Miss Spitfire Read Online Free Page A

lively. Genial voices holler to one another in the carriage house, and chickens scuffle about the yard. Nearby, an old setter laps at a puddle under the pump. The light reflecting on the water needles my vision. More buildings are scattered about the property; the one next to the pump looks like a child-size Ivy Green. As I stand squinting with my hand shading my eyes, a boisterous racket claims my attention. Following the sound, I enter the small, barn-shaped kitchen.
    The place is in an uproar. Through the yeasty dimness I spot Mrs. Keller, hunched over Helen, who sits at a flour-covered table pounding her fists and kicking her feet. A mound of bread dough trembles under the assault, and two patty pans bounce and jangle with every blow to the tabletop. A young Negro woman I assume is the cook has pressed herself into a far corner, her floury arms wrapped round a cowering colored child of about eight. The little girl clutches a limp piece of dough in one hand.
    â€œWhat happened, Martha Washington?” Mrs. Keller cries over the clamor.
    Wide eyed, the little girl answers, “We were just making our bread. She tried to tell me something with her hands, but I couldn’t understand her quick enough.”
    In desperation Mrs. Keller’s eyes sweep the room. When she sees me in the doorway, her face cascades through myriad emotions: surprise, embarrassment, then relief. “Miss Annie,” she says, trying to sound calm and hospitable despite Helen’s lashing fists, “would you please bring the butter churn to me?”
    Confused, I look about. The churn stands beside me, its dash lolling out of the lid at a cockeyed angle. With a grunt I haul the full churn round the table to Mrs. Keller’s side. In one darting move Mrs. Keller snatches one of Helen’s hands and places the churn dash in it, moving the dash up and down, up and down, in a regular rhythm.
    Quick as a summer storm, Helen’s tantrum ends. She slides from her stool and takes up churning as though the devil himself were driving her. Gingerly little Martha and the cook resume their places at the table and begin working their dough.
    Mrs. Keller gives me a weary look.
    â€œI shouldn’t have slept so late,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œNonsense,” she says, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair into place. “You needed a good rest. Anyone could see that.”
    â€œThat child’s gonna make cheese outta that butter,” the cook says to no one in particular.
    â€œOh!” Mrs. Keller cries, and whirls round. She tries to slow the rhythm of her daughter’s churning, but Helen gives her a fierce shove and continues at herown wild pace. Sighing, Mrs. Keller wipes her hands on her apron, twisting the cloth round her fingers. “Are you hungry, Miss Annie? I had Viny save you a plate.” Before I can sputter an answer, the cook has the plate in her hands, ready to whisk me off to the dining room.
    â€œOh, no, I can eat right here.”
    Viny freezes and glances at Mrs. Keller with raised eyebrows. I have a feeling no one has volunteered to eat in the kitchen before. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” I rush on. “I’d much rather sit with you and Helen.” Viny looks unsure, but Mrs. Keller nods, and Viny makes a place for me between the coffee grinder and the apple corer. I take Helen’s empty stool and plant it before my plate of biscuits, gravy, and eggs.
    No sooner have the legs of the stool hit the floor than Helen appears at my side. I try to give her a goodmorning hug, but she throws my arm from her shoulders. Instead she grabs a leg of the stool and pats her chest with her free hand. Her meaning—
Mine!
—is clear. When I don’t budge, Helen bunches up her lips and thumps harder on her chest. Even in the dim kitchen light I can see Mrs. Keller’s face turning pink again.
    â€œViny, get Helen some cake so Miss Annie