by Stacey Lee
“But you don’t want to marry him.”
“No. But if word gets out, no one else will want to marry me either.”
“I thought you didn’t want to marry anyone.”
“I don’t, but what if I decide I do?”
“I say you are better off without those who base marriage on such shallow rock.” An image of the milk-livered Mr. Q galloping toward the racetrack after delivering such a shocking blow throws sand even in my face. “Do you think he started the rumor himself?”
She shakes her head. “You give him credit where none is due. He says the information is reliable.”
Who would have that kind of information? The memory of a hooded figure brushing past me at the Riggs’s cathouse brings all other thoughts to a screeching halt. The woman smelled of lilac. I was too distraught at the time to realize who she was: Melly-Lee Saltworth. As they say, a pinch of salt beats a lick of sugar, and it’s true in her case—shrewd gets you farther in life than sweet. Tampering with Caroline’s face cream was just the opening shot. Buying information on Caroline was clever, actually, a way to fell the enemy without a public battle, one that Miss Saltworth would surely have lost.
“What if it’s true?” Caroline presses two soft fingers into her temples. “If Papa finds out, he will disavow us.” Her eyes clamp shut, squeezing out more tears.
“No. Mr. Payne would not leave you to ruin. You are his crown jewel. Remember when he hired the Silver Saddle Militia to make sure no boys showed up to your fourteenth birthday picnic?”
She sniffs. “May as well have asked a bunch of foxes to guard the henhouse.”
“I recall it was the hens doing most of the chasing.”
A smile wrestles the corners of her mouth, but she shakes it off with an exasperated sigh. “This is a grave situation.”
I nod. “Especially for them.” I jerk my chin at the crypt.
This time, she snorts, and then the snort slips into a wheeze. Then suddenly we are giggling like our heads are full of soda water.
When we emerge from the tomb, I cannot say I like Caroline Payne any better. Only that my perspective of her has shifted. It’s like how climbing up on a horse makes the world look less threatening and gives a clearer view of the road ahead.
* * *
—
I FEEL TROUBLE rumbling down the street before the streetcar arrives. Then again, my visit with Billy Riggs has had me feeling like there’s a tiger on every corner. Old Gin discreetly passes his hand around the base of a statue of some dignitary, but not finding any coins, he dusts off his hands. I haven’t had a chance to speak in earnest with him in days. I hug my cloak to me, trying to work out how to broach the topic of our debt. “I ran into some friends of yours today on my ride,” I begin conversationally. “Leo Porter and his son.”
“You went to Piedmont Park?”
“Yes.”
He hooks his hands behind his back, and his eyes stop tracking the ground. I blurt out, “You’re not trying to sell Sweet Potato, are you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“To pay debts owed.”
Silence falls like a stone into water. I’m reminded of our skirmish again and brace myself. “I am not selling Sweet Potato. Please trust me, hm?” The hm doesn’t assure me as it usually does.
The streetcar arrives with its usual brassy clatter. When it stops before us, the new sign on its flank jars me more than the clanging bell: WHITES ONLY, ROWS 1–5. The words hardly sink in, only buzz like angry bees before my eyes. Old Gin sighs.
“This isn’t right.” My words drop out.
“Right and wrong don’t have much say in these parts,” says someone in the back. “Will and can are in charge.”
Some of the regulars squeeze into the already packed back rows, while others begin walking.
A traveling salesman in the third row shifts his bulk, causing the streetcar to bounce. “Well, the coloreds in Atlanta are sure fresher than the ones out in the country,” he says, his voice high and amused. He cracks a sunflower seed with his teeth and spits the shell onto the sidewalk.
I wait for Old Gin to decide where we should sit, but he hasn’t budged from the sidewalk, and his face has become pinched in the center.
Sully stands up in his seat and glares at Old Gin, his conductor’s cap looking like a squashed fist. “For the love of leeches, Old Gin. Bend your perpendiculars so we can go home.”
