And faith shines equal, arming me from fear . . .
Mabel, one of the mourners at the back of the library, listened in irritation. Emily’s faith did not armor her from fear, she thought. Why tell lies over her coffin? A single line from her own poems contained more truth than this pious prating.
There followed a simple religious service. Then the coffin was carried out of the back door and across the meadow to the West Cemetery.
Vinnie, now alone in the Homestead, ventured into the room where Emily had lived and died. The room was neat and tidy, just as Emily had left it, with little to show for the life that had so recently found there a sanctuary and a port of embarkation. From here Emily had set sail on the journeys of the mind that she had recorded as her impetuous dash-filled poems. The little desk where she wrote was in its place. But where were the poems?
Vinnie had no idea what she was looking for. It was possible her sister had destroyed her writings as she completed them, keeping only the very few that satisfied her critical eye. She had left no directions, and no instructions. So Vinnie looked where she could.
The two top drawers of the chest contained folded clothing. The bottom drawer was harder to open, because it was heavier, and packed tight. But open it Vinnie did, and so discovered an astonishing hoard. Emily had written far, far more poems than anyone had ever guessed. They were packed in little bundles, each bundle tied with string, in their hundreds.
Vinnie took the poems out, and laid them on the floor, and was overwhelmed. Here before her lay her beloved sister’s legacy. Vinnie was convinced of Emily’s genius, though she was quite unable to say in what that genius lay. All she knew, as she gazed on the piles of papers, was that someone with more confidence than herself must undertake the task of getting the poems published.
She turned first to Colonel Higginson. Higginson found Emily’s handwriting hard to read. He wasn’t at all sure the eccentric poems would ever find a publisher. They were clumsily constructed, at times almost illiterate, and disfigured by ugly dashes. Moreover, he was extremely busy. The upshot was that he would look through the poems, but only if someone else made fair copies first, and organized them into some manageable order.
Vinnie then carried a box of the poems over to Sue. Sue understood that for Vinnie this was a sacred mission, but she herself had long ago lost her early admiration for Emily. She suggested that perhaps a modest private publication could be arranged. Having agreed to go this far, she then did nothing. Vinnie became increasingly agitated, and finally cornered Sue on the matter.
“My dear Vinnie,” said Sue. “There’s an immense amount of work to do here; I can make very little sense of half the lines. We would have to pay quite large sums to print the poems. And you must see that all we could do then is give them away to our friends. This isn’t the kind of thing the public cares for at all.”
“So you mean to do nothing?” said Vinnie.
“I know you feel you owe this to Emily’s memory,” said Sue. “But did Emily really want them to be published? I don’t think so. If she had wanted it, she would surely have said so while she was living. And you know, her poems will remain with us, in the family. She won’t be forgotten.”
Vinnie took the box of poems back. Sue’s lack of faith in Emily served to make Vinnie all the more determined. But to whom could she now turn? Austin, much as he had loved his sister, had never believed in her talents as a poet.
That left Mabel. Mabel was sure of herself in ways that Vinnie could never be. She had professed an interest in Emily, and an admiration for the few poems she’d read. And she was herself a published author. So Vinnie carried her box of poems over to the Lincoln house.
“I don’t like to trouble you, Mrs. Todd,” she said, laying the box on the parlor table. “You were always so kind about poor Emily’s poems. She spoke of you often, you know? I believe she felt your sympathy.”
Mabel took out the bundles of papers, and was amazed by the quantity.
“There are so many!”
“There are far more, I can assure you.”
Mabel took one poem at random and began to read.
“Vinnie, this is a marvel!”
“I don’t know what to do with them,” said Vinnie. “Sue tells me no one could care for them but those who knew and loved her.”
“Sue’s a fool,” said Mabel.
“Perhaps if you could look through them, and advise me?”
“Oh, Vinnie! It would be an honor!”
Here was the Myth herself, reaching out to her from beyond the grave, saying: I choose you.
That first box contained nearly seven hundred poems. There were as many again, Vinnie told her, waiting in Emily’s room at the Homestead. Some of the poems were unfinished, many had alternative words scribbled on the margins. The task of transcribing and sorting them would be enormous.
Mabel was overwhelmed, daunted, but above all, proud. Then as she began to read the poems, she fell in love. Here, on these scraps of paper, in words coiled tight as springs, was everything she felt in her own inmost heart.
I many times thought Peace had come
When Peace was far away—
As Wrecked Men—deem they sight the land—
At Centre of the Sea—
And struggle slacker—but to prove
As hopelessly as I—
How many the fictitious Shores—
Before the Harbor be—
The poems astounded her. Everything she had ever experienced was here, as if Emily had been watching her: her eager embrace of life, her passionate pursuit of love, the pain of living in the world, the coming ache of loneliness.
Had I not seen the Sun
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made—
15
Move down the street, towards a house where the windows glow. It’s that time of the evening, when day is not yet done but lamps are lit indoors. Through one window a young woman can be seen seated at a table, intently at work, a pen in her hand. She looks beautiful in the amber light.
