Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (56 page)

“Papa,” I interjected. I knew this to be true. Although Victor was only one year older than me, his teen years brought him into bossy manhood that “vastly” exceeded my years in “higher knowledge”, a term he enjoyed using with me. Jonathan was four years younger than his brother but kindly stood his ground, or walked around Victor. He laughed at his brother’s higher knowledge and told Victor:
the only way you can get higher than Bess is to climb that tree and live with the birds, and although you’re a bird brain alright, you don’t belong up there so high and mighty, but down on the ground pecking for food like the rest of us chickens.
Memories of Jonathan tugged at my heart and I wished Mama hadn’t brought his name into this.

She exhaled slowly, visibly relaxing her shoulders, her resentment deflating. Her tone became more matter-of-fact. “Victor hasn’t thought this out. I will likely have to move to the third story bedroom, since the second story only has the two bedrooms, now that the sewing room was renovated into the bath room and you know Pearl is in the other – well at least for the time being. I would imagine she’ll want to get married sooner now, rather than later. Oh, but she and David postponed their wedding date, and of course Victor’s children will need the third story …” Her voice trailed off, her misty dark blue eyes staring through the window at some distant image. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly.

She looked about her as if just realizing where she was. “Do you know that the first time I came here was for an afternoon tea with the Ladies Legion? It was my first meeting and I sat on this same sofa. Mercy, that had to be more than ten years ago and nothing much has changed in here. Everything looks a little more tired is all.”

I viewed these same faded fabrics and rugs with indifference. The furnishings were usable and I needed no more than that. “Well, as you very well know, the Lighthouse and suffrage brought in a good deal of women, but none of them had decorating on their minds. I’m afraid I’m not any better, having never really settled here until very recently. I still have to move some of my things from my old
bedroom up to the master bedroom. I’m accustomed to being transient. I suppose I should start thinking differently as the wife of our future mayor. But that gives me an idea. My old bedroom will be empty and Lizzie is in the next room – why don’t you come stay here for awhile until you know what to do. You always said you loved this house.”

Admittedly I had another reason: I needed another pair of hands. Lizzie couldn’t keep the place tidy any longer and it was starting to show, even to me. How timely that Thomas had put a stop to battered women staying here.

Even as she said, “Oh, I can’t do that,” a hopeful inner spark lit her eyes.

“Now you’re free to live where you please, Mama. You once told me, ‘Bess, I’m so tired of watching life through my window.’ But you had no choice with Papa. You should know that I stayed distant from men and marriage because I was afraid of your entrapment.”

“Oh, Bess, you’ve done very well, whatever the reason behind it. I believe that I have at least done one thing right: sending you here. Only with you do I feel I’ve accomplished something on the outside. My own daughter could march in parades and petition without serious repercussions. And have no one at home to tell you not to. I thought it only modesty that prevented you from boasting, but now I find no pride here, only the word ‘entrapment’.” She stood up. “I’ve had enough shock and disappointment for one day. I’m going home.”

The more rooted I became, the more opinionated. Growing a heart wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Saying what was in my heart wasn’t either. Neither one of us was ready for the accusations I held inside. I decided to lighten it up a little. I gave her a mischievous grin.

“You have to admit, you didn’t make the marriage bed sound too tempting with your birds-and-bees talk.”

Her ancient ankle-length black wool dress made her look as worn and tired as our surroundings. She sighed in such a defeated
way, I felt more forgiving. “Mercy, Bess, what are you talking about.” She sat back down.

“Do you remember when you thought Billy and I might be getting married? Only there were no birds and bees in your description, but bulls and cows. Does Ruffenreddy ring a bell?”

She gave me a weak smile. “My own wedding night was a difficult one. Naivety can be a curse. I wanted you to be prepared.”

