The End of Innocence

by Allegra Jordan

  The interior of the house, given the disposition of its inhabitants, was slightly less bucolic. Some maintained that a house divided against itself could not stand, but the new Mr. and Mrs. Brooks found just the opposite to be true. Over the decades of their marriage they found that the more divided their house, the more secure the peace.

  And thus, in the first room off the main hallway, the parlor, Helen’s mother, a Windship from Boston, established her territory. Before Merriam had married Jonathan, the Brooks family had stuffed its statues and paintings, chairs, and books in the room. The day after the wedding, Merriam donated the overage of books to the Boston Public Library, an act which, according to friends, had sent her fragile father-in-law to an early grave. He was not against charity, but giving his books away was equivalent of letting all of his blood.

  Her parlor was then transformed into a room decidedly different from the rest of the house. It was distinctly feminine, with stuffed floral chairs and white walls set with borders of silver silk damask. White tasseled lamps lit the ceilings and alcoves where various carved owls and ancient goddesses sat looking stately. On one wall hung a large sepia portrait of Merriam Brooks as Athena, and on another, a picture of Seneca Falls.

  Mailing supplies overflowed the room’s central table, including boxes of Family Limitation, the dreaded sixteen-page tract (illustrated) on how not to have children. This was the pamphlet that had caused so much trouble. Carved into the mantel were the words of Saint Paul, “Love Bears All Things.” Each Brooks family member was convinced it spoke of his or her own martyrdom.

  This had been a silent room over the summer. In March, Mrs. Brooks had left for an extended visit with Margaret Sanger, a nurse she had met at the 1912 Industrial Workers of the World strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts. But ever since her return in early August, Merriam had rarely been around. She now spent her time in the winding corridors of the Boston tenements or with her lawyers. Initially, the state and federal authorities had sought to compromise on her repeated violations of the decency laws by mailing Family Limitation to local women. But City Hall had been particularly stubborn. Unfortunately for Mrs. Brooks, it was an election year for several city bosses who ran on morality and decency platforms.

  Helen viewed these activities in an entirely different light from her neighbors, but one even more damning. Her mother’s cause was ostensibly to provide better health care for the families of the women and children of Boston’s slums, but Helen had noticed over the past few years that if her mother’s hands were idle, she’d find a new problem to solve that would remove her further from her own family at Merrimack Hill. Two years ago it was workers’ rights. This year she worked for family limitation and equal voting rights, both of which, Mrs. Brooks felt, would contribute to better health for women. Next year, it would be something else.

  Helen, who was not a worker, not poor, and was in good health, knew she was of little interest to her mother. Her father had raised her. The two of them spent most of their time in the library, as far removed from the atmosphere of the parlor as was possible.

  The library was a very different sort of room: leather-covered chairs; books carefully cataloged by author and subject; wine-red walls hung with family portraits (of relatives other than themselves); and a bust of Edmund Burke in a dark alcove. On the mantel of the redbrick fireplace sat models of three clipper ships. A large bank of windows overlooked the east garden full of Russian blue sage, lavender hydrangeas, and four trellises of climbing wild roses. Her father, Helen felt, had been right to refuse the red velvet curtains her mother had installed when he’d gone on a fishing trip to Maine. But perhaps he’d been hasty when he’d called the Boston Animal Hospital to haul them away to use as bedding for orphaned dogs.

  It was in this library on an early Sunday morning that Helen sat across from her father, fidgeting in her chair. Her shirtwaist’s high lace collar prickled her throat. She shifted, pulling her feet under her long white skirt as she tried again to concentrate on her reading.

  Mr. Brooks, across from her, lay back in his chair dozing off, his chin on his chest and his newspaper draped over his stomach. He was still in his dressing gown and slippers. His hair, once dark, was now peppered with gray. He was stouter and grumpier these days. And that morning so was she after the disastrous party the night before, finding it impossible to think of anything that would make her happy, despite the promise of a handsome young man coming to move her things that afternoon.

  The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half hour in a low, sonorous tone. Helen looked up from the manuscript she was reviewing. It was on the history of clipper ships and she’d promised her father she would read it before she left that afternoon for college. A breeze from the windows fluttered his paper and rustled the flowers outside. He twitched in his chair, and his breathing became more stubborn, lapsing into a series of occasional snores.

  Helen glared at her spotted purse beside the green banker’s lamp on the reading table, recalling the remarks of the young German. In her mind she could see him lifting his eyes, his vision blurred by excessive drink.

  Her poem was quite good, she grumbled to herself.

  She looked out the window to the bright day, hoping to go back to better thoughts. Perhaps she’d write a poem about a man asleep at a dance who wakes to find himself…trampled. She smiled at the prospect.

  “I didn’t know that I was writing a comedy.”

  She had not realized her father was awake. “Not a comedy, Father.”

  “A tragedy?” her father asked.

  “Of sorts,” she said.