Open the gate. Pass up the path to the front door. The door opens, though no one has opened it. Slip silently into the room where the young woman sits, now with her back to the door.
• • •
Come closer. Lean over her. See the papers she is working on. They are covered with handwriting. She is puzzling out words.
My handwriting, my words.
Are they really so hard to read? The letters are carefully formed, often separated one from the next. I always did like words to have air to breathe.
Her pen moves over the paper. Her handwriting, my words. I have elected her.
She believes herself to be alone. My voice, when I speak, remains unheard. But I speak to her.
“I’ve none to tell me to but thee
So when thou failest, nobody . . .”
16
Alice lies at one end of the big bed, naked, partly covered by a rumpled sheet, turning the pages of her copy of the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Nick lies at the other end, his body at an angle so that his feet push against her legs, tickling her. He too is searching in his own copy of the poems. Not so long ago they made love, and then they dozed a little. Now they’re arguing.
“Not arguing,” says Nick. “We’re having a literary critical dispute.”
Alice reaches one hand round and strokes his leg, feeling up his calf. She’s giddy with physical love. His body intoxicates her. She wants never to leave this bed, this closeness, this heat.
“Here we are,” he says. “Exhibit one. Don’t be fooled by the way it starts. The end line is the clincher.”
Their argument is about Emily Dickinson and sex. How much did she know? Nick says it was all in her head. Alice says she felt it in her body.
Nick reads aloud.
He was weak and I was strong—then—
So He let me lead him in—
I was weak, and He
was strong then—
So I let him lead me—Home.
“I have to tell you,” looking up from the page, “this is most likely not about a lover at all. The He is most likely Jesus.”
“Why can’t it be both?” says Alice.
Nick continues.
Day knocked—and we must part—
Neither—was strongest—now—
He strove—and I strove too—
“For God’s sake,” says Alice, “he’s fucking her! They’ve been together all night and he’s fucked her brains out!”
“I said to wait for the last line.”
Back to the reading—
He strove—and I strove too—
We didn’t do it—tho’!
“There!” Nick triumphant. “No ambiguity there. They didn’t do it.”
“We don’t know what it is.”
“Whatever it is, they didn’t do it!”
“Well, it sounded like sex to me.” Her roaming hand reaches up his thigh. He twists round in the bed so he can give her a kiss on the mouth.
“My turn,” she says, going back to her book. “Emily Dickinson gets down and dirty, exhibit two.”
She reads aloud.
My River runs to thee—
Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me?
My River waits reply—
Oh Sea—look graciously—
I’ll fetch thee Brooks
From spotted nooks—
Say—Sea—Take Me!
“Don’t tell me that isn’t sex.”
“Spotted nooks? What’s that?”
Her hand moves up his thigh to his groin.
“What flows from here into the eternal, all-embracing feminine sea?”
“The sea is feminine? The river is masculine? Exactly what gender is this poet?”
“Emily’s transgender. Haven’t you worked that out yet? She plays on both teams. She gets it about domination, and she gets it about submission.”
She flips the pages, locates another poem, reads aloud.
Good to hide, and hear ’em hunt!
Better to be found,
If one care to, that is,
The Fox fits the Hound—
“It’s practically S and M. The palpitating prey submits to the hunter. It makes me go all shivery.”
She turns over and lies half on top of him.
“The hunter’s taking a break,” he says.
“Oh, Nick.” She caresses his smiling face. “Why is it so easy with you?”
“I’m just a sex toy for you. You play with me for a while, and then discard me.”
“Are you my sex toy?” Her face nuzzling over the hairs on his chest. “Can’t I be in love with you?”
“By all means. Be my guest.”
“We could have a prayer we recite together.”
“I think I’ll pass on the prayer.”
“Oh, Nick.” She pulls her body fully onto his, smiles down at him. “You’re so adorable. I can’t think why. It makes no sense. I know it’s all going to end in tears. But I don’t care.”
“Whose tears?”
“Mine, of course.”
She offers a line from another poem to clinch her argument.
“ ‘And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea!’ ”
“The eternal, all-embracing feminine sea,” says Nick.
“A gun! I mean, do I have to spell it out?”
“Of course she had sexual feelings. I’m not denying that. But that doesn’t mean she ever had sex.”
“Most likely she didn’t,” says Alice. “But I love her, Nick, I really do. I want to think she felt like me. I want my Emily to be sexy. I want her to know about actual sex.”
“I suppose,” says Nick, “she might have peeped through the keyhole. Do you think she did?”
“Spied on Austin and Mabel?”
“Some people do like to watch.”
“Like David.”
“Like me.”
Nick slips off the bed and goes to the closet. Alice watches his lanky naked body. He opens the closet door, pushes it all the way back. On the inside of the door is a long mirror.
