“Why not?” The professor crossed his arms. “Don’t limit your imagination, Belle. It’s the first step toward life’s greatest adventures.”
She nodded slowly. “I can see why you’re a beloved teacher.”
Abigail walked through the door with an armful of wood. “Pretty interesting story, eh, Belle?”
“Fascinating,” she replied. “I don’t want it to end.”
The professor leaned toward her. “The ending is the best part.”
He explained that after his students’ welcome home, he reported to Mr. Edison. Because he’d found the inventor to be a man of few words and limitless diligence, he was not surprised by Edison’s four-word greeting.
“He extended his hand to me, smiled, and asked, ‘Did you get it?’”
Abigail chuckled and moved toward the stove to stoke its firebox.
“When I told him about Bambusa gigantia, he informed me that during my absence he’d succeeded in creating an artificial carbon, which promised even better results than bamboo fibers.”
Belle furrowed her brow. “But all of your travel and hard work . . .”
The professor tapped his finger on the table. “That’s the beauty of Mr. Edison’s process, Belle. He has an invincible determination to leave no stone unturned to solve a problem he’s identified. While he was spending $100,000 to have men like me scour the earth, he continued to claw for answers in that big brain of his. By the time I’d returned, my solution was outdated by his advanced discovery.”
Belle shook her head. “What a fascinating life you live, Professor.” She’d never met a world traveler. “What’s your next adventure?”
The professor sighed. “I sense that my wanderlust has begun to overpower my love of teaching. I want to become a professional photographer, perhaps document conflicts around the world.” With a swift move, he yanked a hunter-case pocket watch from a slit in his suit coat and flipped open the lid. “Oh dear. I’ve chatted my way into being late for my steamer.” He rose and extended his hand. “Such a pleasure speaking with you, Belle.”
She gently squeezed his bony hand. “It was my honor, Professor.”
Before she could thank him for his insights, the professor scurried off through the dining room toward his room and luggage.
Abigail and Belle were exchanging thoughts about his world travels when he returned to the kitchen, bags in tow.
“Forgive the interruption, ladies. Abigail, I brought this for Mr. Edison, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to place it in his laboratory. Can you make sure it reaches a shelf in the lab?”
He handed her a cobalt glass bottle filled with powder.
“Of course.” Abigail took the bottle and set it on the table. “Here are some treats for your trip, good sir.” She tucked a box of corn pone under his arm. “I’ve enjoyed having you. Safe travels.”
When the professor was gone, Belle bent over for a closer look at the bottle. On a decorative label with four diagonal edges someone had written “Sanguin Dragonis” and below it, “Dragons Blood.” A wax cork served as a stopper.
“I would think with a name like Dragons Blood, the powder should be red,” Belle said, her nose nearly touching the bottle.
“It looks purple because of the blue glass,” Abigail explained. “Would you like to take it to the laboratory?” she asked, retying her apron. “I’ve got a heap of dirty dishes here.”
Belle’s eyes widened. “Me?” She added quickly, “I mean, yes, I would.” First the professor and now this. How grateful she was for such a fascinating day.
Pouring boiling water into a washbasin, Abigail instructed, “There’s a key underneath a turtle shell to the left of the lab door. If Decker gives you any guff, tell him you’re doing official Edison business per Professor J. Ricalton . . . and Abigail Baker.”
Belle nodded. “Thank you very much, Abigail. I’ll be quick and careful.”
•••
The flat-grooved key required some jiggling but finally moved the spring-loaded pins in the lock on the laboratory door. Belle looked back over her shoulder; there was no sign of anyone. Even with permission to enter the lab, her heart was pounding with the thump-thump of anticipation and apprehension. Gently, she pushed open the door and entered the dim structure, filled with enough light from the hazy afternoon to see everything in it. She took a slow, deep breath through her nostrils, inhaling the scent of wood and rubber. Clutching the blue bottle, she closed the door and turned to survey the space.