“There is a problem,” says Old Gin. “Rules do not cover Chinese.” I stare at him in shock. Old Gin has never spoken up like that before, but there he stands, steady as a lighthouse in a rough sea. “I am brown like a potato, but Jo is white as you, though easier on the eyes, hm?” A few chuckle. “Bad rules create chaos.”
Sully looks more red than white right now. “You ain’t colored. Hitch your saddle up here, old man.”
The moment feels heavy with held breaths and tight with discomfiture. Most people avoid our eyes, but they are all watching with their ears.
Old Gin surveys the roomy first five rows, and then the last, packed close as cigars. He moves up to the third row, empty of all save the traveling salesman and his bag of sunflower seeds.
The salesman stretches a thick hand along the back of his seat. “You ain’t colored, but you ain’t white neither.”
Folks in the first rows have turned around, their faces rigid, some with impatience as they stare at Old Gin and me standing behind him. The crabby gardener who chastised Maud Gray sweeps a leathery hand at us, his eyes jumpy like fleas. “Dogs have no need for streetcars. Git.”
The traveling salesman’s head draws back. With a sudden jerk, he whuffs out another seed.
Old Gin’s hand flies to his face. His thin shoulders cave.
The salesman wheezes out a laugh. “Got him right in the eye, that’s how!”
“Why, you grotesque lump of flesh—” I begin to sputter, but Old Gin puts a hand on my arm, leading us back to the sidewalk.
Old Gin lifts his gaze to meet Sully’s. I’m reminded of the time Sully’s mule started walking crooked, and Old Gin found an abscess in the animal’s hoof. The men are not friends, but surely seeing the same person every day for twenty years fixes them in your life in some way.
“This streetcar is not for us,” announces Old Gin.
Sully’s usually hard face loses its fight. He turns his shoulder, and it is like the closing of a heavy book.
With a clang and a giddap! the streetcar bumps along and out of our lives.
Anger sparks around inside me, but pride, too. By opting not to take the streetcar, Old Gin has chosen not to play in a rigged game. The river’s path will be harder this way. We will need to wake earlier and arrive home later. Then again, perhaps the path is easiest when the heart is light.
Old Gin walks smoothly beside me, the only sign of agitation the twitching of his pupils, reflecting the thoughts inside. I’m reminded of that day that we tried to get Coca-Colas. While I struggled to hold in my tears, Old Gin led us out of Jacob’s Pharmacy with the same quiet dignity of kings of old. His head was not bent low, or held too high, but he moved with a bearing that knew its course, no matter what the world hurled at us.
There’s a lit quality to the dusky sky that makes all the angry bits inside me line up. Something powerful surges through me, a feeling that has nothing to do with ambition, and everything to do with principle. “I would like to join Noemi at a suffrage meeting tonight at Grace Baptist,” I hear myself say. I watch Old Gin out of the corner of my eye, bracing for disapproval.
“It does not surprise me that Miss Sweetie is a suffragist.”
I stop walking. A protest bubbles up, but then fizzes away. Many lies have rolled off my tongue lately, and I can’t help wondering how many I can hatch before they start pecking my eyes out. “How long have you known?”
He shrugs. “Jed Crycks
is a devoted reader.”
I picture the tough, tobacco-chewing cowboy reading my column and nearly choke.
A smile alights on Old Gin’s face. “Parent always recognizes child’s voice.”
Twenty-Nine
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My sisters and I wonder, why must women suffer a few days each month?
Sincerely,
Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty
Dear Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty,
Because the alternative is worse, although they do get to vote.
Sincerely,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
The three-story white brick of Grace Baptist Church does not feature a cross or a bell or any of the standard-issue church symbols. However, a bronze plate on the door tells you that if you are seeking God, you can find Him here. As long as you can read.
