Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (19 page)

“I suppose I could try advertisements. I’ll take the job on one condition: You agree to come to the Lighthouse for dinner tonight.”

He returned his attention to me with such an unabashed gladness that I could feel my face redden. “I would love to!”

“So you will publish my article for me?”

His smile dropped and his business mask came back. “As long as you understand there will be repercussions.”

But like an old war-horse smelling cannon fire, I only felt at home.

Thomas was twice surprised when he entered the Lighthouse that evening: Firstly with my hello kiss on his cheek at the door; secondly, with my request to go out after dinner.

“You? Jazz music?” he asked.

“Yes, while it may be hard for you to imagine me kicking up my heels and having fun, I believe I can.”

He laughed as if the whole thing was preposterous. “Have you before?”

“Yes, well, once … with Billy. It wasn’t jazz music but the orchestra was lovely.”

“Do you know what these speakeasies are like? Illegal—” He cut himself off and looked at Lizzie, shaking his head.

“My sister asked that we meet her and her boyfriend at Hullabaloo’s. It’s all set. You’re a worldly man, Thomas, you can handle such an establishment, can’t you?”

He leaned toward me and grasped my hand, those green eyes warm with mischief. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Lizzie stooped over with a grunt and picked up Thomas’ scarred leather brief case. She could no longer walk upright, but in a permanent bend, her cane now as natural an appendage as her arm. She motioned me to follow her ever-constant black dress and unfashionable petticoats to the back parlor. I thought to ask how she felt but Lizzie’s pride was intolerant of sympathy. She wouldn’t take it and she wouldn’t give it. Brought as a former slave by Thomas and Cady when they first married Lizzie was as much a part of the house as the staircase.

“Why do you want me back here?” I asked as we entered the back parlor. Papers and books were everywhere; the typewriter, desk, and
chairs practically hidden by the collage. The walls were covered with posters, announcements, and letters thumb-tacked anywhere within reaching distance. But there were no women there to blame or claim credit for it. The vast old house was unusually quiet; especially considering it wasn’t that long ago that our chapter of the National American Woman Suffrage Association met here regularly. The well-worn furnishings and marked floorboards proved many women harbored here. This became my home away from home when younger, and now my only home. A harbor for others, a haven for me.

Lizzie’s dark brown lips protruded in deep thought. “What did I do with those letters?” she mumbled. She remained still, her small black eyes skimming the room as if suspiciously waiting for such papers to announce their hiding place. She shrugged, while I silently agreed with her that it would be hopeless to find specific papers here.

“You’ve got work to do,” she said. “People are complaining about your speech and you need to answer their letters. Besides. You have no business asking a man, and Cady’s husband at that, to take you to a sinful place.”

Deceased ten years, Cady still lived in this house it seemed. I felt rebuked and shameful, and by a colored person at that.

“Know your place, Lizzie. This is not your concern.”

I walked over to my roll-top desk and read again the words of my heroine, Susan B. Anthony, before her death.
When it is a funeral, remember, that I want that there should be no tears. Pass on, and go on with the work
. This yellowed clipping from a newspaper article, was pinned below a fading photograph of the aging spinster, hair severely pinned back into a bun, her thin spectacles framing eyes that revealed fathoms in determination, intelligence, and sorrow. I had met her once, while she was on one of her cross-country campaigns, and will never forget it. She had died in 1906 without seeing her dream realized.

I had seen the dream realized and had woken up. I had nothing now to say. I now wanted to live. The many papers’ scrawled writing, bold typing, red underlines, seemed to be shouting at me like a mother with too many demanding children. I decided not to
answer to any of them, including Lizzie. I walked out of the room, seeking out Thomas as my temporary refuge, leaving Lizzie alone with the parlor and its past.

