The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson Read online

  “Don’t I have ten thousand chores? And a handyman with the grippe isn’t so high on my list.” She has a tantrum near poor Tom. “Damn you, Emily Dickinson! You can run back to Amherst in your father’s buggy and join a sewing circle. But if I don’t succeed at this dame school, I’ll be sentenced to a life of cooking and scrubbing floors in some squire’s house.”

  She runs out of the shed, the shawl flying around her like a battle scarf. I’m grateful she is gone, but I do have a dilemma. I have never talked to Tom, & I don’t know how to begin. He follows me with his blue eyes, as if he were assaying a foreign animal—from Holyoke Hall rather than the forest—a scholar who treads up & down the stairs, sits at the piano, & prays in the dark.

  I gather my courage & break into the singsong that passes for speech whenever I’m excited. “Are you thirsty, Mr. Tom? I’d have brought you some water if Miss Marsh had allowed where we were going.”

  I hear him sob, & I’m much too ashamed to look! It’s all part of his agony. I long to comfort Tom, to rescue him from a snowdrift like that baby deer, but I cannot. The sobbing stops as suddenly as it began, & Tom himself breaks into speech. His voice is softer, gentler than I had imagined, softer than our handyman at home.

  “Missy, will ya talk some more?”

  “Why, Mr. Tom, I talk all the time. I am the most talkative girl in creation. I’d talk a streak here at Holyoke, except we have that whispering rule.”

  Lord, if he isn’t whimpering again!

  “Missy Marsh never talks to me…her and that lady with the yellow gloves.”

  “Do they ever feed you bread and butter and apple cider from Mistress’s cellar?”

  Tom titters. “Cider’s for the gentlefolk and their farmhands, and for the ladies who sit on porches, not for a plain mechanic what learned all his stuff in the asylum. It’s lard and grease. No butter for Tom. But tell me a story, Miss.”

  Tom is so emphatic that I feel a little paralyzed.

  “About dragons and kings? I’m not much of a person for tall tales. I am missing in that sort of Imagination. But I could retell the Bible for you, chapter and verse.”

  “Not the Bible, Miss. Your story.”

  Now I am puzzled and paralyzed.

  “I have little story to tell. I’ve been nowhere, Mr. Tom. I haven’t traveled much more than the eleven miles between Amherst and Holyoke. I sit with my Bible and my books. I am seventeen, for God’s sake, and not one year more.”

  Tom guffaws, & I can see the little gap in his mouth where a tooth is missing. It’s still a pretty sight.

  “Why do you laugh?” I ask, timider than ever.

  “It wasn’t to hurt ya, Miss. I laughed, because you have your dragons and kings, and I have not a-one. I am a child of Massachusetts.”

  “And so am I, Amherst born and bred.”

  “But not a nurse and a matron for your Ma-ma. And a deacon with a broomstick for your Pa-pa. Deacon spilled the Bible into my ears whilst he beat my bottom black and blue…Does your Pa-pa read the Bible to ya, Miss?”

  “Every morning when I’m in Amherst.”

  “And does he slap your bottom with a broomstick in the middle of the read?”

  “Of course not,” I say, feeling feverish. “Squire Dickinson would not dream of doing such a thing. No squire would. Fathers do not beat their daughters in the best of families.”

  “That’s where the dragons come in,” says Tom, like a deranged philosopher.

  “Mr. Tom, I do not see where dragons have anything to do with my Pa-pa.”

  “That’s the whole pernt,” he says, meaning point, I suppose. “You have a whole line of Pa-pas in arrears. And ain’t all the Pa-pas like dragons and ogres and kings in the closet?…but tell Tom about your Pa-pa, Miss?”

  “Shouldn’t I find some eatables for you first?”

  “Eatables can wait,” he says with a shrug. “Does the squire ever laugh out loud?”

  “Mr. Tom, Father forgot how to laugh.”

  “Didn’t I say so? Your Pa-pa’s a dragon. All he knows is to suck on fire. And his Missus, is she a lady dragon?”

  “Mother’s a mouse,” I hiss like the dragon’s little daughter & frighten myself. Where did that venom come from? We’re all fragile around the Squire, as if one harsh word might shatter us. But that talk of dragons must have exhausted Tom. He starts to snore with a rumbling sound in his throat. I cover him with the blanket & touch the side of his face with my hand while he sleeps. I had never before been so daring with a stranger, or any man, including my male cousins.

