There was Aimee out in her garden! It was so good to see her! She was bent over, appearing to attack the dirt viciously with her hoe, in between her rows of green leaves. Her one long yellow braid had fallen over her shoulder, its pointed end bobbing up and down, threatening to lick the dirt.
“I said, that is enough water!” Robert said from below. “For the love of decency, would you close the curtain? What are you looking at out there?”
I quickly obeyed. “Oh, I see our next door neighbor, Aimee.”
“Oh yes. She called to me from her fence one day,” Robert said. He was soaping his hands now, his knees still at his chest, his buttocks submerged. “She asked me where you were. She wished to speak to you. Why would that be?”
“We’ve become friends and visit occasionally,” I answered casually, not wanting his anger to flare in this heat.
“Yes, I am perfectly aware of your friendship,” Robert said.
Yes, all-knowing, all-seeing, I thought, sarcasm dripping like the water from his arms as he washed.
“A friendship that has led you right down the main street of town, parading yourselves in front of God and men alike. Scrub my back, please.” Agitation was returning to his voice as he spoke.
I didn’t want to discuss this any further but must get him bathed, fed and out of here. My day had brightened, just seeing her out there in her bright yellow frock and large white apron. I exited to the kitchen, cracked eggs into the skillet, and returned.
I lathered his back, making note to trim the brown curls on his neck. “Ruby, you will not remain friends with Aimee. She is an angry woman and her husband is having difficulties enough as it is. I heard her shrieking again, only two nights ago.”
“We’re no longer friends, Robert,” I said softly.
“She will not spread her disease to her neighboring home and into my wife,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I will not allow any more of this nonsense.” His skin flinched as I scrubbed a bit too hard on his lower back. “Do you understand me, Ruby?”
“I’m right behind you, Robert,” I answered softly. I dropped the brush in the water behind his back and left, drying my hands on my robe. Just let him try to squeeze around in that narrow tub to reach the brush. If he says one more word, I shall surely shriek myself.
We spoke no more. Finally he was gone. Unfortunately, by that time, so was Aimee. Not that it mattered, I declared under my breath. I did not wish to speak to her, to be tempted again, yet, unwillingly I watched for her during my trips to the clothesline and garden.
It wasn’t until noon, while Bess, Pearl and I were slicing potatoes and breaking beans, and the boys were pushing the rusty grass cutter through thick grass, that Aimee reappeared on her backdoor step. With a glance toward us, she hesitated as if to go back in, but then squared her shoulders and headed toward her garden, a basket in hand. Our yards were narrow and long. From my working table, I could see Aimee’s right eye, swollen and purple, her lip puffed on the same side and bruised. A cut redlined her right cheekbone.
“Oh, Aimee, not again! This is the worst yet!” I cried before thinking, rushing over to the fence. Aimee stopped, quickly turned her left side to me and shrugged. She peered at her back door as if watching something significant going on in her window.
“I apologize, Aimee. I don’t mean to embarrass you.”
Bess joined me, partially hidden in my skirts.
Aimee smiled a lopsided smile. “Naturally you would notice,” she said with a lisp, her attention now on a stubborn weed, the toe of her boot kicking at it. “The lavender here along your fence row smells lovely!”
I couldn’t walk away. This was just too much, to see my friend like this. I leaned forward over the fence, longing to hug and comfort, but Aimee only backed away a little. “Aimee, why does he do it?” I whispered. “What drives him to such – such violence?”
“I say it is because he is drinking hard liquor. He says it is because I am not a good wife. But this last one ...” she shook her head, “is because of your husband. I deplore you not to be angry with me.” She paused and reached for the fence for support. “Two mornings ago, I was bringing in some laundry, when I spotted your husband walking from your ...” she pointed toward our outhouse. “I hadn’t seen you since the parade, and I became worried. Silly me ran over to the fence, in a hurry to catch him. I was only asking him where you were. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so forward but...” She looked back toward her garden, refusing to look at me.
