The Storm (20 page)

“I'm not sure about the short time span. Something about a ninety-day waiting period. A woman is running for state office too, for the very first time. Isn't that something?”

“That's great.” Her heart picked up speed. “Why didn't you let me know before now?”

“You need to rest. You've been under enough pressure.”

“I'm better now.” She began to feel a little of the restlessness that had made her want to drive an ambulance in Europe and become a suffragist. “I can't believe it. Miss Alice Paul has been struggling so long for women to be able to vote, and you already can—without having to march or picket.”

Molly shook her head so hard Jaq was afraid her long hair would come unpinned. “But we can't vote in the November election. Miss Paul and the rest of the suffragists better keep the pressure on President Wilson.” Then she winked mischievously. “Hardly anyone in Texas votes Republican, though. Whoever wins the primary wins the race.”

“Very clever. But tell me. Why the sudden excitement about politics?” Molly appeared to be a different person from the cowed wife and mother Jaq had observed at church not that many months ago.

Molly pushed up her luxurious crown of red hair. “Before I met you, I thought only men—and women like Mother Russell—discussed politics. Such things weren't relevant to me.” She looked almost sad then brightened. “But your stories and Esther's letters make me want to learn more about this new world opening up for us. Maybe I can even help educate other women about it. Can you tell me more about Miss Paul?” She tidied a stray tendril.

They passed two barefooted girls wearing patched overalls, one of them obviously pregnant, though she looked about twelve. They were struggling to carry a big bucket brimming with water. Molly clenched her gloved hands like she was feeling the thin metal handle bite into them. “Mr. Hobby wants to increase the age of consent for girls to age fifteen,” she murmured, as if to herself.

With a sigh, she wondered why Molly had married Mr. James, but then, responding to Molly's request, she let herself be pulled into her memories.

“What about the first time I actually met Miss Paul?”

“Yes, please.” Molly relaxed her hands in her lap and half turned in her seat.

She kept her speed at a steady eight miles an hour, ready to slow down if she had to. She didn't want the red dust blowing through the windows to ruin Molly's white dress.

“When I returned from Europe last fall, my aunt told me she'd picketed the White House. She even spent three nights in the District jail. That shocked me and intrigued me too. I'd planned to stay with her and my uncle awhile in Washington, but pretty soon I got bored. So she encouraged me to join Miss Paul's National Woman's Party.”

Molly wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and gawped at her as if she'd flown to the moon. “And you did?”

“Yes. My aunt took me to their headquarters and introduced us. Miss Paul is tiny, not even as tall as you are, and even thinner than when I first saw her, five years ago. But her hair was just as thick and dark, and her eyes glowed even more, like a light shone behind them. She sat at a desk in a dimly lit room, with only a table lamp turned on, surrounded by piles of papers—like a tough executive.”

Molly's eyes gleamed. “How exciting.”

“Miss Paul asked me, in a deep, rich voice, why I wanted to join their organization, and I told her I'd just come back from where the generals were squandering the lives of thousands of our men for bits of land they lost the next day. I also told her I wanted to do something I could truly believe in.”

Molly looked so appalled that Jaq tried to distract her. “She has such interesting eyes, Molly. I wish you could see them. They're green like yours when they shine, but when she's serious they look black and brown.”

Molly blushed but nodded for her to go on.

“Miss Paul asked about my health and if I'd picket three afternoons a week. And in case they arrested me, if I'd go to prison and on a hunger strike, if necessary.”

Molly paled, but Jaq decided to share the truth with her. Molly could take it.

“She's been in prison a lot of times, you know, and even in an insane asylum. She had a rubber feeding tube forced down her throat during her hunger strikes in jail.”

Molly gulped, as if she might throw up, but just sat there with an expression of horror.

Jaq waved a hand in the air. “I agreed to everything, and she told me to report for duty the next afternoon.”

“My goodness. She sounds rather brusque,” Molly said, after she'd swallowed a few times.

