Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (28 page)

“I’m not good at speeches. Don’t think I’ve ever made one,” Pearl said, her voice weak and quavering. “But I have made my own living, grimy as that may be, so I know what I’m talking about. Miss Wright does not; Miss Wright is wrong.” Her play on words brought out a few snickers. My group began hissing in the same manner as the opposing side did while I had spoken.

“A working woman is not equal to a working man; he’s stronger and he’s meaner, and he could care less about an equal rights amendment. That’s way above him and too far away to touch him. He only knows he can lift more than the woman working next to him, so why does she have the job instead of his brother.”

I could no longer tolerate my group’s interruptions. I hissed at all of them to hush instantly.

“She only has body parts suitable for one thing,” Pearl was saying, “and he will do what he can to make those parts work for him. Where does she go when he traps her in the storage room? I tell you – there is nowhere to go.”

She paused and for one brief moment her eyes searched mine, and all I could do was nod slightly, silently sending her wishes for strength. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands and then grasped the podium. “That is when you meet non-equality face to face,” she quivered loudly, determination in the grim line of her pale mouth. “His above yours shoving your womanhood to where you can’t find it anymore. What government law in Washington can reach her in the weeds of a small town? She is untouchable, except to the men around her who think women are to be owned and used like machinery. It’s easy to speak theory; it’s hard to speak truth, especially when it’s so personal.” She returned her gaze to me, and I felt as vulnerable as one at the wrong end of a rifle.

“Miss Wright, I’ve seen you stand up for women for about as long as I can remember. I thank you publicly for that, but you have to start thinking with your heart, and not your head. You’ve done good with getting us the vote; now use that vote to protect us as you promised to do! Look after your own before you worry about the world.” She left the podium giving others no choice but to focus their stare on me.

I wanted to fire back that it was going to be difficult to think with my heart when she just shot a hole through it, but I remained silent, the poison in her words being absorbed. This explained her sudden change to defiance. Why didn’t she come to me for help? I knew why. I was up there in the clouds with Billy, perhaps a cloud myself, no substance, just puffy floating air. I had nothing left to stand on. I walked out of the conference room.

This was the second time Thomas had thrown me into the midst of the lower class working women, forcing me to look at both sides.

But I hadn’t stayed neutral as I wrote his article. I would be in deep trouble now.

Debate, debate. Pros and cons. Your side, my side. Never the two shall meet. I suddenly understood why Billy sat on the fence. Debates required taking positions; positions in favor, positions against, thus you have a battle. Billy once said that was the difference between us; he refused to argue over anything whereas I agreed to argue over everything. Of course I argued that if he believed in something, he would not be so passive. He only proved his point – and mine - by walking away.

Thanks to Pearl, I became increasingly tired of yelling across the fence and wondered if this was a weakness. I longed for Billy to be here so that I could say: What do you say let’s sit on the fence together? I needed something tangible and real in my life. Something true to hold. So I did what I had done for years and turned to Billy. Of course he wasn’t real any longer but only a fading memory of brown, perfectly parted hair and a smile that flashed white teeth and lit his light brown eyes. But his smudged letters were something I could hold in my hand and smell its mustiness. This was more real than anything else I touched, including those airy advertisements I wrote daily.

Dear Bess, how’s my girl?                       August 1917

Are you shocked I called you my girl? I must be homesick, wouldn’t you say? I can just imagine you right now with that half-smile and one eyebrow raised, saying, “The word ‘my’ is possessive, my dear.”

Just arrived in London last week and there are ceaseless lines of troops here. I hear complaints about President Wilson’s “he kept us out of war” slogan and how his 976 days of neutrality has kept the war in motion longer. Now that America has finally declared war on Germany, troops and morale have picked up. Everyone is making preparations for one big quick battle and then it will all be over soon.

I’m training to fly aeroplanes – can you imagine your fellow hundreds of feet in the sky? Probably, since you once told me my head was in the clouds. When you see a bird, think of me. But then your last letter said you thought of me often, so perhaps you don’t need a prompt? Now that I see lives being cut short, I wonder, why did you and I waste so many hours playing games? The few kisses, that rare private touch … remember the moonlight picnic …
we should have … Damn it, what I should have done was to have flown you away from all those radical hens and settled you into a wife and mother. Only I get the impression that you would want to fly the plane and I’d get stuck as gunrunner. Speaking of that, I saw my first girl bus conductor today, you will be happy to know.

I hope to be home for Christmas so tell Lizzie to have some of her peanut butter fudge waiting for me.

Your fellow, Billy

Dear Bess,                                                         October 1917

I’ve returned to Blighty as the English say. This means I’ve come back to England and wounded at that. Some burns when my aeroplane’s gas tank caught fire from shots. That’s nothing compared to the legless ones and armless ones around me. They look unreal to me, like actors on a Civil War stage in my school days. If a soldier dies here, he’s ‘gone west’ they say and I’ve seen a lot of that too. I wish you could meet the nurse who works for the Red Cross Motor Corps. She has your independent spirit. Christine drives the ambulance and visits the soldiers. She’s cute as a button wearing breeches, high boots, and service cap. She said her husband would never have let her wear this, but he’s ‘gone west’ too. Everybody has a war job; it keeps the grief and depression at bay.

