Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (16 page)

The parade moved slowly away from City Hall while the band played
All Over This Land
, surging us forward in marching step. It was such a rare treat to hear live music!

The procession snaked right onto First Street where spectators were beginning to form.

I had hoped to be more hidden. With some trepidation, I looked from the corner of my eyes to each side to see the smiling waving onlookers. There I noticed some faces form into frowns, some were pointing their fingers at our group, two heads were shaking. I blushed
crimson when I heard a woman from the sideline call out “Shame on you!” Another yelled “Men-haters!” - the voice of an angry man with a clenched fist. It was best to focus on the straight narrow back of Cady, and the slight hunched back of Lizzie, leading the group. They held a six-foot long, three-foot high banner between them. Printed in large bold letters on white silk were the words:

Take the Shackles from Women!

We slowly gyrated onto Main Street, then Annan’s longest street. The sparse gathering of spectators had flowed into crowds. The band now played
The Star-Spangled Banner
. Flags waved everywhere. The noise was getting louder. The drums seemed to be beating from within my chest. The ground pulsated. I hadn’t prepared myself for all the many eyes, let alone eyes holding condemnation. But then I met Aimee’s eyes and hers were shining, and she appeared confident, smiling, returning waves, and I felt better. Three teenaged girls joined in beside Aimee, and began waving cheerfully to the crowds, their brightly colored ribbons and calf-length dresses adding rainbows to the little black and white group. One shouted “What is right for the goose, is right for the gander!” A few women on the sideline laughed and applauded and their confident exuberance flowed over me, as if brought over by a breeze. My fear dissolved to my feet. I picked these feet up higher and higher, as if to kick off fear’s burden.

The sounds were alternating between applause and booing. The response was amazing - far more outcries and applause than the Ladies ever supposed in the confines of our disciplined, peaceful parlor meetings. To be able to create such a stir made me feel so strong! I moved my sign up and down, up and down, chanting, “Fight for women’s rights! Fight for women’s rights!” to the rhythm of the band’s song,
America the Beautiful
. Aimee looked over at me, obviously surprised and delighted. She joined in the chant and raised her sign higher. The three teenage girls yelled the chant too. I could easily imagine Bess marching with me in a few years and this inspired me further. By this time, I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, so high was my energy.

There we were chanting as our parade snailed past the bakery, Robert’s shoe shop, the shops of the dressmaker and the tailor, the flower shop. What fun it was to represent something so large that could evoke emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum! I felt elevated, protected in our righteous cocoon of black and white. And then the cocoon slipped away, and for a brief and beautiful moment, I had the sense of a butterfly, weightless, free to fly. For a brief and beautiful moment, nothing else mattered.

It was at that moment that I looked over to the crowd on my right and saw Robert and my children. My mouth froze in mid-chant. They had a clear view, a perfect shot. It was too late to hide behind my sign. Bess had her hands to her mouth in surprise and then was jumping, pointing, leaning to Pearl and the boys, still in her calico housedress of early morning. All four children waved frantically, shouting, “There is Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Robert did not wave. He only stared at me hard and long. His eyes were large in surprise and then slowly became smaller until they were slits in his face. I had no choice but to continue to walk slowly by with a pasted smile and a nod as if I always marched in the 4
^th
of July parade, flapping my hand to them like a damaged wing.

Continuing down the street, I wondered at my stupidity in thinking I could join a march such as this without Robert knowing about it. My shoes became heavy as if his sole repair had added lead. The band blared noise. I no longer worried about the crowd’s eyes, only Robert’s.

I tried to focus on Aimee’s eyes, eyes who were looking at me, her mouth saying, “Ruby, are you alright? You’ve grown so pale! I saw Robert, too!”

I shrugged my shoulders, more to brush off Robert’s angry stare on my backside, than to show indifference.

Seeming now never-ending, on down Main Street the parade continued. The sun that shone bright a moment ago, now felt hot and burned into my straw bonnet. My face felt flushed, my heart was racing; I surely thought I would faint but the greater fear of attracting more attention kept me upright.

I had not known before that so many emotions could happen moments apart: nervousness, elation, comfort from a woman’s timid wave, fear in remembering my husband’s stone face and it seemed now that all men in the crowd had that hard look.

The band played
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do!
as we passed the steel fencing of the textile mill. Two newer members of the Ladies Legion practically screamed their chant and shook their fists as we passed the mill’s entrance gate. These poor ladies worked there and had informed our group of their twelve-hour days in the intense heat of the machinery. The scale of stingy wages depended on the whims of the owner and the level of tolerance to his abuse.

Finally, finally, Main Street at last, ending at St. Mark’s Catholic Church. The parade slowly disbanded and streamed out onto the church’s expansive grounds as if nothing had gone wrong.

The blister rising on the bottom of my foot compounded my dread of the walk home. I would’ve kicked myself for being in this predicament if I could have lifted my legs. Obviously Robert hadn’t followed me but where were he and the children? I prayed fervently to the church window’s stained-glass Jesus that Robert hadn’t vented his anger onto the children. How could I forgive myself for that?

Aimee intuitively knew that my day had ended. We would not stay for the picnic lunch we brought. We went in search of Cady to tell her of our departure and found her amid a group of women and men. Thomas had his arm around Cady’s waist. He looked very cool and comfortable in his off-white linen suit. I could only dream of such support from Robert and at that moment I coveted Cady’s husband, as bad as that may sound.

We joined the group as a gentleman’s voice was asking, “Thomas, do you agree with your wife? Does she have your permission for such a display of outlandish women’s politics?” I recognized him as the proprietor of the Rose Cafe. He had puffy cheeks and a full beard that contrasted his tiny eyes. His mustache was waxed on the ends and curved upwards into handlebars. His rounded stomach pulled hard at the buttons of his vest. His fat fingers held onto his coat lapels. He was quite full of himself.

