“Are you all right?” Myrtle felt Violet's hands on her arms. “Myrtle, say something!”
Myrtle didn't want to say anything, because she thought if she opened her mouth, she might be sick. She wasn't normally a person to get dizzy easily, but then, nobody had ever swung her out the open door of a moving train before.
When she could see clearly again, the man was gone.
Hobie looked after him philosophically. “Don't think he's been a brakeman too long, that fella. You hardly ever see a braky who's still got both hands.”
“A brakeman?” Violet stared at Hobie. “You mean that criminal works for the railroad?”
“Yup,” said Hobie, casting a disgusted look out the open door.
“How … how did he get in here?” Myrtle asked shakily.
“Roof,” said Hobie, nodding upward. “Brakies can climb all over the outside of a moving train, doesn't bother them none.”
“I would th-think,” said Violet, who Myrtle saw was starting to tremble now, “that they would fall off.”
“Oh, they do. All the time. Die like flies,” said Hobie. “They're not all like that,” he added fairly. “Most of them don't care if the brothers and sisters want to grab an armload of boxcars.”
Myrtle had gotten used to Hobie's talk enough to figure out that that was another way to say “catch a ride.”
It was evening when they arrived in Washington.
When they got off the train in Washington, Hobie stayed on it. “Think I'm gonna ride this as far as it goes,” he said. “Might make it to Florida.” He seemed to have no interest in actually being in any of the places that trains went to, Myrtle thought, but only in getting to them.
Myrtle had met kids like Hobie before. New York was full of them—grown-up kids who had been out on their own for years. She didn't really blame Hobie for being tough enough to argue with a brakeman who was threatening to throw her out of a train—toughness was what kept such kids alive. But the next thing he said shocked her.
“There are bound to be a lot of brakemen between Washington and Florida,” Violet said. She reached for her pinned-up handkerchief of money and tried to give it to Hobie. He wouldn't take it.
“I have money,” he said.
“You what?” Myrtle squawked. “You have money?” “You were going to let that brakeman throw Myrtle out of the train when you had money to pay him with?” Violet demanded.
“No, of course I wasn't,” said Hobie. He did not elaborate. “You Angelinas take care, now.”
Myrtle didn't know whether to believe him or not— about the money and about whether he would have let the brakeman throw her off the train. She decided she had to believe he wouldn't have. The alternative was too awful. She took a deep breath.
“You take care too, Hobie,” she said.
“Yes—and thank you,” said Violet.
They waved to him as the train pulled out.
It All Comes Down to Tennessee
VIOLET COULD SEE THE HIGH NEEDLE OF THE Washington Monument in the distance as they picked their way across the gravel bed of the rail yard and stepped over rails and railroad ties. The smell of coal smoke and axle grease hung over everything. Rows of empty boxcars loomed on every side, and Violet could see smoke rising from a clump of trees where there must be a hobo jungle. It wasn't how Violet had imagined Washington would look. The important thing, though, was whether she would be able to find Chloe here. Violet was glad Myrtle was from Washington—she would know her way around.
“Do you know where to find the suffragists?” Violet asked Myrtle.
“Before we find anything, we better get cleaned up,” Myrtle said. “Or anybody we find is gonna scream for the cops.”
Myrtle led Violet out of the rail yard and down a cobblestone street with automobiles parked on it here and there. They turned down an alley and then down another alley that led off it. The alley was only just wide enough for a wagon to pass through. Brick and wooden houses lined both sides of it. The houses looked as if someone had built them in a great hurry fifty years ago and then fled. Probably to escape the fury of the people who had to live in them, Violet thought. The houses had no windows that Violet could see. To make up for this lack, there were a few holes where chunks of wall had fallen off.
Heaps of uncollected garbage overflowed from garbage cans and filled the corners, and the reek of rotten vegetables and mold mixed with a stench of raw sewage. A well-fed-looking rat ambled out from a pile of trash, looked at the girls thoughtfully, and waited for them to pass by.
“This isn't really how I imagined Washington,” Violet admitted.
Myrtle smiled thinly. “No, they don't show this in the picture postcards.”
Colored children lurked here and there in the alley, but they neither looked at nor spoke to Myrtle or Violet.
“This is where I used to live,” Myrtle said. “It's called Louse Home Alley.”
“Louse Home Alley?” Violet said, not sure she had heard right.
“Louse Home Alley,” Myrtle repeated firmly. “Here's where we used to wash up.”