“I don’t understand the connection. Why would I be angry?” I said.
“I was talking with a man, other than my husband, and was dressed unsuitably, to boot.” Aimee explained, her tone parrot-like, like she was quoting another’s words. She kicked the weed harder and its roots became exposed. “Your husband, Ruby!” she emphasized, as if wanting to bring home the point that I could understand, and perhaps would then understand Aimee’s husband. “Look, it was morning and I was still in my robe. I was being far too bold.” She folded her arms across her chest and kicked the weed some distance away from her. “Do you suppose he was jealous?” Her tone sounded hopeful for some understanding, her own understanding.
“Humph,” I answered, also crossing my arms. I turned toward my own garden, not willing to see Aimee struggling so. I could not, would not, justify his drunken temper, no matter for what reason. “Jealous, indeed! Mercy, Aimee, why aren’t you angry?”
“I was ... I was, but not anymore.” She focused her attention on the fence, her fingernail chipping away at the cracked white paint on the fence rail. Her hand was red and chaffed.
I looked down at my own hand, folded across my opposite arm. No different, I realized.
“Yesterday morning,” Aimee was saying, “when he sobered and drank enough coffee to rid of his headache, he then noticed my face. I was pouring his coffee and he grabbed my wrist and just stared at me. I am a fright, I suppose. I backed away, spilling some, but it was he who apologized. He reminded me that it is partly my fault, for I do provoke him and do not always do as I’m told. Which is true ... of course.” She attempted a little laugh, but it sounded more like someone had pressed hard on her stomach and forced air out her mouth. “The ironic thing about it all was that if I had been advancing toward your husband with illicit thoughts, it would have been all for naught.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because your husband was rather ... un-neighborly. He stopped at your stoop there, and, I believe, glared at me! Then he answered, ‘Ruby has gone to her mother’s for a few days. When she returns, I suggest you remember that the fence is there for a reason. Please keep on your side of it, or I’ll report this to your husband!’”
I waved it away and shrugged my shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, he didn’t mean it!”
She looked at me in surprise. “Oh, but I think he did!” Then she stared. Then she put her hands on her hips. “And Mrs. Good Wife, why would there be a bruise on your cheek.”
I had forgotten all about my own situation whilst I was judging hers!
“Neither one of our husbands aim to misbehave, and we all shall live happily ever after,” I said.
We both chuckled without mirth, shaking our heads at the irony of it all. It was a fine line from crying.
“I’ll forgive you for flirting with my husband on one condition,” I finally said, swallowing hard. “Re-invite me to your afternoon tea.”
I tell you all this not to complain, not to be disloyal to my dead husband or to reveal private, intimate moments, but to explain, to justify my future decisions, why I went the direction I did, why I turned right and then a very hard left, willing myself toward a greater judgment.
What is passion?
As I typed, each word became matter, and this matter began filling me, as water would fill an empty vessel. For the first time I wrote with feeling, and the pain felt good, because at least I could feel something, and it was fulfilling – I now knew the true meaning of that word
. Emotion, whether positive or negative, was better than indifference. I felt alive for the first time in a long time. I finished the article with a hard bang of the period key, like hammering in a nail. Pearl must read this before anyone else and Thomas was due back today. With haste, I rolled the paper loose from the cylinder and splurged on a taxi to take me home speedily.
Two children whose names escaped me were playing on the verandah indicating to me that Aunt Opal was visiting Mama. Opal sat in the parlor exactly as she did ten years ago when she married her Amish husband, in the same dark blue Amish costume with no buttons, with only a cape and snug white cap to diminish the harsh lines. When I was with her I always had the sense of looking into the past.
I patted her swollen stomach. “I’m losing count, Aunt Opal. Is this the tenth?”
