Friday night, before she falls asleep, Emily reads through the poems in her notebook. In the nine weeks that she’s been here, she’s completed twenty-seven, plus twice that many fragments and half-finished poems and, of course, there’s the hidden one under her mattress that she wrote eighteen days ago, which now feels like eighteen hundred days.
When Emily Dickinson died, her younger sister, Lavinia, burned all of her correspondence, as Emily had requested. But Vinnie, as Emily called her, was stunned to discover among her sister’s papers nearly two thousand poems bundled into booklets. All those years of living in the house together, and Emily had kept them to herself. Vinnie read the poems. She thought they deserved an audience, and so she took it upon herself to get her sister’s work published.
Emily Beam isn’t sure how to feel about Vinnie’s decision. On the one hand, she is grateful, because otherwise, she would never have heard of Emily Dickinson. On the other hand, here she is, with her own private stash of poems not meant for anyone’s eyes, though other eyes have seen them. She finds the folded-up flyer at the back of her notebook, the one announcing the poetry contest. With her black pen, Emily puts Xs through all of the blanks on the entry form. She marks through the contest deadline—Monday, March 20—and scratches all the way across the paper, like a six-year-old who’s just learned to spell his first bad word, POETRY SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! After she balls up the paper and throws it in the trash can, she lies flat on her back and falls asleep, exclamation points rolling through her brain on little wheels.
On Saturday morning she wakes with numb lips. In a dream, she has been kissing Paul under a scratchy blanket in a cold, abandoned barn. K.T. is in the bathroom, where Emily will have to go in a minute. So far, she has avoided conversation with Annabelle and Waverley, though she has passed them in the hall and smiled a fake smile, which they return with their own fake smiles. In the dim light, when Emily reaches into the top drawer of her dresser for a clean pair of underwear, her fingertips meet an unexpected fabric. Emily pulls out the white cotton dress just as K.T. kicks open the door with her foot. Emily tucks the dress behind her.
“I wish we could go for a walk today,” K.T. says. “I’d like to see that eagle again.”
When K.T. isn’t looking, Emily stuffs the dress back in the drawer.
“Yeah, me too,” says Emily.
“If you get lonely this afternoon, come visit. I’ll be in the music room practicing. Vivaldi is kicking my ass.” K.T. wraps her wet blond hair up into a topknot. “Blond Buddha.”
Emily laughs. “Hey, I’m skipping breakfast this morning. You were right about the coffee in the dining room. It is full of dreams.”
• • •
Emily finishes her test on chemical reactions later that morning with minutes to spare. Carefully, she reaches into her book bag so as not to disturb the dress that is wrapped in the Harvard sweatshirt and fishes around for the book of Dickinson poems. She opens it to Poem 17, but the metaphor is too ambiguous. She does not know, either, what to do with the dress. French doesn’t meet on Saturday mornings, and Amber isn’t in her room in Sweetser Hall when Emily goes looking for her after U.S. History, the last class of the day. When Emily unzips her book bag, a sleeve of the dress flutters out of the sweatshirt and into the sudden light like a kaleidoscope of butterflies, and she has to zip it back again. She walks to the security desk in the administration building and checks the sign-out sheet for Amber’s name, but it’s not there.
On her way back to 15 Hart Hall, Emily notices that Madame Colche’s porch light is still on from the night before. As she’s looking at it, the light winks at her. Three times. Emily walks across the quad and knocks on the door.
“I need a favor,” Emily says when Madame Colche opens it.
“Come in, dear.”
Madame Colche gestures to a chair in the parlor, and Emily sits.
“I’m campused till Wednesday, as you know. But, if it’s at all possible, I really need to tour the Emily Dickinson House before then. I know you’re a member of the Society, so I thought, well, that you might be able to help me out.”
“Can you explain to me the sense of urgency? The house has stood for one hundred fifty years. Surely it can last another few days. And you’ve been here for how many now?”
“Sixty-three.”
“En français, s’il vous plaît.”