Yours, Billy

Merry Christmas Bess!                          December 1917

Merry Christmas and at this rate I’d better say Happy New Year too. I got your letters but couldn’t write back what with all the flights I’ve flown between England and France. This is the place to be on furlough. Music and dancing every night and women certainly know how to dress up for the soldiers. Christine said it’s all part of the game to keep our morale up. She said that in days gone by, mourning would require a woman to go into black for several years but now everyone has lost a husband or brother or father and they can’t show their grief in the few days the living soldiers are on furlough.

I’m sorry to read that your father is ill. Give him my regards. I wish I had a photograph of you. I’m having a hard time remembering what you look like, well, except you have beautiful eyes that burn a blue flame when you’re angry
with me, which is probably right now. And your long brown hair – don’t cut it like a lot of women are doing these days. It would be great to see you, a woman with some meat on her bones. All the women here are worried thin.

Sure wish I was home for Christmas but it looks like the war is going to be a little while longer. Ask Lizzie to save some fudge for me.

Yours Truly, Billy

P.S. I was disappointed to read in your letter of your group’s latest escapade and of your being arrested and going on a hunger strike, especially since I am surrounded by men fighting for a much greater cause and their hunger is not intentional. Why would your suffragettes call our President ‘Kaiser Wilson’ in comparing him to Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany? It’s a stab in the heart to say that 20 million American women are not self-governed when we men are dying over here every day for freedom for men
and
women.

Hey, how’s my girl?                                     June 1918

I thought I’d better be sweet on you, I hadn’t written in so long. The war is dragging on and you must be getting tired of the Red Cross slogan, ‘Give Till It Hurts’. I know I am because I see so many hurting. You recently wrote about your marches for women’s equality but let me tell you, the best way to get equality is to start a war. Women are replacing men everywhere I go. They’ve had to – I heard that six hundred thousand men have been killed in France alone. Women are harvesting the crops, butchering the lambs, cleaning the engines on our aeroplanes like they were cleaning their stoves at home, opening their homes to billeting all the extra women munitions workers and traveling soldiers. There are women here in the London hospital too (yes, I’m back here with a gunshot wound to the leg but this bird will not be grounded for long) with factory injuries from handling explosives and soldering lead. You’ll be happy to know, I no longer think in terms of ‘woman’s work’.

When my hospital train arrived at Charing Cross, the only lights on at the station were those from the ten or so motor ambulances waiting there in line, to prevent enemy planes from spotting us. It looked like I was being taken to my tomb. Quite unnerving, really, until I saw Christine, and of course the other nurses and sisters. These angels are there every night with their flashlights, waiting for the wounded. Each ambulance holds four stretchers and a nurse or sister to comfort us on the way to the hospital. Wounded German
soldiers are treated the same, except a soldier enters the ambulance with them instead of a woman.

I know that men’s talk bores you but just to let you know I’ve been in more than 75 air battles and destroyed at least eleven enemy aircraft. I’m an accurate shooter but lousy pilot, so no one would be the wiser if I voluntarily crash my Nieuport rather than have the enemy send me down in flames. In the meantime, my smoking bullets hit every Hun machine I can find and the closer to the hooded pilot, the better.

I’ve made a decision: I’m not going back to that factory when the war ends. I’m sure I would enjoy being a pilot – it’s just that right now the war is taking all the fun out of it. I can’t fly from one destination to another without fearing fire. I can’t enjoy the freedom of flight without fearing capture by the enemy. Well, hell, my ol’ playmate, I should be able to tell you some things about myself without your attention flying away.

Your flying ace, Billy

Dear Bess                                         September 1918

I was surprised to read that you have joined New York City’s Motor Corps and have learned to drive an ambulance. Good for you, ol’ girl! I’ll be sure to pass that on to Christine. And that your entire motor corps marched in the Red Cross procession to raise money for the war! I’m having trouble imagining you in a starched uniform, although your marching in military file I’ve seen often enough, but now you do so for others. Thousands of men (including me, dear) thank you for your selfless act. I wish to give you a big hug and kiss for it. Oh and for your letters too. It’s always great to hear from home. You’re my favorite so chin up and all that. Don’t worry; you shouldn’t have to do this for long. The Germans are retreating out of France and we’re bringing in a lot of prisoners from the battle in the Argonne Forest. Remember what they say: this is the War to End all Wars.

Just to keep you up on your interests in women’s work, there’s a 500-women Motor Corp here in Paris, some of who moved here temporarily from London. The women have their own garage and hotel for sixty motors and manage just about all of it from mechanics to car dispatcher. Motors here have no self-starters, so Christine told me that several girls have had their arms broken trying to crank the bloody things in the cold early mornings. Oh yes, and she
asked me to pass on that women over the age of thirty have won the vote this year in Great Britain.

Sincerely, Billy

I received this last letter a week or so after word of Billy’s death. I had read it back then through tears, thankful that he knew of my own war efforts and that he still wished to kiss and hug me. Yes, he wrote in small doses but this salve to my lonely soul lasted long. So much was going on in the foreground of my life that he became my background, his past words giving me strength to move forward. Believing he was still alive and loved me was enough. But now … now, did he love me? I noticed for the first time that there were no words of love in these letters. In reading, I saw them through a different light. Now that the war of men and the war of women were over, the dust had settled and all was quiet, I could see clearly. The romantic hues of him flying in blue skies into pink sunsets were lifted. Stark clear reality with its harsh pen strokes struck me with a force that left me sitting there stunned, the pages of this last letter falling onto my lap. Even I the detached, could recognize passion if presented close enough, but Billy had only brought the flame to me once, in a long-ago moonlit night.