The Cure for Dreaming (10 page)

t supper that evening, the noisy passel of Harrisons chatted and joked about school escapades and camping trips while they stuffed me full of stew and potatoes. Every now and again I caught Mr. and Mrs. Harrison glancing at me with worried expressions, as if they couldn't quite shake the memory of my emotional entrance earlier that afternoon.

After supper, I slid my arms into the thick sleeves of my coat, which, along with my book bag, had been fetched by Frannie's fourteen-year-old brother, Carl, when he went to tell Father I'd be home late. The woolen collar snuggled up
to my neck and pervaded my nostrils with the dental office's distinctive odor—a sweet, antiseptic, and metallic potpourri that now flooded me with memories of Henri's hands on my head.

I buttoned up for the outside chill. “How did my father look when you saw him, Carl?”

Carl smiled. “Bloody.”

“Bloody?” I asked with a gasp.

“He was leeching some woman, and he had her head locked into a metal contraption to keep her still.” Carl tilted his head back to demonstrate, his hands clamped around his temples beneath his curly brown hair. “The leech had wiggled out of the tube wrong and bloodied up the woman's lip, so your father was trying to get the little bugger to travel down to her gums. His hands were smeared in bright red blood.”

I lowered my shoulders and steadied my breathing. The fact that the blood was leech related and had nothing to do with fangs and lacerated throats was the best news I'd heard all day.

“I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE HOW MANY TIMES YOU'VE READ
Dracula
,” said Frannie from beneath a hissing gas lamp in the dim hallway of my house. “One too many times, that's for sure.”

The soles of Father's house slippers whispered their way from his office in the back. I kept my face turned toward the tan rug by the front door as long as I could, but then Frannie
gave my back a gentle pat, and I gained the courage to raise my chin.

Father—regular Father, not the cadaverous fiend with the rat-fur beard—frowned at me in the hallway.

“You're not reading that ghastly novel again, are you, Olivia?” he asked. “Haven't you had enough of
Dracula
by now?”

“Yes.” I gulped down a nasty taste of bile. “Quite enough.”

Carl stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “You should come to supper again on Sunday, Livie,” he said. “Our parents are celebrating—what is it, Frannie?—their hundredth anniversary now?”

“Their twentieth,” said Frannie with a roll of her eyes at Carl's exaggeration. “Yes, come. We're planning to sit down at five o'clock. We'd love to have you join us.”

“I'd love to be there. Thank you.”

Carl opened the door to take his leave, but before following him, Frannie grabbed my hand and leaned in close with a whisper: “Come back to my house if you need anything else. At any time.”

I mustered a weak smile. “Thank you.”

They closed the door and went on their way.

I stood with my back to Father, facing the exit through which my friends had just vanished while the cool taste of the outside air lingered on my tongue.

“I was so worried about you this afternoon,” said Father in a voice cozy and warm with paternal concern.

Despite his tone, I didn't dare turn around.

“Why did you run away like that?” he asked. “You just left me standing there.”

“What did you expect me to do?
Thank
you?”

“No—but you made me worry something had gone terribly wrong. Mr. Reverie assured me he found you. He said you had simply been spooked by your new view of the world. But still . . . I was troubled.”

I stared at the door.

“Why won't you turn around and look at me, Olivia? Do I look different to you?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed. “I . . . um . . .”

“What?”

“I . . . I see the world . . . the way it truly is. The roles of men and women are clearer than they have ever been before.” I slipped my hands inside my warm coat sleeves and clung to the woolen lining. “I saw a storefront—women, suffrage—a cage.”

“What?”

“I saw a cage.”

“Suffrage is like a restrictive cage, you mean?”

I pursed my lips. “All is well.”

“You understand your place in the world, then?”

I opened my eyes and again peered at the door to the world beyond. “Yes. I understand precisely where I do and don't belong.”

Father breathed a sigh. “Thank heavens. It worked.”
Another deep sigh, this one accompanied by a small belch. “Well, in light of this new outlook on life, I'll be more than happy to allow you to accompany Percy Acklen to the party tomorrow evening. As long as you promise to be well behaved—and to represent our family with utmost care in front of both Percy and the Eiderlings—I'll have Gerda take a note to the Acklen household tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.”

Silence wedged between us again. I assumed he was waiting for me to turn around and face him, perhaps even to fling my arms around his shoulders and tell him,
You were right, Father. My life is so much better now that I hallucinate and can no longer articulate my anger
.

When I showed no signs of moving, he retreated down the hall, his house slippers swishing across the floorboards.

“Time to ready yourself for bed, Olivia,” he said as he went. “I'll be finishing my nightcap in my office if you need me.”

