The Storm

by Shelley Thrasher

After Molly hung up, she thought about meeting Helen and how she’d immediately gotten her hopes up that something special would happen between them, just like she was doing with Molly now.

  On leave in Dieppe, on a cold June day last year, she’d walked into a small store, hunting a pair of boots. She owned one comfortable pair but needed a spare. She remembered it like it was yesterday.

  “Je désire…Je désire. Rats. I can’t remember the words for heavy shoes,” the obviously American woman had said.

  “Maybe I can help. I’ve had to buy some too.”

  The woman had sighed as Jaq helped her find what she was looking for.

  As they’d left the shop, the woman held out her gloved hand. “I’m Helen Fairchild. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  They soon sat in a tiny café, each cradling a huge white cup. “Can you believe I had to pay fifteen dollars for those shoes? Gee, they’re such a queer shape and aren’t even very comfortable. But my feet have been freezing since I got here. It’s a lot colder and windier here than in Philadelphia. And it rains so much. I’m sure glad the hospital issued us this rain gear and rubber boots. I’ve practically slept in mine.”

  The weather had been mild and sunny, but Helen had shivered. “I even bought a knitted underskirt,” she’d said. “When we first got our street uniforms they told us we ought to wear them in public, which didn’t make me happy. Uniforms seemed so restrictive. But now I’m glad they’re made out of such heavy material. Even this silly round felt hat feels good.”

  Helen’s dark-blue uniform with its big shoulder pleats and white-banded collar and sleeves set off her fair complexion beautifully. “Your ankle-length skirt will probably be a lifesaver this fall and winter,” she said.

  “When we got to London after we landed in Liverpool, everyone treated us grand. They took one look at our dress uniforms and let us in wherever we wanted to go. Wouldn’t let us pay for a thing, not even food.”

  Helen had switched topics so fast Jaq had to think fast to keep up with her.

  “All sixty-four of us nurses stayed at The Waldorf Hotel. I even had tea at the Astors’ country home. Why, I was beginning to think the newspapers had exaggerated how bad it was over here.”

  “Wartime London is quite—”

  “Then we reached base hospital number ten at Le Tréport. We were expecting several hundred beds but found almost two thousand. So there we were—sixty nurses, a couple dozen doctors, a few dentists, and almost a hundred and seventy enlisted men, who were our orderlies. Two days later, more than five hundred soldiers poisoned by mustard gas arrived. We didn’t even know the Boches were gassing our men. And the soldiers just kept coming.”

  The day she’d met Helen was the highlight of her time in Europe. Helen had been so natural, so open, so optimistic. She’d made Jaq feel as cozy as a cup of hot tea on a winter day did, and every time she’d bumped into Helen on the front, the warmth mushroomed. During her late-night missions in her ambulance she began to think about Helen and even volunteered for some of the more arduous drives in hopes that Helen might be on duty when and where she arrived with the wounded. She’d hoped and would have prayed—if she’d believed that a God could, would, and should help her—that Helen felt the same way. But, like everything else to do with the War, her dreams about Helen had been shot to hell.

  She shivered despite the warm weather. Though she ought to know better, she hoped things wouldn’t be as disastrous with Molly as they’d been with Helen. But she couldn’t stay away from Molly any more than she could have not volunteered to serve on the front or to help Miss Paul. So she’d try not to get in too deep with Molly, but she’d stay close to her until they had to separate for good. She sighed. She’d do whatever she needed to keep Molly safe from her spiteful mother-in-law and insensitive husband and hope that her own heart survived another ordeal.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Are you busy this afternoon, Jacqueline?” Molly hated that she’d had to call Jacqueline on the telephone and ask her for a favor, but she didn’t have many options.

  “No. The house is as clean as I can get it. What do you have in mind?”

  She decided to take a chance. “Could you possibly take Patrick and me to town? I need to do a couple of things. I could try to persuade Mr. James to let me go with him tomorrow, but I don’t want to disturb his weekly ritual, and I can’t do one of my errands on the weekend. Besides, right now I don’t want to spend any more time with him than I have to.”

