Afternoons with Emily (52 page)

And so we stayed, Elena and I, at Ethan’s house, I with the terrible fear that my sweet “little daughter” might decide she
wanted her old family, still her real family, after all. Not surprisingly, Elena and her brothers took to one another at once,
as though she had never been away, and she enjoyed Ann’s two children, Caleb and Samuel — her “new big brothers” — immensely.
This equanimity was thanks in part to Ethan and Ann’s insistence that I maintain firm discipline against any indoor rowdiness,
and in part to their natural interest in, and affection for, one another as new siblings. She looked upon this masculine world
as if the boys were creatures from another and more fascinating place, but to my secret and almost palpable relief, she asked
every evening at bedtime whether we would be returning to Amherst. Yet I was not
quite
sure why this was so fixed in her mind. Finally, one very cold night when we had all finished an interlude of reading in
front of the big kitchen fire after supper, I asked her about it as I put her to bed.

“Because,” she answered sleepily, “that is where I live now, with you and Grandpa Josiah and Grandmama Helen, and Sam, and
. . .” Her voice trailed off with a yawn, and I smiled at her.

“Oh, my dearest Elena.” I bent down to kiss her, and her arms went around my neck. “You may always stay there with us. And
you may visit your father and brothers here too, as often as you like. We are
all
your family!”

And when she fell asleep she was smiling, and I smiled too, with relief and for yet another reason. She and I were sleeping
in the same room where not so long ago I spent many hours tossing and turning, only this time my nocturnal thoughts had taken
a new direction, and my mind was no longer torn as to the course my life should take.

Spring was a busy time for me. Polly Randall and I spent hours developing curriculum and materials for the Stearns Center,
and Mary Crowell and I saw to the renovations of the donated space. During all the Amherst preparations, I was also consulting
with Alan Harnett in New York on the progress there. It seemed that endless decisions must be made!

I spent evenings reading aloud to Father, as his eyesight was worsening. Dr. Bigelow assured me the problem with Father’s
eyes was simply the natural progression of age, but I knew it frustrated my father to be unable to do the reading he so enjoyed.
This limitation, however, was more than compensated by Elena’s entertaining presence. She kept Father completely engaged with
stories and drawings and explanations of her world, which seemed in their companionable way to be blending with his.

My friendship with Lolly Wheeler was slowly renewing. To the great relief of his family, her brother had returned from the
war, and so had Lolly’s secret sweetheart, who was none other than our former sledding companion, Caleb Sweetser. But the
war had changed Lolly, as it had changed all of us. Caleb discovered that she was a far more serious girl than he had left
behind, with new ambitions of her own, and the tension it caused between them was the subject of our many conversations.

“He just doesn’t understand,” Lolly complained. She was helping me fold laundry. It astonished me sometimes how much washing
a small household required.

“To be a doctor!” Lolly exclaimed. “Why can’t he see that those are worthy goals for a woman? Instead, he thinks to study
and to care for the sick and the wounded would cause scandal.”

I listened as I matched socks, concerned that this disagreement between them reflected a far deeper estrangement. “Does the
school in Boston have literature you can show him? It might reassure him if he can see the materials for himself.”

Lolly sighed. “I’ve shown him. It doesn’t matter. All that matters to Caleb is that I behave the way he expects a proper woman
and wife should. I don’t know —” Her voice broke, and she clutched the tea towel she was folding. She cleared her throat.
“I don’t know if I can marry a man who believes as Caleb believes.”

She began to cry, and I put my arms around her. “You are right to question this,” I said softly. “A true love would want you
to achieve your heart’s desires.”

She nodded miserably.

“You’ll see,” I assured her. “You will go to medical school and you will meet a wonderful man who will encourage you and be
proud of your accomplishments.”

“I — I don’t even know if I will be accepted,” she said in a shaky voice. “Should I end my engagement for such an uncertain
goal?”

“Only you know the answer to that,” I said. “But think of this: even if you were not accepted at that school, don’t Caleb’s
objections indicate a significant difference between you?”

Lolly took a deep breath, calming herself. “Yes.”