She nodded. “Yes. I felt dismissed, but then Miss Paul rose, smiled, and shook my hand with a firm grip. She seemed to tower over me as she welcomed me to the Woman's Party. Her presence filled the room, and I understood why so many women have devoted themselves to her cause. She's so businesslike yet so warm. We gladly did whatever she asked us.”

Molly stared at her, seeming to breathe deeper and sit even straighter than usual. “I'd love to meet her.”

She wanted to say that maybe someday Molly could, but the chances were so unlikely, she hesitated. She didn't want Molly to be disappointed or, worse, hurt. And she wasn't sure she wanted Molly to grow aware and jaded, like her. She needed the uncritical stability that Molly provided.

She kept her expression noncommittal. “Me too, Molly, but now you owe a story.”

*

“Miss Paul sounds like she won't let anyone stop her,” Molly said, suddenly despondent. Jacqueline hadn't given her much hope of ever getting out of East Texas.

“You're right. Oh—” They crested a rise and Jacqueline slammed on the brakes. “I'm still not used to watching out for these chickens. I hit one a few days after I got here. What a mess.”

“James's brother Clyde used to love to run them down. He's cruel to his Negro hired help too. Supposedly, when he was a young man, he beat one of their field hands to death with a chain for sassing him and got off scot-free. I've never liked him, except when he was kind to me after I had Patrick. But back to Mrs. Cunningham. We're close to town, so I'll tell you what I know before we get there.”

“We have all the way home.”

“But I'd rather listen to you. Mrs. Cunningham was studying to be a pharmacist in Galveston when the Storm hit.”

Jacqueline shuddered, though Molly didn't know whether her remark about Clyde or about the Storm caused her reaction. “I'm glad she got out.”

“She did but went back and helped with the relief efforts.”

“I already like her. Did she earn her degree?”

“Yes. But when she got a job, she made half as much as the men, and none of them had gone to college. So she married and moved to Galveston again. She discovered politics there, when she got involved in a legal battle with a vendor selling tainted milk. So I'm not such a late-bloomer, am I?”

Jacqueline shook her head as they pulled up in front of the county courthouse.

Does she think I'm being silly, wanting to change like this all of a sudden?
Molly hoped she hadn't let her anger make her do something foolish.

By the time they reached the broad marble staircase, Molly could hardly wait to walk up and register to vote in the first election ever open to the women of Texas. Jacqueline had unlocked Pandora's box for her, and she almost wanted to thank Mother Russell for making her so angry that she finally dared to defy everything she'd ever known.

She licked two of her fingers and smoothed Patrick's red hair that looked like a banty rooster's tail at the crown of his head. “Pull up your pants, son, and straighten your collar. You can't go in the courthouse looking like you've slept in your shirt.”

He squirmed. “But, Mama, my collar's scratching my neck. You put too much starch in it.”

She relented and told him she'd buy him something special later, to take the edge off her scolding. But she was nervous and wanted to make a good impression during her first trip to register to vote. Today was a landmark event.

A middle-aged woman directed her to the tax collector's office, and as she climbed the worn wooden stairs Patrick tugged her hand. “Look, Mama. These steps just keep going up and up. I bet this building's taller than our barn.”

“I'm sure it is,” Jacqueline said. “Someday maybe you can go to Washington, DC. Some of the buildings there are even taller than this one and made entirely out of marble. They're more beautiful than you can imagine.”

He stopped. “Really, Miss Jacqueline? Oh, Mama. Can I go? Can I?”

“Of course. Maybe you and I can both go. But now we need to find the tax collector. He's the first stop on our trip.”

“Okay, Mama.”

After another inquiry, she found the office and knocked on the tall pine door.

“Come on in,” someone squeaked, and she entered, still holding Patrick's hand and glad Jacqueline was by her side. Her stomach twisted up like she was about to play a difficult Chopin nocturne at a recital.

“How can I help you, ma'am?”

She'd hoped she would know the person who would register her, but she'd never seen this brash, pimply young man who looked barely older than Patrick.

“I'm here to register to vote in the upcoming election.”