  Jacqueline didn’t answer immediately.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

  “No. It’s not that. I’m just surprised you asked. And glad too. Maybe I can return a little of the kindness you showed me when Eric…you know…”

  She released a deep breath. “Oh, Jacqueline. If only you could have stayed with us longer. It was wonderful having you so near. I wish the circumstances had been different, but I loved having the chance to get to know you better. And you’ve already more than repaid me with your stories. In fact, they’re one of the reasons I decided to do what I plan for today. But I need to hurry. Could you pick us up right at one o’clock? That should give us enough time. Do you have enough gasoline?”

  Jacqueline laughed. “I have plenty of gas, and I’m always looking for an excuse to hit the road. See you at one.”

  “Good-bye—thank you.”

  “Thank you. See you soon.”

  She put on a better dress for the trip and told Patrick to wear his Sunday clothes. No one could change her mind now. She just wished she’d had the courage to be even more honest with Jacqueline about how she’d hardly slept because she was so excited about having her under the same roof and how deeply she’d missed her after she left. Maybe someday she’d be able to fully open her heart to Jacqueline, but as a wife and mother, she didn’t feel right doing that now. If she were free, and if Jacqueline weren’t married either…the thought alone made her feel as if she’d just run down to the bottom field and back on a hot summer day.

  *

  What did Molly have up her sleeve, wanting to go to town on a weekday? All the stores were open Saturday, so she didn’t need to buy something, unless she wanted to surprise Mr. James on his birthday. But just last night she’d said she felt like throttling him.

  The courthouse and the lawyers’ offices wouldn’t be open tomorrow. Had Mrs. Russell made Molly decide to leave? Maybe she wanted to look for a place in town for her and Patrick. But how could she afford it? Wouldn’t she move to Dallas and live with her parents? She’d never manage on her own.

  Jaq’s mind whirled as she drove. Red dust flew from the hard-packed road. They’d all need a bath after their drive. No! She wouldn’t even think about pouring a bucket of sun-warmed water down Molly’s bare back, sliding perfumed soap over it, then under her arm and around to her—

  She’d better slow down or she’d have a wreck. There Molly stood on the front porch, wearing white and standing beside Patrick. They were both waving, and Mrs. Russell was most likely lurking in the house or the backyard.

  She was halfway up the driveway, and Molly and Patrick had already pushed through the small gate in the picket fence and were hurrying toward her.

  “Hello, Molly, Patrick.” After Molly settled down beside her, and Patrick sat in the backseat, she quickly turned the car around and made their getaway.

  She and Molly chatted about inconsequential things, and Patrick jabbered as they motored past sandhills dotted with green watermelons and straight rows of field corn ready to pick. Black-eyed peas grew on low, vine-like bushes between the cornrows.

  She’d learned to navigate through the pea plants during the early morning when the heavy dew soaked her old brogans and long skirt. At first afraid she’d step on a snake, she’d gradually learned to treasure the quiet, cool garden at dawn before the blazing sun sapped her energy. The bloody battlefields of Europe receded, and she embraced a fragile truce with her past.

  Wouldn’t it be enjoyable
to share that special time of the day with Molly? To work side by side and occasionally share a drink of cool well water from a jug under a shade tree. Just thinking about drinking from the same container that Molly’s lips had touched made her lose focus on the road and direct it where it shouldn’t be. By moving her right arm just a bit she could touch Molly’s gloved hand, if she dared. That couldn’t compare to a kiss, but the touch would be so much better than her arid dreams.

  “What do you think about the election this month, Jacqueline?”

  She tensed as if she’d just encountered a copperhead. Molly must have been having a one-sided conversation. Jaq had become so caught up in her fantasies of Molly, she’d ignored the fact that the real person sat next to her and wanted to have a conversation.

  “What election?”

  “The Texas Democratic primary. Mr. William Hobby is running against Farmer Jim Ferguson, the old fraud. The legislature impeached him just last year. Mr. Hobby took his place, and I intend to vote to keep him as governor.”

