Afternoons with Emily (28 page)

At our only meeting, I had been impressed with his easy, confident manner — his total lack of self-consciousness. Therefore,
I had been astonished when I read that he was as uncertain as I was about fitting in with his friends at home.

No one in Lake Forest reads — that is, no one my age. We ride and swim and skate — and that’s what we talk about. So I hide
my books — and the fact that I love school, and always have! Most of the time I feel as if I were going about in disguise,
hiding what I’m really like. Have you ever felt this way?

“All the time!” I answered him. “I talked more about important things with you — the evening you came to supper — than I had
in all my time with my academy friends. Let’s never wear masks with each other.”

Father was right: living up to Davy’s letters had taught me a lot about good writing. When he wanted to hear my happiest memory
(Learner’s Cove) or my most fearful experience (almost losing my foot), then I related it clearly and chronologically.

Davy wrote as easily as he spoke. His letters were vivid, witty, and completely original; no one else could think or write
as he did. He was back in Illinois now, reading and playing in Lake Michigan — and thinking about me. He planned to teach
his little stepsister to swim, and I had written him a sort of primer of steps to follow. Because I loved Ovid, Davy was doing
his own translation of
Metamorphoses.
He was going to start reading Browning on my advice, and I planned to try Wordsworth on his. I knew that the summer would
pass, autumn would come, and Davy would soon be back in Amherst, attending college less than a mile away.

This was to have been the summer we returned to Barbados. We had made our plans and arranged our passage, but then Dr. Hugh
had a sudden and serious return of consumption, his old enemy. We decided not to intrude on Miss Adelaide at such a time.
We tried not to feel alarmed, though it was clear that Father realized he might never see his dear friend again.

Then another letter from Miss Adelaide brought the news I had nearly guessed two Junes ago. Lettie’s Elijah had married another
girl, Susannah, after we left — and Lettie had had a little daughter that same Christmas. She named the baby for me, but she
called her “Mira.” I imagined Miss Adelaide had waited until she deemed me old enough to accept Lettie’s circumstances without
needing too much explanation. An unmarried woman having a child with a man who chose another wife would have required a great
deal of explanation for the sheltered thirteen-year-old girl I had been. My letters to Miss Adelaide in these intervening
years must have provided her with the evidence that I was mature enough for this delicate information. I wished only that
Lettie herself had told me the reason for her cold withdrawal two years ago, but I understood everything now.

This year, I won the Latin and geography prizes at the academy at term’s end, and Mrs. Austin invited me for an afternoon
visit to celebrate. I took her an armful of Aunt Helen’s crimson and purple anemones. She had admired my flowers at the wedding
and asked if I would do an arrangement for her newly Turkish music room.

My hostess produced the perfect container: a deep-blue enamel bowl with gold stars, exotic and opulent. I could see Mrs. Austin’s
quick mind following me as I worked, and I sensed that flower arranging would be her newest society talent. This observation
would amuse Miss Adelaide when I wrote next.

“Now you must bring me up to date on Emily’s poems,” she demanded as we sipped our syllabub.

“Have you seen any new ones, Mrs. Austin?” I asked. “Emily hasn’t shown me any lately.”

“Indeed I have! I don’t see Emily herself, but I receive poems from her almost every week. I can tell the organizing with
you did wonders for her. Even when we were girls, Emily was always better at starting a new project than completing an old
one!”

This made me curious. “How do all the poems reach you? She told me she would never leave her father’s land again. She said
this very finally.”

“When she needs to, she calls down to the minister’s little children from her window and pays them with gingerbread to take
her messages. She has a little basket she lowers down with her notes and the cake. She sends poems to several neighbors too
and letters of condolence when needed. Emily is always up to date on Amherst news, you’ll find.”

Mrs. Austin sighed. “I do wish she would really
commit
herself to poetry, Miranda. Emily has cut so much out of her life; there’s not a great deal left for that ferocious mind
to
gnaw
on. If she would only publish! It would be an outlet, a goal — and she has so few
aims
now.”