Emily thinks for a second. “Soixante-trois.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m working on a poem for the contest. It’s about Emily Dickinson writing a poem, and I want to see the place, the exact spot, where she wrote.”
“I see.”
“The idea just came to me last night, and the contest deadline is Monday, so …”
“Isn’t there a photograph of Emily’s bedroom in the book I gave you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And also a close-up of the desk where she wrote most of her poems, if I’m not mistaken. Do you not think, under the circumstances, that these will suffice?”
“I’ll know what it looks like,” says Emily, “but I won’t know what it feels like. And feelings are the most important things.”
“Being campused is a serious punishment. I doubt that in this case, Dr. Ingold will be sympathetic to the superiority of feeling over fact. Now, on Wednesday, when you are free to roam about, I’ll be more than happy to take you on a private tour of the house.”
“That would be very nice,” Emily says.
“En français, s’il vous plaît, Mademoiselle Beam.”
“Ça serait gentil.”
“Très bon!” says Madame Colche, hopping up with a clap of her hands. “C’est un beau samedi, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes,” says Emily in English, rising from her chair. “Yes, it’s a beautiful Saturday.”
Outside, the sun has come out, and as Madame Colche closes her front door, Emily wishes she were on the bench across from the big yellow house at 280 Main Street, soaking up the early spring. Her stomach is growling, so she heads to the dining room.
After she gets her tray, she looks around for Amber. K.T. is sitting with the members of the string quartet, and she waves Emily over.
“I think you all know each other,” K.T. says. The girls and Emily exchange their hellos.
“How’s Vivaldi?” Emily asks. “Is it The Four Seasons that you’re working on?”
Ms. Albright had played the class a CD of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. Before she met K.T., it was the only piece of classical music Emily could name other than The Nutcracker and Swan Lake.
“Yes, and ‘Winter’ is a bitch,” says Lucy, a violinist.
Emily laughs. “I’m ready for spring, too.”
“Only three days away,” K.T. says.
“For now we have to drink our warmth,” says Jillian, the other violinist, rising from the table. “Anyone want more coffee?”
• • •
After lunch, Emily finds a bench in the quad and turns her face to the sun, but the spot does not offer the same delicious feeling as the bench on Main Street. With her book bag still in tow, Emily walks across the lawn to the edge of campus. The stone wall is too high to climb, but she ducks inside a circle of tall boxwoods and reaches into the zippered pocket for a cigarette and a pack of matches.
It’s time, she thinks. Time to make something happen instead of waiting for it. She puts the cigarette in her mouth. The breeze is light, and the cigarette ignites on the first try. She inhales and exhales slowly, wondering if meditating is something like this. Her mind begins to buzz as if full of bees. Honeybees that pollinate, bouncing from blossom to blossom. Emily Dickinson loved her bees. We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing, she wrote in Poem 230. So many poems with bees in them. Dr. Ingold was right; Emily Dickinson spent hours in her garden.
Could a favorite white dress find its way back to the place it loved the most? What if Amber didn’t steal it? What if there really were ghosts who returned to tidy up on earth? Emily takes one last drag on the cigarette and snuffs it out on the pebbles before climbing back through the boxwoods. As if she owns the place, she walks around the lieberry and out the side gate and runs all the way to the bench on Main Street.
Empty but awash in sunlight, the bench looks happy to see her. Surely, it has been waiting; surely, it has missed her company. Emily sits and lights another cigarette. A man and woman with a baby stroller pass by and shoot her two equally dirty looks. “Allez-vous faire foutre,” she says, but not loudly enough for the couple to hear. “Fuck you” was the first French phrase she learned at Grenfell County High School. Not from her teacher, of course.
As she smokes, three old ladies struggle up the steps to the Emily Dickinson House. The front door opens, and, one by one, they disappear inside. Down the street, a girl comes barreling toward her, a canvas bag bouncing at her hip.
“I am so mad at you,” Emily says when Amber gets close enough to hear.
“Do you have it?” says Amber, panting.
“Yeah.”
“What about the slip of paper?”