After dinner, we said our goodbyes to Lizzie, her furrowed brow letting me know her deep disappointment. I made a mental note to discuss her role as housekeeper and for her to keep it at that. Besides, I was tiring of writing speeches and articles, only to be accused of dirty rhetoric. Thomas was right; I’d consecrated the cause and should just give it up. But I didn’t know how because I didn’t know what else was out there to do. As Pearl had said earlier, during her invitation, “Step down off your soapbox and come see how the other half of town is living.”

“I warn you, you’re going to feel simple in that dress,” Thomas said, as we headed toward the door.

“What is wrong with it?” The white Peter Pan collar and dark brown cotton fabric belted at the waist were slimming when I last looked in the mirror. The length fell to about mid-calf.

“Nothing is wrong with it, but, well, you’ll see.”

I certainly did see. Pearl’s sack dress was like so many others in the crowded and poorly lit Hullabaloo’s – short to the knees and one even above the knees. “She rouges her knees for that dress,” Pearl confided, her hand beside her mouth as if telling a secret. No need – she had to shout this twice, the trumpet and drums were so deafening. Women were decorated with ornate beads and feathers and holding cigarettes as if all understood they were at a costume party. In comparison, I felt dressed to take notes as the stenographer. I watched one lady across from our table smoking a cigarette as if kissing her lover, her eyes closed, her lips puckered to inhale and exhale slowly. Obviously the fashion was to cut one’s hair short and put in waves; I was the only bun in the place. I got the message and decided to let my hair down - literally. Thomas glanced over at me, looked away and then his attention snapped back to me with a surprised look. I awaited his disapproval but his face creased into a big grin and he nodded.

Pearl’s boyfriend wore his hair slicked back and black with a matching clipped mustache. One jacket sleeve hung empty as like
many men, ravages of the war. He acted as if he wanted Robert to think he was older than he was, enjoying calling out to and openly flirting with other women by their first names, his dark eyes squinting as if from deep thought, but I think it was more from cigarette smoke. When he agreed, he used one word: “Pos-a-lootly!” I found him far too forward and presumptuous with Pearl, kissing her hard and long, keeping his one arm possessively about the back of her neck and shoulders. She was quite brash in return and I felt embarrassed that my sister behaved in such a way in front of Thomas. I conveyed as much to her via shouting into her ear across the table but she pretended she couldn’t hear me.

Conversation was difficult but enough words and signs were given to follow David and Pearl into another room upstairs, leaving our half-finished sodas behind. “I know the password,” David winked and another nail went into his coffin-according-to-Bess.

Upstairs displayed a larger band playing the piano, trumpet, saxophone, banjo, bass, and drums. The strong rhythmic music beat in my chest. This rhythm traveled down my spine and into my legs and feet. Many were dancing fast steps, their energy and pounding shoes vibrating the floor. As I followed Thomas to our table, I found myself walking in rhythm to the beat, marveling at the dancers.

The dim lights went dimmer still as a voice spoke through a microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, give a loud clap to Lady and Her Tramps as they perform her hit number, Razz-Ma-Tazz Jazz!” The lights flashed blue onto a small stage where a lone figure stood, her silhouette a very womanly hourglass in the shadows. A spot light suddenly shone bright on her to reveal her long bare legs and bare arms. Her costume had less fabric than a man might wear to the beach, except for exposed garters holding up her net stockings. Three men appeared and danced with her in such an intimate way that I flushed in the smoky dark.

I glanced over at Thomas who was watching me. He burst out laughing so I closed my gawking mouth with a snap. A glass was placed in front of me. I sniffed it and looked at him quizzically. It
was whiskey. I leaned over and loudly whispered in his ear, “What about the Prohibition?”

“It’s still illegal,” he shouted with a grin, his face too close, his breath already strongly illegal. “Drink up. We don’t want to be here too long.”

I took a small sip, the burning in my throat taking my breath away. What if someone recognized us?