A white woman with a knit cap stretched over her bread-loaf bun puts a hand over her heart when she sees me.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“May I help you?” She speaks painfully slow, as if she is not sure I can understand.
“Yes, I’m here for the suffrage meeting.”
“You? I’m sorry, but they’ve already started. We don’t admit latecomers.” A fingernail of a smile digs at her face. “Too distracting.”
The buzz of voices behind her indicates a crowd, but she moves her stout frame from side to side as if to block my view. I can’t help thinking that the least distracting part of me is the late part. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here.”
“Who?”
“Noemi Withers.”
“Never heard of her. I am sorry.”
“But—”
“Jo? Is that you?” warbles a familiar voice.
Mrs. Bread Loaf steps aside, revealing Mrs. English, all five feet of her, looking formidable in a slate-gray suit with silver buttons. On her head sits another of the Miss Sweetie hats, this one in mauve with a pink-and-black rooster tail, and an eternity knot tied better than Lizzie’s. I can’t help admiring not just the color combination—she has always been a fashion maven—but also her business sense. What better way to advertise her product than to wear it at an event filled with her target audience?
“You know this girl?” asks Mrs. Bread Loaf.
“Well, yes. Let her in.” Mrs. English pulls me into the church by the elbow. In the reception hall, a few women, all white, mill about tables set with a bowl of punch and spice cake. Conversation pauses while everyone gets a good look at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Votes for women,” I announce to everyone, but no one smiles.
“Yes, but—” Noticing all the attention on us, she throws around a mind-your-own-business glare. Conversation resumes, but at a more subdued tone. Her attention resettles on me. “I hear you’re back with the Paynes. I am glad you have landed on your feet.”
I manage a thin smile, despite the fact it was her hands that tossed me out. “Nice hat,” I say.
She has the grace to flush. “I’d been hoping to talk to you. I can’t seem to get the knot to lie flat in the back, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“It is missing a loop.”
“Well, perhaps you can stop by the shop and do a few for me.”
“I am rather busy.” A doorway of carved wood leads to what I assume is the sanctuary. The ceiling rumbles with the sound of footsteps, and a circle of overhead candles sways.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, let bygones be bygones. I will pay you for them, let’s say, a nickel apiece. Of course, I’d supply the ribbon. I’m desperate. I got eight orders tonight alone.”
“Ladies, to your tables, please,” says Mrs. Bread Loaf, clucking about like a hen gathering chicks. “We must get our banner done tonight.”
Mrs. English still watches me with her hawkish eyes.
“I will think about whether it makes economic sense,” I tell her, and an exasperated breath wings out of her.
Women file upstairs to a community hall, where more ladies—about a hundred in all—are sewing. Some embroider squares of marigold fabric at worktables. Others simply whipstitch strips of the same marigold fabric, creating what look to be sashes. A woman in a mutton-sleeve dress jabs a finger at a sketch pinned on a wall, her face animated as she gives orders. She must be the top hat in this shop. The words VOTES FOR WOMEN—RACING FOR EQUALITY! span the length of the sketch with a racehorse underneath. So, Mrs. Payne accepted their bid after all.
The top hat notices me and her eyes sharpen. She brushes off a woman trying to get her attention and marches over, hands fisted.
Mrs. English does not notice the storm cloud on the horizon. “There’s Lizzie.” My former coworker sits at the largest table, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she attempts to thread a needle. “Our table is full, but I’m sure you’ll find a place.”
“Who is this, Mrs. English?” The top hat has a teapot face, with cheeks that are starting to droop above a doily of a collar, and a nose that tips up at the end. A nervous energy surrounds her, like the teapot is kept at a high simmer.
Mrs. English’s vast bosom grows twitchy. “Oh, Mrs. Bullis, may I present Jo Kuan. Jo, Mrs. Bullis is the president of the Atlanta Suffragists.”
“How unusual. I didn’t know Chinese could even be citizens. Why are you here?”
“Same reason as everyone else, I expect, ma’am.”
