Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (48 page)

And we didn’t even do IT, man, no intercourse. How cool is that?

I reached for his hand, now lying limp by his side.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” I said.

“Then follow me to Nashville.”

Summer’s Growth

T
oday is the convention
. Those were my first thoughts as I laid there in the early morning in total terror. Too early yet to get up. My mind began its journey yet again of reciting the words of my poem, memorized by now, but like reaching for the hand of your mother, I was comforted.

Then I prayed, but I couldn’t even imagine what to ask for, what the day would hold. Of course we discussed this at length at our last tea, but once I told them I’d written a “silly” song, I was asked to teach it to the others and now it will be part of our entrance into the park, and Oh My Lord, I didn’t know where to begin!

My little inner voice said,
Then begin where you know
. Yes, of course, I would take this one step at a time.
Arise. Move about my kitchen. Light a fire in the stove
.

By the time the others came thumping, mumbling down the stairs, I had prepared their breakfast and started dinner. I was a mess, my apron showing every ingredient, so much my shaky hands had dropped or spilled, and a blister had formed on my finger. I couldn’t seem to focus on one task for very long; the cornbread was missing some ingredient, my crust too brown, my poem too long, too many eyes I imagined on me, Robert’s eyes on me.

Robert’s eyebrows raised in question when he saw my disheveled appearance but he said nothing. He ate little and his only words were a request for apple cider vinegar mixed with water to settle
his upset stomach. He seemed as distracted as me; that should have been my first clue.

I wasn’t so naïve to believe he didn’t know about the Women’s Rights Convention; the ladies had posted signs around town stating so. Cady’s husband, Thomas, had announced it in the newspaper. Carrie Chapman Catt’s planned attendance, as president of the National American Woman Suffrage Association, had added credence to the convention, and I was certain the topic had come up in Robert’s shoe shop, but he made no mention.

Nor did I. We had not spoken about women’s rights since the morning after the preacher’s visit. Nor had he made any more physical demands, as if his emotion was all spent. His non-intrusiveness had allowed me to move him into the background, becoming part of the furniture I must wash and care for. Now for the first time since then, I wondered what he was thinking. By the end of today, would I find myself without a home again? There was enough to be terrified of, without thinking of his reaction.
That
I would deal with
after
the convention. I couldn’t back out now.

As if this wasn’t enough, Bess gave me a scare. Robert had only departed for his shop a moment before and just as I felt some relief, Bess cried out “Mama, come upstairs, I’m bleeding!”

I sat down heavily on her bed at the discovery. “Oh my little Bess, you are not so little anymore,” I said sadly. I felt I had lost my little girl in that very moment.

“What is wrong with me?” Bess sounded frightened.

“Nothing ... and everything,” I answered, wishing I had warned Bess sooner; I’d seen woman’s signs during Bess’s Saturday bath. I, who wanted more freedom to speak openly, didn’t wish to do so with my own daughter.

I sighed like the coward I was. “Well Bess, some call it a woman’s curse, but I say you will be happy to see this, more times than not.”

“I am
supposed
to bleed?” Bess asked, looking incredulously at her spotted pantalets.

“Sorry, Bess, Mama is talking in riddles. Yes, you are supposed to bleed every month, and will do so, unless you are married and with
child – carrying a child in your stomach – well, actually the word is pregnant, although you are not to say that in public, though only the Lord knows why, since women have loads of babies. You won’t bleed when you are pregnant. But otherwise you will for many years. So let us start your womanhood off by showing you how to layer rags and cotton and pin them to your pantalets. I’ll prepare you a cup of lavender tea to ease your tummy.”

Somehow she sensed the change immediately. When she came downstairs for breakfast, her hair was not braided; instead the top half was pulled back into a barrette, its long brown length meeting the tied waist in the back. She wore her longer white-laced church dress and stockings. Somehow Bess looked much older, her lips more pronounced, her cheekbones more defined, her face more drawn. It would not be long before I must introduce Bess to another curse – the corset. I didn’t ask Bess why she was dressing up. She was a woman now and women didn’t discuss such things.

But I could take her to the women’s convention; what better way to introduce her to the world of women?

One step at a time, I walked closer to the City Hall Park. Step by step Bess and Aimee walked with me. Aimee’s mother babysat our boys.

Women were beginning to congregate around the park gazebo and we set to work our tasks at hand. At last, our Cady arrived in Thomas’ automobile. We all worried if she could. And oh what a shame if she hadn’t, since without Cady, the convention, no, not even the Legion would have happened!

She has a disease, honey. It is in the womb. Ate up any chance of her having a baby. Or having a life for that matter
, Lizzie had whispered to me at our last tea.

I shyly approached as Thomas assisted Cady from the passenger side. Lizzie stepped out from the back seat. Already Cady’s appearance had changed, aged, bent slightly, her thinning frame leaning heavily on a cane.

She seemed to sense my dismay. “I look worse than I feel.”

Yet her eyes were shining as she looked up and saw the streamers and banners around the top of the gazebo, the signs from our
Fourth of July march stuck in the grassy dirt around the bottom of the gazebo. She waved at Phyllis who was handing out flyers to people as they approached, laughing and talking as if she knew them all, flyers that read her ‘Seven Reasons Why We Fight For Our Rights’. Cady waved at Eunice who was, along with two unknown gentlemen, putting the final touches on a booth they had put together a few yards away from the gazebo, with a sign across it that read ‘Sign Our Petition Here!’

With theatrical flair, Mr. Whiting, the school principal, walked to the booth and signed the petition with flourish. He raised the pen in the air and we all applauded.

“Another man bit the dust!” called out a man strolling by, a woman on his arm. She laughed with him.