“I put it back in the pocket.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Amber Atkins is evil.’ Don’t you even care that I’m here where I shouldn’t be?”
Amber laughs and sits down on the edge of the bench, dropping the large bag, full of art supplies, on the ground. “You can hate me, but you can also love me.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I went to your room to find you, I caught Annabelle Wycoff leaving it.”
“Was K.T. there?”
“No,” Amber says, “K.T. was not there.”
“Just like when you snuck in with the dress, right? What the hell? Why doesn’t this school believe in locks?”
“Guess what Annabelle had in her hands?”
Emily’s heart jumps into her throat as Amber bends down and opens her bag.
“Oh, my God,” says Emily.
Amber holds up Emily’s poetry notebook. “I recognized it. From breakfast that day. So I wrestled it out of her greedy little hands.”
With one deep inhale, Emily crushes the rest of the cigarette under her boot. “I thought I put it in my book bag first thing this morning! Give me that!” She flips through it, page after page. She counts. They’re all there, even the loose ones.
“You can thank me,” Amber says.
“I can,” says Emily, “but I won’t.”
Amber shakes her head. “So what’s the plan?”
Emily straightens her shoulders and points to the yellow brick house across the street. “I’m going to leave it in the yard once all the people leave.”
“Well, I could have done that.”
“Exactly!”
Emily and Amber watch as a man photographs two smiling young women on the front porch.
“This might be tricky,” Amber says.
“No shit. Right now, there are five people inside, maybe more. Plus the docents and that family wandering around in the garden.”
“I think it would be easier if you went inside and, like, left it in the bedroom when no one was looking.”
“What if they have a docent standing in the bedroom the whole time?” Emily asks.
“They don’t need a docent when they’ve got that scary-ass mannequin watching your every move.”
Emily stares Amber down until Amber looks away. “I want to know why you stole it. Look, I’ve stolen things, too, all right?”
Amber bends her head so that her hair veils her face. “I like the challenge. And I did it for you.”
“For me?”
“Because you didn’t tell on me about the lipstick—”
“So because I don’t tell on you for almost stealing, you thank me by stealing. That makes no sense.”
“No,” says Amber, shaking the hair from her eyes. “What I mean is, I could tell that first night that you had lost something. Something white. And I was right because when you talked about visiting your friend in Ohio in front of the class, you blinked a lot.”
“I did?”
“I was about to hand you my sunglasses, you blinked so much. I thought you were about to start bawling. Whatever it was you’d lost, I could tell you wouldn’t be getting it back.”
Emily scans Amber’s face for a glimpse of Paul. Hadn’t he said something like that once, something about loss? Hadn’t he tried to blink it away?
“God, Amber,” says Emily. “You really freak me out sometimes, you know that?”
Amber holds up her hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, stop. Stop saying. Don’t you have any other friends who’ve lost shit? What about Harriet from French or those Goth girls you sit with at lunch? There’s no doubt in my mind that they’re losers. And I mean that in the literal sense.”
Amber tucks her hair behind her ears. “Look, Emily, I have plenty of friends. But none of them are poets. You need to be in that house. It’s crazy, I know, for me to say that, but I know you need to stand for a minute in that room. There’s something otherworldly in there. Call it a ghost, call it whatever you want, but it’s there.”
“If I go,” says Emily, “will you sit here and wait for me?”
“Why do you think I brought my paints? I’m going to do the house and give it to you as a token of my deep and abiding appreciation. And the painting shall be called—drumroll, please—The White House.”
“But it’s yellow,” says Emily.
Amber rolls her eyes. “Beam. You’ll never make it as a poet if you’re that literal.”
• • •
By three o’clock, Emily has smoked her last two cigarettes and has walked to the drugstore in the middle of town. It’s the same girl behind the counter as last time, and she hands Emily, along with a pack, three books of matches. Emily smokes another one on the way back to the bench, where Amber sits in full sun with her canvas and palette. Emily’s head buzzes with nicotine and adrenaline and images of bees. The visitors to the Emily Dickinson House keep coming and going. At four-fifteen, by Emily and Amber’s count, there are nine people inside and a few more wandering around in the garden.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to pull this off,” Emily says. “I had no idea Emily Dickinson was so popular.”
