Afternoons with Emily (42 page)

Then her pretty round face withered and crumpled, and she crossed the kitchen to hold me against her bosom.

“Miranda, child, that party was eight days ago. Of course, we didn’t have one —” And Aunt Helen caught me as I remembered,
and I fell.

AMHERST AND SPRINGFIELD

1864

F
or several weeks I had appalling blanks, strange voids in time. I sat in my room, staring into space, unaware of how much
time might have passed. Dusk would fall and I never noticed that my room had grown dark.

One day a letter from Davy arrived. I knew it was posthumous, yet I ran upstairs to Kate’s old room to tell her the news.
I sat in her room for an hour, unable to make myself open the letter. I do not remember that I ever read it. Often I woke
at night during a winter storm, hearing the torrent of wild wind outside. At those times I thought I was a little girl again,
half asleep at York Stairs, listening to the surf beating on the eastern beaches. I could almost feel the breakers, mounting,
rearing, and cresting for seconds — before booming into foam. Like flotsam I was caught in the grisly undertow.

On New Year’s Day 1864, Father slipped a note under my bedroom door, asking me to see him in his study. I dressed and went
downstairs, and found him sitting at his worktable with a big manila folder before him. The pale afternoon sun illuminated
his expression, both sorrowful and resolute.

He cleared his throat. “Miranda, dear daughter, we must begin your future today,” he declared formally. “The Greeks, who were
wiser than we are in spiritual matters, believed in total mourning for a fixed time — and then a ritual and symbolic closing
to the period of grief and withdrawal.

“This day that begins the New Year is a fitting day for you to end your first stage of mourning. A traditional way to do this
is to acknowledge these messages from other people who loved Davy.” He handed me the folder of letters.

There were scores of them. Dear Miss Adelaide, the faithful Harnetts, my own friends and teachers, Emily, of course, and my
neighbors and classmates had written — and so had Davy’s. I had not realized what a large acquaintance we had between us —
but of course Davy was not a person you could overlook or forget.

“I want to be with you while you answer these,” Father told me. “You need one sympathetic and harmonious presence; I would
like to be that person. Nothing can change the fact that Davy is gone, but these letters will help you begin to move forward.”

I saw that he had a table ready for me, laden with boxes of black-bordered writing paper. I sat down to work. I began slowly,
cautiously, braced for torrents of feeling, or worse, an increasing despair. I experienced neither. Gradually I found myself
engrossed in the task in a way that allowed me to think about Davy without soaring pain.

Seated at his familiar spot behind his desk, Father was an inextricable component of the process. Sometimes I read him a phrase
someone had written or he gave me a line from a colleague’s translation he was correcting. We drank China tea and shared his
apple-wood fire. His presence at this time reminded me of our old York Stairs days, where I was his amanuensis, as he was
now mine.

I heard from many of the college faculty, even President Stearns, still suffering from the loss of his son. “Our college will
be darker without his bright spirit,” he said. I liked that.

The letters from Davy’s fellow officers in Battery B were of two kinds: Some of the men knew him from a Lake Forest childhood
and recalled a sunny companion, laughing and carefree. The other letters were from wartime friends and described someone sterner:
a leader, brave and high-minded. This was a Davy I had only recently met and had just begun to know.

“He was simply better than we were,” one wrote me. “He was made of finer stuff.”

Emily had sent me a poem; I could not judge it. Perhaps I would in the future.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading — treading — till it seemed

That Sense was breaking through —

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum —

Kept beating — beating — till I thought

My Mind was going numb —

And then I heard them lift a Box

And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space — began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and Silence, some strange Race

Wrecked, solitary, here —

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down —

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing — then —

Was she “trying on” emotion again? Or was this genuine? The final lines ignited a brief spark of recognition in me. I put
it aside to read again later and thanked her for her thoughts at this time.

Mr. Harnett wrote: “I grieve for you and with you, and I know that some part of you expected this. Now that it’s happened,
it will be necessary for you to re-create yourself and redirect your life — albeit a very different life — incorporating and
using Davy’s love for you. You will find me at your side to help you in any way I can.”

And from Miss Adelaide: “Oh, Miranda, I should be with you! I am haunted by the picture of your grieving without me. Perhaps
you will take small comfort in knowing that you are not alone in this grief: all over our two tragic countries, you have a
generation of sorrowing sisters. We will all need your strength to rebuild.”

I did not really understand either of these, but I sensed my friends’ true sympathy and support. No
“early-soldier heart . . . covered . . . with the sweetest flowers”
for them.

In the peaceful silence of my worktable, as I blotted and folded my responses, I knew Father was right. Answering these mourning
people, connecting with their sorrow, was a healing ritual. I was very grateful to the letter writers and their tender memories.
I had been selfish — like Emily — wanting to grab all the grief for myself. And Father’s steady concern warmed me more than
his fire. When I tried to thank him, he shook his head.

“There are times in life when ceremony is the only balm.”

As I slowly regained my equilibrium, Aunt Helen hovered less closely and then decided to return to Springfield to be with
Kate until the baby came. I resumed the duties of our house with Bridget’s help. Our meals these days were often neighbors’
gifts — hams and pies and puddings — a steady reminder of the kindly village custom of treating loss with kitchen messages.

“What you see is the mourning gesture of inarticulate people.” Father smiled sadly. “Many wrote you, but few can say the words
in their hearts directly to your face. So they make you a pumpkin pie instead.”

I might have missed this insight without Father. Every day, in large and small ways, he helped me across the darkness.