Her eyes scanned the room, still and cool. Who was the last person in the lab? Nothing but the mundane—stools, tables, pencils—was familiar. The quiet seemed not to be trusted, as if the large metal machines might spring to life at any moment. She spotted a switch on the wall that would most likely activate the rows of lamps above the worktables, a lighting system she knew was perfected by Edison himself. As tempted as she was to illuminate a room without striking a match, Belle left the switch alone. She was not sent to the lab to burn it down.
With a look to the left, she noted a separate room that seemed to be an office. A cot was set up next to a desk stacked neatly with papers and books. An empty coatrack claimed one corner. In the main room, a variety of bulky equipment was grouped together, as if in a machine shop. A telegraph was recognizable, but a massive boiler served an unknown purpose. Somewhere sat the dynamo awaiting Edison’s expertise to light the town. Towering stacks of thick books and printed material rose toward the ceiling like big-city buildings. Belle stood motionless, stuck in place, wondering. What did people talk about in the lab? Did they yell and curse? Or did they whisper amidst the intense concentration? She considered that perhaps Boone and the other workers took special care in constructing the building, a nursery for the birth of ideas, for breakthroughs, elation, and meaning. She imagined the walls vibrating from a whirlwind of brainpower.
Slowly, she forced herself to move, holding the Dragons Blood with both hands. Her eyes searched the wooden floorboards for popped nails that might trip her. As she walked toward shelving in the back of the lab, she passed by thick wooden tables crowded with cloudy glass beakers, snaked rubber tubing, and extra-large glass cloches that protected nothing but air. The room was completely silent but for her footsteps. Before she got to the shelves, Belle spotted several hardbound notebooks resting atop a worktable. A blue jay feather that served as a bookmark poked out from one of them. She stopped moving. Gently, she set down the bottle on the table and lay a palm atop the blue jay book.
“Don’t do it, Belle,” she whispered, remembering Mina’s words. As you might expect, we value our privacy.
Clearly, the notebooks were not hers to explore, and she knew better than to boldly break the rules. But she considered it. Maybe just a peek. Her curiosity was misbehaving, as if given permission by the spirit of wonder that hung in the air. She drummed her fingers on the sturdy cover. Then, she lifted it slightly and let it drop, as if to release a hint as to what lay inside. When she stroked the blue feather, it felt stiff, not soft, as if it had been keeping watch over the marked page for quite a while.
I’ll be quick, Belle thought. She dragged out a metal stool from beneath the table and regretted the loud scraping noise it made. She froze for a moment and glanced at the door. Her eyes shifted to a woman’s felt hat hanging on a peg near the doorframe. She took a deep breath and brushed off a light layer of dust from the stool seat. Committed now to invading the lab’s privacy, she sat down and watched her hands shake as she opened the notebook to its first page.
Her eyes went straight to the date in the upper right-hand corner: March 18, 1886. Underneath the date, the same hand wrote “TAE.” In noticeably different handwriting, the word “Mina” appeared below. Was the couple working during their honeymoon that year in Fort Myers? She pictured Mina looking over TAE’s shoulder as he recorded a rush of certainties and hunches. Surely, Mina knew from the start th
at her extraordinary husband would never be able to turn off his brain, even during a getaway. Newspaper articles referred to her as a loving, supportive wife. Now, Belle had an intimate look into Mina’s devotion, a witness to her husband’s grand thoughts and theories.
She carefully turned the book’s pages, many filled with drawings that resembled light bulbs. Phrases like “200 volts” and “sealed vacuum” were scribbled next to them. All the diagrams and sketches included commentary or questions. Much of the writing was hard to decipher, as if Edison’s pencil couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. Page corners were peppered with columns of mathematical equations, some crossed through as if sampled, then dismissed.
On March 23, TAE wrote, “also a telephone where every kind of change of material can be made—perhaps 40 or 50 cheap telephones, every one an anomaly of XYZ devices would be better.”