  I’m ashamed to describe the electricity of my contact with his raw, red skin—my cheeks are ablaze with the delight of it. I steal out the shed in search of comestibles & drinking water for Tom.

  6.

  LORD, I FORGOT ABOUT THE BREAD! MISTRESS WILL THROTTLE me for neglecting my chores & allowing three hundred females to starve at the breakfast table. But I can smell the most delicious crust as I lope back into the basement like some wolf cub out of little Siberia. I have maligned Zilpah Marsh, who presided over the ovens while I was secretly with Tom. Zilpah baked the morning bread & put out the knives. And when I arrive with the wind, scholars & Tutors clap their hands. I notice nothing but Miss Rebecca’s yellow gloves, how the fingers never bend—there’s little suppleness in the leather. And then I look beyond the leather & happen upon her face. Her eyes get narrower with each clap of the gloves. The sound is like a gunshot.

  “Bravo to the baker!”

  She knows I did not bake the bread. Her subterfuge frightens me.

  The clapping & sporadic chatter stop, & we fall back into the world of whispers, eat our mashed potatoes & drink our milk in silence. The milk clings to Zilpah’s mustache, & she resembles a sea captain, far beyond her years. The bell rings at 73/4, & we begin returning to our rooms for silent study. But I have to run counter to Miss Rebecca’s clock, steal bread & butter & sweet apple pudding from the pantry, & sail out the rear of Seminary Hall.

  Tom sits in the flickering light of the lamp, captive to the little curtain of gray that smothers the blue in his eyes. But I don’t care about colors. I feed Tom with my own hands, wash his face with my handkerchief, & wipe him dry with the edge of my shawl. I’m the one who shatters the silence, & I shiver at my boldness.

  “Mr. Tom, will you show me your Tattoo?”

  Tom’s suspicious. Proper girls aren’t supposed to peek at Tattoos. And I have to encourage him a little.

  “The arrow of love on your arm—will you reveal it to me and not another soul?”

  Tom doesn’t even look into my eyes. “Miss, I wouldn’t know an arrow of love even if I saw it.”

  “But you have a heart burnt into your right arm, with an arrow running through it.”

  “Ain’t a love arrow, Miss. It’s an orphan’s mark. We all carried that tattoo at the asylum. It was our only heritage.”

  “What heritage?” I ask, caught in Tom’s web.

  “The heritage of a broken heart. What else?”

  Tom devours the last lick of pudding & rolls up his sleeve. Lord, I must have been color-blind. The tattooed heart isn’t red at all. It’s pale blue; the arrow alone is red, redder than Amherst’s one and only fire wagon, redder than Pa-pa’s winter underwear or Ma-ma’s sewing basket, redder even than Austin’s ragged red kite.

  Tom wriggles his arm, & the red arrow cuts deeper into the blue heart. I’m dazzled, held in the sway of that arrow & all its chagrin, as if the Commonwealth of Massachusetts had stabbed poor Tom.

  I have a great mind to touch Tom’s Tattoo, but both my arms feel paralyzed. I can sense that something’s wrong. Tom’s blue eyes are a-flutter. His face becomes a tight mask. A shadow climbs up the wall of the shed.

  “Dickinson, what on earth are you doing here?”

  I recognize the somber, scratchy drawl of Miss Rebecca, who must have followed me to the shed. I know she means me harm. She’s worried that I might snitch on her & Zilpah, & she’d like to blot me out of Mistre
ss Lyon’s books, make it so I’ll disappear from South Hadley. And I’m frightened of her legerdemain with leather gloves.

  “Missy,” I say, without staring her in the face. “I brought some food for the Handyman. I figured he could use a little company.”

  “Look at me, child, when I talk to you.”

  I twist about, all a-tremble. But I have my own cavalier in this shed, poor sick Tom. It ain’t yellow gloves he’s scared of. It’s her assassin’s stick, that talented tongue of hers. Miss Rebecca can tie him up with words.

  “Mum,” he says meekly. “The young miss…”

  Miss Rebecca is beside herself.

  “Shut up,” she hisses like a deranged cat. “You have no business in this discussion. You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.”

  And my trembling stops. What sort of girl would let down her own cavalier?