She sniffs. “There are many who try to pin their causes onto ours, but we are here for one reason only, and that is to advance the cause of American women. I find it hard to believe someone who is not an American woman can help in that effort.”
My teeth clamp around the retort that springs to my lips. I fold my hands in front of me and plant my feet. “You must be thrilled that your bid to sponsor a horse was accepted for the race.”
Her black pupils look like pinpricks. “Yes, of course we are.”
“Being matched with a fighting pair, like the Paynes’ new Arabian and their New York jockey, would certainly advance your cause, maybe lead to national recognition, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is a random draw, but yes, we are hoping for the best pair. Your point is?”
“Neither the jockey nor the racehorse is an American woman.”
Her face seems to crack a little at the jawline. Mrs. English dabs a handkerchief to her brow, maybe congratulating herself on ridding herself of me.
Before the teapot begins spouting, I incline my head. “I am only here to help where I may, ma’am.”
She huffs and spins around, chasing away the looks that have gathered at her back. “There’s a place for you over there.” She points to a spot in the corner, where I’m heartened to see Noemi, writing at a table, alongside two other ladies, the only other colored people in the room.
Mrs. Bullis sweeps away, and Mrs. English escapes to Lizzie’s group.
As I make my way to Noemi’s table, I catch snippets of conversation.
“—the custom of wearing black for mourning. It washes out the complexion.”
My ears perk, and my feet slow as I try to unravel the conversations.
“—baseball. I can throw better than some of our local Firecrackers.”
“—saving one’s best gloves for parties.”
A young woman with sausage curls pokes the lady beside her. “I would give up my best gloves to find out who this Miss Sweetie is. I think it’s Emma Payne.”
Her table erupts in gasps and squeals, and a smile blooms on my face. Seems as though “The Custom-ary” has worked its magic for the Focus.
Noemi grabs me by the elbows. “You made it.” She’s pinned the falcon knot I made to her hat.
“Looks good there.”
She bends her iron eyes to me. “I named it Farney.”
“
Why Farney?”
“Because August was already taken. Mr. Buxbaum liked your knots. He says he’ll take a hundred at ten cents apiece if it’s exclusive. Imagine, Jo, that’s some good egg money.”
Twice as much as what Mrs. English is offering. Visions of hanging up my own little shingle on Madison Avenue dance across my vision. Would the fine ladies of New York like my knots? Perhaps I can tie and advise at the same time. My sign could read JO KUAN, THOUGHTS AND KNOTS.
“Come, I’ll introduce you.” She pulls me toward her table. “You have trouble getting through the door?”
“A little. You?”
She snorts. “I would’ve, if I hadn’t come with Atlanta’s best seamstress. Meet Mary Harper. She works for Mrs. Bullis.” She throws a glance to the top hat, who is back to barking orders.
“Hello, I’m Jo Kuan.”
Mary doesn’t smile at me, but nods, her large eyes bright and curious. Her needle whips in and out of a wide swath of marigold cloth, already stitched with trees and flowers. Beside her, a pointy-chinned young woman with a bright handkerchief wrapping her hair gives me a look full of barbed wire. Her skin is more golden than brown, and the only soft thing about her are her full lips.
“And this is Mary’s sister-in-law, Rose St. Pierre.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
Noemi pushes me into a chair.
“What did I miss?”
“That Mrs. Bullis made a big speech about how women’s brains are just as heavy as men’s. They done research on that. Then they put us all to work on this banner for the horse race, since Mrs. Payne accepted their bid, and you know who had a hand in that.” She winks. “And, oh, did you catch the Miss Sweetie article yesterday?”
“I did,” I say, holding my breath.
“We’re also supposed to write down the ‘Custom-aries’ that work against women. Mrs. Bullis says she’ll collect the best and send them to the Focus on behalf of the Atlanta Suffragists. Why do you look so surprised? You got a good one?”