Too late. Several approached Thomas and knew him by his first name, including some scantily-clad females – I dare not say ladies – who were quite pleased to see him. He shouted introductions but I missed the names in the noise. I could only nod and smile. I took a large sip to swallow down the rising jealousy and this caused my eyes to water. I watched him chatter and envied that confidence he exuded in any situation I’d seen him in, whether it be editing the newspaper, calling out orders to his staff, stepping onto a speaking platform, or answering confrontational questions from the public and reporters. And now in an illegal establishment he appeared as comfortable as at our dinner table. With his jacket off, suspenders and white shirt glowing in the dim light, he looked distinguished and casual at the same time. I hadn’t quite seen him like this before and felt proud to stand beside him.

I took another sip. I wondered what kind of life he had been leading. Had there been other women since his wife’s death? Most certainly, I scolded myself. A long-time widower would know other women. One here wished to know him, if she didn’t already (why else would she call him ‘sweetie’?); touching his arm at every opportunity, speaking low enough so that he must bring his head down to hers to hear her. I took another sip and slid my arm around his.
He’s my date tonight, sweetie
, I smiled to the woman on his other side.

The music slowed its pace and the dance floor slowed with it. The saxophone played a mournful sound, the banjo giving it a swaying tempo. I swayed with it. I could dance with that, I decided. I took another sip and brought down Thomas’ handsome gray-blond head to mine, interrupting his sentence to others who didn’t matter. I was learning the sultry side and feeling warm all over.

“Dance with me,” I said into his ear. I expected raised eyebrows and another surprised look, but he only nodded and held firm to my elbow as we weaved through the crowd and onto the squared-off dance floor below the band of colored and white men, their perspiration and instruments glistening in the blue light. We stood facing each other, our eyes locked and his arm slid around me. He held me so close I became breathless. Such warm, green eyes, such an earnest smile, I longed to kiss him. Instead I gave him a heartfelt smile of my own and laid my head on his shoulder as I’d seen others do on this patch with their partners. It felt so nice here, swaying and moving our feet, his hand clasping mine tightly, that I giggled. I looked up at Thomas, feeling self-conscious at my outburst, but he hadn’t heard.

Instead he said, “I love the way those beautiful blue eyes of yours light up like that. I wish they’d do that more often.”

So did I and I had all the faith in the world that as long as we danced, he would keep them lit. I kissed his cheek and he gave me his sheepish half-grin.

“Now, now, girl. Behave.”

Why should I? I had been behaving all my life. Wasn’t it time to let go this corset and slip on a garter? That thought gave me another giggle that I hid in his shirt as we continued to shuffle along.

I was sorry to hear the saxophone wind down and cymbals end the song. We had no recourse but to return to our table. David and Pearl were standing there, Pearl’s eyes darting about.

“We didn’t want to make a scene by dragging you lovebirds away from the schmaltz,” said David, “but you’ve got to kick out of here. Someone tipped the police off and you being here, Mr. Pickering, has given this more juice. Here comes the owner.”

“Hello, Mr. Pickering,” said a short, thin man, shaking Thomas’ hand. “Follow me, sir, I’ll show you out the back door.”

I waved a goodbye to Pearl and David, glad to be rid of the Siamese Twins. Our departure meant a blur of squeezing through people, descending down a dark staircase, and breathing in foul air in a trashy alleyway. The owner shook Thomas’ hand again, saying “Become mayor and pave these muddy streets.”

A white blinding flash made a loud pop and I brought up my arm to protect my eyes.

“Jack, give me that camera!” shouted Thomas.

White spots blurred my vision but I could see well enough to recognize one of the newspaper reporters.

“Sorry sir,” Jack said as he obeyed. “I didn’t know it was you. I only heard that a prominent politician was here.”

“Now you know different.” Thomas took the roll of film out of the camera and handed the camera back. “Now move on out of here.” Jack looked down at his gaping camera and his missed opportunity and shook his head. Thomas must have noticed the angry look as I did. He patted the young man’s back, saying, “Good detective work in coming out here, son. Nice touch waiting in the alley. But save it for a day when you have a good story. I’ll see to it you get one. Nothing going on here tonight.”