“Yes and no,” Thomas answered, appearing unraveled by the provoking. “I see both sides. I see myself as somewhat to blame, since I am of the same gender that directs these hardships that my wife and her group speak out against. Yet I understand some reasoning behind our laws. I believe many of the laws were designed to protect our women - they have enough on their plates as it is. Yet those men who wish for more power have abused these same laws. Our government might benefit from women’s higher moral standards. But men do not like to change, and therefore they resist. And no, she has not disobeyed me. Any married man knows that husbands and wives learn by discussion and argument. If I told her to be silent, truth between us would no longer exist. She has my unabashed respect for her beliefs. She has a sound mind and excellent control of her faculties. I’ll not stand in her way.”

He raised his index finger. “However, I do not stand too far away because there are those, I understand, sir, that vehemently oppose the ladies’ sentiment toward women’s rights. Why this anger, I do not know.” He looked down at the ground and shook his head but the accusation was directed, nonetheless. He continued. “I am concerned for my wife’s well-being and admit that I asked her not to take such an active role. This was the same as asking these birds in the trees not to fly. Or like asking you not to question. You both have the right, am I right?”

The gentleman grew red-faced. The ladies were smiling and nodding. Cady looked at her husband gratefully and that’s when I noticed for the first time how tired and pale Cady looked. Dark, recessed circles had formed under her eyes and Thomas’s arm was holding her waist quite firmly, as if more for physical support than moral.

The gentleman cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Sir, surely you are not upholding women’s rights to vote! Most are unversed in political or financial affairs. Many are not even educated.”

Thomas raised his head and confronted the gentleman as if accepting a challenge. “To say that a woman cannot vote because she is uneducated is a moot point. First of all, a voter does not make the rules but simply votes for those men who can, hoping that his own
personal interests are regarded. Secondly, women are uneducated through no fault of their own but are oppressed by the very men who criticize them for what they are lacking.”

The gentleman shook his head at the applause of the ladies circling around him. “You make men sound as tyrants. I am a married man who provides well for my wife, my mother, and my daughters. Men are perfectly capable of representing women. They take their beloved’s best interests to heart. Regardless what legal position may be out there, women’s actual conditions are quite good. We are not barbaric, inflicting misery and suffering!”

“Yes, this is true for many but not all,” Thomas said, “If he so chooses, he has the power to subordinate her will to his whenever they argue. You must admit that, at the very least, if you exclude her from being heard then she is in danger of being overlooked.”

Thomas looked down at his wife, concern furrowing his brow. “We must go,” he said, studying her face. “She has
agreed
to go home for a rest. She had a big day. Good day.” He tipped the brim of his straw panama hat to the circle. With his arm steadfast around Cady, they walked away.

Outside the earshot of the others, I asked her if she was ill. She answered by asking if Aimee and I would collect the signs and bring them to her carriage. She pointed to the steam automobile that I’d had the pleasure of riding in earlier that spring. It reminded me of the whipping I received because of it, and of another whipping that could happen again today. I had to get home.

“And one more thing,” Cady said. “Would you please lead the group through the picnic on my behalf? Give them some encouraging words. You all did beautifully today! Would you do that?”

“Of course!” I would walk through fire for Cady. Robert’s wrath would have to wait.

The ladies were all in good spirits, looking content and at ease sitting on the grass, the white table cloth spread, the vase of daisies and pretty dishes giving just the right inviting touch that only a woman can do. I couldn’t possibly be the only one with trouble
brewing at home like an overheated teakettle? I would simply have to forget myself for the afternoon.

I thought of what Cady would have said if she were still here. “We have achieved much today!” I exclaimed to all. “You did a beautiful march. Well done, ladies!”

“We will read about this in the paper tomorrow!” one exclaimed. “I saw a newspaper photographer!”

“Right is might!” another shouted, her fist in the air.

“The convention can only be a success!” another cried.

But at what cost, I wondered gloomily as I, with Aimee in silent tow, finally headed back home in the late afternoon sun, my empty pie plate clutched in clammy hands.

I walked slowly up the steps to my front door. The growing blister protested painfully and perspiration soaked the back of my blouse, collecting inside the corset.

The house was unusually quiet for this time of day. The boys should be outside playing in this sun. I turned the doorknob. It was locked. I tried again, thinking it was stuck. It wouldn’t turn. Robert normally locked the doors only if we were going away overnight. He held the key and he made such decisions.

Walking over to the parlor windows, I shielded my eyes with my hands to look in but saw no one. Perhaps Robert took the children to the Rose Café for dinner? Highly unlikely that he would spend that kind of money, but then his appearance at the parade was out of character.

I sat stiffly on the wicker settee, back straight, hands folded in my lap and waited, but soon my fatigue and summer heat gave me a slouch, my skirts hiked immodestly to my knees, my stockings rolled down. To heck with the neighbors - our house wasn’t built on a stage! To prove the point, I boldly removed my boots and stockings and sat there as barefoot as a baby.

Thirst drew me around to the back of the house where the water pump stood at the center of the yard. Moving the squeaky handle up and down as I pumped the water sounded noisier than usual and I couldn’t shake off that something was strange but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I normally kept the back door locked from within but I tried unsuccessfully at any rate. I also made use of the outhouse, glad for once that we didn’t have an inside toilet with a flushing water tank. Then there was the vegetable garden and as my mama always said, “wasted time should be a crime”, I began pulling weeds diligently to pass the time in waiting for my family’s return.