“Are you kidding?” says Amber. “That’s how ASG gets half of its students—by advertising itself as the school that educated America’s greatest poet. Hey, and soon they can brag that it educated America’s two greatest poets.”
“You didn’t look in my notebook, did you?”
“I glanced at a page or two. Will you remember me when you’re famous?”
“Shut up,” Emily says, checking her watch. “All right. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going in.” She stands and throws her book bag over her shoulder. “You’ll be here, right? Just in case I get arrested?”
Amber knights Emily on the shoulder with her paintbrush. “Get thee to the White House.”
Emily crosses the street and opens the iron gate. The steps to the front door are worn from over a hundred and fifty years of coming and going. Between the scrolls of two Ionic columns on the porch, a bird has built a nest. Emily opens the door, painted forest green, and hands a woman with a pouf of white hair her ASG student ID, which gets her in for free.
“Another Emily,” the woman says. She has on lipstick the color of cotton candy and a sweet smile to match. She reminds Emily of Paul’s grandmother. “Are you a poet, too?”
“Not really,” Emily says.
“It is so lovely to see you girls taking advantage of this house,” the woman says, handing her a brochure. “Now, what we offer is a self-guided tour. After you walk through the house, exit through the back door if you’d like to see Miss Emily’s garden. There’s a volunteer in the gift shop at the rear of the house who can point you in the right direction.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Emily, eying the steps curving upward.
“You only have fifteen minutes before we close, but enjoy your visit. And don’t be surprised if you see Miss Emily,” the woman says with a wink. “She’s been spotted before at this time of day.”
The light of day’s end slants through the windows of the dining room. Across the hall is a dark parlor. The curtains are drawn, and a piano announces its sad silence, photographs in frames sitting on top of it. Emily leans in to study them so as not to appear too eager to wind her way up to the poet’s bedroom. She can hear voices on the stairs, footsteps coming down. An old man with a cane and a woman on his arm talk intimately with one another and then with the woman at the front door. There is a rise of laughter, then more talking. Emily takes her chance and slips upstairs.
The room down the hall is just like the pictures, neat and spare, with a small bed dressed in a clean, white coverlet. The mannequin in the corner isn’t naked; it wears a brown dress with long, puffy sleeves. Emily walks over to the two windows facing the front yard. In between the giant evergreens, she can see Amber across the street on the bench. Emily turns to the desk, a simple, wooden table on elegant legs. The desk’s surface is so small that there’s room only for an elbow and a single sheet of paper. Just as she is lowering herself into the desk chair, the woman from downstairs appears in the doorway.
“I forgot to tell you not to sit on any of the furniture,” the woman says, not unkindly. “But it’s tempting, isn’t it?”
Emily jerks herself up. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s a sweet room. You can understand why she spent so much time in here.”
Emily nods. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”
“Downstairs by the gift shop,” the woman says, pointing. “You’ll see it on your way out.”
Emily thanks her, leaving the woman standing by the mannequin, and hurries down the cascade of steps. She finds the bathroom, turns on the light, and locks herself inside. She unzips her book bag, reaching for the sweatshirt, but it seems all wrong, to leave the dress in a room with no windows. She closes the lid of the toilet and sits down to think. After a moment, she gets up and turns the light off and sits down again.
She hears the voice of the cloud-haired woman sweep by, announcing that the house will be closing in five minutes. Emily squints at her watch. A door somewhere to her right slams; the wooden floors outside of the bathroom creak with fast steps. Keys jangle, and then another door, a nearer one, clicks closed. Emily realizes that she’s been holding her breath. With a silent exhale, she thinks of Amber sitting across the street on the bench. Let her sit, Emily thinks. Let her paint her weird little heart out.
Long after the sounds of other people in the house have ceased, Emily unlocks the door. She can tell from the shadows on the Oriental rug that it is still light outside, so she makes her way (baby steps!) to the parlor and crouches down on the floor by the piano bench, away from the windows, even though the curtains are drawn. No house has ever been as quiet as this one.
