The Cure for Dreaming (19 page)

My reflection showed me two sore and bleeding puncture wounds on the left side of my neck—as vicious and angry-red as Lucy's wounds in
Dracula
.

Not real
.

Two blinks later, the marks retreated and left a purpling bruise in their stead, which was almost worse.

“But unlike Lucy and Mina,” I said to my solid face in the mirror, and I braced my hands around the curved wooden frame, “you will
not
be returning to your vampire for a second bite, Olivia Mead. You will not.” I swallowed and nudged Percy's scarf away with my toes.

he following morning, my plaid wool winter blouse, buttoned clear up to the top of my throat, hid Percy's bite mark from view. On my way downstairs to breakfast, I tested the durability of the top button by twisting it about until I felt confident the little pearl fastening would remain in place. A thin edging of lace tickled like a gnat beneath my chin, but the discomfort was minor—well worth the trouble of avoiding the topic of my virtue with my father.

Father sat at the breakfast table, his face a concealed mystery behind the newspaper, as usual.

“Good morning.” I took my seat and unfolded my napkin.

“Good morning, Olivia.” The newspaper didn't budge.

“Are you playing billiards today?”

“It's Saturday, isn't it?”

“Yes”—I fluffed the napkin across my lap—“it is.”

“Then I'll be playing. What are your plans?”

“I'll probably go to Fran—”

A headline caught my eye and paralyzed my tongue:

OLD MOTHER ACKLEN FOR PRESIDENT?

My heart stopped. Nervous sweat broke out beneath that strangling straitjacket of a collar. I pulled at the lace to breathe.

“What's the matter?” Father lowered the paper. “Why did you stop talking mid-sentence?”

“Is—is . . . ?” My eyes refused to budge from the newsprint. “I think I see a headline about one of the Acklens.”

Father closed the paper to get a better view of the front. “Oh, yes. That.”

“What does the article say?”

“It's nothing to fret about.” He folded the paper in half so I could no longer see the article. “Some silly woman wrote to the editor, suggesting Judge Acklen's mother would make a far better president than either McKinley or Bryan.”

I pressed my lips together. “Really? They printed a letter like that?”

“Surprisingly so. They usually keep suffragist drivel out of the
Oregonian
.” With a grunt, he unfolded and readjusted the newspaper so that it lay next to his plate with the second page on top. The only items left viewable from my seat were a political cartoon involving President McKinley and an article about the Socialist Eugene V. Debs.

Father raised his steaming mug of coffee to his lips, but before taking a sip, he added, with a quick glance at me, “Please, Olivia, don't even think of reading the letter. It was probably written by a man, anyway.”

He sipped his drink.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Why do you think a man wrote it?” I asked.

He lowered the mug to the table with a smack of his lips. “It's too well written for a woman.”

Before I could respond, Gerda glided through the swinging kitchen door on a bacon-and-egg-scented breeze.

A smile wiggled across my face.
It's too well written for a woman
, Father had said.
Well written
. He believed my work to be well written.

Gerda set my breakfast plate in front of me. “Good morning, Miss Mead.”

“Good morning, Gerda.” My smile stretched to an unmanageable width.

She nudged my elbow below the table. “A lovely party last night?”

“Oh. Yes.” I lowered my eyes. “Lovely.”

“Good. More coffee, Dr. Mead?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.”

“Then I'll let you two eat.” She wiped her hands on her apron and made her way back through the door.

I reined in my smile but longed to ask Father more about why he thought the letter was so well written, and if he felt swayed by the argument, and if the writer seemed to live up to her name:
A Responsible Woman
.

Instead, I buttered my toast with a rhythmic
scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape.

“What did you say you were doing today?” he asked between bites of food.

“I'm bicycling over to Frannie's.”

He swallowed the last bite and cleared his throat. “You're getting a little too old to be riding around the city, don't you think? Especially now that a young man is courting you.”

“I don't care for Percy as much as I thought. Please don't consider us courting.”

“You don't care for him?”

“I learned his reputation isn't as spotless as he made it out to be. I'm a good, chaste girl, so you should be proud of me resisting his charms.”

“He tried to”—Father coughed up crumbs—“
charm
you?”

“And what do you mean about me getting too old to bicycle?” I stopped buttering. “I see plenty of women cyclists.”

“I don't know why that is, when there are so many households to run.”

“Are you saying I can't ride anymore?”