  Molly looked like she’d just climbed a mountain or sailed around the world.

  “You’re interested in politics? And what’s this about voting?” She had been counting on Molly to help her stay calm and relaxed in this out-of-the-way place, not remind her of the dirty world of politics she’d seen firsthand in Washington last year.

  Molly gaped at her. “Don’t you remember my letter from Esther Harris last month—my college roommate? She and her husband live in Austin. I told you about it.”

  She remembered that conversation, but at the time she’d tried to ignore it. Molly had seemed a little too thrilled to hear from her old friend, and Jaq had changed the subject. But Molly seemed totally carried away now.

  “I got another letter yesterday. Her new friend, a Mrs. Cunningham, head of the Texas Woman Suffrage Association, has convinced Mr. Hobby to let women vote in the primary. Of course, she promised him she’d encourage them to elect him instead of that crook Ferguson.”

  She’d prefer to pick peas in peace than become involved in political wrangling again, but she humored Molly. “When did all this happen?”

  “Just before you got here, near Easter. According to Esther, the big-city newspapers covered the story, but most of the small-town editors conveniently forgot to mention the deadline.”

  Molly was talking so fast she could barely understand her, so she reluctantly entered the fray. “What deadline?”

  “We have only seventeen days to register or we’ll lose our chance to vote this year.”

  “Why just seventeen days?” The thought of meeting a deadline made her tired. She’d rather keep meandering through this quiet green forest in her Model T. She glanced out the window at a lush garden, wanting to stop and pick a few tomatoes. She could taste their tart sweetness, feel the juice run down her chin, but Molly interrupted her fantasy.

  “I’m not sure about the short time span. Something about a ninety-day waiting period. A woman is running for state office too, for the very first time. Isn’t that something?”

  “That’s great.” Her heart picked up speed. “Why didn’t you let me know before now?”

  “You need to rest. You’ve been under enough pressure.”

  “I’m better now.” She began to feel a little of the restlessness that had made her want to drive an ambulance in Europe and become a suffragist. “I can’t believe it. Miss Alice Paul has been struggling so long for women to be able to vote, and you already can—without having to march or picket.”

  Molly shook her head so hard Jaq was afraid her long hair would come unpinned. “But we can’t vote in the November election. Miss Paul and the rest of the suffragists better keep the pressure on President Wilson.” Then she winked mischievously. “Hardly anyone in Texas votes Republican, though. Whoever wins the primary wins the race.”

  “Very clever. But tell me. Why the sudden excitement about politics?” Molly appeared to be a different person from the cowed wife and mother Jaq had observed at church not that many months ago.

  Molly pushed up her luxurious crown of red hair. “Before I met you, I thought only men—and women like Mother Russell—discussed politics. Such things weren’t relevant to me.” She looked almost sad then brightened. “But your stories and Esther’s letters make me want to learn more about this new world opening up for us. Maybe I can even help educate other women about it. Can you tell me more about Miss Paul?” She tidied a stray tendril.

  They passed two barefooted girls wearing patched overalls, one of them obviously pregnant, though she looked about twelve. They were struggling to carry a big bucket brimming with water. Molly clenched her gloved hands like she was feeling the thin metal handle bite into them. “Mr. Hobby wants to increase the age of consent for girls to age fifteen,” she murmured, as if to herself.

  With a sigh, she wondered why Molly had married Mr. James, but then, responding to Molly’s request, she let herself be pulled into her memories.

  “What about the first time I actually met Miss Paul?”

  “Yes, please.” Molly relaxed her hands in her lap and half turned in her seat.

  She kept her speed at a steady eight miles an hour, ready to slow down if she had to. She didn’t want the red dust blowing through the windows to ruin Molly’s white dress.

  “When I returned from Europe last fall, my aunt told me she’d picketed the White House. She even spent three nights in the District jail. That shocked me and intrigued me too. I’d planned to stay with her and my uncle awhile in Washington, but pretty soon I got bored. So she encouraged me to join Miss Paul’s National Woman’s Party.”

