Band of Sisters (15 page)

Carolynn Gilliston stood and cleared her throat. “We’ve been asked to consider the library’s need for more books, especially in the New York history section. I’ve also noticed,” she said quietly, “that the children’s section could use a wider selection.”

No one responded. Olivia felt a slight pity for her friend, knowing how Carolynn loved children.
But other needs are more desperate now.

Carolynn continued. “We have a request to supply the Immigrant Aid Society with more gently worn clothing, especially things the women coming into New York can use in public employment while the weather is cold and then again, in a few months, some things more suitable for warmer weather.” She glanced about the room. “The aid societies have asked that we consider the more practical needs of the women.”

“Practical needs,” Isabella Harris repeated. “What do they mean?”

“They mean,” Julia answered for Carolynn, “that workingwomen do not need last season’s ball gowns. They need skirts and shirtwaists, undergarments, sturdy shoes for walking the streets of New York to work because they can’t afford trolley fare. They mean—”

But Agnes interrupted her. “We understand, Julia. Thank you. Carolynn, please continue.”

“There have been numerous suggestions that we align ourselves with the movement for suffrage and encourage the men of the church to do the same.” She paused. “And then there’s the ongoing plea to assist the garment factory workers and department store clerks—in particular, in their call for higher wages and shorter working hours. A boycott of stores and brands unwilling to unionize or negotiate has been recommended.”

Several women raised their eyebrows significantly and peered at Julia as Carolynn forged ahead. Olivia bit her lip to keep from shouting, “Hear! Hear!”

“We have the proposal, once again, to deliver food and clothing to the tenements, including—”

“As we made clear last year,” Miranda Mason interrupted, “our husbands will never allow us to visit the tenements—never to so much as walk into the streets of those slums. The reverend himself doesn’t go down there!” She drew herself up. “I motion we strike that suggestion from the record.”

To Olivia’s surprise, Julia did not say a word.

“And . . .” Carolynn colored miserably but did not go on.

“What is it?” Agnes demanded.

“And there is a suggestion to boycott the natural wishes of our husbands—those of us who have husbands—until they put forth a political motion to raise the age of consent.”

“The what?” Miranda gasped.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Julia fumed. “The age of consent—the age a man can force a girl to do his bidding.”

The women stared.

“His sexual bidding,” Julia spelled out.

“We know what it is, Julia!” Agnes gasped. “We simply cannot believe you—”

“We’re gasping over words while ten-year-old girls are forced into prostitution to pay a family’s rent—to survive! The immigrant women pouring into New York don’t make enough money in the factories or the stores to keep body and soul together, much less put food in their children’s mouths once their husbands die or are injured or run west to make their fortune and are never heard from again! No wonder so many turn to or are forced into prostitution. But if we can put the responsibility where it belongs—on the perpetrators—by raising the legal age of consent to—”

“Julia, I think we—” Dorothy began.

“I think we need to ask what is important here! New York history books or the health and safety, the very lives, of women and children!”

Olivia opened her mouth to second Julia, but Agnes overrode her.

“No one disputes the importance of protecting women or children, but we must ask what we, as a group, can do—which causes we can, with all propriety, embrace.” Agnes drew a breath, and the women of the circle nodded in worried agreement.

“And what we, as a circle of churchwomen, can effectively accomplish,” Dorothy added with authority.

Women nodded again.

But Olivia could remain silent no longer. “No.” She spoke quietly but stood. “I don’t think that is the question.”

“Olivia?” Dorothy laid a hand on her sister’s arm.

Olivia squeezed Dorothy’s hand in return but let it drop. “As a group of women committed to helping those in need, I think the question is not what we can accomplish, but what Christ can accomplish through us and how we can follow in His steps.”

“Well, of course it is,” Agnes said. “We know that.”

“Do we?” Olivia asked.

“You’re questioning our sincerity?” Miranda lifted her chin.

“Not at all.”

“Then I—”

“Let her speak!” Julia demanded. “Or I will.”

Olivia suppressed a smile at the silence Julia’s threat provoked. “Even that—how we allow Him to work through us—is the secondary question.” She had their attention. “The most important question of all is, what would Jesus do—here and now?”

The women blinked.

“I don’t think I understand the question,” Agnes ventured.

“What would Jesus do if He were here—right now, in New York City—today? What would He, personally, seek to change, and how would He go about it?”

Women shifted in their seats, uncomfortably signaling their attention.

“Our cause has always been focused toward women and children,” Agnes reminded her.

“Then,” Olivia continued, “what would Jesus do for the women and children in New York?”

“Well, He certainly wouldn’t allow them to be forced into prostitution!” Julia asserted.

“Nor would He want to see them starve for lack of nourishing food,” Isabella admonished.

“Or freeze to death in those filthy tenements!” Miranda echoed.

“But He didn’t address those things specifically in His time,” Agnes insisted. “Poverty was all around Him. It’s not as if we can do better than He! We can only accomplish so much.”

“I’m not suggesting that we can single-handedly change the face of poverty,” Olivia said. “But I am wondering, if we each asked ourselves, and committed to asking ourselves, ‘What would Jesus do?’ if we might not find clearer answers.”

“I have no idea where this is leading,” Agnes huffed.

“I do,” Dorothy said softly, looking up at her sister. “I remember the story.”

Olivia squeezed her sister’s shoulder, then addressed the group. “When we were young, Father read us weekly issues of the
Chicago Advance
, and for a time, the paper ran a serialized story by Charles Sheldon.” She paused, hoping there might be a sign of recognition from the ladies, but Agnes shook her head helplessly.