Emily reaches up with her right hand and brushes her fingers across the ivory keys. Wasn’t Vinnie the pianist in the family? Emily presses her index finger down, and a note trembles forth. What would Ms. Albright say? And Madame Colche, who would no doubt approve of her choice of the parlor as the place to hide out until dark. But K.T. will be worried, and Amber, too, though at least Amber knows where she is.
What would Paul say, who at one time believed that a fallen leaf just might be able to reattach itself to its mother branch? How could it be the same Paul who, a decade later in his school library, had looked at the gun in his hands as if it had fallen straight from the sky? That was part of what had frightened Emily so much—that all of a sudden, with the gun in his hands, Paul seemed to possess an alien’s awareness or maybe even the secret to the universe, and in the split second before she dropped to her knees, Emily thought, Holy shit, Paul is right, and I am wrong, and I’m the one who doesn’t get it, and she didn’t know what to say, the right words did not come, and God was not with her, as she’d believed all her life that He would be.
For a flash of a second, she saw the Paul she had given herself to in his soft gray eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. He was crying.
“I know,” said Emily. “I know.”
“I meant what I said on the phone Saturday night. I want to get married. Emily, please, marry me.”
With the gun in his hand, she was afraid to say no. She nodded.
“You’re lying,” Paul said.
Emily shifted her eyes to the book on the floor. “Yes,” she whispered. “I am.”
“You don’t love me,” said Paul. “You don’t love me.”
She is so ashamed of herself that she couldn’t tell K.T. what she said next, but she can say it now. She speaks the words aloud, tasting them for a second awful time.
“It wouldn’t be fair. To the baby, I mean. A mother and father should love one another for the baby’s sake, Paul.”
Pall. Pall. Pall.
Emily will hear these words forever. She used the life growing inside her. She had used it to save her own skin. That was what she said, and all she said, before the silence strangled her and Ms. Albright appeared, and Paul ran away, not from Ms. Albright, who offered Paul her hand, but from Emily, who didn’t.
Emily reaches up again and plays another key on the piano. That’s for you, Ms. Albright, she thinks. And so is this one. She presses another key to keep the first note from fading away into the old-house smell. Emily Dickinson had grown hyacinths indoors. It wouldn’t have smelled like an old house in the spring when the hyacinths bloomed. Emily unzips the book bag and lifts out the dress wrapped in the sweatshirt. Standing, she unrolls it so that it cascades in front of her. The dress is her size. Emily Dickinson was on the small side, like Emily Beam.
Emily jerks her turtleneck sweater over her head and tosses it on the floor of the now-dark parlor. She unbuttons the mother-of-pearl buttons and inches the dress over her head. As she stands there, breathing in another century, another lifetime, she is certain she is going to cry, she is sure her body will give itself over to grief, so she lifts the dress away from her head for fear she might ruin it with her tears. She puts her sweater on again and lays the dress over one shoulder, holding it in place. With her other hand, she unlaces her boots and works her feet out of them. She lifts her book bag over her other shoulder, and by feeling her way, she baby-steps up the stairs in her socks to the bedroom. The door is wide open. Through one of the windows, she can see the outline of Amber on the bench. The mannequin, blank-faced and thin-lipped, stares out at nothing, the brown skirt of the dress like a bell. In the dusk, the bodice looks as if it’s made of thousands of tiny gold feathers.
When Emily was in kindergarten, she thought the moon was God’s eyeball, and she told Miss Claire, who smiled and said, “Perfect. God is a Cyclops.” Emily had no idea what a Cyclops was, but Miss Claire explained that it was a giant with a single eye in the middle of his face. Then Miss Claire told the class that a lot of people, moms and dads, grandmothers and grandfathers, really and truly believed that the moon was made of cheese. Emily and her classmates sat on their little squares of carpet, agape. For many of them, and for Emily, too, it was the first time that a grown-up had treated them as equals. Listen, good children, Miss Claire seemed to say, you are more sensible than the masses. Trust your thoughts.