He returns to the bed and, kneeling beside her, lifts her up onto her knees facing the mirror. Now he has her in his arms, and they can see themselves reflected, naked in the glass. He keeps his gaze on the mirror, strokes her breasts with one hand.
“Part your legs.”
She does as he asks, kneeling on the bed. His hand moves down her body. She watches him watching her.
“You like this?” she says.
“I’d like to make love to you like this,” he says.
“Then we will.”
It’s all so easy. She wants to give him her body as his pleasure ground, to play with as he pleases. She wants to stay in this bed, in his arms, forever and ever.
• • •
Later they feel hungry. Nick goes down to the kitchen and returns with a plate of apples and cookies. They eat eagerly, sprawled over the bed. When they’ve had enough, they lie down again, folded in each other’s arms.
“Why can’t life always be as simple as this?” says Alice.
“Because of time,” says Nick. “Now can be great. But then along comes later to fuck it up.”
“I don’t see why.”
“It’s called entropy. Things run down. And then at the end, guess what? We die.”
“Die again, then we’ll be free.” She catches the surprised look on his face. “That’s what you said, according to your suicidal friend Marcia. Marcia thinks you’re an old soul.”
“It’s all Emily Dickinson, really. She’s the old soul.”
“I love it that you love Emily too.”
“She knew what was coming,” says Nick. “She never lied to herself.”
He pulls a book of the poems over. It’s Alice’s copy. He hunts through the pages for a poem he half remembers.
“Do I lie to myself?” says Alice.
“You tell me.”
“Wanting to be happy isn’t lying to yourself. If all we ever thought about was dying, how could we live?”
“Here it is.”
He reads:
The Heart asks Pleasure—first—
And then—Excuse from Pain—
And then—those little Anodynes
That deaden suffering—
And then—to go to sleep—
And then—if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor
The privilege to die—
“It’s not my will,” says Alice. “I’m not dying for a long time. I’m planning on living.”
“I see you like to underline the good bits.”
He’s flipping through her copy of the poems.
“For my screenplay,” she says.
“Where would this come in your screenplay?”
He shows her the page. She’s underlined three lines.
Oh God
Why give if thou must take away
The loved?
“Don’t you think,” she says, “Mabel might have felt that way after Austin died?”
“So it’s about Mabel? Nothing to do with you.”
“And about me too.”
He takes her in his arms.
“That’s what happens,” he says. “Things get taken away.”
“I can deal with it.”
“Let me tell you. It gets harder.”
He kisses her softly, lovingly.
“I’m scared,” he says.
“Why?”
“You’re too young. You know too much.”
“I’m not asking you for anything, Nick.”
“I’m much more of a mess than you know.”
“All right. I believe you. My lookout.”
“I can’t help feeling responsible.”
“You’re not my father. You’re not even my stepfather. Maybe I am working out some daddy complex. So what? You’re a lovely man, Nick. In your body and in your mind. Let me enjoy you. Don’t spoil it.”
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“All right. I’ll shut up.”
“I know I was the one going on about sex. But really it’s the time after sex I like the best. Lying about on the bed with you, touching and not touching. Being alive and dreamy at the same time. Loving my body because you’ve loved it. Talking in lazy circles. That’s what I want to go on forever.”
He smiles for her but he’s looking sad. She kisses him quickly, many small kisses.
“You’re not to worry, Nick. I promise you I can look after myself.”
“All right.”
For the first time since they entered his bedroom together sometime last night, he looks at the bedside clock.
“You realize how long we’ve been here?”
“Too long. Not long enough.”
“Almost fifteen hours.”
They part at last, to their separate bathrooms, to shower and dress. Alice thinks how he said he was more of a mess than she knew. She wonders what went wrong between him and his wife. His weakness for students, presumably. She finds it hard to believe he has some dark secret she has yet to guess. And even if he has, so what?
He makes me happy.
Such a simple statement, but the fact is she hasn’t felt this way since the early days with Jack. She feels the urge to tell somebody. But who?
Hey, Mum, I’m having a great time. I’m having an affair with a man who’s older than my dad.
My girlfriends wouldn’t get it either. Only Chloe, who actually did fuck my dad, and she’s not exactly my friend. Or Laura, who’s Jack’s mum. So it’s not simple.
Except it is simple. He makes me happy.
Then it jumps into her mind that the person she wants to talk to is, of course, Jack. She doesn’t stop to ask herself why. She texts him before she can change her mind.
You home? Want to Skype?
Barely a second later his reply has bridged the three thousand miles and five time zones between them.
Online now.
She brushes her hair and buttons her blouse. Then she’s at the writing table, her laptop open before her, and the machine is warbling into cyberspace.
She hears Jack before she sees him.
“Alice?”
“I’m here.”
And there he is, blinking out of the screen, his gaze not aligned with hers because the camera is above the image. He looks tired, hesitant, but that may be down to the erratic signal. His face freezes, jerks, comes back to life, as if he’s a ghost appearing to her from beyond the grave.