  Molly wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and gawped at her as if she’d flown to the moon. “And you did?”

  “Yes. My aunt took me to their headquarters and introduced us. Miss Paul is tiny, not even as tall as you are, and even thinner than when I first saw her, five years ago. But her hair was just as thick and dark, and her eyes glowed even more, like a light shone behind them. She sat at a desk in a dimly lit room, with only a table lamp turned on, surrounded by piles of papers—like a tough executive.”

  Molly’s eyes gleamed. “How exciting.”

  “Miss Paul asked me, in a deep, rich voice, why I wanted to join their organization, and I told her I’d just come back from where the generals were squandering the lives of thousands of our men for bits of land they lost the next day. I also told her I wanted to do something I could truly believe in.”

  Molly looked so appalled that Jaq tried to distract her. “She has such interesting eyes, Molly. I wish you could see them. They’re green like yours when they shine, but when she’s serious they look black and brown.”

  Molly blushed but nodded for her to go on.

  “Miss Paul asked about my health and if I’d picket three afternoons a week. And in case they arrested me, if I’d go to prison and on a hunger strike, if necessary.”

  Molly paled, but Jaq decided to share the truth with her. Molly could take it.

  “She’s been in prison a lot of times, you know, and even in an insane asylum. She had a rubber feeding tube forced down her throat during her hunger strikes in jail.”

  Molly gulped, as if she might throw up, but just sat there with an expression of horror.

  Jaq waved a hand in the air. “I agreed to everything, and she told me to report for duty the next afternoon.”

  “My goodness. She sounds rather brusque,” Molly said, after she’d swallowed a few times.

  She nodded. “Yes. I felt dismissed, but then Miss Paul rose, smiled, and shook my hand with a firm grip. She seemed to tower over me as she welcomed me to the Woman’s Party. Her presence filled the room, and I understood why so many women have devoted themselves to her cause. She’s so businesslike yet so warm. We gladly did whatever she asked us.”

  Molly stared at her, seeming to breathe deeper and sit even straighter than usual. “I’d love to meet her.”

  She wanted to say that maybe s
omeday Molly could, but the chances were so unlikely, she hesitated. She didn’t want Molly to be disappointed or, worse, hurt. And she wasn’t sure she wanted Molly to grow aware and jaded, like her. She needed the uncritical stability that Molly provided.

  She kept her expression noncommittal. “Me too, Molly, but now you owe a story.”

  *

  “Miss Paul sounds like she won’t let anyone stop her,” Molly said, suddenly despondent. Jacqueline hadn’t given her much hope of ever getting out of East Texas.

  “You’re right. Oh—” They crested a rise and Jacqueline slammed on the brakes. “I’m still not used to watching out for these chickens. I hit one a few days after I got here. What a mess.”

  “James’s brother Clyde used to love to run them down. He’s cruel to his Negro hired help too. Supposedly, when he was a young man, he beat one of their field hands to death with a chain for sassing him and got off scot-free. I’ve never liked him, except when he was kind to me after I had Patrick. But back to Mrs. Cunningham. We’re close to town, so I’ll tell you what I know before we get there.”

  “We have all the way home.”

  “But I’d rather listen to you. Mrs. Cunningham was studying to be a pharmacist in Galveston when the Storm hit.”

  Jacqueline shuddered, though Molly didn’t know whether her remark about Clyde or about the Storm caused her reaction. “I’m glad she got out.”

  “She did but went back and helped with the relief efforts.”

  “I already like her. Did she earn her degree?”

  “Yes. But when she got a job, she made half as much as the men, and none of them had gone to college. So she married and moved to Galveston again. She discovered politics there, when she got involved in a legal battle with a vendor selling tainted milk. So I’m not such a late-bloomer, am I?”

  Jacqueline shook her head as they pulled up in front of the county courthouse.

  Does she think I’m being silly, wanting to change like this all of a sudden? Molly hoped she hadn’t let her anger make her do something foolish.