talked nonstop from the time I picked her up at South Station until the minute we came up the driveway, and where were you? Were you here to listen to her torrent of words about Mildred, and the new baby Katherine—”
“Is Mother okay?”
“And Mildred’s most excellent mincemeat pies, how Mildred is the best housekeeper in Montgomery, and the Junior League just can’t
function
without her. I swear, Helen, you
know
I love her, but then we come in here, practically kicking our way through the books and parcels scattered in the front hall, there’s no food for dinner, I have to turn around and go back out to grocery shop and you—the reason she came here—you are nowhere to be found.”
Toodelirious to answer, I just laughed.
“It’s not funny.” Annie whacked me with a rolled-up newspaper. “You couldn’t have cleaned up?”
“I should have, you’re right.” I smiled—it was so absurd.
“So? Where were you?”
“Oh, out walking.” I smoothed my dress, one button still open.
“It’s pouring, Helen.” I felt Annie step away from me, examining me from head to foot. She patted my dress.
“You’re soaking wet.” She came closer and sniffed my collar, my neck, my hair. “And you reek of cigarette smoke.”
I was determined to keep my secret about Peter to myself. I couldn’t give Annie the chance to stop me, to end this happiness.
A great silence fell over the room.
“Peter loves his vices, doesn’t he? Have you become the newest of them?”
I wanted to say, “I am engaged. I am to be married—Peter and I, we’re going to run away.” But again I lied.
“I was in the barn.”
“In the barn?”
“Ian, the boy who cuts the lawn, he was smoking out there.”
“And you? What were you doing? Reading those trashy romance novels you hide in that rusted metal bin?”
“Guilty.” I smiled. “What’s my punishment?”
Annie laughed and poked me on the arm. Then she unpacked the rest of the groceries while I followed her around the kitchen as if nothing at all had happened.
The blanketed air in the room told me Annie was still angry, so I pulled her toward the kitchen table and spelled, “You’re tired. Please, sit down. Read, have some tea,
relax
.” I gave her the newspaper. To my relief she took it and settled into a chair beside me.
“Oh, this is classic,” Annie said moments later. “Another big shot idealizing the blind.”
“What?” A carrushed by outside. I felt it through the floor as I held her hand.
“Here, in the paper.” She shook out the newspaper, its wet scent rising to me. “They’re quoting this Indian swami. A temple in his name is being built in Boston. According to this article, a blind person asked the swami if there’s anything worse than losing one’s eyesight. The swami replied: ‘Yes, losing your vision!’”
“Who said that?”
“Swami Vivekananda. Born in India in 1863, died in 1902, believed we are all one. Traveled the world saying so. He’s one of your type: he’s met with everyone—Harvard professors, the common man, heads of universities from here to Kingdom Come.”
“Well, he’s right. Peter has a vision,” I spelled to Annie. “He thinks everyone—even people left out of the system—should take their place in the world.”
“Peter sees what he wants to see.” Annie’s hand turned harder in mine. “Helen, have you even noticed that we’re using only half the kitchen table this morning? Do you have any idea why? It’s because your Mr. Vision, as you call him, is too busy idling about to help keep this house going—and don’t tell me he’s too good for that work. We
all
pitch in here. Here, feel this.” She laid my hand on a stack of books that were spread out over the table’s entire right side. “Recognize these?”
“My Braille books,” I said.
“Right. I asked Peter to take them down and clear out the bookcase. It’s dusty, and we always clean it this time of year. So what did he do? He pulled
“Is Mother okay?”
“And Mildred’s most excellent mincemeat pies, how Mildred is the best housekeeper in Montgomery, and the Junior League just can’t
function
without her. I swear, Helen, you
know
I love her, but then we come in here, practically kicking our way through the books and parcels scattered in the front hall, there’s no food for dinner, I have to turn around and go back out to grocery shop and you—the reason she came here—you are nowhere to be found.”
Toodelirious to answer, I just laughed.
“It’s not funny.” Annie whacked me with a rolled-up newspaper. “You couldn’t have cleaned up?”
“I should have, you’re right.” I smiled—it was so absurd.
“So? Where were you?”
“Oh, out walking.” I smoothed my dress, one button still open.
“It’s pouring, Helen.” I felt Annie step away from me, examining me from head to foot. She patted my dress.
“You’re soaking wet.” She came closer and sniffed my collar, my neck, my hair. “And you reek of cigarette smoke.”
I was determined to keep my secret about Peter to myself. I couldn’t give Annie the chance to stop me, to end this happiness.
A great silence fell over the room.
“Peter loves his vices, doesn’t he? Have you become the newest of them?”
I wanted to say, “I am engaged. I am to be married—Peter and I, we’re going to run away.” But again I lied.
“I was in the barn.”
“In the barn?”
“Ian, the boy who cuts the lawn, he was smoking out there.”
“And you? What were you doing? Reading those trashy romance novels you hide in that rusted metal bin?”
“Guilty.” I smiled. “What’s my punishment?”
Annie laughed and poked me on the arm. Then she unpacked the rest of the groceries while I followed her around the kitchen as if nothing at all had happened.
The blanketed air in the room told me Annie was still angry, so I pulled her toward the kitchen table and spelled, “You’re tired. Please, sit down. Read, have some tea,
relax
.” I gave her the newspaper. To my relief she took it and settled into a chair beside me.
“Oh, this is classic,” Annie said moments later. “Another big shot idealizing the blind.”
“What?” A carrushed by outside. I felt it through the floor as I held her hand.
“Here, in the paper.” She shook out the newspaper, its wet scent rising to me. “They’re quoting this Indian swami. A temple in his name is being built in Boston. According to this article, a blind person asked the swami if there’s anything worse than losing one’s eyesight. The swami replied: ‘Yes, losing your vision!’”
“Who said that?”
“Swami Vivekananda. Born in India in 1863, died in 1902, believed we are all one. Traveled the world saying so. He’s one of your type: he’s met with everyone—Harvard professors, the common man, heads of universities from here to Kingdom Come.”
“Well, he’s right. Peter has a vision,” I spelled to Annie. “He thinks everyone—even people left out of the system—should take their place in the world.”
“Peter sees what he wants to see.” Annie’s hand turned harder in mine. “Helen, have you even noticed that we’re using only half the kitchen table this morning? Do you have any idea why? It’s because your Mr. Vision, as you call him, is too busy idling about to help keep this house going—and don’t tell me he’s too good for that work. We
all
pitch in here. Here, feel this.” She laid my hand on a stack of books that were spread out over the table’s entire right side. “Recognize these?”
“My Braille books,” I said.
“Right. I asked Peter to take them down and clear out the bookcase. It’s dusty, and we always clean it this time of year. So what did he do? He pulled
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