Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (15 page)

“My husband of nine years told me last year that he wanted a divorce – I was shocked? Hurt? Frightened? I asked if I could remain in our home to raise our children and he said I was no longer required to do so because he had made other arrangements. Other arrangements? I told him I was not leaving without my children. He showed me how wrong I was? That same evening a lady appears on my doorstep introducing herself as the new housekeeper. She had been Mr. Pickering’s secretary. Young, well put-together? While she takes the children upstairs to their nursery, my husband enters our bedroom, throws some of my things into my dress case, and sets the case outside. He takes my cloak and wraps that around my shoulders and says to me ever so calmly to leave quietly - so as not to disturb the children?”

Eunice remained stoic, posture straight, only her thin hands clasping and unclasping, knuckles white, giving her away. “From my mother’s the next day, I walked to the sheriff’s office and reported what my husband had done. In tears I could hardly speak, clutching his arm. He brushed me off by saying any divorce was for the courts to decide and there was nothing he could do. My home was legally my husband’s home and his to decide who lives there. I walked by many times looking for life, for I felt dead, but saw no one. My life as I knew it had ended, inconsolable for weeks?”

Her lips began to tremble and Cady took over, finishing the story by saying that the court ruled in the husband’s favor because Eunice had deserted them. Since Eunice didn’t have a proper
home and the husband complained about her influence over the children, she was not yet allowed visitation with her children. She came to Cady at the school and they arranged visitations at lunch periods. “Her story is what sparked a long-time idea of mine to formalize protests for women’s rights,” said Cady. “I had already experienced chauvinism when I was limited to teaching only grade school level, higher learning being saved for men, by men. But, rather than fight it, I met Thomas and settled down.” Her arm about Eunice’s shoulders, she gave her a squeeze and a smile. “Eunice is what got me going again.”

I wondered what in the world Eunice must have done to her husband to force him to do such a thing. Was she a bad cook? Disobedient? Neglectful mother? She didn’t look like the wifely type so perhaps it wasn’t in her nature to be a good one.

I learned the hard way what Cady meant by her last statement of the day: “Many of us are not aware of the law until we are affected by it. Its realizations can be quite frightening, particularly to a woman.”

Mercy.

I worried that Robert would find out about us petitioning. Door to door we went, dressed in our black and white uniforms. I had proudly sewn my blouse from a bed sheet and stolen buttons from an old vest of Robert’s. White represented the woman’s non-violent and nurturing soul and of all white women shackled in men’s laws. My black skirt no longer spoke grief for only my mother-in-law but for all women’s oppression, including all Negro women.

Together we had finished Phyllis’ draft of her Seven Reasons Why We Fight For Our Rights. We asked women to sign this. How I came up with the nerve to petition for signatures is still beyond my understanding. And Aimee and I had become clever enough not to petition on our street. Word might get to the husbands quickly. Time was limited to afternoons when husbands would be at their workplace, thus allowing wives’ participation. Many feared doing
so however, and with the word “demon” on their lips, doors were slammed in our faces. Others viewed us as angels or at the very least, were curious. If we could get our foot in the door, then we were in and our petition was signed.

One lady stays on my mind even today because she couldn’t remember her own first name. I remember her answering the door, children orbiting her as if in their own solar system. We followed her waddling steps into her cluttered front room, consisting of a mixture of parlor and kitchen chairs, scratched tables, and a small bed draped with a large fabric, pillows along its back wall to declare it a sofa instead. Strong mixed smells of cooking beans and onions and urine hung heavily in the crowded room. Many children with their accompanying clutter was common-place for most of these homes, I fast realized.

With tin cups of coffee in hand, we read aloud our Seven Reasons, having previously learned that many women could not read. This lady sank her ample frame heavily into her rocker and eyed us curiously, laughing quite openly when we finished reading about women’s lack of rights. “Rights to the law? I am the law here,” she said, sitting a baby on her lap. This action pulled the others to her as if attached by one long string. “Here there’s no vote and I do not allow fighting for rights or anything else. Land and property? We’re thankful we have a roof over our heads and I can’t work outside to keep it any more than my husband can work inside to maintain it. And pray tell, what would my husband do with custody of nine children? He treats the kitchen as his hallway to get out back. They would all surely starve without me.”

We were inexperienced and at a loss for words, Aimee and I sympathetic with these natural roles of husbands and wives. “But one thing you said hit home,” she continued. “And that is, the right to my body. I have had a baby a year since I was married at barely fifteen. My husband is Catholic and large families are expected. Would you believe I’m only twenty-five?” She did indeed look forty-five. We watched as she flipped the baby onto his back and won any contest for changing diapers. Her oldest daughter was sent off to the
outhouse with the soiled one. She wiped her hand on her apron. “Where do I put my X on this petition?”

“I’ll spell out your name first,” I said. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Henry Watkins.”

“What is your first name?”

“My first name?” She seemed confused. “I can’t recall. Even my husband calls me Mother.” After rummaging through her bedroom a minute or so, she could find no paperwork or documents with her name. “Oh, I’m so frazzled today, but it’ll come to me eventually,” she said, wiping a toddler’s nose with the ever ready hanky. We were running out of precious time and had no recourse but to end the visit with her placing an X by “Mrs. Henry ‘Mother’ Watkins”.