“She does plan to publish eventually, Mrs. Austin,” I assured her. “She intends to submit her poems to some important literary
person for criticism. She calls this ‘surgery.’ She truly dreads it.”

“But publishing needn’t be painful,” Mrs. Austin said, her frustration clear. “We know a thousand people who could make this
easy. They would help her, advise her, steer her to editors and magazines — make her an
overnight sensation!
If she would only come to one of our literary evenings again — but she’s stayed away for years.”

I was startled. “Emily told me she has never been inside The Evergreens.”

Mrs. Austin looked perplexed. “My dear child, she was a
regular;
she lapped up my evenings! All the guests admired her wit; she was a little queen! Once, she stayed past one in the morning,
and Squire Dickinson himself came to The Evergreens to drag her home.”

She saw my distress at hearing this and took my hand. “Miranda, you must always remember that Emily never lies, as you and
I understand lying. She rearranges fact to suit her better — into a reality she prefers. Then she believes it herself,
utterly.
”

I tried hard to understand, not to feel hurt by Emily’s fabrications.

“Remember that Emily always tells her own truth,” Mrs. Austin continued. “Not ours.” In spite of her fashionable gray organdy,
her jet jewelry, her modish ringlets, Mrs. Austin looked worn. Being a Dickinson must be a complicated business.

“I think I understand,” I told her, piecing Emily’s strangeness together. “When we lived on Beacon Hill, we had a few windowpanes
that were a lovely pale violet. Someone had made a chemical mistake in the glass.”

I could feel Mrs. Austin’s gaze, waiting patiently for me to make my observation clear to her.

“I used to love looking through those windows. It was exactly the same view of Mount Vernon Street — only lavender! Isn’t
that how Emily changes things? Even though she is looking through the same window that we do.”

Mrs. Austin nodded thoughtfully. “You are a wise young girl, Miranda. When we first talked, you were just a square, shy little
thing. Are you sixteen yet?”

“I will be this fall.”

“Do you know what Austin said at Kate’s wedding? He told me, ‘I knew Miranda would be a beauty, but not this soon!’ ” She
placed her glass of syllabub on the side table and gave me an appraising look. “He’s right. You have blossomed. But it’s something
more than that. And you look as if something has changed, something has happened. Has it?”

I nodded, but I wouldn’t say more — not to her, not to anyone. Not while I was still trying to understand the changes in myself.

“Have a good summer, my dear. And don’t forget what a valuable friend you have been to our family. The Dickinsons always acknowledge
their debts!”

As the hot days stretched on, suspended in summer, I felt embraced in a drowsy interlude between two stages of my life. My
childhood was over; my years as a young woman were almost under way. I found I was restless, aimless, bored without school.
I even missed Lolly. Her previous pique over my resistance to her orders had vanished as quickly as it had appeared; we had
finished the term amicably. But she and her family had gone to the shore to visit her married brother, and without her as
the social linchpin, the rest of the “set” scattered.

I still visited Emily almost every week, but now I spent the whole afternoon at The Homestead. Gradually, the gap between
us narrowed. She stayed her same unique age, whatever it was, but I was gaining on her.

I took the cars to Springfield every two weeks or so during the summer to spend a night or two with the Howlands. I loved
having Kate so close, so easy to reach. Aunt Helen visited often as well, which softened the blow of Kate’s departure. Kate
had settled into her little house, among her wedding presents and Aunt Helen’s furniture.

I helped her paint the kitchen pale yellow; then we dug a vegetable garden together. The tiny apple trees that bloomed for
her wedding were promising real fruit by autumn.

“I never knew I could hold so much happiness,” Kate told me. “I’m afraid it will spill! I wake up knowing I have a whole lifetime
ahead — years and years to love Ethan and be with him.”

Kate practiced two hours every morning and often sang for Ethan after dinner. They were planning a musical soiree for September.
Kate had been engaged as a soloist in the Presbyterian church and was learning new music for the services. I warmed my hands
at her joy.