It was the same way when Paul first took Emily into his confidence. She had felt like a chosen one. Not another girl but a boy had picked her to tell his secrets to.
On their first date, September 9, 1994, Emily and Paul were the youngest couple at Frank’s Tuscan Villa. Paul had made reservations at a corner table, and he pulled Emily’s chair out for her after the hostess set the menus down. At first, they’d made small talk. Emily could tell that Paul was nervous because he asked her questions he already knew the answers to: What is your favorite subject in school? (English.) What kind of music do you like? (Shawn Colvin, Indigo Girls, stuff like that.) Do you want to go to college? (Yes, very much.) Where? (I don’t know yet.) When the waiter came to take their order, Paul told Emily to order anything she’d like. She ordered eggplant parmesan, which she’d never tried before, and a house salad with blue cheese dressing, which came with the meal. Paul ordered spaghetti and meatballs with no salad.
“This is delicious,” Emily said, pointing at the eggplant. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I don’t think I’ll have room for dessert. This portion is so huge.”
“You don’t have to eat it all.”
“Oh, but I want to,” Emily said.
It wasn’t easy to be on a first date eating Italian food. Emily was sure she’d end up with some of it on her light-blue sweater. Less than two minutes into the meal, Paul spilled sauce on the front of his white button-down.
That broke the ice. They laughed, and what was so fun, the most wonderful thing about the whole night, was that they talked about a lot of things Emily had never discussed with boys. Paul asked her what her favorite possession was. “My grandmother’s childhood dictionary,” she told him, because her grandmother, who had died when Emily was eleven, had drawn little pictures in the margins to help her remember the words. His, he said, was his driver’s license.
They had talked a lot about their grandparents. Paul had a good handshake, thanks to his grandfather, Gigi’s husband, who was the one who first taught Paul about the wide world of trees. On the day after Paul graduated from kindergarten, he and his grandpa had taken a long walk through the woods. His grandpa taught him how to identify trees by their leaves and their bark. Life happened in the woods, his grandpa said, and so the woods were worth knowing. He told Paul what would happen to each tree when autumn came, what color the leaves would turn and when they would fall. The red oaks didn’t lose their leaves at all, and Paul decided then and there that they were his favorite.
“Mine too,” his grandpa said. He reached his hand out to Paul, and when Paul shook it, his grandpa said, “Darn, boy. We’ve got to work on that.”
“Show me,” Emily said to Paul. “How to shake hands.” She held out her right hand across the table, and with his own right hand, Paul gripped hers and shook once, down and up.
Come to find out, she had wanted dessert. Being with Paul made her hungry. He recommended the tiramisu, which they shared. On the way from Frank’s back to Emily’s house, Paul made a detour on a county road.
“Is it okay?” he asked. “If we park somewhere and talk some more?”
The road was lined with maples, which would have been a canopy of color had they been passing under it in the light of day. But it was dark, darker than any road Emily had ever ridden down. After a couple of miles, Paul turned left onto a gravel driveway, and the truck bounced its way up to an abandoned barn.
“There was a fire here a long time ago,” Paul said.
“I hope no one died. Or any cows or horses.”
“Whatever happened, it happened before we were born.” Paul turned off the engine. “I have a flashlight, if you want to look around.”
“No,” Emily said. “Let’s just sit here.” She placed her left hand on the seat, and Paul reached for it.
They sat for a minute, holding hands, the wind and the leaves speaking for them through the open windows.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to die in a fire,” Paul said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if you wanted to be cremated anyway, you’d have nature doing the job for you. And you’d pass out from the smoke inhalation before the flames reached you and all that.”
Emily shuddered. “Do you want to be cremated?” she asked.
“Yeah. Ashes to ashes. I don’t believe everything the Bible says, but I believe some of it.”
“Like what? What parts do you believe?”
“The Do Unto Others part, for one thing. I totally believe in that. And I believe that life is a gift given by God or some higher power. But everlasting life?” Paul shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that one.”