I took the tea towel from her hands and wiped her tear-stained face with it. “I will help you study,” I promised her. “You
will get into that medical school.”

“Thank you.” She smiled weakly, then her brow furrowed. “The tea towel!”

I laughed. “Far better to relaunder a tea cloth than have you wiping your face on your sleeves. Now
that
would be unladylike behavior — and far more scandalous than applying to medical school!”

I knew I could not mend her disappointment and broken heart, but I could support her in her decisions. So we did study together
while I also continued my correspondence with Miss Adelaide and, of course, with Roger.

The Frazar Stearns Center opened on my twenty-third birthday, September 16, 1866. Father attended the opening day. He heard
Dr. Stearns and me speak, and saw Elena beaming from the first class. After the excitement, he rested but could not rise from
the sofa later. He complained of a sore throat, but Dr. Bigelow was not concerned — it was only a cold — and determined that
rest was all Father needed.

I brought Father some cold beef tea jelly and an egg beaten with brandy, and held his hand until he dozed off. But the cure
would not come; he was noticeably weaker. Soon he was spending most of the day in bed, “Behind a drapery, like Jefferson,”
he said. One late September afternoon, Dr. Bigelow sat back after examining him and sighed.

“Enjoy your family and the season, Josiah. This is your resting time.” To us he said privately, “A few weeks — no more.”

I wrote and poured out my heart to Roger. The shortness of breath, the rust-colored sputum, the fever and cough that were
this condition’s calling cards, paralyzed me — it was like my mother’s death all over again.

Roger wrote back:

This is different. This is a fine dying, after a fine life. From all that I know, your father has had a singularly full life,
filled with books and ideas, and love around him everywhere. You must take credit for your share in it. When we met a year
ago, I watched him with you and Elena, and I listened to him talking about his students. I thought then — I think now — This
is a happy man!

Father reclined on the library sofa in the afternoons, receiving very few guests. Elena visited to chatter on about school.
Surprisingly, Emily sent warm notes and cheery lines of verse calculated to draw his smile. Emily seemed to always respond
when Death was near, as if it beckoned her. Her missives for Father, though, were delightfully disingenuous. They were not
Emily at her melodramatic worst but Emily the entertaining raconteur.

One day, Father asked for Mr. Austin to come, and when Mr. Austin returned the next day, he brought papers to sign. I hovered
at the doorway, which was still open a crack. Perhaps it was unworthy to eavesdrop, but I did not want the truth held from
me. I heard only what I had expected: “Here is your amended will,” said Mr. Austin. “And the notarized statement for Judge
Lord.”

I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes. The inevitable day that I was dreading was fast approaching. Father knew it; it
would not be right for me to hide from it. Uncle Thomas Bulfinch came from Boston and moved quietly into the guest room. Bill
Baker, a young theology student from the college, replaced Sam in Father’s old room and cared for him in the night. Father’s
“cold” had now settled in his chest, into pneumonia. “It won’t be long,” said Dr. Bigelow, putting his stethoscope back into
his bag as I held his overcoat. “There is nothing more to be done.”

Aunt Helen and I tried to maintain the household as usual; we kept our tears private and tried to make Father comfortable.
Mercifully, when at last he did leave us, on a lovely late October afternoon, it was while he was sleeping and with almost
a smile on his calm face.

He was buried with his volume of Horace and a scroll listing every student he ever taught. His pallbearers were every man
in his last course at the college. Those who could not carry his coffin — the veterans, crippled and healing — walked beside
it, each with a hand on the wood. This was their unconventional wish; I was happy to permit it.

There was a splendid service in the college chapel, where every pew was filled. The student choir sang Handel, and Dr. Stearns
spoke, comparing Father’s life to the “educated man” of Marcus Aurelius’s ideal.

But how would Father have reacted to that other gesture, spontaneous and tender, which compelled me to love her with my whole
heart, even as I continued to resist her? Who else but Father could have appreciated as I did the brief, spectral appearance
at the church today of the woman seated in the last pew, her face shielded by an elaborate — and borrowed — tulle veil? I
knew she owned no such article, for there was no need: she did not mourn in public. Her chapel was her second-floor room,
the room she rarely left.