“And last, I pray,” she said and smiled that forever-tired smile of hers. In examining closer, I saw that she did not look the same at all; her eyes were a duller blue and her light brown hair had lost its shine. This made me sad, although aging quickly was to be expected on a large farm with breeding her main occupation. It seemed everything Uncle Jacob touched bred more, grew and multiplied, and his corn crop and herds of horses, cows, and children were a productive lot. When working about his domain scattering seeds, he must believe he’s as powerful as God himself.
“I remember a time,” Mama said to her, “when you were praying to be with child same as Sarah in the Bible.”
“I didn’t know I would continue to have children once I was as old as Sarah,” Opal retorted. They laughed easily together, Aunt Opal’s hand covering her mouth to hide the missing teeth. There were brown splotches on her once-creamy skin, too. Carrying children was taking its toll.
Seeing her gave me one more reason to believe in my jump to the other side of the fence. Protective law should include protection against unwanted children. I was indeed becoming grounded.
“Aunt Opal, would you have had as many children if you could protect yourself from becoming pregnant?”
“Children are blessings from God, Bess. Why would I protect myself from blessings?” Her eyes welled up with tears – from thankfulness or sadness? I asked her as much.
Tears now flowed down Aunt Opal’s swollen cheeks and Mama eyed me oddly as if to say, why are you doing this to her?
I didn’t have an answer; only more questions.
“You’ve caught me at a weak moment, Bess,” Aunt Opal said as she brought out her handkerchief from her dress pocket. “I came here to cry on sister Ruby’s shoulder. I’m concerned that my body doesn’t have the strength to carry another child within a year of my last one, and so late in my life. I should have more faith in God, for He knows best.” She shook her head as she blew into her handkerchief. “Jacob would tan my hide if he knew I was saying such things.”
I wondered who she was more afraid of – God or husband.
“Were you breastfeeding your last one?” I couldn’t remember its name. “Breastfeeding is a form of birth control, is it not?”
“Yes, but I dried up within a few months. My milking cows are far more industrious than I am.”
“But you knew that while you were breastfeeding, you were decreasing your chances of becoming pregnant, am I right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then what is wrong with using other means of birth control? Especially when it may well save your life. If I recall, you’ve come close to death during several of your deliveries. Perhaps it’s not as God wishes, but as man demands. Always be submissive to your husband, is that it?”
“Bess,” Mama said, warning clear in her tone. “I understand what you are saying and why, but this is not the time nor the place. What is done is done. I’m afraid I’ve encouraged far too much freedom in your thinking, and now you seem too critical of those who have less freedom.”
My own vision blurred but I could see her well enough to know she was taken back by my tears. “I’m sorry Mama. Aunt Opal. I’m far too opinionated and it is easy to judge from my high horse. Pearl convinced me to come down to earth and the fall has been painful, but it shows I can still feel.”
“Well, well, welcome to the real world, Miss Serious Spinster,” came a voice from the stairs.
I turned to see Pearl hanging over the railing, looking down at me with a wicked smile. This being Saturday, she was dressed for a night out in her sack dress and long beaded necklace.
I waved a paper at her. “I have something I want you to read. If you like it, I’ll have it printed in the newspaper.”
“Read it out loud to me. I’m on the run. Mama, Papa wants his bath now.”
“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes – that’s two radio commercials to him,” Mama said. “Bess, please read your article now. I don’t want to miss it.”
I’ve titled this, Women’s Equal Rights; Ascend versus Descend. The text goes like this:
‘The question here is: Do we fight for equal rights for women state-by-state or with one national Equal Rights Amendment? Sound familiar? It should. This was the same argument encountered when fighting for women’s vote. Do we heave it from the bottom up at local and state level, or do we push it down from federal level? At the Women’s Industrial Conference, I saw both sides and it became clear to me that while the Equal Rights Amendment is needed, we as a society are not yet ready for it. We have too many social customs, sex-prejudices, and strict religious beliefs on the ground floor to work through. As I was rightfully told by my sister, Pearl Wright, federal law is “above him and too far away to touch him”. One sweeping federal amendment may throw out the baby with the bath water. We may lose what we have achieved thus far in local protective statutes that address women’s issues in work conditions, birth control, preserving the rights of mothers, and protecting children. Let’s put our own backyard in order before going to our neighbors.
