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should come downstairs, read to me, take me to dinner. I felt my way from window to closet, then, with an armful of clothes, tossed them into the open suitcase at the foot of my bed. Still, no Peter.
    The blind are excellent guides. A telltale rap on the ceiling of my room told me Peter was awake; he had swung out of bed and was pacing the bare floors.
    I decided to make a racket to guide him downstairs.
    I sat on my suitcase so I could fasten it tight, then pulled it over to the door and dragged my desk chair, with great banging, away from my desk and sat down heavily. At the oak desk I swept up my hair to show off my bare neck, the way women in romance novels always did, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blue dress and sat at my desk just in time. Within minutes Peter came into my room and took my hand.
    “Sorry, boss, I slept through my afternoon shift. Wait a minute.” He leaned over me and saw the Braille letter I had been reading at my desk. “Come to think of it, I’m not sorry at all. Look at you!”
    He took the letter and read to me that a farmer in Indiana, a German American, refused to pay his war bonds, and a mob attacked his house. Hang him! they cried. Traitor! Until his wife convinced them to let him live.
    “You workso much it makes mere humans look bad,” Peter said. I put my hand on his cheek and felt his voice dip.
    “That German farmer needs help.” I was suddenly defensive. I’d thought I could bring Peter closer to me by showing him my intensity. But as I spelled to him he opened and closed his palm, as if he were drawn to me but also pushed away.
    “What’s going on out there?” I jerked my head toward the window to get his attention away from me. The floor beneath my feet vibrated with the arrival of cars and trucks; even the arms of my chair rattled under my hands. “What are all those people coming for?”
    “There’s a carnival outside. Can’t you tell?”
    “How would I know?”
    “I thought you were the scent expert. What, can’t you smell the popcorn? The fireworks, at least?” He was right. There was a singed, burnt scent in the night air. “Let’s go.” He pulled my chair back from the desk. “The carnival awaits. I get the inside seat on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Otherwise I get dizzy as hell. You in?”
    “No.” I held tight to the edge of my desk.
    “Why not?”
    “Do I have to explain?”
    “Explain what?”
    “I can’t just go outside. Look out the window. I’ll bet you dinner at least two photographers are out there, with press tags from the
Wisconsin Tribune
dangling from their shirt pockets. One man is right outside the hotel, his camera trained on the door.” I felt Peter jolt a bit with surprise. “Most likely the mayor of Appleton is smiling for one of the photographers, and the minute I walk outside, he’ll demand a picture with me.”
    “Great. You’re psychic,” he laughed. “I really am doomed.”
    “Lessonone on the life of Helen Keller.” I tapped his chest with one finger. “Always be prepared. Every public event I go to with Annie, the local newspaper sends a photographer to snap a picture of us with the mayor, or any other dignitary who is there. I guarantee if I go to the fair there will be front-page photos of me in the papers tomorrow.” I felt Peter stand perfectly still, listening to me. “So I have to get ready. Annie insists I always look normal, better than normal if I can pull it off.”
    “I like you the way you are.” He touched my face.
    “Yes, but you’re not the public that pays to hear me speak. I’d go to the fair with you if I could—I’d take the outside seat on the Tilt-A-Whirl and go in the dunking booth, too.”
    “Seriously, Helen. Do you always live for everyone else but yourself? Your public always sees you poised, perfectly smiling, the happy deaf-blind girl. Don’t you ever get tired of the charade?”
    “That’s enough.” I suddenly felt self-conscious, and missed Annie. She would