“The black box?” Belle said aloud. Surely not. Why would an invention—in progress or completed—end up next door hidden away in Abigail’s shed? She flipped to the next page. It featured a sketch of a face with a round device labeled “earpiece” clasped to the outside of one ear. She’d read that Mr. Edison was basically deaf. Perhaps he was trying to better his quality of life and the lives of others with the same affliction.
When she arrived at the section marked with the blue jay feather, Belle was startled by what she read: “shock an oyster see if it wont paralyze his shell muscle & make the shell fly open.” Clearly, Edison’s mind wandered to places never considered by most. The work continued through March 26 and filled at least one hundred pages of the notebook. Mina had signed nearly all of them.
“Oh dear,” Belle said when she realized how long she’d been in the lab, immersed in nothing she understood except that the Edisons, in this very lab, were personal and professional partners. She replaced the notebook exactly where she’d found it, atop the others. Scooting off the stool, she picked up the blue bottle and headed toward the back shelves to find room for the Professor’s powder, one more potential “Eureka!” in a lab full of them.
Between bottles labeled “benzaldehyde” and “zinc,” Belle jiggled the Dragons Blood into a tight space. Her fingers shook as she focused on not knocking anything over.
“There you go,” she said, relieved she’d completed the task without incident. As she turned and walked slowly toward the front door, she reviewed the room, certain she would never get this chance again. How was it possible that someone as ordinary as she had breathed the air of such a revered space? What would next be discovered here?
It was time to go. She twisted the doorknob and pulled. Standing in the doorway, she let the fresh air wash over her skin. She was standing in Thomas Edison’s laboratory. She had chatted with a world traveler. She had found a talking box. Already her life had been enriched by moving just one mile down the road. At that moment, Belle decided to give an idea she’d been mulling over a try.
Chapter 10
“It’s simply a bicycle, Mother. It gets me to work quickly, and I enjoy the ride.”
“Tsk-tsk. Reverend Cole says women who straddle bicycles are riding to the devil in bloomers.”
Belle was stretched out on the cottage floor, writing on postcards she’d taken from Duggan’s. The conversation in the background was unlike any she’d ever heard. A mother and daughter were both talking, but it was debatable whether either was listening to the other.
“Suggesting we’re riding to hell is outrageous. Women who ride bicycles and wear bloomers are merely smart about transport and comfort.”
“Have you not considered that women of the lower class wear bifurcated garments? You were raised better.”
“That’s the point, Mother. You raised me, and now I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman who can make her own choices.”
Belle was thrilled when the box connected for a second time. After a few minutes of listening, she’d tested whether the women talking could hear her. She bonged her match safe against the washbasin, but there was no reaction. The women continued speaking, obviously unable to hear anything on their end. For good measure, Belle said, “Hello?” into the canister, but again, no response. She’d then settled onto the floor with her project.
“Why do you feel the need to join all of these female clubs? City club, bicycle club, literary club.”
“Because I can! If you’d spring yourself from that tight corset, Mother, you’d be surprised by how open your mind would become to progress and the possibilities for self-improvement.”
“Watch your mouth, Kate.”
Belle stopped writing. Kate? She thought the younger voice sounded familiar—Kate from the first call! Belle smiled. The box had “found” Kate again, but she was speaking to her mother this time, not her friend.
Silence.
“Why you insist on denigrating my devotion to your father and the moral character of our home is beyond me. You and your women friends talk about not being submissive while you finish suits worn by the very men who pay you by the piece. You’re so enlightened that you allow yourself to be overworked in high season, underworked in slack, and underpaid year-round.”
“Mother, if you ever listened to me, you’d know that I’m in line for corner maker.”
“And whatever will you do with that extra thirty-five cents for forty hours of work?”
“I’ll save it. When this Kate Hallock marries, she’ll use her hand to spend her own money, not hold it out, waiting for her husband to fill it.”