  “What is the subject of this most recent drama? The great clipper race I allude to on page thirty-five?”

  “Father, I admit I was thinking about something other than this draft.”

  “Impossible.”

  She thought she caught a smile and gave one back. “I’ve a question about that poem I wrote last week. I was quite proud of it. Did you think it too emotional?”

  “I don’t recall,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because a young man at the dance last night told me to avoid death in poetry completely until I could do it better.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “He said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, without trying how does this ruffian think one is expected to learn?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Helen, his comment makes little sense. He sounds daft.”

  “I agree,” she echoed.

  “Not, Helen, that one can’t learn wisdom without experimentation. We don’t start from scratch. I’d never suggest that. It would be an insult to Edmund Burke. I’d never insult his memory.”

  “I never thought you would,” she said, settling back into her chair.

  Her father roused himself and stretched. “Let me see your poem again,” he said with a yawn. She went over to her purse and brought it to him, watching closely as he looked at the paper.

  “This appears smudged.”

  “He put it beside his four glasses of champagne. Or whiskey. Or some type of alcohol.”

  “He sounds intemperate to me.”

  “He’s German.”

  “He is? Well, that explains it. Germans are an intemperate sort. You know, Visigoths and all. Nietzsche, Feuerbach, and Marx returned them to their hopeless roots,” he said softly. He sighed and his voice trailed off as he read through her work again. “Yes, yes, yes. Helen, I think this is a good start, and very fine in many places, but in all candor I have seen you write better. The torched fields are a little strong.” He shook his head. “And the part about the women is self-pitying.”

  Helen was taken aback. This was what the German had implied. “But, Father, men start wars, they die, and women are sad.”

  “Well,” he said, then halted and cleared his throat. “You mustn’t tell your mother I feel this way b
ecause she’d take it as an attack on her sex and not as a matter of my opinion about a poem. In my experience, women have a way of helping a government send men off to war to die once the men, as you say, start the war. But you might consider that war is often forced upon men who don’t wish to go at all. Men are inherently peace-loving animals. And then women say they’ll never forget; how glorious it all is—and then men have a way of dying brutally and the women then do forget, which ranks only slightly less problematic than when women don’t forget and cause the next generation to wish to avenge their deaths.”

  Helen looked intently at him. “Father, perhaps Mother would take what you said as an attack on our sex because it seems to be an attack on our sex and not a criticism of my poem. My maid feels sad and it’s not because she’s guilt-ridden about sending men off to war.”

  “Dear child, men have been beaten about the head and shoulders by women’s feelings for generations, not to mention eons. You have been exceptional in that you’re more like a son to me than I’d expect any daughter to be. The mist chills us all, Helen. Not just women. Maybe your German drunk has a point.”

  “But it’s all right to be sad when you are the victim of things beyond your control. These are not shrill Prussian mothers thrusting their sons into Belgium.”

  She saw his lower lip curl.

  “You think he has a point.”

  “A bit of one,” he said.

  “You think my poem is the most silly chuff you’ve read?” Her face reddened.

  “That’s not what I said.” He looked pained. “Perhaps the young man’s point could have been made in a politer manner, but at college you’ll have to listen for the merits of the argument and not the way in which it’s been presented. Sometimes we learn from those we disagree with.”

  Helen sighed. “I will think on it,” she said, returning to her chair, and to a tedious discussion of sail rigging on the clipper ship Flying Cloud. Only twenty-three pages left. She put a large X over a perfectly decent paragraph and in the margin spitefully urged him to rewrite it for clarity.

  Ten minutes passed before she heard the Sunday paper rustle again. Her father peered from the other side of the editorial section.

  “You know, Helen, I received a note yesterday, which I’d meant to give you.” He stood up and walked over to his desk, picked up a bright white envelope, and brought it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  Her father began to fill his pipe, not looking at her.

  Harvard University

  Dear Jonathan,

  It was good to see you last week at the Harvard Historical Society meeting. I had no idea you had been working on a new manuscript about the clipper ship.

  I was also intrigued to learn that your daughter was editing it and that she is enrolled at Radcliffe College.

  I have an extra seat in my Editing for Editors class that I would like to offer her. Boys who usually fill my class have gone to seek their glory in the European war.

  Have your daughter come to my seminar starting this Monday. Harvard and Radcliffe do not have the same calendar, and my other classes have already started, but this one doesn’t start until Monday, and given her work for you, I’ve made an exception. I hear she’s a good writer.

  To be clear, this is a senior-level course, meets on Mondays and Tuesdays, and demands a copious amount of creative writing. She needs to be prepared to work.

  Last item: class meets in Harvard Yard. I would not expect any trouble for her in such a small class. I know these boys and they seem to be of the good sort.

  Sessions start at three o’clock this Monday, punct.

  Yours as ever,

  C. T. Copeland

  A class with Copeland! The note took her breath away. What a gift! She stood up hastily to hug her father, her papers falling at her feet. “Thank you!”