“I'm saying we should perhaps only hire Gerda on the weekdays when you're in school. You're more than old enough to be taking care of the cooking and cleaning on Saturdays.”

“Gerda is relying on her employment here.”

“I'm sure she can find a family who needs a girl to clean only once a week.”

“But—”

“It's time you took on more duties, Olivia. You're not a child anymore.”

I dropped my knife to my plate with a clank.

“Or are you a child?” he asked. “Am I mistaken?”

I eyed the stack of newspaper pages piled up beside him and thought of my published letter to the editor buried inside.
A Responsible Woman
was what I had claimed to be.

“No, I'm not a child.” I dragged my teeth against my bottom lip and tried to still the wanderlust in my legs. “But can the change of her schedule wait until next week? I was planning to offer to help Frannie's mother with preparations for tomorrow's anniversary party.”

“Well . . .,” Father grumbled. “I suppose Gerda is already hard at work for the day . . .”

“Thank you.”

“But next week, this new schedule must start. And I must say, I'm sorely disappointed by this turn of events with Percy.”

“I am, too.” I picked at my eggs with my fork.

Father returned to the newspaper and grinned at the political cartoon, his dark eyes sparkling, a chuckle shaking his torso, while I ate my breakfast and rid my head of Percy.

I TIGHTENED THE LONG PINS THAT SECURED MY GRAY
felt bicycling hat to my hair, hitched up my black skirt, and mounted the padded seat of my vermilion-red bicycle. Before Father could run outside and change his mind about letting me ride, I took off and pedaled down Main Street, amid horse-drawn wagons delivering fresh Saturday produce to the city's grocers. Nearly a year before, the
Oregonian
reported that the city now boasted one automobile, owned by a German immigrant named Henry Wemme, but I hadn't yet seen the contraption. I'd only heard stories about how it caused horses to rear and bolt when it charged through the city with its motor howling.

Ruts and stones in the uneven road jostled my shoulders, but the ground was dry and firm, aside from the occasional pile of horse dung. Gunmetal-gray clouds loomed over the city, threatening rain, yet they were merciful and withheld their showers.

I turned left on Third Street, before getting anywhere near the sewage stink and unsavory characters of the waterfront district. Feeling the need to go faster, I leaned forward and powered the pedals with all my strength. My calf muscles burned, the bicycle chain whirred below my flapping skirts, and I caught enough speed to lift my feet and cruise past
the towering brick buildings and streetcar tracks. Air rushed across my tongue; the wind fought to whip the hat off my head. The company names written on the buildings—
INDEPENDENT STEAMSHIP CO., E. HOUSES CAFÉ, EMBERS PHOTO STUDIO, THE J. K. GILL CO., FUNG LAM RESTAURANT
, and even
METROPOLITAN
—streaked into a blur.

To avoid the saloons and gambling dens (and Father) in the North End, I steered left and zoomed up Washington, my heart racing, heat fanning through my face, my arms, my legs. I veered down Sixth and rode three more blocks before turning right onto Yamhill. McCorkan's Bicycle Shop's forest-green awnings came into view, and a Christmas morning sense of elation stirred inside me. My feet slowed on the pedals. The chain
click-click-click
ed to a stop, and I planted my shoes on the road in front of McCorkan's display window.

There they were, prominently displayed on two dress forms.

Bicycle bloomers.

Rational garments.

Turkish trousers.

Whatever one wanted to call them, the garments—so vibrant compared to our black physical-education pants, which were meant for female classmates' eyes alone—resembled beautiful, billowing hot-air balloons that could lift a girl off the ground. One pair matched the blue of the American flag swaying in the wind outside the shop. The other was as shocking red as the bicycle I straddled. The pants swelled wide
enough that they would make the future owners appear to be wearing skirts—if the young ladies kept their legs pinned together.

But as everyone knows, bicycling ladies don't keep their legs pinned together.

The shop door opened with the soft tinkle of a bell, and out stepped Kate and her sister Agnes. Both of the Frye ladies had flushed faces and wore the American-flag-blue version of the bloomers. They headed toward two parked bicycles alongside the curb. Kate carried a little satchel tool bag meant for cyclists embarking upon longer rides.

“Oh.” Agnes squinted at me through the glare of the sun behind the clouds. “Look, Kate, it's Olivia. Was that you I saw at the restaurant with two boys last night?”