by Julie Kibler
Eventually, I tell Laurel I have no idea if I consider myself a lesbian. I haven’t let myself think about loving anyone for years, and that word, lesbian, somehow still sounds dirty inside my mind because that’s how it was said when I was growing up—with a lowered voice, as if the word alone were contagious.
Mostly, though, I’m not sure I would have felt differently had River been a boy.
Laurel shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, “you just like people. You love who you love.”
Her wisdom stuns me. In the midst of my angst over how to label my own feelings, I’d never found the words to describe them so aptly. She may have hit the nail on the head. I don’t know. I’m not sure it matters. Things have changed since 1999. And in many ways, they have not. Listening to this eighteen-year-old sage, though, gives me hope.
We stay up late into the night, me sharing the rest of my story, a little bit at a time. As expected, Laurel is filled with righteous indignation over what happened with Seth—and over what happened later, with the pastors and my parents. She’s not surprised, though. I didn’t think she would be. She’s lived through a few unbelievable episodes herself.
Ultimately, I can’t bring myself to tell Laurel what happened after I left Grissom. Laurel being Laurel, she doesn’t ask. She knows as much as I do how deeply personal some choices can be, and how deeply heartbreaking.
By midnight, we’re both exhausted. I ask if she needs to get back to the dorm. I don’t want to push.
She gives me a look, and I show her to her room.
MATTIE
Oklahoma City
1921
Mattie couldn’t wait for Mondays. The weeks dragged and the meetings flew. She’d eaten crow until her union acquaintances forgot her beer baptism. In retrospect, she didn’t like the loss of control—not to mention, if a few light beers made her silly, no telling what she’d do fully drunk.
Nora, the little laundry girl, had switched jobs but planned to attend as long as her stepfather allowed it. Mattie lugged the sheets and towels over to Edward’s. Nora pulled Mattie’s bundle across and dumped it in a weighing bin. While she wrote the ticket, a man came from the back office. He squeezed Nora’s shoulder. “Good job, doll. I like how many new customers we’re getting since we put you to work.”
Nora visibly shrank as he held on a second too long. He winked at Mattie as he swaggered away and stuck his cigar back in his mouth. She wrinkled her nose. Smoke was everywhere, but she didn’t want her fresh laundry coming back stinking of cigars. She’d give Edward’s a try, but so far it wasn’t promising. She didn’t like how he treated Nora—she could tell in a minute—and he wasn’t as old as she’d pictured.
“Your stepdad lots younger than your ma?” she said.
Nora nodded, listing items under her breath. Then she looked up. Her eyes betrayed her. “What was Mama thinking? He’s trouble.”
Mattie sighed. “Listen, I doubt I need to tell you—you’re a smart girl—but you watch out. Don’t be alone with him if you can help it.”
“I don’t like him, but I already warned him off.”
“Uh-huh,” Mattie said. “Well, you know, the Liberty’s just down the street. They’d hire you back if you asked nicely. And if you need anything, I’m up the stairs over Gaston’s.”
Nora’s mouth lifted, just one side. “I’ll be fine. It’s my mother I’m worried about.”
“Even so.” Nora handed her the ticket, and Mattie patted her hand.
* * *
—
July’s meeting at the local focused on the Labor Day parade. Heat and humidity had settled over the city like a bad attitude, and any distraction was welcome. Every year, the unions nominated women for queen of the parade. Votes purchased at the joint unions office raised money for the festivities and determined the winner. Whichever union raised the most followed the queen’s float, which carried the runners-up as well. Every woman on it received a beautiful white dress, and this year, a sponsor had donated a diamond ring as grand prize.
Mattie thought Nora was so cute she’d be a shoo-in, and she mentioned it to the group. But Nora said she’d never have the guts to stump for votes—and her stepfather wouldn’t approve. Mattie understood. She couldn’t imagine begging for votes just to ride in the float.
Suddenly, her friends got her attention and pointed toward the front of the room.
“Mrs. Madigan? Do you accept?” the president said.
She looked at Jeanette. “What does he want?”
“Secretary Weyrich just nominated you for the float!” she said, eyes as wide as Mattie’s.
“Why, I…” Mattie said, everything flushing worse in the heat.
What was the guy thinking? There were plenty of young, pretty women; no reason to nominate a woman her age. But then the secretary’s voice captured her attention from the side of the podium. “Mrs. Mattie B. Madigan is a shining example of what organized labor can do for our citizens. She worked for years in a hotel, and now she runs a restaurant and her own small hotel. She’s proven that fair labor standards—and hard work—can lift a person up.” He looked straight at Mattie. “You’re perfect to represent us.”
They’d hardly interacted beyond a brief introduction at the first meeting she’d attended. She didn’t think he’d have known her on the street. But he looked at the crowd and shouted, “She’s a pretty one too! A real Irish beauty.”
The women clapped and several men whistled. Mattie laughed, shaking her head. To her knowledge, she hadn’t a lick of Irish except her last name—and it belonged to Pat.
“Mattie B. Madigan! The Irish Princess of the Culinary Alliance!” the president called, and Mattie’s friends elbowed her onto her feet. “Do we have a second? All in favor, say aye!”