  “Missy, you ought to be politer to Tom.”

  Her eyes roam in her head like a mad lady. She has a mind to thrash me with her yellow gloves. But there’s a witness, mute as Tom might be. Her eyes stop roaming as she starts to calculate. Feeding a handyman is enough of an infraction to have me expelled. But Missy can’t talk about my imbroglio without worrying that I might mention hers.

  “Miss Dickinson,” she says, “you will resign as a scholar and return to Amherst, or I will expose you and Tom.”

  Yellow gloves don’t matter now. I can match her tongue for tongue.

  “I’d be glad to oblige, Missy, if you add your name to the resignation roster.”

  Miss Rebecca trembles with murderous intent. She raises one arm to deliver a slap. But Tom purrs at Missy like a Poet.

  “If you tetch her, Mum, I’ll have to tetch you back. And it won’t be pretty.”

  Miss Rebecca isn’t sure what to do. She hadn’t counted on Tom talking back. Her own angry engine has come to a halt.

  That’s when I have my coughing fit. I cough & cough, & I can’t seem to stop.

  Missy savors her sudden triumph.

  “Dickinson, I believe you are contagious. You’ll be quarantined immediately and sent home to your father.”

  She wraps her cloak around my shoulders and whisks me from the shed without another word to Tom.

  7.

  I LISTEN TO THE SOUND OF HIS BOOTS ON THE STAIRS. Brother does not have to tread with a seminarian’s silent steps. The staircase shivers as he strides from landing to landing. I greet him at my door, while the other brides of Christ watch with much wonderment. He does not have my mousy chin. His hair is much redder than mine.

  “Austin, you cannot kiss me. I have the croup.”

  But Brother always has his own way. He kisses Emily over each eye.

  “I have missed you beyond credulity,” I say, while he gathers me in his arms, picks me up like a stray bundle, & wraps me in a blanket he has brought from the chaise.

  “Brother, you must put me down. Immediately. I have been cautioned. I may not leave the premises.”

  “And I, Sister, have been cautioned to bring you home. The word came on high from head-quarters.”

  There is only one head-quarters. Pa-pa. Mary Lyon must have delivered a missile to Amherst, warning Father that I had the croup & might become a menace to myself & Mt Holyoke. And Father sent his emissary, my darling brother, with horse & carriage.

  In spite of our differences, Austin has remained my dear “twin.” And it isn’t only the divine accident of our red hair. Austin has moved on to the company of his classmates at the College, & he has little time for mortals like me, but our minds seem to travel along a similar route. Austin is always the first to smile whenever I tease Pa-pa. He would not dare tease Father himself, but he is often an accomplice in my little tricks. Brother helped me tie a ribbon around Henry’s neck when I wanted to show Pa-pa how he was neglecting his own horse…

  Zilpah Marsh is waiting in the parlor, like someone in a trance. She trembles at the sight of Austin & his rich red hair. I’d promised to introduce her, & introduce her I will.

  “Austin, you must meet our class monitor, Miss Zilpah Marsh. She—”

  But Austin glances at Zilpah’s manly shoulders & faint mustache, nods once, & sails out the front door & into the March wind with his own sister on his arm. He helps me into the chaise, still bundled up in the blanket, & clucks at Henry the Horse, who would as lief recognize me as he would a burr in Holyoke Hall. Father’s horse is not overly fond of females. But I am thinking of Tom & how desperate he must be without a female soul to care for him. I miss the stark boundaries of his shack, the freedom of having no furniture, nothing to enslave the mind.

  The horse is as blanketed as I am. The wheels are bound in burlap to protect us from sliding on the ice. Even Henry wears leather mittens over his shoes. Austin wraps his own head in a scarf—my God, we’re all mummified!

  And slowly, with the horse breathing hot plumes into the air, we plunge toward Amherst in Pa-pa’s chaise.

  I DO NOT COUNT THE MILES. I LISTEN TO HENRY’S BELLS WHILST I am mummified. I’d swear we were heading north as the crow flies, but Holyoke girls chatter of going down to Amherst from Hadley’s hills. I lean into Brother as his body rocks against the rhythm of the chaise. And I must have dozed with all that rocking & the music of Henry’s bells.