“In the story, the Reverend Maxwell had just preached a normal Sunday sermon in which he’d said that following after Christ requires obedience, faith, love, and imitation. The congregation sang a closing hymn, ‘All for Jesus’—do you remember the words?

“All for Jesus, all for Jesus!

All my being’s ransomed pow’rs:

All my tho’ts and words and doings,

All my days and all my hours.”

Olivia warmed to her story. “Just as they finished singing, a man—a poor man who’d lost his job and family and was terribly ill—walked to the front of that wealthy, well-dressed congregation and asked what they meant by ‘imitation’ of Jesus.”

An intuitive flush of color ran across the cheeks of several women.

“The man said that it seemed to him, if all those singing were truly living ‘all for Jesus—every day and every hour,’ there would be much less suffering in the world.” Olivia glanced round the parlor. “He said that perhaps he didn’t understand what they meant by following Jesus. They attended a big church, lived in nice houses, and wore fine clothes. They had money for luxuries and vacations, while the people outside the churches were dying in tenements, out of work, never owning so much as a piano or a picture for their home, and living in misery, drunkenness, and sin. He thought he simply must not understand. And then he collapsed.”

“
In His Steps
,” Carolynn said in a voice so small that Olivia barely heard her. “I’d quite forgotten. My grandmother gave me the book when it came to print.”

Olivia smiled broadly. “Do you remember what happened next?”

Still seated, Carolynn clasped her hands. “Reverend Maxwell took the man to his home and cared for him. But the man died within the week.” She leaned forward slightly. “I remember that the man thanked him before he died and said he thought that the care the pastor had given him was something Jesus would have done. The following Sunday, after the sermon, Reverend Maxwell set a challenge before his congregation.”

Every eye was on Carolynn. She swallowed, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “He called to mind the words of the poor man from the week before and said he saw it as a sort of challenge for the church—a challenge to ask what it truly means to follow Christ.” She stopped, drew in a breath, and finally looked round the circle, meeting the eyes of the women, just as Olivia had. “I’ve never forgotten it. He asked for volunteers to pledge for one year to do nothing without first asking the question ‘What would Jesus do?’”

Dorothy sat straighter. “And then to follow Jesus, as best they could understand—do as best they could, no matter the result.”

“No matter the result,” Olivia repeated.

Julia whispered, “That’s bold.”

“Yes,” Olivia returned.

“It’s a fine story.” Agnes stood. “But if I understand your proposal, I don’t see how we can possibly carry out such a challenge as a group.” She raised her brows and shrugged her shoulders. “We’re clearly not all of the same mind as to what is the best cause to pursue, much less what Jesus might do.”

“But if we each ask what Jesus would do,” Carolynn persisted, “with all that He has given to equip us and with all that He lays on our hearts—if we each determine to carry that out, then perhaps those missions will intertwine and create something greater—something far beyond ourselves and our abilities, as they did in the book.”

Carolynn’s eyes flamed, and Olivia knew she understood completely, even as she wondered that the most naturally reticent in the group was the one in which the Spirit’s fire so smoldered.

“I suggest we all read the book in the coming two weeks,” Olivia urged, “and consider what it might mean for us. That’s all I’m asking now. Read the book, and let’s discuss it at our next meeting—before we choose our course of action for the year.”

“If that’s a motion, I second it.” Carolynn spoke quickly.

Agnes, clearly not pleased at the turn of events, snapped, “We have a motion on the floor. Those in favor—”

The vote carried, nine in favor and three opposed. The circle broke up abruptly as Agnes called for her fur and swept from the room.

Carolynn kissed Dorothy lightly on the cheek, then clasped Olivia’s hands and whispered, “We’ll be transformed.”

“Value,” Julia said, pulling on her gloves. “Jesus valued women and children in a way no one else of His time did. He was an absolute radical.”

“The Samaritan woman,” Miranda remembered aloud, pinning her hat in place. “I’ve always wondered why He went to her, validated her, when He could have gone to women in His own community who needed Him.”

“Maybe because she was not one of their own. A foreigner in need of belonging.” Julia grinned and tilted her head pointedly. “As foreign and needy as those new immigrants pouring through Ellis Island and the Battery. Think on that.” She arched her brows and swept out as regally as Agnes had done.

The department store doors locked and the bell rang at last. Maureen accepted and counted the wonder of her pay. Breathless, she pushed it deep inside her purse. She made certain she descended the stairs in the midst of the other girls, her face intent on the floor, then raced to the trolley stop.

At last she paid her coin and took a seat, grateful to be off her feet. Had there been enough time, she would have walked to save the fare. But she’d be lucky to reach Mrs. Melkford at the Battery’s pier in time for the last ferry to Ellis Island.

She ran the last three blocks, rejoicing at the sight of the small but sturdy Mrs. Melkford scanning the distance with her hand to her eyes. She laughed to see her friend enthusiastically waving two tickets, motioning her to run faster. Maureen sprinted onto the dock just as the dockhands stooped to raise the gangway.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” she cried, unmindful of the petticoat that flew behind her.

The dockhands, their eyes alight at the windswept Maureen, stood aside as she caught up with her feisty older friend, rooted to the center of the gangway. The dockhands tipped their hats and grinned as Maureen linked arms with Mrs. Melkford, and the two ladies, mismatched in height and age, waltzed on board as though the ferry had waited just for them.

“Catch your breath, dear,” Mrs. Melkford counseled, then smiled and squeezed Maureen’s hand. “It’s good to see you!”

Maureen laughed. “And you!” It was the happiest she’d felt all week, snuggled on the cold ferry seat next to the motherly lady.

“Tell me about your week and about your new position and all about life at the Wakefields’.”

Maureen’s happiness burst.
How can I spin a tale to this good woman?