Miss Emily (8 page)

“She is my mistress. There's not much need for understanding between us.”

I wish that Mother would have a care, and Austin, too; what need has he to march over from his house to ours? Ada executes her work with grace and efficiency. She is stronger than Margaret O'Brien ever was, being ripe and flushed with energy. Mother should be more appreciative, more thoughtful toward Ada; she knows how arduous the work of the entire house can be. It is a lot to expect, but sometimes I wish Mother would
think
more. Her mind is not as elastic as it should be, as it
could
be—if she bothered to stretch herself. It is a sorry thought, but the act of thinking seems to be one that evades my mother most days.

I scrape the meat from two coconuts and measure out the sugar, flour and butter. Ada helps me to separate the eggs; their yolks are bright as marigolds. She is subdued, and I fear that Mother's chiding has injured her.

“Ada, Mother suffers at times with neuralgia. You mustn't think that she is angry with you. Her head hurts wildly, and that makes her temper short.”

She lifts her blue eyes to mine. “It's not that, miss. My Auntie Mary seems very down in herself. She didn't get out of the bed the
last few mornings, and it's not like her at all. She normally jigs around the place. She loves to be busy.”

“Has the doctor been called?”

“She won't hear of it, miss, and that is what is worrying Uncle Michael and me.”

“Mrs. Maher—that is, Ada's aunt—is not well, Father.”

He removes his spectacles and looks up from his papers. “And you mean to fix her with cake, Emily, and I am to be its messenger.”

“No, Father. I think she needs to see Dr. Brewster. She has not as yet seen a physician.”

“Illness should never be ignored.” Father lays down his pen. “I will see that Brewster visits Kelley Square today.”

I knew that Father, the chief guardian of health, would not let me down. I go to the garden and drag it for winter roses. I give them to Ada for her aunt with my kindest regards.

“Your countryman Moore wrote of the last rose of summer,” I say. “These blooms are that rose's children.” Ada drops her nose into their pink heads and thanks me. Her heart lies so exposed; I can see that she is immensely touched by the flowers. “Give my very best to Mrs. Maher.”

“Will you not come over and see my aunt yourself, miss?”

“I will come soon, Ada,” I tell her, knowing as I say it that I am uttering a lie.

But how can I explain that each time I get to the threshold, my need for seclusion stops me? The quarantine of my room—its peace and the words I conjure there—call me back from the doorway. Ada could not truly appreciate that the pull on me of
words, and the retreat needed to write them, is stronger than the pull of people. Yes, words summon me to the sacramental, un-sullied place where my roaming is not halted or harnessed by others. My mind and heart are only free in solitude, and there I must dwell. I take her hands in mine and wish her Godspeed and her aunt a full and hasty recovery.

Miss Ada Is Laid Low by Grief

E
VERYTHING HAS LOST ITS SHINE, AND MY HEART IS DOWN ON
the floor. Auntie Mary is dead, and what useful thing can be said about it? One day she is sitting in the Amherst House eating a fine dinner with me; a week later she is laid out to be waked in the parlor of the house she loved so well. She lies below with two pennies on her eyes that she brought all the way from Tipperary for the purpose.

I don't own a black dress, but Miss Emily has fashioned silk mourning ribbons to pin to my red merino, and she lends me her pendant of basalt and gold to wear at my throat. She comes from the Homestead to Kelley Square to help me get ready, though I know it pains her to leave the house.

“I can't believe Auntie Mary is gone,” I say, looking out at the train tracks from my bedroom window, which now feels like the bleakest spot in the world. “There's something so very sad about dying far from the place you were born. To not be buried from the church you were baptized in. It's like Auntie's life went in a line, not a circle, as it should have.”

Miss Emily fastens the clasp of the mourning pendant at my neck. “Angels have borne your Aunt to that country in the white sky, of which we know little,” she says.

“But where is she really, miss? That's the question that rattles in my head. Where is the whole of my Auntie Mary gone, the ins and outs of her?”

“I cannot say. But the birds keep singing, Ada, and perhaps that is the hardest thing.”

“Yes, they do keep singing. And Auntie Mary would have approved of that.”

We go down, and Miss Emily stands with me at the coffin. I squeeze her hand.

“Auntie Mary talked less in the last week, as if words didn't matter anymore. I should have known she was getting ready to leave us altogether.”