I doubt I could have prepared for intimacy based on Mama’s version. Taking me to Uncle Jesse’s dairy farm and comparing the mating of a man and woman to the shocking scene of a bull mating a cow was frightening and overwhelming to a young girl. Ruffenreddy was the name Uncle Jesse had given to his stud bull and Mama used this analogy to describe the man’s physical urges. I had a terrifying image of me on my knees and this huge red appendage …

“Fortunately I have had sufficient time between then and my own wedding night to forget the fear I once had at being roughly mounted like a cow,” I said. We both blushed. It was at that moment that I realized how to spell the bull’s name: Rough-and-Ready.

“I should go home,” she said sounding undecided. “But … I don’t have a home to go to.” The tears returned. She dabbed at her eyes and smiled feebly. “I really am having a pity party, aren’t I?”

“You’re not going home. You are home. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. Remember what Grandmama used to say, ‘You can’t fill your mind with thoughts if your stomach is empty’.”

“I hate imposing …” but allowed herself to be led into the dining room where she received a warm welcome by Lizzie, Mary Sue, and Thomas. They each cared for her at different levels but all agreed she must come and stay for as long as she needed.

While Lizzie and Mama discussed bedroom arrangements, I spotted Thomas letting out a long sigh as he poured himself more red wine. He must have wondered if he would ever be able to shed himself of the Lighthouse.

Even more disturbing was Mary Sue’s happy face; she wouldn’t have to move to Mama’s house after all.

Thomas and I prepared for the open-air debate with jittery hands. Buttons and bow ties, cups and papers, were handled with tremors extended to the object in hand. Tension grew heavy in our room and down at the breakfast table where we found only a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon warming in the oven. I questioned Lizzie’s sense of responsibility but Thomas ignored me and had no appetite. I had never seen him nervous before. I reacted to his terse comments and constant movements likewise and finally I could take no more.

I let my fork fall with a clatter to my plate. “Really, Thomas, you’re acting as if you have ants in your pants.”

He chewed for a moment. Eventually he said, “Wool makes me itch.” No doubt; he no doubt forgot about the Dress Reform Movement and insisted on woolen long-legged underwear, starched shirt collar, high shoes and a new black Sack Suit with a matching vest with silk piping. What had happened to the casual confident Thomas in his light linen suit? He looked out of his element.

At least he would be warm enough. A blanket of February clouds hovered above our walk through City Hall Park to the large white gazebo, promising a long lack of sunshine and a possibility of snow.

Fortunately, warmth beyond our own capability to provide each other was given generously by those who came to offer their support. Their applause was like a good shot of prohibited whiskey. Gaiety mounted as the band struck up the tune
, Oh, you great big beautiful doll!
” and Thomas highlighted the moment by directing a wink and grin to me.

Until I counted the small number of people in attendance – approximately seventy-five or so, when we had hoped and planned on two hundred or more. The aisle down the middle of the rows of wooden folding chairs divided sides and it seemed that more than half of the folks were on our side – the right side of course – but biased perception seems like truth at the time.

The audience – far more women than men – began settling and clucking like hens in a henhouse. Support primarily by women could
do more harm than good. It got worse. With people taking their seats, I had a view beyond the crowd and gasped at what I saw: Lizzie and Mama were passing out signs that read,
Thomas Pickering paved the road for women!
and another that read,
Mr. Pickering is in Union with all women
, and yet another with his own slogan,
T. P. for mayor: He’s on the right road
.

I hadn’t authorized this! I stepped up into the gazebo to notify Thomas but George Groves had beaten me to the punch. His sprouting eyebrows met in the middle of his red forehead, his small eyes flashing anger.

“What the hell is your next act, Thomas? Why is that damn nigger woman marching up and down the aisle with that sign? Perhaps you could have her sing ‘Mammy’ next?”

Sure enough, Lizzie was indeed coming down the aisle with a sign. A colored woman should not be doing this; Lizzie had forgotten her place and Thomas would lose votes over this.

I began expressing my dismay to Thomas and George but George shook his head and hand at me like he was shaking off a pesky fly. “If she doesn’t pull a Houdini and disappear, I’m walking off the stage!”

