Free Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller Page B

here.”
    I wrench her back to the table and push her to the floor. Slapping her hand over the crumpled napkin I thunder, “Pick it up.” She sits still, pouting. I wiggle her hand over the napkin again. Nothing.
    â€œFine! “I yank the napkin out from under her hand and whip it into her lap. With a grunt and a groan I scoop Helen up, napkin and all, and deposit her into the chair.
    The sudden relocation stuns her; she quiets. Kneeling beside her, I fold my own napkin and lay it on the table next to hers. Taking control of her hands, I let her feel the rumpled napkin and my head shaking no. Then I move to the folded specimen as I nod yes.
    I pull up a chair beside her and demonstrate the proper way to end a meal: fold the napkin and place it on the table. If she can sort and fold laundry, there’s no excuse for her not to crease a bit of cloth into a square before leaving the table.
    My show of etiquette does not impress her. When I lay Helen’s napkin over her lap, she dumps it on the floor with a flick of her wrist. I lean over and retrieve it, snapping it back into her lap. “You can have that one for nothing. Try it again and you’ll be sorry.” Without a hint of hesitation she pitches the napkin from her lap. I spring from my seat and topple Helen from her roost with a deft twist of her chair. She sprawls on the floor, too surprised to yowl. I can’t help but laugh—despite her own savagery, sparring with someone as fierce as she shocks her.
    I don’t laugh for long. She digs at my legs with her sharp little claws, making me think I’ve blundered into a colony of fire ants. I kick at her until she crawls under the table. She doesn’t budge until I get down on my hands and knees and come after her. Even then shescrabbles just out of my reach, until I drag her back out by her hem.
    At last she climbs onto her chair, leaving the napkin behind. Exasperated, I send her sprawling again, and the battle begins anew. Every time she sits down without the napkin, I throw her out of her seat. Every time I throw her out of her seat, she attacks me and retreats under the table. By the time Helen finally surrenders, trailing the napkin behind her like a white flag, holes pock my stockings, and her dress hangs ragged as a Tewksbury beggar’s.
    We have another tussle over folding her napkin.
    I know she knows what to do with it. But she only sits, still and solid as a mule. Her face goes rigid. I’m wary. This is the sort of pose Helen took before she broke my tooth. Standing behind her, I try to move her hands through the motions of folding. Playing patty-cake with a tin soldier would be easier. She holds her arms stiff as planks, letting her hands come ever so close, but never near enough to shape the folds. As I fight with her, the muscles in my arms shudder, betraying my fury.
    An idea leaps to my mind like a spitting ember. I grab my own folded napkin and clap it over Helen’s mouth and nose. My promise to Mrs. Keller flashes through my mind, but I lay it aside. Unless I actually smother Helen, I won’t be hurting her.
    As Helen kicks at the air, I pull her head back and anchor it against my torso. Grasping a flailing hand, Itouch it to the napkin in her lap. She tries to twist her body away from me but can’t escape my grip on her chin.
    I count to forty, then give her a breath. Each time I clamp my hand back over her face, I indicate the unfolded napkin with her hand. She doesn’t give an inch. After five rounds of counting and gasping, the napkin still lies unfolded. Once Helen senses the pattern, she doesn’t struggle at all. I decide to raise the stakes. The sixth time I count to forty-five. The seventh, fifty. Her resistance leaves me stymied; when the count stretches past forty, she fidgets a little but doesn’t relent.
    I linger at fifty for a few rounds, uneasy with going higher. “I’ll hold my breath too,” I decide,