In mid-January I went back to work in the dressing factory, where Mary Crowell had handled both the production and the ladies
very ably. I had been silent for so long that my voice was hoarse and strained when I first tried to read aloud.

Although the ladies welcomed me back warmly, my presence seemed to have a disquieting effect. After an initial “hello,” many
of the women whose husbands or sons or fiancés were at war could barely meet my glance. Lolly steadfastly sat beside me, even
as her sister-in-law stood and crossed to a seat on the other side of the room. I understood; I was a reminder of what might
befall them and their absent loved ones. Gradually, the tension in the room thawed, and I was glad to have, once again, this
task.

Now my only remaining duty was to Emily. I had been dreading her lavish reactions to the news about Davy. She would sigh and
talk about her own sorrows — and the pains of early death and lost love. But when I realized two months had passed, I decided
I must overcome my aversion and make an appraisal. In truth, she had been the staunchest of friends, sending me homemade treats
and handwritten notes or scraps of verse nearly every day. One poem, which she said was written for me, brought on a shower
of tears. It started with “After great pain, a formal feeling comes —” but I found the last four lines to be the most stirring:

This is the Hour of Lead —

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —

First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

The searing truth of this poem reminded me again that there were two Emilys, each incomparable: the sentimental ingenue and
then the shrewd, practical New England woman. Luckily I found the latter awaiting me — with a rare embrace and a mourning
shawl of black challis.

“Do not forgive me for not meeting him when I had the chance. I will never forgive myself.” That was all she said on the subject.
Then she showed me her private view of snowdrops, strewn under her window like pearls on the snow.

“I always think of us together, that morning in the Indian summer mist. Some memories are INDELIBLE.” And I knew she referred
also to my memories of Davy and that they would always be with me as a source of comfort. We smiled at each other, recognizing
the message that had been sent and received obliquely.

“I wrote Mr. Crowell at the college,” she informed me as we had our tea.

I wondered why she didn’t say “Mary Warner’s husband.” Had that once close friendship been so severely strained that Emily
could not even mention Mary’s name?

“I asked him to suggest something you and I might read at this time,” she said. “He sent me this. It reads very like Vicksburg,
as you described it.”

She handed me Euripides’s masterpiece,
The Trojan Women.
After tea, we read the play in that single afternoon. We were taken up and out of ourselves, swept along by its timeless
majesty. Emily was the only friend who could have consoled me in this particular way.

Walking home in the dusk, filled with gratitude for Emily’s imaginative gesture, I found that the door to learning had been
reopened for me — if only a crack. None of my emotions were accessible yet, but apparently my intellect was available again.
Sharing this literature together had been a gift from Emily; the tragedy of an ancient war so relevant for me today linked
me to a community of feeling, if only for a few hours.

Kate’s baby was expected in March, but she asked me to come a few days before her delivery date. “We haven’t talked seriously
since Davy was killed. It broke my heart that I had to leave,” she wrote.

So I packed enough for a short visit, planned Father’s meals with Bridget, and took the cars to Springfield.

The entire family greeted me with waves and kisses when I arrived. Aunt Helen gripped both my hands firmly. “You look much
improved,” she declared.

“ ’Randa!” Josey crowed cheerfully, but Elena still hid her bronze green eyes, so like Kate’s. I saw her fragility mirrored
in Kate, whose own beautiful eyes were now shadowed. She kissed my windblown cheek, and I felt her search my face for evidence
of my inner state. When she stepped away, her expression told me she understood my heart was healing but was still in retreat.

Aunt Helen made tea, and Ethan, Kate, the children, and I sat in Kate’s little parlor, with the dolls and the diapers and
the closed piano. The children continually clamored for Kate’s attention, so the conversation was mostly between Ethan and
me. Aunt Helen participated intermittently between Josey’s demands, Elena’s silent tugs, and the needs of the evening meal.

“You must see the proofs of our alphabet,” Ethan announced. “I went ahead and corrected them, because Harnett said the publishers
want them by spring. Other schools are already ordering them!”

I knew I should be elated by this good news, so I smiled. I trusted that eventually my feelings would catch up with me. For
now, I could put on the appearance of appropriate response.

The proofs were wonderful, and we all discussed the books and future projects during supper. After the dishes were cleared,
Ethan and Aunt Helen took the children upstairs to allow Kate and me a private visit in the parlor.

Kate sat down with a long sigh. She closed her eyes for just a moment, then directed her glance at me.

“Now, Miranda, let’s not waste a moment,” she said. “Tell me how you are, how you are really.” She smiled gently. “I can see
that you are returning to life, that you are doing what one must. But what is inside you now?”

“Oh, Kate,” I murmured. I searched for the words. “It is . . . hard. In ways I had not expected.”

She settled back and listened as I described my unease; how, even at the end of my mourning, my Amherst neighbors could not
meet my gaze. They averted their eyes as though I, like Davy, had been pitched out of life and into something else.

“Will it ever be all right?” I asked her quietly. I believed she knew my deeper and unspoken question: will I?

“You will, my cousin, but of course you will never be exactly our same Miranda after this.”

She tucked one of my stray curls behind my ear. I could not remember when I had last cut my hair.

“You will have to grow around the wound to survive, like a tree blasted by lightning,” she said gently. “Just as you will
have to put aside other people’s ideas and expectations for how you should do this.”

I realized then just how much I had missed her. We chatted on, and I was reassured that my concerns were common enough, vagaries
that attached themselves fleetingly to death’s aftermath. In my heart, I knew my life would once again find a steady center.
Rather, I was more troubled by Kate. She had gained very little weight this time, and her face was pale and narrow. Her expression
was clouded and uncertain; her eyes told me she had moved far away.