Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller Page A

Jimmie hasever been able to tame me, and he did it without ever lifting a finger. I remember his voice, drifting across the space between our cots,
You’re going to stay here with me, forever and ever
. But in the end he was the one who left. If I could convince her to love me, Helen could never leave me. She doesn’t know it, but Helen needs me more than Jimmie ever did. She knows nothing about me—none of the things that matter to everyone else, at least—and still I’m not good enough for her.
    The irony of my plight bites at me as I sink to sleep: Helen lies only inches away from me, and I’ve never felt so alone in my life.
    Our grappling continues the next day, with less zeal. As the day wears on, Helen’s resistance falls away piecemeal. Perhaps she senses that with no one to rescue her, it’s much less trouble to submit to my will than challenge my fists. By evening I think she fights only because it’s all she knows how to do.
    That night I watch her eating her supper with a spoon and try to feel triumphant. The thought of ceasing our violent rows leaves me giddy, but something troubles me. I can’t take my eyes from her.
    â€œSomething isn’t right,” I murmur, but I can’t see what it is. For long minutes I watch her spoon go up and down, up and down, with methodical precision. I feel sick, and I don’t know why. Then it hits me.
    The way she moves is wrong.
    Eating is one of Helen’s true delights, but tonight she takes no pleasure from it. She’s listless, as if the food has no taste. For days I’ve fought for calm, and now it frightens me. It’s as though a light’s gone out.
    By midmorning my anxiety curdles into irritation. Helen’s next trick is almost effortless but every bit as infuriating: She sits still as a lump of clay, doing nothing at all.
    At first I’m paralyzed with the thought that I might have snuffed her spirit out. But when I try to force her to wash and dress herself, I sense a spark of something in her. I don’t know how, but I know she’s paying attention. Something in her lies coiled up tight, waiting for a reaction. If she were an affectionate child, I’d call it mischief. Knowing Helen, I’m inclined to name it spite.
    â€œAnd what am I to do, then?” I wonder aloud. I’m not about to play nursemaid to an oversize rag doll. It’s an ingenious tactic she’s come up with; I can’t very well punish her for not resisting. “But if I ignore you, you still manage to get your own way, now, don’t you?”
    Just then Percy arrives with the breakfast tray. He’s hardly through the door when Helen’s nose twitches—barely a quiver—but I have my answer. “Still in there, are you? I thought as much.”
    I bring the tray and Helen’s clothes over to her. “I’ll give you one more chance” I tell her, handing Helen her dress and pinafore. She lets them fall to the floor like so many leaves.
    A sharp sigh escapes me. “Fine.” Kneeling beside her, I take Helen by the arm and yank her down next to me. With her hands in mine, I touch her fingers to the pile of clothing, then to herself, then to my nodding head. “Get dressed.”
    She does nothing.
    â€œWell, listen to this, then.” I drag the breakfast tray over and push her hands from item to item:
clothes, Helen, breakfast, nod
. Then the gestures I’m sure she’ll understand:
clothes, floor, breakfast, no
. When I shake my head, a tremor of dismay flickers across Helen’s face. “That’s right, my girl, get dressed or starve.”
    With a dramatic flounce she slumps to the floor, throwing herself across the heap of clothing like a beached fish. “Grand, just grand,” I mutter.
    For a quarter of an hour I watch Helen lie there, limp as a worm, while my breakfast cools. “Not giving up any time soon, are you?” I growl,