Mattie threw her hands up. She’d been overruled.
She spent the rest of the evening flustered, embarrassed, and flattered, all at the same time. After the meeting adjourned, she caught her friends whispering. One pointed at Mattie and then at the tall, slim man quietly gazing at her from a huddle at the side of the hall. It was Jim McBride, Jeanette’s cousin. He’d been chaperoning them safely to the corner every single Monday, and he’d never brought up her drunken flirting. In fact, he rarely said much at all. He walked at a slight remove, hands in his pockets, while she and Jeanette chatted all the way home.
Mattie turned to Jeanette. “What’s everyone whispering about? Why are you pointing at Jim?”
“We have it on good authority that my cousin threw your name in the hat and Mr. Weyrich concurred. I guess Jim’s been paying attention when we walk home.”
Mattie’s face flamed. Indeed, the only way he’d know the details Mr. Weyrich had mentioned was by eavesdropping on her and Jeanette—or asking nosy questions around the neighborhood. To her knowledge, he’d never been inside Gaston’s.
He looked over his shoulder and caught her eye. She froze, but he simply nodded with a smile—and oh, how those teeth flashed.
Walking home that evening, if Jeanette hadn’t been talking a mile a minute, it would have been awkwardly silent, for Mattie was tongue-tied but desperately curious. It wasn’t as if she could confront him outright. At their street corner, she spoke loudly—enough to send Jim McBride a strong message, she hoped. “My husband will certainly be surprised!”
* * *
—
Pat was unhappy. Mattie expected nothing less. But as a member of the local, it was her duty, she said, and she’d had nothing to do with it.
She didn’t disclose her backer—and certainly not the ridiculous nickname. Mr. Weyrich dropped off an advertising placard she dutifully propped by the cash drawer. She practically dared Mr. Gaston to argue, for if nothing else, it drew extra business. Folks wanted a look at the mysterious “Irish Princess”—most likely the competition. But their money spent too.
Mr. Weyrich a
dvised canvassing to introduce herself to waiters and cooks, maids and laundry girls on their breaks. After an excruciating start, she found a rhythm. She made light of her age and so-called Irish ancestry, playing it up with a wink, then explained that votes were for the good of the unions, to make the parade and festivities bigger and better than ever. Every penny spent at the joint unions office meant a hundred votes in her favor—and the membership enrollment cards she carried were convenient too.
The worst misery was the late-afternoon heat. Each day she conked out in Mama Stell’s chair before she started supper. Pat caught her a few times. “These men aren’t paying for you to sleep all afternoon and feed them leftovers, girl. Get up and make supper.”
After the fair the previous fall, Mattie couldn’t imagine Pat taking any interest in the parade. She dreaded convincing him to let her go unattended. She’d never expected a jealous streak from his mild manners before they married.
Naturally, someone reported Mr. McBride’s hand in the nomination—one of the fellows Pat worked with was married to someone who heard about it, and so on, until it got back to him. She’d brushed it off. “I hardly know him. He walks Jeanette and me home, but rarely speaks. I was never so surprised. If it bothers you, maybe you should come and walk me home.”
That lasted a week. Pat was exhausted after work. A single night waiting outside the local to walk her home had been more than enough. He told her to mind herself, and no dawdling at the corner with that man. She never dawdled and had no intention starting. But she remembered the woman at the fair. It was awfully easy to assume the worst of someone when you’d been guilty of it yourself.
One day, Nora stopped by the grill. The Liberty had refused to rehire her. Pressed for a reason, the manager said someone reported she might come looking, and he thought they ought to know she was trouble. They shouldn’t even give her a reference. The description fit her stepfather’s.
Nora’s eyes were red and swollen. Mattie came around the counter and put her arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. “What am I going to do?” Nora’s voice was weary, as if she’d given up already.
“Is he bothering you?”
Nora shrugged. “He gives me looks I don’t like. Mama says I’m standoffish and he just wants to be friends. He takes it out on her when I upset him, so she says to not make trouble. I thought it would be easier to go back to the hotel.”
The hair on Mattie’s arms stood up. Nora had been lucky—so far. Mattie hadn’t taken her laundry back to Edward’s after that first week. Now she felt guilty she hadn’t checked in.
“You have your own room?”
“Yes.”
“Keep your door locked at night, you hear? If anyone rattles it, holler, loud. You can always tell your mother you thought a stranger was trying to get in.” Mattie shuddered to imagine the tension.
Nora’s eyes filled again. “I don’t know what I’ll do if it gets worse. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if I can’t keep him out. I have nowhere to go.”
“Do you have family anywhere else?”
The girl shook her head. “Mama was an only child. Everyone else is gone.”
She was in the path of a storm, with ample warning to evacuate—but nowhere to go.
Mattie wished she could take the girl herself, but Pat would never agree. They’d let the rooms to men only from the start, and it had probably saved them more than a few headaches.
But Mama Stell had taken Mattie in, the minute she needed help.
And then died for it.
