  It was a Scarlet time. I was nearly fourteen and wondering and all alone. Why Mother did not warn me I shall never understand. It would have been simple to explain the monthly shame of all women, of old maids and grandmothers, mothers and girls. Yes, girls! The fright can be very great when a terrible bleeding comes and one assumes it to be the mark of Death!

  I was the first of our Magic Circle to see Blood coming from that secret place between my legs. No one had spoken of it to me, not Abby, not ’Biah—not any! As it turned out, I was the first to tell them about it, but not until after much distress to myself.

  November. A late-afternoon walk from town and already dark. I, alone, with only the light of the Moon to guide me. I am just along the brief strip of pavement where the shops have recently locked their doors for the evening. I plan to conjugate some Latin verbs upon my return home. The assignment being due the following morning, I feel it best. “Amo, amas, amat,” I say to the wind, swift in its rustling journey through the leaves of the trees along my path. “I love, you love, he loves—she loves!”

  I feel a wetness between my legs.

  What is that?

  I can make no ladylike inquiry into the matter in my present circumstance and so on I go, crossing the road at Main Street, down Pleasant Street toward home. Now I feel wetness to the knee. My heart beats a faster time. It’s cold, the wetness freezing my legs and my heart as well.

  What is that?

  I am home now. I hand Mother whatever package I have retrieved from the village. I cannot remember what. I go upstairs to my room. Vinnie is not there.

  Alone, thank God.

  I check beneath my skirt and there it is—Blood! Red! Scarlet red and down to my knees! My beating heart picks up its pace and I about to faint from the shock of it. I know where it comes from. No surprise when investigation proves its point.

  I am dying.

  That night my appetite is gone. I tell Mother I am tired. I want to sleep. She puts a hand to my head. “No fever,” she says.

  I want to tell her about the Blood, but I don’t want to worry her. Perhaps it will stop and never come again. Perhaps I can spare her concern. At the very least I can postpone the torment of her having to care for a dying child.
I say nothing more, return to bed, but find it hard to sleep. My heart is beating fast.

  What will I do with my bloody underclothes? And the stains on my dress!?

  I had taken off my dress, changing it for another. This had brought about inquiry from Mother. I remember the words. “Where is your calico, Emily?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Mother quotes The Frugal Housewife—“Hints to Persons of Moderate Fortune,” page 89. “Don’t be wasteful,” Mother says. “Wear each dress until it needs a washing. Your calico has just been done.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hurrying up the stairs. Into bed. A rag between my legs lest more Scarlet and more—and Blood with no end.

  The bleeding subsides that night, but I do not trust the quick end to impending Death. When two days or three pass without a return to terror, I decide to tell Mother. I am well. She will be reassured. I am in possession of Scarlet underclothes and a dress with pink stains. These will need explanation. I must speak before they can be laundered.

  When I tell Mother about the Blood she says I had the “monthly time of illness” and that until I am very old, or dead, I will have it, as all women do. I am reassured not to be dying but wish she could have found it in her heart to spare me the awesome concern by telling me before. I make up my mind straightway to tell Vinnie and Abby and Abiah and all my girl friends about it so that they be spared my terror. It seems to me that the most private thoughts and feelings a person can have are the ones most often shared by others. It is a sorry state of affairs that one puts up the bars when the best thing would be for those same bars to fall. One sets oneself apart when what one needs most is to know that one is not alone.

  My thoughts, that fall, sometimes found themselves in my most private place, that land between my legs, where thoughts are not to go. But go there they did. I was witness to changes I did not care for. First, I did not like the Blood. Bleeding from that place every month without a shred of warning as to the time of day, or the day itself, is not pleasant. Oh, it was exciting to be joining the ranks of womanhood, but inconvenient and not without concern. What if one began the Scarlet Flow at school during Mental Philosophy, or Geology, or, worse yet, while delivering a recitation? I did not care for the changes “down there” in other respects. I had always considered that private sanctuary to be a dainty object, suitable for a girl, simple in its design. Then hair began to grow! This concerned me as it destroyed the gentle smoothness I had come to expect. It was no longer pretty—a sorry surprise!