“Death comes stealthily, Ada. He doesn't wish that we catch him in the act.” She sighs. “You will grieve, Ada, and sometime soon will come a new beginning in your grief, and it will be like a bloodletting. Then, only then, shall you go on again with grace.”

I nod and think about what she says; I have not had to deal much with family death, and it fills me with a great loneliness for my own people, my own place. The parlor hums softly with the noise and warmth of all who have gathered. Daniel Byrne stands by the wall, and when he sees me look at him, he half raises his hand and knots his brow. But it's a well-meant frown, I know that. I smile, though my cheeks are stiff, making it hurt a little to do so.

Mrs. Sweetser has sent her girl to make the tea and serve it, so that I won't have to do it myself, or my cousin Annie either. I am sure Miss Emily is behind that, and it unburdens my heart to think of her kindness. She takes her leave after a short stay.

Uncle Michael, Annie and I stand over Auntie Mary, keeping watch until my cousin Maggie, who has yet to come from Connecticut, arrives. Uncle won't close the coffin until she gets here.
The boys will not come from California; Uncle has written to them but his letter will not have reached them yet, of course.

Some of Annie's children run and trip about the house—it is just another day to them, and so it should be—but Uncle finds their noise distressing. He throws sharp glances at them, and more than once he covers his ears with his palms. Daniel Byrne sees this and takes the children in hand, bustling them out onto the street. I am grateful to him, as is Cousin Annie, though she would not stoop to thank him. I link Uncle Michael's arm to continue our vigil by Auntie.

“She is looking her best,” I say. “Her own gentle self is to be seen on her face.”

“My heart is in smithereens, Ada. I miss her,” Uncle Michael says. “She's still here, and I miss her.”

I press my hand to his arm and gaze on Auntie. She is quiet and gathered, free now from the pain the doctor said she must have endured a long time. Poor Auntie Mary. She called for my mammy—her darling Ellen—at the end.

“Ellen,” she said. “Ellen,
a leana,
will we go now? I feel I am ready to go.”

And poor Mammy, three thousand miles away in Tigoora, doesn't even know yet that her sister is gone.

The house empties out, apart from some of the Tipperary people who will keep Uncle Michael company long into the night. I go in search of Daniel Byrne. I find him, still outside with the children, tossing a ball. He cups his hands around the hands of the littlest ones, to show them how better to catch. They do well under his guidance, whooping when they make a success of it. His patience with them touches me.

“Daniel.”

The children scatter, and Daniel comes to me. “Ada, how are you now?”

“I'm grand, I suppose.”

“What words of comfort can I offer? It's a sad thing to lose one so dear.”

He holds out his hand, and I take it, surprised to find it is hot when he has been in the cool air for such a long spell. His hand is large around mine; he presses the skin of my palm with his fingers, and there is immense comfort in his touch.

“Thank you for taking the children out. Their noise was upsetting my uncle.”

“I could see that.”

Daniel pulls me toward him. “I'm fond of you, Ada. I hope you know that.”

It is strange to stand so close to a man, though with Daniel it feels natural and good. But my insides are tumbled up, too, with grief and weariness, and I am afraid to look into his face. I finally manage to lift my eyes to his. I nod, thank him again and, pulling my hand from his, I go back into the house.

I am taking out the slops while the Dickinsons eat their breakfast. The smell of the frying meat and potatoes made me feel sick a while ago, and now the stink from the chamber pots is doing the same. My stomach has been a strange, churning pit since Auntie Mary left us. I sit on the stairs to gather myself. So quickly do I have to leap up when I hear footsteps coming toward me that I nearly spill the contents of the pots down my apron. Mrs. Dickinson is upon me before I am properly standing.

“Begging your pardon, ma'am, I came over a bit queer, that's all.”

“No matter, Ada. I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Maher. I trust yesterday's funeral was a success.”

“It was, ma'am.”

“The years dull the knife of a pain that stabs.”

She brushes past me, on up the staircase, and I stand there like an abandoned infant, tears plopping into the chamber pot and the smell from it making my throat close off. I nearly wish they wouldn't be kind and would just let me get on with my work. Every gentle word and sympathetic look from them has me blubbing like a gossoon no matter how hard I push against it.