No, Robert didn’t discover me petitioning door-to-door. Marching down Main Street in the 4
^th
of July parade is a different story entirely. Everyone goes to the parade, well, everyone except Robert who didn’t appreciate crowds, thus I thought it would be safe. Town businesses and shops were closed for the holiday, including Robert’s shoe store, which meant Robert would be home. But that meant I needed an escape route. Aimee and I hatched a plan. We told our husbands that we were asked to bring food downtown to the park, and prepare picnic lunches for the needy. I received the necessary grunt of permission from behind his newspaper.

Two-miles at a clipped steady pace released some of the tension of the morning, and the small clouds of fog gave everything a positive dreamlike appearance. I became ready and willing by the time Aimee and I reached City Hall Park, the group already gathering under a cluster of gnarled oak trees. Cady and Lizzie had brought supplies of large white cardboard and black paint and we immediately went to work writing out our slogans. Cady knew that keeping us busy was vital. The parade was a big moment and regardless what Cady preached, we were only simple women. Repercussions were inevitable.

Our signs declared boldly:

Equality for Women!

Rights for All!/Change the Law!

Give us a voice!/Give us the vote!

Come hear 7 reasons to fight for Women’s Rights!

At the bottom all the signs read: ‘Women’s Rights Convention, July18
^th
, 1910, City Hall Park’.

City Hall Park was a last-minute change in location. Cady announced at our last meeting that the Franklin High School auditorium was no longer available. Mr. Whiting, the principal, apologized with a vague explanation that the auditorium had already been booked, before his commitment to the convention. Cady believed there was more behind the cancellation than he was telling. There were rumblings among the school staff that the school should not be associated with a controversial political agenda. Parents opposed to the convention believed that its influence would seep into the children’s education and would not present the proper ethics of a learning institution. Cady heard through the educated grapevine that there were supposed threats of children being pulled out of the school, if the Women’s Right’s Convention was held there. She did not wish to create a dilemma for her colleagues, or be at fault for hampering the children’s education. Thus, to prevent further conflict, Cady moved the location of the convention to the park grounds outside City Hall.

The large white gazebo centered in the park was used as a stage for public outcry every Friday and Saturday night, from various male citizens who wanted to be heard when injustice rained on them. People out for an evening stroll would gather around the gazebo to listen, some to learn of current issues, some to be entertained, some shaking their fists, some shaking their heads, some wandering off with disinterest. Orators protested the fall of corn prices, property taxes, job loss from the local textile mill, or a gripe about a neighbor’s wildstock. Anyone was allowed to speak, as long as he waited his turn with respect to the speaker before him. When he finished, he handed the megaphone over to the next, and exited the platform. Only one speaker at
a time was permitted on the stage. A mounted sheriff’s deputy was usually close by in case the complaint erupted into a fist-fight. Freedom of speech also permitted those “not quite right in the head” to ramble about their own views, whether that be sightings in the sky, or the government being seized by some foreign entity.

Never had the ladies witnessed nor heard of a woman walking into the gazebo to speak. It was normally considered loud male buffoonery. Cady realized that the Ladies’ credibility would have been much stronger if supported by the school’s institution. But they were left with little choice. On the bright side, Mr. Whiting pledged his continued support by promising to speak at the convention. He was an excellent orator and we drew encouragement from his pledge.

Cady paced around us women bent diligently over our signs, offering suggestions and encouragement. She finally tapped her hands together rapidly.

“May I have your attention, please! Ladies! Stand up and hold your signs in front of you…let me read them now…excellent! Now shoulders back, stand tall…yes! Now I want to see you smile! Beautiful! Remember as you walk two-by-two, stand proud of who you are and what you represent!”

Our signs were visibly shaking from trembling hands. Cady clasped her hands together at her chest and continued pacing in front of us. “Do not worry about the crowds! Do not hang your heads! I believe our march will receive the attention we need. To be heard! To bring in more audience to our convention! Remember why we march! As we gain support, we gain strength!” Cady pounded her hand with her fist. “Our government can no longer ignore us!”

I suddenly felt I was going into battle. Panic seized me. I became thankful my shaking knees were hidden within full skirts. The thought of knees reminded me of eight year old Jonathan’s knobby knees in the early morn, and I felt remorse for snapping at him to go back to bed. I’d left Bess behind to wash all the pots and pans, standing on a small cricket bench at the washing pan.
Please God
, I prayed silently,
tell me I am doing the right thing. Not only for my sake, but also for my children’s sake
.

The thought of my secure home with its familiar tasks sounded mighty comforting at the moment.

Then the marching drum began its beating rhythm to sound the beginning of the parade.

“Ladies, formation please!” Cady called out loudly. She picked up her own sign.

Our Ladies Legion had grown to ten women now thanks to our petitioning. All were in uniforms of white blouses and black skirts. Two by two we formed a line and marched into our assigned place behind the school band.

Behind us rolled a wagon pulled by a team of four horses. The wagon’s sides were covered in chicken wire with many carnations of red, white, and dyed blue, strategically placed in the holes of the wire to depict the United States flag. Four people were standing in the wagon, dressed to look like George and Martha Washington, and Abraham and Mary Lincoln, each one waving their own small flag. They stopped waving when they saw us. Their shouting complaints about following “non-patriotic petticoats” were finally drowned out by the band’s horns. I was relieved to see the smiling clowns on unicycles stay at our sides, and the town sheriff and his ten deputies who led the parade on horseback, each carrying a large American flag. The mayor and his wife drew up next in a buggy colorfully decorated in flowers and streamers, their horse draped in an American flag. We were surrounded by red, white, and blue, and admittedly our black and white looked, at the very least, non-participatory. At the most, like radical fanatics.