Thomas shook his head, his hand clamped firmly on Cady’s elbow. “You shouldn’t be around this negativity, Cady darling, you could get hurt. Ruby, don’t let her fool you. She shouldn’t be out today, but she doesn’t listen to a word the doctor or I say to her.”

No bright smile lit his eyes today and his dark blue suit only seemed to emphasize his somberness.

Cady patted his hand. “This is far enough, Thomas. I can walk the rest of the way with Ruby and Lizzie.” She looked up at him with beseeching eyes, as if to say,
don’t make a fuss, please
. He looked unwilling to let go, but relinquished his hold over to Lizzie.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Pickering,” Lizzie said. “We’ll look after her, won’t we, Ruby?”

I flanked Cady’s other side and tried to give a reassuring smile to Thomas. “Cady will be fine with us, Mr. Pickering. She is at her best when leading our little group to victory!”

I looked back to see Thomas still standing there, hat in hand, watching, trepidation written clearly on his bereaved face, as if already feeling a widower.

Ah, but my wicked thoughts were in envy, for I thought that Cady, even at her worst, was experiencing the best, with such a husband as Thomas.

Aimee nudged me out of my reverie. “Ruby, that must be the woman president!”

It certainly was. Cady introduced her as “Carrie Chapman Catt, president of the National American Woman Suffrage Association. We are so pleased she could be here!”

We women applauded and I felt quite privileged to be here. To think if I hadn’t agreed to attend my first tea at Cady’s home, what all I would have missed, standing in my kitchen, thinking in darkness, and not seeing more clearly through the light of others who had so much to offer! I loved Mrs. Catt’s large intelligent eyes – they looked so kind, as if you could tell her anything and she would not be shocked but nod in understanding. Mrs. Catt wore the colors of the Legion, in a black and white wide-striped dress, and this subtle significance signaled respect that added prominence to our cause. She alone took away some of my nervous jitters.

Eventually my group of women gathered at the back of the expanding crowd, more women having joined after the convention was advertised. Cady and Mrs. Catt stepped up into the gazebo and sat on the backbench. This was it! My heart fluttered wildly and I could barely breathe, walking through groups of people standing about. Some eyed me suspiciously, others curiously, and I heard one whisper, “there is one of them!”

Lizzie draped a white satin sash over my head and onto one shoulder that read down the front in black letters, ‘Women’s Right to Vote’. “Made these myself!” Lizzie whispered.

I practically jumped out of my skin at a drum roll right behind me and turned to see Frances, a lady I’d only met briefly at Aimee’s tea, with a snare drum secured around her neck by a wide ribbon that read, “Women’s Vote” repeatedly down its length to where the drum rested below her waist.

“Ladies, in line, please!” she called out.

I grabbed the hand of Bess. “Come on, Bess, it is time you learned to march and sing for women-kind!” Bess fell in line behind me and we all marched in time with the drum.

This brought more people into a tighter group around us, many craning their necks to see what was going on. I guessed there were at least a hundred people or so, probably a good deal more on the outskirts of the park milling about.

“One, two, three, sing!” Frances shouted and we began singing the song I had written. Save for my children’s births, this was the most exciting moment of my life.

Wo-men are people, too!

We are no less than you!

Equal rights will see us through

To share where freedom reigns!

Wo-men are not as lambs!

Take me just as I am!

Let me speak for all wo-men

And vote where freedom reigns!

Voting rights will lend a hand

To share where freedom reigns!

We marched through the crowd, singing loudly, proudly, facing the crowd boldly, not needing to read the music sheets. Around the gazebo we marched, splitting into two groups, one on each side. The drums, the song, the affect met their purpose; people crowded in around the front of the gazebo.

Thomas stood on my side of the gazebo, a megaphone in hand, eyeing the crowd of mostly men as if they were carrying weapons. When all was quiet, he handed the megaphone inside the gazebo to Cady, who then walked to the front railing without assistance. She faced the crowd, shoulders back, chin up, her stature of one defying defeat. She lifted the megaphone to her mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Annan’s first Women’s Rights Convention! The purpose of today’s convention is to urge men to vote in November in favor of a proposed amendment to the state constitution to give women the right to vote. We come in peace and ask that you open your minds and hearts.”

Her voice seemed to carry to the very length of the park and echo through the trees. Many of these faces watching Cady were not friendly, some were sneering, others shaking their heads, or worse, some looked indifferent, one lady hid a yawn behind her gloved hand.
Why?
I wondered for the umpteenth time.

One face stood out in the crowd; his was not sneering, his head cocked to one side, listening attentively, his deep-set blue eyes watching Cady closely. He wore a yellow rose pinned to his vest to signify him as one of the speakers. His head turned as someone bumped him in the crowd and his side to me revealed a short black ponytail. He was in the front row, close to where I stood, and his friendly, and yes, even intense, interest somehow comforted me.

I couldn’t help but stare – something about him. Was he part Indian? Certainly not all Indian with those eyes and straight nose, but his blue-black hair and square jaw were certainly Indian traits. Was his skin naturally dark or did the sun darken it? He was dressed casually but certainly not in buckskin, of course there was that leather vest he was wearing –

I flinched at the change in voices in the gazebo. Phyllis was up there now reading off her ‘Seven Reasons’.

Shame on you! You must concentrate more on what is going on.

Fear gripped me again. I’m next! How in the world could I face this crowd at such close range, I who wouldn’t meet people’s eyes when I walked to my church pew? I searched the crowd again, and again rested on the ponytail man – he had an air of prominence about him. He shifted his stance, straightening his arms and hooking his index fingers in his belt loops. As he did so, his eyes shifted to me and my cheeks burned in embarrassment. I shifted my gaze down to my hands, only to see them shaking.