Belle sighed lightly and tapped the pencil eraser on the floorboard. She preferred the tone of the first connection, the light banter between Kate and BB. This verbal sparring between mother and daughter was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Still, Kate’s strong-willed case for women supporting themselves and each other was the perfect backdrop for her task at hand: writing out the same note—except for the recipient’s name—on seven postcards.
Dear _____________,
I hope this note finds you well. I’m considering forming a club to discuss topics that are interesting and important to women. You are one of several women in town I’m inviting. We can discuss a name for the club should we find the gathering worthwhile. If you are interested in participating, please join me Saturday in the schoolhouse at one o’clock. The bell on the Methodist Church is broken, so it will not be sounding a reminder at one.
Thank you for considering my invitation.
Sincerely,
Belle Carson
The thought of creating a club both excited and scared her, but Professor Ricalton’s suggestion that “experience is an effective antidote to fear” had inspired her to try. If she was timid about developing more meaningful relationships, perhaps she needed more experience trying. A women’s club—like Kate described—could be a good start. But, would women even be interested? What would they talk about? Small groups already existed in town for women to sew or study scripture together. But Belle decided instead to invite women who seemed to have differing interests and daily routines. Ideally, the mix would spark lively conversation and a range of suggestions for the club’s purpose. There was a chance not everyone, or no one, would attend, but Belle was determined to move forward with her plan. Postcards would be delivered to Sadie, a mother of five; Amelia, an unmarried business owner; Paulette, a former beauty queen; Alice, considered “off” by some in town; Poppy, a minister’s wife; Hazel, Ida’s smothered daughter; and of course, Abigail.
“Why don’t you come with me, Mother, to my Aggregation meeting next week? You could talk with some of the women and get a feel for the energy of the group.”
“I’m sure I have a Preserve Domesticity meeting that night.”
“If you joined me, I think it would help you understand how exciting it is to be a young woman right now. Opportunities to have a voice and dreams are gathering steam by the day.”
“Such obsession with your needs and desires is selfish,
Kate. Mothers and ladies should always put themselves second to the needs of their children, husband, and the proper maintenance of the home.”
“Ugh. I give up.”
“Your tone, Kate.”
“I’m ending the call, Mother.”
The box immediately shut down. A tiny spark hung suspended for a moment, then vanished.
“I’m very glad you did, Kate,” Belle said aloud.
On the floor, she rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Would she and her mother have bickered? Did Eva love gardening, too? Mothers spending time with their daughters around town often caught Belle’s eye. She’d watch a woman rock her baby girl in her arms, making loving little clicking noises down toward the blanket. Or she’d see a mother and her hip-high daughter holding hands, the young girl gazing up at her beloved mama. To Belle, the bond between the two always seemed tender and unbreakable.
“Why did you have to die?” she said softly.
Belle closed her eyes and imagined creating fragrant bouquets with her mother, the two of them laughing, both with their favorite bloom tucked behind an ear.
•••
The freshly painted white schoolhouse served a variety of purposes—educating children, monthly debates about town business, performances by the Fort Myers Theatrical Troupe. What never changed was the presence of a life-size wooden pineapple, chiseled by Mr. Ritter to represent the town seal. It commanded a prominent position in the room no matter what activity was under way.
On this afternoon, the schoolhouse accommodated the first gathering of a potential club with no name. Wooden chairs were configured in a circle, only one of the seven still empty. Abigail would be stopping by, but not sitting with the group.
“We’re waiting on Hazel Cravin,” Belle said quietly. She glanced again at the door.
To her right was Sadie Tillis, nursing a baby on her large, half-concealed breast. One of two wet nurses in town, Sadie always had a tiny heart beating next to hers. Over the years, Belle often helped her in Duggan’s, amazed that the woman could think straight about what she needed while her five children grabbed at her skirt or touched something she’d warned them to leave alone.
After the Rain Page 8