“Vote? What do you mean? Only men can vote in Texas.” He stared at her through his thick-lensed glasses as if he thought she'd escaped from the insane asylum.

She stood there tongue-tied, ready to back out the door, but Jacqueline said imperiously, “You obviously haven't been keeping up with the latest news. Let me speak to your supervisor.”

The owlish young man paled behind his pimples. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, and pushed through the door behind him.

This time an older man, who resembled Mr. James, emerged. “I understand you want to register, ma'am.”

She pushed her voice out of her throat. “Yes, sir. If it's not too much trouble.”

“Why, no trouble at all, ma'am. You see, you're the first of your fair sex to do so, and that young man doesn't read anything but news about the War. I apologize. Just fill out this form and show me some type of identification to prove who you are and that you've lived in Texas for at least a year.”

She felt like he'd slapped her. Filling out the form was easy, though she wondered how many people weren't allowed to register because they couldn't read or write. But identification? No one had ever asked her for that. When she'd enrolled at college and at the university, her papa had signed a paper that he was a Methodist preacher, and that was that. Mr. James had their marriage license, and Molly owned no property in her own name. Mother Russell could register easier than she could.

As these thoughts whirled through her mind like a hurricane, the older man gazed patiently at her.

“My friend here, Mrs. McCade, can tell you who I am and how long I've lived in Texas.” She and the older man both turned to Jacqueline.

“Of course I know who you are. But I've only been in Texas since late March. Maybe someone in town—”

Molly snapped her fingers. “That's it. I'll go get Mr. Rosenberg. I've traded at his dry-goods store for years. He'll vouch for me.”

Downstairs, as they crossed the dusty, rutted main street and carefully avoided piles of manure, she was glad this was a weekday because it wasn't very crowded and she could relax and enjoy her time alone with Jacqueline. Tomorrow the town would be alive with wagons, buggies, and some automobiles, with men spitting on the sidewalks and throwing sacks of feed for the livestock and flour and other staples for their families into their wagons or trucks. They'd lounge on the streets, catching up on the latest news about the War, and the few women in town would scurry from store to store, buying fabric and other necessities. She seldom went with Mr. James on Saturday. He usually had to buy parts for the plow, or new harnesses for the mules, or other bulky items, and he didn't like to escort her in anything but the buggy or the Overland, when it was in operation.

In the dry-goods store, Mr. Rosenberg readily agreed to guarantee her identity. They were walking up the aisle from his office, when Patrick stopped to look at a neat pile of boys' pants. “Mama, when can I have some long pants like these?”

“Why, I didn't know you wanted any. You're not old enough to wear them yet.”

“But by the time Miss Jacqueline takes us to Washington, DC, I will be.” He grinned. “They'll make me look all grown up, like I'm fit to go to war.”

“Well, I don't know, Patrick. I don't want you to go to war—”

“These are an excellent buy, Mrs. Russell,” Mr. Rosenberg picked up a pair of black ones and held them up to Patrick. “They're on sale for fifty cents. I just haven't gotten around to marking them down. Why don't you go over there behind that counter and try them on, boy?”

She put her arm around his shoulders. “Okay. If they fit right and if you promise to save them for a special occasion when you're a little older.”

He soon ran back toward them. “Look, Mama. They're just right.”

So she said with pride, “Here you go, Mr. Rosenberg. Since I'm exempt from paying a poll tax this year, I have enough money from what I've saved from giving piano lessons.” She carefully counted out ten nickels.

Just then, Jacqueline pulled her Brownie out of her big purse. “Before you change back, Patrick, why don't you step outside and let me take your picture. If that's all right, Mr. Rosenberg.”

“Sure, sure. I'll go with you.”

After Jacqueline finished with Patrick, Mr. Rosenberg said, “Ladies, this is a big day for Miss Molly and all the ladies of Texas, so let me take a picture of the two of you. If I can work this contraption.”

She and Jacqueline looked at each other for a minute, then Jacqueline handed him the camera. “That's a grand idea, Mr. Rosenberg. Don't you agree, Molly?”