Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (6 page)

As he pulled out onto the bricked street, I turned and waved at Cady. She had remained standing on her front porch, the home’s slate blue shutters and inner lighting framed around her, the potted geranium beside her. The dusk gave it soft dream-like colors.

“You ladies must have cheered the ol’ girl substantially!” Thomas said as he slowly manoeuvred around a plodding horse and carriage. “She felt quite poorly when I left this morning. I came home early to check on her and here she is having tea, smiling brightly.”

I looked at him in dismay. “Oh I had no idea! She never mentioned any such thing.” I shouted, or so it seemed, in order to be heard above the motor’s noise.

“Nor would she. She rarely complains.” Thomas waved it off. “Nor does this girl.”

I looked to see whom he was talking about.

“Her performance is astonishing going as fast as a galloping horse, when I can find a long paved road. I hope the roads improve soon, but I recently did some research and wrote an article for the newspaper saying there are only about eight thousand automobiles out there and only about one hundred miles of road so far. She’ll have to settle for town roads for now.”

It seemed to take many years before folks stopped referring to their motor cars as another species, like a winning racehorse, as if still needing that attachment to flesh and blood.

“So, are you joining my wife in her crusade?” He turned and looked at me intently until I pointed ahead. He saw my concern and suddenly swerved around a bicycle.

“It’s safe to say yes with me,” he continued, noting my hesitation. “If women aren’t ‘for the people, by the people’, then what are they? But I’m the lone wolf in this town. Jump on the wagon and give her a hand; she needs the help.”

Admittedly, it was this man’s endorsement that made it valid and made up my simple woman’s mind. I prayed Robert would be as understanding. I nodded in acceptance, my attention more on the road.

I can still recall my fascination in watching the houses and people go by at such a swift pace. It appeared we were pulling up in front of my house in the blink of an eye.

I reached out and patted the dashboard approvingly. “Good girl! Thank you so much. It was quite delightful!”

“My pleasure, my pleasure!” Thomas remained grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I found the door handle and pulled it gingerly but not enough. He reached across me and pulled the handle harder, simultaneously pushing the door open. His arm brushed across my breast and I held in my breath to give more space between, my face feeling hot. He appeared not to notice. I quickly turned my back to him and lifting my skirt above my boots, stepped out onto the cobblestones.

As I straightened, I saw my husband walking toward me, still a few houses away. We both froze as one spotted the other. Before I could gather my thoughts enough to ask Thomas to wait for introductions, he had closed the door behind me and drove off. I listened to the engine fading away, longing to be back inside its safety shield with someone with happy thoughts. Robert was not happy. He adjusted his collar and then resumed his approach. I did not take my eyes from him. Like a trapped raccoon, I stood wide-eyed and waited.

He glanced around to see if neighbors were peering from their windows. “Come inside now!” he hissed. He turned on his heel and headed toward the front door.

I followed his brown suit silently; sorry to leave the warmth and laughter behind me and enter the dark anger Robert would fill the house with.

He loosened his necktie and paced the parlor. I tried to appear calm and composed but my hands shook as I hung my shawl on its hook in the entranceway. I had learned it best to say nothing so I headed toward the kitchen to begin supper. I tensed as I walked past him.

In the doorway, he grabbed my arm.

He jerked me to him and brought his face close, nose almost touching mine, eyes as hard as dried mud. “I will not give you the courtesy to explain yourself, woman!” he spat between clenched teeth.

With his other hand, he reached down and unbuckled his belt and pulled it from around his trousers. I instinctively pulled back, trying to get out of his steel grip, but the grip only tightened. He being only a few inches taller than my five-foot frame, I was surprised at his strength.

“Oh, Robert, please, the children are expected home any moment!”

He eyed the parlor window with slanted eyes and for the first time ever, he looked like a mad man.

I truly became frightened of him. He had whipped the children in this manner and I had tended to their bruised legs, but of course I was not a child and felt deeply humiliated that he treated me, his wife, the same way. I had always tried to be obedient after he had successfully “put me in my place” by a face slap early in our marriage, and such punishment hadn’t been necessary.

But then I had never ventured out on my own before without his permission.

His hesitation allowed me to try again. “Robert, please don’t let them see us like this!”

There were no children in sight and he looked at me accusingly, as if I was trying to trick him.

He swung out the belt and brought it back hard against the back of my legs. He struck again and again, emphasizing with each strike, each word, “Don’t….you….ever….disobey….me….again!”

Each time I stifled a cry, each time I tried to break free of his grip on my arm, but it did no good. The folds of my skirt and petticoat prevented serious pain; nonetheless I felt my body shrinking inch by inch with each strike, until I became very small and worthless. He pushed me away then, and I collapsed onto the floor.