Myrtle led the way down a narrow passage off the alley, which ended in a dirt-paved courtyard where a single water faucet came up from a pipe in the ground. There was a toilet of sorts, a shed that housed a long wooden box with holes cut in it. A horrible smell emanated from the deep pit beneath. Violet tried to pretend that this was nothing unusual to her, since her disgust was so clearly amusing to Myrtle. Violet liked Myrtle but wouldn't have minded if she were a little less of a know-it-all.
They ducked their heads under the faucet and scrubbed. Violet watched charcoal-colored water run down from Myrtle's hair and face, and she was sure it did from hers too. Myrtle took off her apron, revealing an apron-shaped area of blue and white stripes on her now black dress. She tossed the apron and mobcap into a corner of the courtyard.
“You're lucky your clothes were navy blue,” said Myrtle.
She was right, Violet thought. The dirt didn't show as much. Score a point for Mother. Violet wondered if Mother was worried about her. Maybe she was just mad. It was an uncomfortable thought. Violet had never done anything as bad as running away before.
Coming out of the alleys seemed to take less time than going in had. Soon they were on an ordinary street of ordinary brick houses. Two colored women sat on a set of stone steps, one of them rocking a baby carriage with her foot. Some boys played marbles. There were no heaps of garbage and no rats.
They turned into another street, wide and clean-swept and lined with tall brick houses with bay windows. Model Ts and some bigger, more expensive cars were parked along the street. “There's a suffrage lady who lives here,” Myrtle explained, leading Violet up a set of stone steps to a brick house. She rapped on the door with a brass knocker.
The lady who opened the door was colored, with gray hair piled high on top of her head, and dressed in a blue brocaded dress with a high collar. There was something regal about her, Violet thought. She couldn't tell if it was the woman's bearing or her nose, which was long and had a royal tilt at the end. Probably both. The woman looked at Myrtle and Violet with a questioning eye.
Myrtle seemed momentarily abashed but recovered. “Ma'am, are you Professor Mary Church Terrell?”
“Yes,” said the lady. “And you are?”
“Myrtle Davies, ma'am,” said Myrtle. “And this is Violet Mayhew, and we're looking for the woman suffrage ladies.”
“Indeed?” said Professor Terrell, raising an eyebrow at Violet. “Which women's suffrage ladies?”
“My sister came here from New York to work for women's suffrage,” Violet said. “I think she's working on the Susan B. Anthony Amendment; do you know—”
“I am familiar with the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, yes,” Professor Terrell said dryly. “I think your sister is probably with Miss Alice Paul and the National Woman's Party. Their headquarters is Cameron House on the west side of Lafayette Square, near the White House. Do you know how to get there?”
>
“Of course, ma'am,” said Myrtle.
“Perhaps you'd better wash up a bit before you go,” said Professor Terrell. “Good day.”
They walked toward the Washington Monument, passing by more blocks of tenements and corner stores and then into neighborhoods with stately stone houses with broad lawns behind cast-iron fences. Wide avenues ran into other avenues in traffic circles that they had to walk around. There was more traffic now: motorcars, some of them Model Ts like the Hope Chest and some of them elaborate open limousines, Packards and Pierce-Arrows that could hold a dozen people comfortably. Dark green electric trolleys zipped down tracks in the middle of the streets. At some of the more opulent houses, guards in uniform stood at the doors.
“Those are foreign embassies,” Myrtle explained.
It was getting dark when they got to Lafayette Square, a park surrounded by rather grand buildings and houses, one of which, Violet realized with a shock, was the White House. It was set back a bit, behind a wide green lawn. People were strolling on the White House lawn.
Violet stopped to gaze at it. She had seen pictures of the White House all her life, of course, in her schoolbooks and on postcards and on the stereoscope, but now she was standing in front of it—the place where President Woodrow Wilson lived. Where Abraham Lincoln had lived.
“It's kind of small,” she said at last.
Myrtle raised her eyebrows. “You think so? I wouldn't mind living there.”
They crossed Lafayette Square to a wide three-story house that stretched between two bigger buildings that had electric signs identifying them as the Cosmos Club and the Belasco Theatre.
It was hard to believe that it was only yesterday morning that Violet had left Susquehanna; it seemed like a week ago. She wondered if Chloe could possibly be here. The place seemed so grand and un-Chloe-like. Chloe had always talked about living in a log cabin in Alaska. Violet reached up and pulled the door knocker.
“I'll get it, Miss Paul!” a voice said.
The door opened, and a young woman with bobbed brown hair looked down at them in surprise. “What on earth …” She stepped back and started to close the door.