As the minister brought the funeral service to a close, by chance I turned around — otherwise I might have missed her. I saw
her rise and hurry out, head bowed, so as to be neither recognized nor detained by the departing crowd, who would surely have
stopped to stare and whisper. Yet her silhouette was unmistakable. Emily, unseen in public this way in nearly a decade, had
come to be with me.

With Davy and Kate both gone, there was no one with whom to witness this magnificent gesture. Aunt Helen would not understand,
and Roger — Roger and I had not discussed my strange and prolonged friendship with Amherst’s myth. I was filled with a lonely
despair. Father, of course, was the one I most wanted to share the moment with. Aunt Helen and I gave a reception afterward
in the temple. We closed the velvet stage curtains and used the most brilliant maple boughs, with black velvet bows, as our
only decoration. Father would have enjoyed these metaphors.

He always enjoyed a party too, so we served the best French champagne to his many friends. I was touched to greet Alan Harnett
and Cousin Ellen Lyall, who had come a long way. And Roger had come, as my dignified trustee. Roger’s friendship, his instinctive
kindness in wanting to be near when the end came, touched me profoundly, as I knew it would have Father.

I found Roger standing at the side of the stage, and without a word he folded me into an embrace. I stood still, not wanting
him to release me. He felt so strong, and in command, and protective. Finally, I felt his hold lessen, and I stepped back
away from him.

“Can you stay?” I asked.

“If you need me, of course I can,” he replied.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice no more than a whisper.

He lifted my chin with his finger. “You know you have been loved,” he said. “That counts for so much. And your father knew
how much you loved him. That is what you must remember. That and how proud he was of you.”

I couldn’t answer; I could only allow him to brush away my tears as I nodded. I knew he was right — as he had said, this was
a fine death after a full life.

Aunt Helen was pleased that I had invited Roger to stay for a few days — having a man in the house during this sad time brought
her comfort. I understood this — Roger’s presence was solid, strong. One felt protected knowing he was near, and grieving
makes one feel vulnerable. He made us feel safe; it was enough.

Roger’s presence also helped to distract Elena from her sadness, if only temporarily. She was a resilient child, but I knew
she would miss Father as it became more clear to her that he was not going to come back.

On the third day, after breakfast, Roger announced he needed to return to business. “But please,” he said, “if there is anything
you need, if only to talk, I will be back.”

“You’ll write?” I asked.

He nodded. “The moment I leave,” he promised.

In the weeks that followed, I missed Father constantly — his wit, his learning, his flashes of insight and compassion. We
had grown ever closer. Since Davy’s death, he had become the parent I had needed — and also my colleague and my friend. He
had supported my work and my independence as a woman generously and freely, and his ready inclusion and acceptance of Elena
transformed my life.

I fell into a profound lassitude and inertia. I went through all the motions of conferring with Polly Randall and Pamela Niles,
our second teacher, as the Stearns Center ended its first semester. I passed the occasional Monday with Emily, and uncounted
hours with Mr. Austin, executing Father’s simple will. Aside from Mother’s fortune, which now came to me, Father really owned
very little. He left his classical library to Uncle Thomas Bulfinch and his modest estate to Kate’s boys, knowing that mine
would one day go to Elena. Without telling me, when I turned twenty-one he had put the Amity Street house in my name.

For several chilly winter weeks, I slipped perilously close to feeling nothing again. I barely wrote to Roger and found it
difficult to reply when he wrote to me. I went from meeting to meeting, agreeing and signing. Events and duties yanked me
about like a puppet and let me flop down will-less when the need was over. I rallied for the few hours I taught my little
charges, then, like a deflating balloon, I collapsed into inertia. I walked through my roles for Thanksgiving and Christmas
with the Howlands and all their jostling boys.

Roger sent me a brooch — a violet Burmese sapphire, set in a curling wave. “This is a glimpse of your beloved ocean, to make
you smile again. Someday, perhaps, we’ll see it together, Miranda.”