  “You must promise to learn all you can in order to revise my manuscript over the Christmas break.” He smiled.

  “Of course,” she said elatedly as she reached down to gather the pages. She was delighted. Her heart felt light again. Tut-tut, Mr. Brandl—my father has given me Copeland! We’ll see who leaves Harvard as the better writer.

  At that moment Patrick, a servant with thick, curly white hair, came to the door, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Mrs. Brooks’s lawyer is going to be meeting you in twenty minutes and she’s sent me down to say you are needing to be getting ready now. I’m to drive the missus to Radcliffe in a half hour.”

  “Patrick, do you like this lawyer better than the last one?” Brooks asked.

  “I’ll give him the toss if he canna help Mrs. Brooks. She’s a good woman.”

  Her father rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, Helen. Must get dressed to attend to your mother’s business. City Hall is not budging on this one and thus we must talk to the lawyers today and every day, it seems. Patrick, after you return we’ll need to visit the Adamses in Quincy. We won’t make the funeral, but we should at least make an appearance at their house.”

  “Helen,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “One more thing.” His eyes avoided hers as he took out a small black velvet box, put it on her reading table, and turned to go. She opened it to find a ring with a pearl, small and barely pink, set in a delicate lattice of gold.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, surprised. She took it out and slipped it on her finger. It was beautiful.

  “It is not to be confused with the pearl of great price,” he said, walking to the door. “That is you. I’ve paid dearly for you, and you have turned out marvelously, even if you indulge in romantic poetry. I will miss you around here, my dear.” He left abruptly, before she could say anything else.

  She flushed at the high praise.

  Chapter Four

  Radcliffe College

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Sunday, August 30, 1914

  The distance from Lexington to Boston and Cambridge was not far—the British had jogged it quickly in 1776. What was different was the frantic pace of the latter places. Fumes from cars, smokestacks, and animals in the street markets poured into the Brooks family car when Patrick, her driver, stopped suddenly for a bewildering assortment of carts and children in the teeming, narrow streets.

  When Helen had inquired about how anyone, especially students, could think in such an environment, her father answered that they didn’t, they just parroted what they read on the opinion page of the New York newspaper. Helen hoped it meant that they were too busy to comment on her mother’s activities and would focus on important things, such as stopping the kaiser in Europe. Or, failing that, the weather.

  And there was reason to hope on this front. Professor Copeland had mentioned nothing of her mother’s behavior in his letter to her father.

  But what had begun as divine elation at the new challenge of being in Copeland’s class slowly transformed into fear as they neared the Harvard–Radcliffe campus. She’d not prepared nearly enough. It had only been a random occurrence that she’d learned that death brought out the bad poet in us all. Yet that was one of the most basic tenets of writing, according to that young man at the party.

  How could her tutor not have told her?

  She took a deep breath. She needed to apply herself, just as Professor Copeland urged her to do. She could do that. One step at a time.

  A truck filled with produce suddenly pulled in front of them and began to turn in the street. Patrick pulled the brake lever hard, sending the car bucking.

  “The curse of Mary Malone chase you to Halifax!” yelled Patrick, his fist menacing the other driver. He turned back to Helen, his face pink. “Don’t you be telling your father that I taught you new, er, proverbs.” The car lurched forward in the traffic again.

  “Will your friend Miss Ann live with you?” Patrick asked, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “I hear your brother is sweet on her.�
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  “Yes,” she said. “They will probably be engaged by Christmas, unless Mother’s actions drive Ann away.”

  “Now, Miss Helen, you canna be hard on your mother. She’s helped women who have it very hard—with their men out working or drinking or in jail. They’ve more children than sense and she’s helping them. No one else is looking out for them, God help them.” He stuck his head out of his open window at a stopped peddler’s cart. “Canna you move your cart, sir?” he called over the engine’s noise. “The Devil with him,” he muttered. “Stopping in the middle of the road when decent people have places to be.”

  “Some would say my mother is out to help herself, not them.”

  “I’d put my boot to their throat should they talk like that around me. True, I always get suspicious myself when I see the rich running to help the likes of us out. Makes me want to run the other way most times. But this is different. You’re too hard on her, Miss Helen.”

  “She should stay out of trouble with the police.”

  “She needs not to be cursing the officers, that’s for certain,” he said with a laugh. “But they had it coming. Riffling through her things, looking for those…” Helen saw his curls become stark white against the embarrassed pink of his thick neck.

  Contraception. She knew. An embarrassing business if there ever was one, not that her mother cared what she thought. Helen looked out the window, and Patrick went on muttering about Mrs. Brooks’s great charity toward those in need. But this charity had been exacted at a great price.

  At the edge of the Radcliffe campus their black touring car waded into a sea of other such cars, engines sputtering and backfiring, each overflowing with trunks, quilts, hatboxes, and furniture. By the time they neared Longworth Hall, Patrick seemed to be cursing exclusively in Gaelic.