  I awake in Father’s arms. He carries me from the chaise into our “mansion” on West Street. I do not see Mother or Little Sister, though little is the wrong word. Vinnie is near tall as I am & far prettier. She is not cursed with Sister Emily’s chin. She will have ten thousand marriage proposals ere she is seventeen. But I cannot locate the least sign of Little Sister. Perhaps she & Mother both suffer from the fear of Father’s commandments. “Do not excite Emily,” he must have pronounced & held them in hiding. And if truth be known, Emily does not want to share Pa-pa upon her homecoming. He says not a word to me, as if his presence alone were enough of a greeting on a winter night. He is not wearing his greatcoat, & I worry that the wind will eat him alive. Horse Henry is nervous around Pa-pa, who has not rubbed his hide once or deigned to notice him. It is Austin and not Pa-pa who leads Henry to the carriage house.

  Father’s red hair ruffles out & turns wild in the bite-bite of the wind, & for one brief moment I do not recognize him. He looks to be as much of a burglar as Tom…before the Handyman took ill. But Miss Em’ly would rather not think of Tom. The lace of Father’s cravat unravels a little & cuts a line into my cheek. The cravat is cold as ice, & I wonder if Pa-pa is wearing a rapier round his neck. The village crones will scream that Squire Dickinson slew his own daughter upon her return from that convent where the chief nun neutered Miss Em’ly & remade her into a witch. But I am not slain at all. And the witch of Holyoke loses all her powers once she’s inside the paternal abode.

  I am helpless in Father’s house. He carries me up the stairs, & suddenly my wounded cheek is well again, though it throbs from its nearness to Father’s side-whiskers. Said whiskers do not scratch. They are smooth as silk. We pass the Squire’s own bedroom, which I can only map out in my dreams. Never have Little Sister or I been inside that chamber. The door is always shut, & even Mother recognizes its dominion.

  Lord, I would not spy, but how many times did I find her sneaking in & out, as if she herself had little right to enter. Such is the sway that Father has on one & all. Mistress Lyon must have been right about Pa-pa. He does have the bearing of an earl. It isn’t only that he’s Treasurer of the College & that he once served in the State House. He’s the most prominent lawyer in town, & he loves to take his morning walk. I have seen the citizens of Amherst cower & cross the street whenever the Squire marches to the Post Office to collect our mail. And it matters little to him that I had addressed a letter to Austin or Little Sister. Father rifles the letter while he walks, breaking my own little “wafer” seal, & seems to dance to the very sound of my words. So Little Sister has said to me more than once.

  Heavens, he has even been known to laugh! And when I told her in protest that it was beyond my c
omprehension to imagine Father on the very same street with laughter, Sister swore that he danced like an intoxicated bear. Not only perused the letter but had learned it by heart upon arriving at our doorstep & did take much pride in key phrases that he would troll across his tongue like a chocolate truffle. I’d rather believe in the wildest tale of the Arabian Nights than believe Lavinia! But Little Sister has never been known to lie.

  We pass Brother’s bedroom, which is often empty now that he is up on College Hill. Then Pa-pa delivers me to the “Female Dormitory,” as he has christened the room I share with Little Sister. And I must now confess that the room-mates I have at Amherst and at South Hadley are both called Lavinia. But I prefer Little Sister to Lavinia Norcross and her hundred beaux. Sister would never spy on me or make fun of Tom.

  Swirling in Father’s arms, I feel like a broken doll. Pa-pa, I want to shout, I am not your favorite feather, but a woman with a ferocious will. I do not utter a peep, & Father plunks me under the quilt with the same brutal tenderness that has become his signature. Little Sister is not on her side of the bed. Father must have exiled her to Austin’s room until I am cured of the croup.

  Father is not the kissing kind. And I am startled when he pecks my scalp, his mouth like a toad that rains magic down upon my head.

  “Damn that dame school of yours,” he says. “I have been lonesome without you, Emily. I like to have both my daughters in the house. We will start our regimen in the morning.”

  I dare not ask him what regimen he means. Instead, I shake. But still I manage to squeal, “Father, at what hour will you wake me?”

  There are furrows in his brow.

  “This isn’t Holyoke. You’re convalescin’. Sleep as long as you like.”

  “But I have bread to bake.”

  Dare I dream, or does his daughter see the hint of a smile upon Father’s somber face?

  “Leave the baking to Mother and Lavinia,” he says. “Not one chore while you are ill.”