I returned the paper to my lap and looked up at Pearl, now sitting on the stairs and peering through the railing. My heart warmed at her sincere smile and blushing face.
“This is so kippy after what I saw you do at the conference, sis,” Pearl said. “Are you really going to publish that? I think it’s great what you’re saying but you’re going to get a lot of ridicule from your fellow snake charmers.”
“I’m ridiculed either way I go, Pearl, so I might as well do it for a cause I can believe in. What I say in this article makes more sense to me than what I said at the conference. Something about that amendment that sounds too big, too much, too soon and it’s not looking after our family’s needs. Let’s work together to fight the system, shall we?”
“I suppose so, Bess, though I’m just a tomato; just a good looking girl with no brains. Not as smart as you, so I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine, Pearl!” Aunt Opal said, surprising us all - I would have used her as a perfect example of problems in social customs, sex-prejudices, and religious beliefs. “Yes! I have been forced to look beyond my farm gate, now that my children are in school and I’ve lost nephews to the war. I used to control what my family ate and Jacob and I were not dependent on the government, but now we see that their decisions can affect all of us.”
Mama reached over and squeezed Opal’s hand. She seemed to literally light up at what Opal was saying. “You and I used to buy rolls of fabric to sew into clothing and linens. Now the fabrics are sewn by factory machinery. My daughter-in-law does not even know how to sew! And she buys her bread, she doesn’t bake it. Now many foods are canned outside the home. I took pride in my lavender oils and sachets and sold them well, but now young ladies turn their noses at them, preferring store-bought products. Advertisements make factory things prettier than homemade. We’ll have to become aware of every government decision because more and more, it will affect our home.”
It was my turn to light up. “Mama, Aunt Opal! That was very insightful. The four of us should campaign together.”
“Oh no, Bess, your father is too ill—”
“Oh no, Bess, Jacob would never permit—”
“Well I suppose I should tell all of you,” Pearl said loudly, “David has asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
Would this ever end? “The opposite sex has caused your problems in the first place, and here you are succumbing to the capital Him once again!” I stormed out of the house.
I returned to the newspaper office angry over everything and nothing. I suppose I had hoped for praise and partnership with Pearl. Mama and Aunt Opal would have been a bonus. Instead I departed empty-handed save for the sheet of paper I had waved around the parlor like a surrender flag. Once more, Pearl had gotten under my skin in an irritating fashion. Not that I opposed her upcoming marriage; it was that she was marrying and forsaking all others, including her own co-workers at the textile mill, brushing me off by saying there’s nothing she or I could do about the unfair conditions of such a place.
“Men rule, women spool,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.
The day was not getting any better for now I must face Thomas who had returned from the south, and he was motioning me into his office when he saw me coming in. I continued to hang on to the paper as if it had become a shield. It just might save my life, I thought, looking into his stormy eyes clouded by thick low-cast eyebrows.
“Do you have a problem working for me, Bess?” he asked, walking behind his desk and slamming a drawer closed. He flattened his hands on his desk top and leaned forward. “Do you? I understand you did not follow my orders but instead followed some damned women’s radical group at the Women’s Industrial Conference. I shouldn’t be surprised but, frankly, I’m disappointed. What do you have to say for yourself?”
His anger needled me. Reminding him of his own words, I answered “Freedom of speech, remember?”
“That’s a weak-ass reason, Bess. I expected better from you.” He sat down and pointed to a chair for me to sit. “Why have you gone back to such crude ways of making a point? This isn’t the first time you ran to the Woman’s Party defense. You tried this back in 1916, didn’t you? You think I don’t remember how you left the NAWSA along with Alice Paul and a group of militant activists and formed the National Woman’s Party?”
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 25