Mattie made Nora promise she’d find her, any time of day, if things got worse. She’d figure something out. That night, she called Lizzie. It cost her—she’d saved to buy a little camera, and had thought to do so before the parade. But it had been ages since they’d spoken, and this was more important than a camera. She’d written with news of her marriage but hadn’t bothered since. Things between her and Pat were too awkward to merit updating.
Lizzie lived in the workers’ cottage now, and nearly screamed when she heard Mattie’s voice after the operator connected them. “You terrible girl!” she cried, laughing. “You never write anymore! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Mattie wouldn’t start with bad news. “You’ll never believe this, though….” She told Lizzie about the union, editing out what she knew Lizzie wouldn’t approve and saving the parade news for last. Lizzie would think it was a horrible idea.
“A parade? With a band?”
“Yes, and floats and mounted police.”
Lizzie didn’t answer.
“I know you think it’s bad for me, but don’t worry. I’m having the time of my life. And Pat, well, he’s not all I thought he was cracked up to be. I need something.”
Lizzie sighed. “I still worry every day you’re up there. I fear you’ll get in over your head.”
“Why don’t you and Docie come? You can watch the parade—whether I’m in it or not. You can keep an eye on me.”
Lizzie chuckled but sighed. “I’ll never travel that far. Docie still ain’t decided what she wants from life, and she’s been out of school three years. She’s all over the place.” Docie had started two courses—a teaching certificate and a secretarial course—but quit after a few weeks both times. “I make her help out with the kids, and when she gets to be too much, the laundry girls remind her how good she has it. Anyway, she can’t come up there alone. She’d probably forget to get off the train.” She snorted.
Her mention of laundry reminded Mattie. “Listen,” she said. “This young girl, only seventeen, and—sorry, I know this will upset you—but her stepfather is determined to have his way, and she has nowhere to go. The mother is no help. If I could, I’d take her in a heartbeat.”
Lizzie’s reply sounded choked. “I’ll tell Nettie. But if she ain’t already ruined, we ain’t going to have room—makes me sick to think of it.”
Before they disconnected, she said, “I do wish we could see you, and I hope you win. I’ll picture you in your fancy dress, and you picture us waving at the curb.”
Mattie swallowed a lump at Lizzie’s encouragement, even over something she didn’t quite approve. Lizzie was the best sister she’d ever had. Mattie swore she was going to make it to a Homecoming if it killed her. She needed to see them, badly.
Later that week, Mrs. Nettie sent a note. “Dear Mattie,” the matron wrote.
I send this with deepest regrets. We still lack funds for a new dormitory, and we have more requests than beds. Unfortunately, we cannot take your young friend. Please let me know if the situation escalates. She’s in our prayers.
Mattie considered all the pennies workers would pour into votes for one short day of amusements. People weren’t as generous when it came to helping a girl in danger.
CATE
Arlington, Texas
2017
Laurel has no plans for Christmas Eve, but she asks if I’ll attend midnight mass with her at the nearby Catholic church. I’ve never been inside one. When I was growing up, we had been given the distinct impression that Catholics did not practice the right theology and that they were going to hell for it.
Now I’m not sure who has the right answers. All I know is it’s rarely me.
Laurel says wistfully that she always attended mass with her family, even through all their tumult. Christmas Eve won’t feel the same this year.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call your mom?” I say.
She looks at me. “Do you want to call your mom?”
Touché. I haven’t spoken to my parents since the day I walked away, except once for information I needed for declaring independence for financial aid. My mother sounded horribly sad, but she didn’t ask about my new life, and that was how I knew nothing had changed.
In my imagination, a Catholic Christmas Eve service is filled with mystery and incense and harmo
nious families singing Christmas hymns in a beautifully darkened and candlelit sanctuary. It turns out that at midnight, the lights still glare, as if to keep everyone awake. Bored teens sit alongside sleepy parents, and they recite the liturgy, rising and kneeling by rote. Some stare curiously as I try to follow. Eventually Laurel tells me to stay put. I’m distracting everyone, she whispers with a smile.
Still, I sense the camaraderie among these people crowded together to celebrate. I may never return to a church of my own, but I miss certain things—especially the sense of a family bigger than the biological definition—even though my family, by both definitions, failed me completely.
Near the end, when a handbell choir plays “Adeste Fideles,” the English lyrics threaten to escape my mouth. Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful!
My eyes prickle, and I stare at the brass lights and elaborate carvings in the ceiling. I inhale the sharp scent of the handbell gloves again, and feel them, dry and bulky between my fingers. I reach toward a stubborn tickle on my cheek and my sharp, naked nail surprises me, even as the Latin lyrics, which we learned in youth choir, come back easily…
Venite adoramus, venite adoramus…
After mass, we dash inside a coffee shop open twenty four hours a day year-round for hot chocolate to go. I remember Thanksgiving and tense up. I’m thankful Laurel had the nerve to come to my door, and I can’t stand the thought of messing up again. I’m convinced I will at some point.
We’ve had a rare fall of snow, not enough to keep drivers off the roads, but enough to coat everything with a thick, fine dust that makes the sky and earth appear lighter than they are.