My stomach clenched into a knot. I steadied myself against the little marble-topped side table we used for collecting mail, and my palm crinkled the copy of the newspaper that featured the illustration of Henri and me. Farther down on the page, a headline I had failed to see that morning jumped out at me in boldfaced letters:

WHY THE WOMEN OF THIS STATE
SHOULD BE SILENCED

The author: Judge Percival R. Acklen.

Percy's father.

I grabbed the paper off the table and tore up the staircase.

Behind my closed door, seated on the edge of my bed, I devoured the entire piece, still buttoned inside my coat and shoes. The letter stated the following:

As nearly everyone knows, in June of this year, the men of Oregon voted down a referendum that would have given the women of this great state of ours the right to vote. As this upcoming Tuesday's presidential election draws nearer, irate females have taken to the steps of the courthouse in downtown Portland to complain about their lack of a voice in American politics—and to bemoan their jealousies over their voting sisters in neighboring Idaho.

What these unbridled women lack is a thorough knowledge of the female brain. Two of my closest friends, Drs. Cornelius Piper and Mortimer Yves, two fine gentlemen educated at East Coast universities, both support the staggering wealth of scientific research that proves women were created for domestic duties alone, not higher thinking. A body built for childbearing and mothering is clearly a body meant to stay in the home. If females muddle their minds with politics and other matters confusing to a woman's head, they will abandon their wifely and motherly duties and inevitably trigger the downfall of American society.

Moreover, we would never allow an unqualified, undereducated, ignorant citizen to run our country as president. Why, therefore, would we allow such a person to vote for president?

Women of Oregon, you preside over our children and our homes. Rejoice in your noble position upon this earth. Return to your children and husbands, and stop concerning yourselves with masculine matters beyond your understanding. Silence in a woman is feminine, honorable, and, above all else, natural. Save your voices for sweet words of support for your hardworking husbands and gentle lullabies for your babes—not for American politics.

I ground my teeth together until my jaw ached. This man—this silencer of women—was raising the first boy who had ever looked at me with longing and affection in his eyes.

Poor Percy.

Poor
Mrs.
Acklen.

Poor Oregon.

We were all being lectured by a buffoon.

I thought of Frannie's mother and everything she did to keep their wild household
and
their bookstore running in tip-top order. A fire kindled in my chest, burning, spreading, crackling loudly enough for me to hear it, until I worried my breathing might singe the bedroom walls. My mouth filled with the taste of thick black smoke.

I pulled a sheet of writing paper out of my rolltop desk, dipped the nib of my pen into a pot of velvety dark ink,
and wrote a response to his letter with my neatest display of penmanship.

To Judge Acklen:

You state that women were made for domestic duties alone. Have you ever stopped to observe the responsibilities involved with domestic duties?

What better person to understand the administration of a country than an individual who spends her days mediating quarrels, balancing household budgets, organizing and executing three complex meals, and ensuring all rooms, appliances, deliveries, clothing, guests, family members, and pets are tended to and functioning the way they ought to be? I do not know of any other job in the world that so closely resembles the presidency itself.

Moreover, females are raised to become rational, industrious, fair, and compassionate human beings. Males are taught to sow their wild oats and run free while they're able. Which gender is truly the most prepared to make decisions about the management of a country? Do you want a responsible individual or a rambunctious one choosing the fate of our government?

You insinuate that women's minds are easily muddled, yet you entrust us with the rearing of your children, America's future. Mothers are our first teachers. Mothers are the voices of reason who instill the nation's values in our youth. Mothers are the ones who raise the politicians for whom they are not allowed to vote. Why would you let an easily muddled creature
take on such important duties? Why not hire men to bring up your sons and daughters?

I can already hear you arguing that women's bodies were designed for childrearing, but that is not true, sir. Our bodies may have been built for birthing children and nourishing them during their first meals, but it is our minds that are doing the largest share of the work. On a daily basis, we women prove that our brains are sharp and quick, yet you are too blind to see our intelligence.

Furthermore, you have no need to fear that we would forgo our domestic duties if we were to become voting citizens, for we have been trained all our lives to balance a multitude of tasks. We do not let our homes fall into ruin simply because we have been given one more item to accomplish. Worry more about the males who have only one job and no household chores. Their minds are more likely to stray than ours.

Do you call your own mother “undereducated” and “ignorant,” Judge Acklen? Was her mind in too much of a muddle to keep your childhood household intact? Was she so easily confused that she was unable to raise a boy who would one day become a judge? I think not. Your mother was undoubtedly a quick-witted, accountable individual who would probably make a far better president than the pampered male you gentlemen vote into office this Tuesday.