July vanished, August lumbered along; Amherst was a dusty green sameness, and I longed for the clarity and brilliance of autumn.
My Greek studies were not enough to quench my restlessness, nor could books calm my ardor. I imagined I was a lady shut up
in a tower until autumn came, when my knight would return from afar and release me from this exquisite torrent of new feeling.

The Austin Dickinsons had seen what the others had not. I had crossed a threshold; I had fallen in love.

AMHERST

1859–1861

S
eptember approached, and I grew uneasy about Davy’s return. Although we had exchanged many letters, we had met face-to-face
only that one evening. Did I imagine our extraordinary harmony? I felt as Emily must, preferring to keep a man at arm’s length
rather than to confront his male reality. I considered confiding in Kate, even in Lolly, who had more experience with beaux
than I, but finally decided to brave Davy’s upcoming return on my own. I found myself sleepless some nights, and I wrote drafts
of letters to him confessing my fears, none of which survived the next morning’s breakfast fire.

Then Davy arrived unannounced a week early — “to buy my books and make friends with the library!” — and when he called, we
chattered like old friends reunited. All my nerves had been unwarranted. We had learned so much about each other from our
letters that unease was impossible. I was secretly pleased that Father was out when Davy came to call. I didn’t want to share
this time of becoming reacquainted with Davy with anyone, and I knew Father would entice his new student into his study and
regale him with tales of Aristophanes. Aunt Helen, after helping me with a tray of lemonade and ginger biscuits, left us alone
in the front parlor.

“I love the color you turn in summer.” Davy smiled.

I wondered what color I’d become now as I flushed with pleasure at the compliment. I studied his handsome face, enjoying his
open smile, his smooth forehead, his resonant voice. I watched his hand reach for a glass of lemonade, admiring those elegant
fingers. He was exactly as I had remembered him; I hoped I was living up to his own memories of me.

“I’ll bring my Ovid next time,” he suggested. “Is four thirty all right, on weekdays?”

“Four thirty would be fine,” I replied. I took a sip of lemonade. “Except Mondays, of course, when I visit Emily.”

Davy nodded. “Yes, ‘the myth.’ Your letters made her sound fascinating.”

“Did they?” I wondered what interested Davy, what details had caught his attention. Then I had the unworthy concern that Emily
was more fascinating than I. I pushed the anxiety aside to concentrate on my guest.

“Amherst is a lovely town,” Davy said, standing. He crossed to the large windows and gazed out. “It will be a pleasure to
live here.” He turned to face me. “I’m going to find a place on the river where we can swim next spring.”

Next spring? I realized then that Davy was not concerned about next week only; he was planning our whole year — and perhaps
even beyond that.

Aunt Helen returned to the parlor “to retrieve the tray,” but both Davy and I knew it was her subtle way to suggest our visit
come to an end. On leaving, Davy took my hand and repeated what he had written at the close of every letter: “I intend to
be a part of your life.”

The door closed behind him. I spun around and leaned against it, needing the solid wood to hold me up. Crossing my arms over
my chest, I took in a deep breath. Life is about to become very different, I realized. I was eager to face those changes.

I spent an afternoon with Emily before the academy opened, and I was flattered to learn that she had given a great deal of
thought to my last two years of school.

“You must use this time to the fullest, Miranda,” she advised. “It comes only once. My years at the academy were the CREAM
of my life and the only mental training I ever had. You must not waste a second!”

“I promise,” I vowed solemnly, barely hiding my amusement at her intensity. “I will use my time wisely.”

“I’m serious,” she protested, but with a smile. “Now — I have decided you must drop geography and botany, which you can pursue
on your own. You must take as much Greek and Latin as you can, and history — you should be SATURATED in history. And take
every course there is in grammar and USAGE, in order to speak the language of the greatest minds, the greatest men.”

I was touched that she was so concerned about my studies. “Emily, I truly value your interest.” I tucked my feet under me,
curling up on the settee. “Who were your best teachers?” I was curious about what Emily found valuable, now that she had some
distance from her school days.

“Professor Hitchcock,” she responded without hesitation. “The greatest natural scientist of his day — and a president of the
college.”