“I’m not sure about that one, either,” said Emily. “Because God didn’t write the Bible. Men did, probably uneducated ones.”
She had said it to make Paul laugh, but he didn’t.
“I think about it, but then I have to make myself stop because it’s so depressing. All of the people in the world, and the animals, too, all of the people and animals that have ever lived, all of the trees, and all of the thousands and thousands of years before us, all of that life died, and all the people we know will die, too, and all of the people who are born after us, and so there’s no possible way we’ll see each other again because how could we all fit up there in heaven?” He paused. “You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Emily said. “No, I don’t.”
“Really?”
“I think you’re nice.”
Paul turned to her and touched her on the shoulder. “Can I kiss you?”
“I was hoping you would,” said Emily.
And they kissed, and it was a giant thing, but it was also quiet, like the biggest moments are. In the room where many poems were once written, Emily sinks to the single bed and cries for all that has been lost, and for all that will be.
• • •
When Emily lifts her head from the white coverlet, the room is so full of moonlight that she can read by it. She looks at her watch and taps it. There is no way it is only 7:55. She rises from the bed and walks over to the desk chair where the dress is arranged over the back of it as if a person had been sitting there and slipped out for a moment. Did she lay the dress out like that? She was upset, but she doesn’t remember doing it. She reaches into the pocket of the dress, feeling for the scrap of paper, which sticks itself, static-like, to her palm. Emily’s poetry notebook sits on top of the desk. She doesn’t remember putting that there, either. K.T.’s fountain pen rests next to the cover, the moonlight igniting the gold tip. Emily glances at the mannequin, who gazes back.
“Talk to me,” Emily says. “You said in one of your poems that you don’t believe in heaven. But have you changed your mind? Tell me. Tell me everything.”
The mannequin’s white lips almost move.
“Is it okay with you if I sit here?” Emily asks. She lowers herself into the chair and peels the scrap of paper from her palm and presses it to the flat surface of the desk, which smells of old wood. She runs both hands along its worn edges and reaches back to touch the dress, thinking of another pocket, the one in a boy’s pair of blue jeans, the one that once held a letter from a girl. Whatever happened to that letter? Did Paul burn it? Did he hide it under a mattress or slide it into a chest of treasures or leave it where it landed, a hidden part of a messy pile of laundry?
For minutes, Emily listens to the stillness in the room, which has its own private voice. It tells her that the unexpected maid is not an outside force. She may come as a surprise, yes, but she always comes from within. The maid is the muse, and the girl who discovers her must create for her a world of a meaning in which to live. Under the bright eye of the Cyclops moon, Emily Beam realizes that Emily Dickinson didn’t write 1,775 poems just to keep them all to herself. She knew they’d be found. She knew they’d be read. She knew they would prove to other daughters of America, and sons, too, all the survivors, that they are not alone.
Emily Beam opens her notebook to a blank page.
“Pocket,” the silence whispers.
“A crib for pencils,” Emily whispers back. “A home for matchbooks.”
“The night,” says the silence. “The whole night is shrinking.”
“Once upon a time,” says Emily, “this desk was a tree.”
“The paper was, too.”
“I knew a boy who grew trees. And I think that I loved him.”
“Morning fades,” says the silence.
“When I die,” asks Emily, “where will I go? What dark pocket of time will rock me to sleep?”
Crib for pencils matchbooks
splinters of trees in my apron
restructured trunks all over
the place My desk once an oak
its rings now blocked
angles of legs and grooves
Paper I write on past
maple or pine so many
limbs gone sapless
Time has tucked in
arranged days waking
sweeping feeding the cat
washing a plate as moonlight
wanes reading poems as
the week unfolds
then folds again
Morning fades
I can’t recall numbers
count back to zero stunned
that I came to be born
The whole night is shrinking
trunks and twigs
kindling to ash the fabric
of sky taken in Seams
hold only so long then
fray frazzle dangle us
all in the dark
When I fall
what pocket
will cradle me?
Emily Beam, March 18, 1995