Not certain if he was referring to me or Lizzie, Thomas gave me a jerk of his head and I exited. I took no chances. George didn’t want this debate in the first place and Thomas couldn’t have one without his opponent. Thomas gave a slit-to-the-throat sign to the bandleader, who in turn pressed the air with his palms as if trying to push the music into the ground. The music faltered and fell and the ladies hurriedly found seats as if playing musical chairs. Someone took Lizzie’s arm and pulled her to the last row of seats. She looked confused and out of place around all these white people.

George and Thomas each had five minutes for their opening statements. The moderator, Mr. Gibbons, posed the pre-planned questions. All was going well. Thomas answered the questions in a clear, clean manner I was proud of. The debate had not elevated to a shouting match.

Then Mr. Gibbons appeared to have lost his place. “Let’s see,” he finally said, his cough an exclamation point. “It’s Mr. Pickering’s
turn to answer our next question first. Mr. Pickering, if you are elected Mayor, would you run your office ethically and morally? That is, would you be willing to close down the jazz joints and women’s houses that sway our youth and our mothers into jumping ship and drowning in alcohol and divorce?”

I tensed. This question had been added unbeknownst to us and Thomas was stuck between a rock and a hard place – between boozers and women, alone in the middle of the aisle. It was well known he was against Prohibition.

“Freedom is a five-syllable word,” he said. “It is Let-The-People-Choose. Jazz joints are legal in themselves, lively with dance bands and innocently serving soda drinks. Hullabaloos and Classy Jazz are reportedly packed with town folk every night. If these town favorites are closed down, you only satisfy some of the people, but not all. Those who wish not to go and dance to the great Al Jolsen or laugh with the Ted Lewis Jazz Band’s
When My Baby Smiles at Me
, can stay home with their Victrolas and listen to the sweet lullabies of Lucy Gate singing
Mammy’s Song
. Neither choice is wrong. The important thing in our town is freedom of choice. Give folks options of entertainment. We’re in the heat of the Twentieth Century, the war is over and gaiety can be a part of our lives. We have the motor cars and new roads to travel to places not thought possible before. And to bring in folks from far away who can share their own culture. We just recently had the privilege of the Golden Jubilee Singers colored gospel group right here at the City Hall Park. Their beautiful harmonies matched those of the original Jubilee Singers of the 1870s singing,
Swing Low Sweet Chariot
and
Steal Away
. What if some people took exception to colored folks singing in public, and said, No, close them down? Shouldn’t those who love gospel music have a say? I say the same about jazz music and dancing. Some love it, some hate it, but all should have the choice to go or stay away. Let-The-People-Choose. Mr. Groves, over to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pickering,” George said. “Considering you have one Negro vote here, that speech should do you a world of good. Ladies and gentlemen, did you notice that my friend here,
Mr. Pickering, failed to answer the second part of the question? This is why.” He paused for effect, having captured everyone’s attention. “He has directed his home over the years under the disguise of a women’s house. Married women indeed hide here from their estranged husbands, but in fact Mr. Pickering has taken advantage of this to his own personal pleasure. I have very recently learned that his house is no more than a harem.”

He held his hands up to the disturbed crowd, murmuring and moving about in their seats like the hens were suddenly awakened by a fox.

“That’s right. Wives, women relatives, concubines, and Negro slaves have lived there. One little girl living there now is only fifteen years old and is willing to testify that Mr. Pickering made inappropriate advances toward her. His second wife lived in Mr. Pickering’s home for years under the disguise of taking care of these supposedly-battered women but the truth was she had a husband somewhere else, too, while carrying on an affair with Mr. Pickering. What must our Christian town of Annan think he’s been doing with all these women? Now he claims he’s settled down, if you can call it that. Oh yes, Mr. Pickering is married to a divorcee. A divorcee with a criminal record, arrested and jailed in Washington for her suffragist antics.”