Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (5 page)

Her eyes rested briefly on the lady across from her. Phyllis’ white hair, further highlighted by the sun’s patched rays coming through the parlor windows, gave her a halo. She sat relaxed with knees apart
as only Phyllis could get away with and I saw her slightly nod to Cady as if to encourage her to continue. Cady’s eyes shifted to the window behind and I recognized the yearning there; that longing to push forward, beyond the walls.

Cady continued, her voice shaking with conviction. “We must stand publicly, or else we all stagnate in our stillness.”

The housekeeper, Lizzie began rocking her upper body next to me, humming ever so softly, her dark brown hands resting on her knees, weathered to leather. I recognized the tune,
Shall we gather at the river?
No one else seemed to notice.

Cady paused, clasped her hands together in her lap, and then she smiled. Her tone raised in an announcement. “Ladies, the Women’s Rights Convention is now set!”

The humming stopped, Eunice’s pen stopped. The rocking chair across from me, occupied by Aimee, stopped.

“When? Where?” Aimee asked, her pink cheeks pinker, a furrow deepening between her eyes. Her finger froze on her temple, where she absent-mindedly twirled a loose blond curl.

“July eighteenth, in the year of our Lord, 1910, right here in our little town of Annan, New York.”

Others remained frozen in time.

Cady forged ahead. “Seven o’clock in the evening. I have spoken yesterday with the principle of the Franklin High School, Mr. Whiting. He has graciously agreed to our use of the school auditorium, since the school will of course be closed for the summer holidays. We discussed the afternoon, but as we all know, the auditorium can become very warm. An evening hour should bring us a cooler temperature.”

Still, no one dared move.

Placing her left hand on Eunice’s back and her right hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, Cady leaned forward toward the others as if to bring them closer into a huddle. “If Mr. Whiting, as opposite gender, is willing to take such risks, how much more should be expected of us, as the women whose rights we fight for? We are called to arms, ladies! We must each go forth openly and publicly; even to the point
of speaking before an assembly. This convention will permit us to bring our lights out from under our beds and into the open where we may shine and show others the way. We can do it, ladies! You each have unique talents to share!”

At this, I suddenly felt I was back outside looking in. I slightly shook my head. I had no unique talent whatsoever. And public speaking? I hated so much as walking down the church isle to my pew; all those righteous eyes judging my tardiness, or wrinkled clothing, or untidy children.

This did not go without notice; such was the unique talent of Cady. She could look directly into one’s heart, as if pinned on one’s collar. She gazed at me, heating me to pliable. “You are
all
hardworking women who have learned to work hard with your hands, but long to work hard with your minds. Now here is our chance!”

Cady returned her hands to her lap and leaned back against her chair. She lowered her voice. “I also know that to speak publicly at this convention may create tremendous hardships in your homes. Our battles are not only public but also private. Our husbands and family all voice various levels of opposition to our quest for women’s rights; either from a religious perspective where they say women are subservient. Or from a political perspective where they say the Constitution states only men were created equal. Or yet again, from the personal standpoint that the man’s position as head of the household is being threatened.”

Her voice tapered off here. She sighed, forcing a smile. She waved a hand at the group. “Of course we know none of that is really true. The most important thing here is to believe in what we are doing and speak out boldly. After all, we’re not breaking a law. I shall retreat off my soapbox and turn the meeting over to you for discussion.” She opened her arms to all. “Please. Open your thoughts.”

Lizzie waved her hand toward Cady. “That’s right, honey, you got to
believe
!”

“Will repercussions really be that bad?” Aimee blurted out. She looked around the group for help. My heart went out to her - Aimee’s husband was enemy enough.

Phyllis raised her hand. “People can be cruel, and I don’t know a man that’s for it,” she said, her bluntness going along with her chipped nails and relaxed posture. “What I recommend is, we test the waters. See how much support we have, before going out into a den of lions. To test I mean to petition. To go out and canvas other women, explain our cause, and ask for their support, their signatures. I’ve started writing a mission statement to carry door-to-door and I’ll bring it to our next meeting.”

“Well, perhaps I could …” I said with much hesitancy. I had gone to one neighbor’s home today, I could possibly go to more. Maybe these ladies would like me more, too.

Lizzie patted my knee and chuckled. “I said to myself when I saw you there at the door, now here is a little lady who is on a mission!”

“A mission? Well ... ” My eyes darted around to the others, their return stares making me nervous. I calmed when facing the colored woman’s moist brown eyes. “I
am
tired of watching others suffer and yet ... I am helpless. I
am
tired of working all day and yet remain ... dependent. I
am
tired of sending my children to school, yet
I
feel ignorant. I
am
only a spectator. I’m standing still while everything else is moving around me, watching life through my window.”

Cady’s head went back in an easy laugh, and to my blushing delight, her hands tapped together in applause. “That was a touching speech and one we must write down to convey at the convention. See how easy it is, ladies? Do not under-estimate yourself. Women can be their own worst enemies.” She tilted her head and studied my face, as a teacher might read a student’s. “You have talents that only need to be dusted off – ”

“And aired out!” I finished, remembering the winter’s coal heat and gas lamps. They all laughed and I felt bonded to other adults for the first time in my life. Most of all, I admired Cady and the way her spectacles enlarged her intelligent light brown eyes slightly, eyes that were fully focused on what I had to say, as if what I had to say was important.

But still I feared to commit. Robert would kill me – if he knew.

