Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

  Her voice tapered off here. She sighed, forcing a smile. She waved a hand at the group. “Of course we know none of that is really true. The most important thing here is to believe in what we are doing and speak out boldly. After all, we’re not breaking a law. I shall retreat off my soapbox and turn the meeting over to you for discussion.” She opened her arms to all. “Please. Open your thoughts.”

  Lizzie waved her hand toward Cady. “That’s right, honey, you got to believe!”

  “Will repercussions really be that bad?” Aimee blurted out. She looked around the group for help. My heart went out to her - Aimee’s husband was enemy enough.

  Phyllis raised her hand. “People can be cruel, and I don’t know a man that’s for it,” she said, her bluntness going along with her chipped nails and relaxed posture. “What I recommend is, we test the waters. See how much support we have, before going out into a den of lions. To test I mean to petition. To go out and canvas other women, explain our cause, and ask for their support, their signatures. I’ve started writing a mission statement to carry door-to-door and I’ll bring it to our next meeting.”

  “Well, perhaps I could …” I said with much hesitancy. I had gone to one neighbor’s home today, I could possibly go to more. Maybe these ladies would like me more, too.

  Lizzie patted my knee and chuckled. “I said to myself when I saw you there at the door, now here is a little lady who is on a mission!”

  “A mission? Well ... ” My eyes darted around to the others, their return stares making me nervous. I calmed when facing the colored woman’s moist brown eyes. “I am tired of watching others suffer and yet ... I am helpless. I am tired of working all day and yet remain ... dependent. I am tired of sending my children to school, yet I feel ignorant. I am only a spectator. I’m standing still while everything else is moving around me, watching life through my window.”

  Cady’s head went back in an easy laugh, and to my blushing delight, her hands tapped together in applause. “That was a touching speech and one we must write down to convey at the convention. See how easy it is, ladies? Do not under-estimate yourself. Women can be their own worst enemies.” She tilted her head and studied my face, as a teacher might read a student’s. “You have talents that only need to be dusted off – ”

  “And aired out!” I finished, remembering the winter’s coal heat and gas lamps. They all laughed and I felt bonded to other adults for the first time in my life. Most of all, I admired Cady and the way her spectacles enlarged her intelligent light brown eyes slightly, eyes that were fully focused on what I had to say, as if what I had to say was important.

  But still I feared to commit. Robert would kill me – if he knew.

  “Ruby, perhaps I can convince you if I explain our purpose,” Cady said. “First, we must work effectively and in a peaceful manner for our cause in the suffrage movement. Secondly, to inform ourselves of our history. If we better understand where we came from, we may have better foresight into where we are going …”

  I’m uncertain as to whether or not I should go into detail here. I believe women should be more aware of their history, yet over the years I find their eyes begin to glaze over when I talk of such things. They become suddenly interested in their child’s game or a passing bird. This can become quite frustrating because women have accomplished so much and yet sometimes show so little interest in those outside our inner circle. Perhaps we have too many immediate demands on our presence to pay much attention to past or future.

  Let me see if I can summarize efficiently and effectively.

  It comes down to this: The first Women’s Rights Convention was in 1848 with one of the twelve resolutions in the Declaration of Sentiments being the right to vote. It took us seventy-two years to win that right. Incredible when you think about it, such a basic right really, to be recognized as a person. It still lights my fire to think of it. Only then did we have a voice in improving our rights in education, employment, owning property and our own children … and even then it took years, or more to the point, is taking years - Bess and Katy can tell you better than I – no Equal Rights Amendment has been passed. Perhaps when Jesi reads this history – where was I?

  Oh and in marriage, think of it! In my time, men had the absolute authority. Unfortunately they were not required to prove they were fit to be trusted with absolute power in marriage, as they might be in other institutions. There are different grades of good and bad men and if a woman marries a good and loving man, she will not suffer abuse of power. But if she marries a bad one, she has no escape from his brutality. Law does not punish for domestic oppression.

