Miss Spitfire Read Online Free Page B

can have some peace,” she says. With a subtle roll of her eyes Viny complies and waves a hastily cut chunk of cake under Helen’s nose. Like a vagabond, Helen snatches the cake and stuffs it into her mouth. Crumbs shower onto the table, a few of them lingering on her stickymouth and chin. Some work their way into her tangled hair.
    Her attention diverted, Helen sniffs about for anything else worth eating. Licking her lips, she hovers next to my plate of eggs.
    The room halts.
    I can feel everyone’s eyes upon us. Suddenly Helen turns to the colored child and yanks at her dress, then stoops to the floor and doubles her hands like a ball. Martha says, “Awright, Helen,” and out the door they scamper. A collective sigh of relief heaves all about me.
    â€œWhat was all that?” I demand.
    â€œEggs,” Viny says, turning back to her kneading.
    â€œEggs?”
    â€œHelen likes to hunt for guinea hen eggs in the fields with Martha Washington,” Mrs. Keller explains. “I’m sorry she was such a bother. She’s been impossible all morning.”
    â€œIs that why her hair still isn’t combed?” I say over a forkful of food.
    Viny muffles a snort. Mrs. Keller stiffens. “A person can only fight so many battles, Miss Annie. I don’t see the use of sparring over something she can’t understand.”
    â€œThere’s a difference between understanding and simple obedience,” I remark.
    Mrs. Keller picks up the churn dash and begins to churn almost as fervently as Helen, but her voicesounds wistful as a wilting vine. “There was a time when Helen seemed to understand everything, Miss Annie. At six months old she could say ‘how d’ye,’ ‘tea-tea-tea,’ and ‘wah-wah.’ On her first birthday she took her first steps. She nearly ran across the room. And such sharp eyes! Why, she could find dropped needles, buttons, and pins before anyone else. Before that fever hit her, she was the brightest child I’ve ever known.”
    I’m intrigued. “And now?”
    â€œShe hasn’t been sick a day since.” She falters. Her melancholy smile fades. “I don’t speak of it often. Living with it is enough. But I suppose you should know.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œI don’t know how much of Helen’s mind is left,” Mrs. Keller confesses. “She still says ‘wah-wah’ whenever she feels water, though I don’t know if she realizes it. Everything we do, she follows with her hands, repeating every motion. She can sort and fold the laundry, and never makes a mistake. She feeds the chickens and turkeys, grinds coffee, and stirs the cake batter. One day I found her in the parlor with her father’s glasses on, holding a newspaper in front of her face. Even things that don’t make sense to her, she imitates.” She stops short. I’ve cornered her, and she knows it.
    â€œThere’s not much Helen can’t do, provided she wants to do it,” Mrs. Keller admits, “but she’s so miserable I can’t bear to punish her.” She stops churning;her grip on the dasher turns her knuckles white. “She wants so much to understand, Miss Annie. I’ve counted at least sixty signs she’s invented for herself, but they’re not enough anymore, as you saw this morning.
    â€œHelen knows she’s different. She touches people’s faces as they talk, and I can see her wondering why her mouth doesn’t work the same way. When she can’t make us understand her, she moves her lips and gestures so frantically you’d think her little head was on fire with what she wants to say, but all she can do is scream herself into exhaustion.”
    â€œHow often does it happen?”
    â€œEvery day. Sometimes every hour. We can’t stand to see it anymore. My own brother says Helen behaves like she has no mind at all. He thinks we ought to lock her up