“Ruby, perhaps I can convince you if I explain our purpose,” Cady said. “First, we must work effectively and in a peaceful manner for our cause in the suffrage movement. Secondly, to inform ourselves of our history. If we better understand where we came from, we may have better foresight into where we are going …”

I’m uncertain as to whether or not I should go into detail here. I believe women should be more aware of their history, yet over the years I find their eyes begin to glaze over when I talk of such things. They become suddenly interested in their child’s game or a passing bird. This can become quite frustrating because women have accomplished so much and yet sometimes show so little interest in those outside our inner circle. Perhaps we have too many immediate demands on our presence to pay much attention to past or future.

Let me see if I can summarize efficiently and effectively.

It comes down to this: The first Women’s Rights Convention was in 1848 with one of the twelve resolutions in the Declaration of Sentiments being the right to vote. It took us seventy-two years to win that right. Incredible when you think about it, such a basic right really, to be recognized as a person. It still lights my fire to think of it. Only then did we have a voice in improving our rights in education, employment, owning property and our own children … and even then it took years, or more to the point, is taking years - Bess and Katy can tell you better than I – no Equal Rights Amendment has been passed. Perhaps when Jesi reads this history – where was I?

Oh and in marriage, think of it! In my time, men had the absolute authority. Unfortunately they were not required to prove they were fit to be trusted with absolute power in marriage, as they might be in other institutions. There are different grades of good and bad men and if a woman marries a good and loving man, she will not suffer abuse of power. But if she marries a bad one, she has no escape from his brutality. Law does not punish for domestic oppression.

You might ask, “Then why get married at all?” Well, think of it. Marriage was the only choice for so many, for without our own education and profession, we remained dependent on a man’s income, whether that be our father, brother, or husband.

I remember my naivety in asking Cady in this first meeting, “Why won’t men let us vote? It seems harmless enough.”

She explained that the main challenge was our politicians. Many opposed women voting, for it simply complicated their agenda and here was why. To win a vote, they must address issues that the voters are concerned with. Women are concerned with issues that can be quite different than men’s, such as better education and cleaner schools for their children, purer meat and food processing, and child labor. Women are the ones who make the choices in raising children and preparing food, so naturally they are the experts. But men do not know enough about these issues to lobby for them so they had the power to treat them as trivial.

That’s when Lizzie said, “That’s why we’re here, honey! To speak out for what we believe in! When Lincoln freed the colored folk, he forgot about the women folk!”

At any rate, that afternoon tea was how it all started for me. Those precious friends added a log to my smoldering fire and I’m proud to say it’s not out yet.

Speaking of domestic oppression in marriage, I shall tell you what happened on my return home that eventful day. Trouble started when the Ladies Tea ended. That was when I met Bess’s future husband, Thomas Pickering. A slender, handsome gentleman in a light linen suit, with careless blond hair falling onto his forehead, entered the parlor smiling broadly. He called out, “Where’s my lovely wife?” and went straight-way to Cady, who stood instantly and smiled just as broadly back, both clearly happy to see the other. Thomas offered to drive Aimee and I home, since we lived farthest away. He explained that the water boiler in his new steam automobile was adequately heated from his drive home and would be a cinch to restart. Aimee hastily declined stating she had other errands to run, and ran down the walkway like a frightened rabbit. However I wasn’t that wise and had become aware that there
was insufficient time to walk the distance before the children and Robert arrived home.

Thomas ran ahead of me to his car like a child being let out to play, obviously eager for an opportunity to drive his carriage again.

This was my second reason for accepting his offer: I had never been in a horseless carriage before. I thought,
What a perfect way to end a perfect day.
Mercy.

He stroked the hood of the big black machine as he waited for me. “I named her Fizzie,” he stated proudly, “because of the hissssing noisssse the boiler makesss. Just like a woman, eh?” He chuckled at his use of words as he opened the door for me, and then he disappeared under the hood. A moment later he trotted around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel. He clutched the large metal steering wheel and looked over at me with green eyes and a white smile.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he asked.

“Yes indeed!” I nodded, looking around the interior, inhaling strong scents of oil and leather. The two tiny round dials meant nothing to me, but the heavy frame and padded seat made me feel quite safe. I would explain this to Robert. I settled my handbag in my lap and folded my gloved hands on top, prepared for the adventure. When I told him this was my first, he said, “Well, then, we shall take the scenic route!” He released the brake and the carriage jerked forward.

The worry and regret came rushing at me head-on. Robert would wholly disapprove if he knew I was alone with another man, and he would be outraged to discover the drive was in a steam carriage. He was convinced this new invention was a four-wheeled cannon, likely to explode at any given moment, killing its unfortunate cargo. We had no means of transportation, excepting our God-given legs. Not since our old mare, Blacky, was retired to pasture on the dairy farm. Blacky was employed on the daily milk run, first by my father and then by my brother. After many hard years of labor, she was replaced by a younger mare, and thus given to Robert and I to hitch to our small old buggy, another remnant from Robert’s mother. Blacky was
kept in the stable behind our house, accessed by a dirt alley in the back that ran parallel to our front street. Robert decided the cost of the feed did not equate to the need of the horse. Blacky was given tearful goodbye hugs from the children, and I was given promises of new transportation by Robert. That was two years and many walking miles of shoe leather ago. “I mend shoes,” Robert had said. “What is the problem?”

Thomas recognized my furrowed brow I do believe. He patted the dashboard affectionately. “This lovely lady will have you home in moments - under the control of these steady hands!” He raised his leather-gloved hands as proof of his strength.