turn and climb the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail. When Iâm nearly to the top, the light fixture mounted on the ceiling of the hall catches my eye. Up close like this I can see for the first time a design frosted into the glass globe. Leaning over the rail, I squint, and my straining eyes widen in disbelief.
Plump children frolic among the trees etched into its surface. One of them is blindfolded.
Blindmanâs bluff.
I donât know whether to laugh or cry. In this house, of all places, a game of blindmanâs bluff carved into the light itself.
Chapter 12
Although I try very hard not to force issues, I find it very difficult to avoid them.
âANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887
I feel their eyes on me when I arrive at breakfast next morning. I donât like it. The day feels strange enough already. As soon as I woke, something in my room felt different. When I looked about, I saw Helenâs bed hadnât been slept in. It was easy to guess sheâd spent the night downstairs with her parents. A harder question is why. I doubt Helen had any choice in the matter. Iâd like to think the Kellers kept her away out of courtesy, to let me recuperate undisturbed, but seeing their faces round the table, Iâm sure the truth is different.
Maybe they were afraidâafraid of me. The idea makes the swarm of hunger in my stomach sour into dread. Do Helenâs parents really think Iâd hurt her?
What do you expect them to think,
I sputter to myself,
after you stood there with a fistful of gore, baying for blood?
I nod good morning and take my place at the table. Helen, rumpled and tousled as ever, sits alongside her mother. Avoiding the sight of her, I turn my attention to breakfast. The white tablecloth is so bright it stabs at my sore eyes, but the smell of the food overpowers my unsavory thoughts. There is sausage and eggs, fresh bread, canned sliced fruit, and Mrs. Kellerâs delectable homemade preserves. The coffee, piping hot, is already poured, and a frothy pitcher of fresh milk stands ready.
Helen begins to squirm before Captain Keller finishes the blessing. This I overlook. Soon, though, I canât help notice every platter of food passes by Mrs. Keller and Helen before it comes to me. Helen gets first pick of every dish. I might tolerate this if she actually ate the food on her plate. Instead Helen begins to wander like a stray animal from chair to chair, dipping her hands into whatever pleases her. She has no limits: plates, serving dishesâeven the sugar bowl, the butter dish, and the jars of honey and preserves are fair game. For a while she settles in with a pot of blackberry jam, scooping out great fingerfuls, then slurping away like a bear at a honey tree. The sound makes me cringe.
When sheâs had her fill of jam, Helen circles the table again, sampling from each plate. Blackberry seeds dot the bruise-colored stains on her fingers. Soon sheâs greasy with sausage from Miss Evelineâsplate and dripping with gooey syrup from her fatherâs sliced pears. At Simpsonâs place she swipes her hand over his slice of bread, smearing away a layer of honey and crumbs.
My plate comes next.
As I watch her filthy hands grope toward me, trailing a path of muck along the tablecloth, the ghost of a Tewksbury voice hisses in my ears.
Beggars, thieves, whores, and what do you expect?
Beefy.
I canât stomach the thought of Helenâs hands in my breakfast any more than I could stand Beefyâs misshapen fingers anywhere near me while I choked down his intolerable food. Soggy bread and rancid butter. Eternal corned beef and gray, lumpy stew. My plate will look no better than Beefyâs cooking when Helen finishes with it.
Her hand darts in front of me and landsâ
smack!
âin my mound of eggs. Like a spider drawing up its legs, she pulls her fingers into a fist, dragging a pile of food into her grasp. The yellow bits slither out
Plump children frolic among the trees etched into its surface. One of them is blindfolded.
Blindmanâs bluff.
I donât know whether to laugh or cry. In this house, of all places, a game of blindmanâs bluff carved into the light itself.
Chapter 12
Although I try very hard not to force issues, I find it very difficult to avoid them.
âANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887
I feel their eyes on me when I arrive at breakfast next morning. I donât like it. The day feels strange enough already. As soon as I woke, something in my room felt different. When I looked about, I saw Helenâs bed hadnât been slept in. It was easy to guess sheâd spent the night downstairs with her parents. A harder question is why. I doubt Helen had any choice in the matter. Iâd like to think the Kellers kept her away out of courtesy, to let me recuperate undisturbed, but seeing their faces round the table, Iâm sure the truth is different.
Maybe they were afraidâafraid of me. The idea makes the swarm of hunger in my stomach sour into dread. Do Helenâs parents really think Iâd hurt her?
What do you expect them to think,
I sputter to myself,
after you stood there with a fistful of gore, baying for blood?
I nod good morning and take my place at the table. Helen, rumpled and tousled as ever, sits alongside her mother. Avoiding the sight of her, I turn my attention to breakfast. The white tablecloth is so bright it stabs at my sore eyes, but the smell of the food overpowers my unsavory thoughts. There is sausage and eggs, fresh bread, canned sliced fruit, and Mrs. Kellerâs delectable homemade preserves. The coffee, piping hot, is already poured, and a frothy pitcher of fresh milk stands ready.
Helen begins to squirm before Captain Keller finishes the blessing. This I overlook. Soon, though, I canât help notice every platter of food passes by Mrs. Keller and Helen before it comes to me. Helen gets first pick of every dish. I might tolerate this if she actually ate the food on her plate. Instead Helen begins to wander like a stray animal from chair to chair, dipping her hands into whatever pleases her. She has no limits: plates, serving dishesâeven the sugar bowl, the butter dish, and the jars of honey and preserves are fair game. For a while she settles in with a pot of blackberry jam, scooping out great fingerfuls, then slurping away like a bear at a honey tree. The sound makes me cringe.
When sheâs had her fill of jam, Helen circles the table again, sampling from each plate. Blackberry seeds dot the bruise-colored stains on her fingers. Soon sheâs greasy with sausage from Miss Evelineâsplate and dripping with gooey syrup from her fatherâs sliced pears. At Simpsonâs place she swipes her hand over his slice of bread, smearing away a layer of honey and crumbs.
My plate comes next.
As I watch her filthy hands grope toward me, trailing a path of muck along the tablecloth, the ghost of a Tewksbury voice hisses in my ears.
Beggars, thieves, whores, and what do you expect?
Beefy.
I canât stomach the thought of Helenâs hands in my breakfast any more than I could stand Beefyâs misshapen fingers anywhere near me while I choked down his intolerable food. Soggy bread and rancid butter. Eternal corned beef and gray, lumpy stew. My plate will look no better than Beefyâs cooking when Helen finishes with it.
Her hand darts in front of me and landsâ
smack!
âin my mound of eggs. Like a spider drawing up its legs, she pulls her fingers into a fist, dragging a pile of food into her grasp. The yellow bits slither out
Similar Books
