Helen Keller Learns to Communicate

The pump handle stuck under my palms that morning, the wood already warm from the sun even though the air still held the night's cool. Helen stood at the spout with her mug, her face turned toward the sound of the water beginning to rush. Miss Sullivan spelled into her free hand the same way she had a hundred times before, letters pressed firm and quick against the small palm. I kept the rhythm steady, watching the flow fill the tin.

Helen let the mug drop. It clattered on the boards and rolled toward the edge of the platform. She stayed where she was, water still pouring over her fingers and down her wrist, soaking the cuff of her sleeve. Her other hand, the one Miss Sullivan held, went still for the first time since the teacher had arrived. Then her fingers moved. She spelled back the letters herself, once, then again, faster.

Miss Sullivan's face changed. She spelled something longer, her own hand trembling now. Helen repeated it. They stood there while the water ran on, neither of them reaching to stop it. I let the handle rest. The sound of the pump quieted to a drip.

Before that morning the house had been loud with Helen's wants. She moved through the rooms and the yard like a small storm, taking what she needed by touch and by force. Captain Keller gave in more often than not. Mrs. Keller tried to hold her but could not always manage it. James, the older brother, was the only one who sometimes pushed back, and even he walked wide circles when Helen's temper rose. The servants kept their distance when they could.

Miss Sullivan came on a Wednesday. She was young, not much past twenty, and she carried a single bag. She did not wait to be shown around. By the end of the first day she had already begun spelling into Helen's hand at every chance, the same steady letters for the same objects. Helen fought her from the start. She struck at the hand that held hers, twisted away, threw the objects down. Miss Sullivan spelled through all of it.

Within the week the teacher asked for the garden house. It stood a quarter mile from the main rooms, near enough to hear the bell but far enough that the family could not step in at every cry. Captain Keller agreed after two days of argument. I helped carry the trunks and the small bed. Helen went along because she always went where there was movement, but once the door closed she understood she was alone with the stranger. The first night she tried to leave three times. Miss Sullivan sat in the chair by the door until morning.

Days passed that way. I brought wood and water twice a day and saw the marks of the fights on both of them. Helen's face showed the strain of not getting her way. Miss Sullivan's hands were bruised where the child had bitten or struck. Still the spelling continued. Mug. Milk. The words circled the same confusion. Helen would drink and then spell the word for the cup itself, or spell the action when she meant the thing. Miss Sullivan would not let it pass.

On the fifth of April the morning was ordinary until it was not. We went to the pump house after breakfast because the water there ran colder and clearer than the kitchen tap. Helen carried the mug because she liked the weight of it. Miss Sullivan spelled water while the stream filled the tin. The cold hit Helen's skin and she dropped the mug again, but this time she did not move away. Her fingers shaped the letters back against Miss Sullivan's palm. Then she reached for more words. The ground. The pump itself. The air on her face. She wanted the name for each thing she touched.

I watched from the side of the platform. Helen turned toward the house and began to pull. Miss Sullivan followed. They went straight to the garden house without stopping. I gathered the mug and followed at a distance. By the time I reached the door Helen had already found objects inside and was demanding their names. She spelled them back each time, her hand moving quicker than I had ever seen it. Miss Sullivan answered every one.