I watched him tread heavily into the dining room, clenching and unclenching his fists. The belt landed loudly on the floor, as if he’d killed a snake and couldn’t tolerate touching it. He stood there for a moment, breathing deeply through his nostrils, and then returned to where I sat in a small heap. I flinched when I felt his hands come under my armpits from behind. He lifted me to my feet. I kept my back to him as I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. I straightened my spine and walked silently into the kitchen to return to my duties.

Bess, that is as far as I can go for now. I don’t know where this is going; I’ve walked backward into the past before and it always leaves me feeling as if I’ve lost my way. I know too well that if you keep looking behind you, you forget where you are going. Writing this has upset me and I shall lie down for a rest while you, Katy and Jesi finish your Chapter Ones. I’m feeling quite looped from the wine (is “looped” the appropriate word here?)

Be happy,

Your Mama

What is happiness?

Y
es, Mama, I realize I’m supposed to be happy. I’ve heard that all my life and I did my best to please you. For a woman who claims to be powerless, you’ve had incredible influence on those around you.

My year of awakening began when I saw that you had that power, that deep root in home and family, and I felt no more than tumbleweed. I had imagined you and me marching side by side down Main Street but once again you weren’t there, with Papa your usual excuse. Your fifth child is born and that is that. Push me out into the world and that is that. All of a sudden Papa is your main focus and for years, until he became bedridden, you spoke rarely about the suffrage movement, and then, only in low tones, as if talking about sex.

I found myself instead in Tennessee, with an ending and a beginning. For it was there where we won the women’s war on suffrage but I lost some common sense. What happened after that changed my ways, my life, my love, and began my year of awakening.

So much happened in such a short time and I have the right to blame Mama for much of it. After all, it was her shameful sin that I have to wear. Let these writings reveal it.

Katy my daughter, I realize I am at times considered cold. Perhaps even in today’s terms, a bitch, yes, Jesi? In reading this, you’ll understand why. Believe it or not I was far worse in my younger years. Yet I discovered a womanly side to me - dare I say sensual? - that I’ll reveal when the time is appropriate.

Remember, Mama, you were the first to open
that
chamber door.

But before I begin, you must understand: Women didn’t have much choice in those days, since the war, World War I that is, had picked off men - including my beau, Billy - like lined ducks in a shooting gallery. Remember, too, that I was heartsick at the time. I believed Billy’s spirit sat there on top of my heart slowly squeezing it down into a thin slice of liver. Or so I thought at the time. I was to learn differently during that year.

I firmly believe it’s important to document our years of awakening, and I hope that much will be revealed, and questions will be answered. And now, after reading Mama’s explicit first chapter, I’ve decided to do so without reservation, without attempting cuts that may embarrass me or upset Mama. For what is a smile when teeth are missing, regardless how genuine? You’d only remember that there were gaps.

Yes, Mama, I will shock you with what I have to tell, but my daughter and granddaughter should know their roots and I could never speak of such things. I can write it, though, I can write it all. And I can hope
you’re
happy with this.

1920

Summer

August; Tennessee. Floating along in the movement for nine years, I suddenly found myself in the rapids and having to dog-paddle fast.

I had just returned from a march in Rochester and owed notes of gratitude to the Mayor and police chief for ensuring a peaceful demonstration. They were not always so, but the last several months were bringing about less animosity, or at least more apathy, toward our cause. Our constant display was no longer a novelty and we either received quiet support, or silent scorn. But apathy from your enemies is your best defense, I learned. We had reached new heights when no one was looking, and it became more difficult for the anti-suffragists to bring us back down. States were ratifying the
Nineteenth Amendment that would guarantee women the right to vote in all elections, and I had spent countless hours traveling to meet with state legislators and writing letters to state government representatives.

Endless … and then suddenly it came down to thirty-five states had ratified and thirty-six were needed to pass the amendment and Tennessee’s vote was due, and the telegram came. We descended on Nashville en masse.

Eunice was there at the Nashville train station as promised by our suffrage leader, Mrs. Carrie Chapman Catt. And, as expected, Eunice appeared solemn and stern, severe bun and the part in her gray hair so straight as to look painful. She had been part of Mama’s original
Ladies Legion
and Mama had told me years ago that Eunice was a divorced woman whose two children were lost to her husband’s custody. But this slice of her life did not fit into her demeanor at all and I always pondered this when in her presence. She never spoke of this part of her past with me, but then her divorce was more than ten years before, and her children would be grown by now. No, Eunice did not look like a mother, but could only be imagined with pen and paper in hand, not holding a child’s hand. These thoughts were only my own, of course.