  You might ask, “Then why get married at all?” Well, think of it. Marriage was the only choice for so many, for without our own education and profession, we remained dependent on a man’s income, whether that be our father, brother, or husband.

  I remember my naivety in asking Cady in this first meeting, “Why won’t men let us vote? It seems harmless enough.”

  She explained that the main challenge was our politicians. Many opposed women voting, for it simply complicated their agenda and here was why. To win a vote, they must address issues that the voters are concerned with. Women are concerned with issues that can be quite different than men’s, such as better education and cleaner schools for their children, purer meat and food processing, and child labor. Women are the ones who make the choices in raising children and preparing food, so naturally they are the experts. But men do not know enough about these issues to lobby for them so they had the power to treat them as trivial.

  That’s when Lizzie said, “That’s why we’re here, honey! To speak out for what we believe in! When Lincoln freed the colored folk, he forgot about the women folk!”

  At any rate, that afternoon tea was how it all started for me. Those precious friends added a log to my smoldering fire and I’m proud to say it’s not out yet.

  Speaking of domestic oppression in marriage, I shall tell you what happened on my return home that eventful day. Trouble started when the Ladies Tea ended. That was when I met Bess’s future husband, Thomas Pickering. A slender, handsome gentleman in a light linen suit, with careless blond hair falling onto his forehead, entered the parlor smiling broadly. He called out, “Where’s my lovely wife?” and went straight-way to Cady, who stood instantly and smiled just as broadly back, both clearly happy to see the other. Thomas offered to drive Aimee and I home, since we lived farthest away. He explained that the water boiler in his new steam automobile was adequately heated from his drive home and would be a cinch to restart. Aimee hastily declined stating she had other errands to run, and ran down the walkway like a frightened rabbit. However I wasn’t that wise and had become aware that there was insufficient time to walk the distance before the children and Robert arrived home.

  Thomas ran ahead of me to his car like a child being let out to play, obviously eager for an opportunity to drive his carriage again.

  This was my second reason for accepting his offer: I had never been in a horseless carriage before. I thought, What a perfect way to end a perfect day. Mercy.

  He stroked the hood of the big black machine as he waited for me. “I named her Fizzie,” he stated proudly, “because of the hissssing noisssse the boiler makesss. Just like a woman, eh?” He chuckled at his use of words as he opened the door for me, and then he disappeared under the hood. A moment later he trotted around to the driver’s side and slid in behind the wheel. He clutched the large metal steering wheel and looked over at me with green eyes and a white smile.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” he asked.

  “Yes indeed!” I nodded, looking around the interior, inhaling strong scents of oil and leather. The two tiny round dials meant nothing to me, but the heavy frame and padded seat made me feel quite safe. I would explain this to Robert. I settled my handbag in my lap and folded my gloved hands on top, prepared for the adventure. When I told him this was my first, he said, “Well, then, we shall take the scenic route!” He released the brake
and the carriage jerked forward.

  The worry and regret came rushing at me head-on. Robert would wholly disapprove if he knew I was alone with another man, and he would be outraged to discover the drive was in a steam carriage. He was convinced this new invention was a four-wheeled cannon, likely to explode at any given moment, killing its unfortunate cargo. We had no means of transportation, excepting our God-given legs. Not since our old mare, Blacky, was retired to pasture on the dairy farm. Blacky was employed on the daily milk run, first by my father and then by my brother. After many hard years of labor, she was replaced by a younger mare, and thus given to Robert and I to hitch to our small old buggy, another remnant from Robert’s mother. Blacky was kept in the stable behind our house, accessed by a dirt alley in the back that ran parallel to our front street. Robert decided the cost of the feed did not equate to the need of the horse. Blacky was given tearful goodbye hugs from the children, and I was given promises of new transportation by Robert. That was two years and many walking miles of shoe leather ago. “I mend shoes,” Robert had said. “What is the problem?”

  Thomas recognized my furrowed brow I do believe. He patted the dashboard affectionately. “This lovely lady will have you home in moments - under the control of these steady hands!” He raised his leather-gloved hands as proof of his strength.

  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?

  Yes, 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.