Violet felt panic rising in her throat. Was she never going to find Chloe?
“I'm Chloe Mayhew's sister!” she cried desperately.
The door creaked open again. “Chloe Mayhew's sister?” the woman said.
“Yes,” said Violet. “Is she here? I need to talk to her.”
The woman frowned at Myrtle. “And this is?”
“I'm Myrtle Davies.”
“May we come in, please?” said Violet. She knew this was rude, but the woman's expression suggested she was still going to close the door in their faces, and Violet had been through too much for that. She wanted to see Chloe, now.
“I suppose,” said the woman, frowning at Myrtle.
They stood in the entrance hall while the young woman hurried away calling, “Miss Paul!”
Miss Paul meant Alice Paul, Violet realized with a jolt as the famous woman came out to greet them. Violet had heard of Alice Paul. Flossie had read about her in the newspapers, about how she had organized the nationwide fight for the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, about the women picketing in front of the White House and being attacked by bystanders and soldiers and finally being hauled off to jail. Flossie had made Violet read in the paper Miss Alice Paul's description of how she'd been force-fed by the jailers when she went on a hunger strike. Violet's throat had ached in sympathy for hours after she read it, even though she knew that Mother and Father did not approve of suffragists like Miss Paul. And Chloe. Violet had been annoyed at Flossie for making her read it. She would rather not have known about something that made her feel so uncomfortable.
Miss Paul was a mild-looking brown-haired woman of about thirty-five. She smiled questioningly at Violet and Myrtle. “Miss Mayhew's sister?” she asked Violet.
Violet nodded, not sure how you spoke to famous people.
“Her name's Violet,” said Myrtle helpfully. “And I'm Myrtle Davies.”
“Goodness. You'd better come in and have some tea,” said Miss Paul.
Violet and Myrtle followed Miss Paul and the lady who'd come to the door, Miss Dexter, into the kitchen. Violet was conscious that her and Myrtle's shoes were tracking black train soot on the carpet.
“Your sister's been off campaigning for months,” Miss Paul explained as she poured tea for them. “Ever since the amendment passed Congress with the required two-thirds vote. She took off in that flivver of hers—”
“The Hope Chest,” Violet said, and then realized that she'd interrupted. “I beg your pardon, Miss Paul.” But now that she'd interrupted, she might as well get to the important part. “Do you mean that Chloe isn't here?”
“No, she's in Tennessee,” said Miss Paul.
Violet felt herself sag with disappointment. “Tennessee? Really?”
“Yes, that's where it's all come down to, and so that's where Miss Mayhew is.” Miss Paul smiled. “She's a real fighter, your sister. She picketed the White House with us, and she went to jail.”
“Jail?” said Violet, so surprised she forgot her disappointment for a moment. “Chloe?”
“Don't look so shocked, Violet!” said Miss Paul. “I've been to jail myself.”
“I know,” said Violet. “I read about it in the papers.” She was getting the hang of talking to famous people now. Miss Paul was very normal-seeming and friendly.
“Not the New York Times, I hope!” said Miss Paul, smiling.
“Well, yes,” Violet admitted. “My father made me read the one that said …” Violet saw from Myrtle's expression that she didn't know what they were talking about, so she explained. “The New York Times said that the women picketing the White House just proved that women were unsuited to voting, because no man would ever dream of picketing the White House.” She turned back to Miss Paul. “My father liked that a lot, when they said that.”
“Hello!” A woman with bright red hair came into the kitchen. “Did I hear you talking about jail? I've been to jail six times. We might as well have some of those biscuits if we're having tea.”
“Girls, this is Miss Lucy Burns.” Miss Paul told Miss Burns the girls' names as she opened a packet of Uneeda biscuits. “So your father liked the Times article? A lot of people did. I didn't care for it much.” She laughed. “The Times has always been against us, but we've won New York anyway.”
Miss Paul looked at the map on the kitchen wall and sighed.
Violet and Myrtle looked at the map too. Stars were penciled in on thirty-five of the forty-eight United States. Thirty-five states had ratified the Susan B. Anthony Amendment. Thirty-six were needed for the amendment to become part of the Constitution. If it did, then women would be able to vote in all forty-eight states, not just the sixteen states that had already passed woman suffrage laws of their own.
“Now it's all come down to Tennessee,” said Miss Paul. “A lot of our workers have been there all summer. More are leaving in a few days. Miss Dexter's going. I had hoped to go too, but somebody's got to stay here and manage things at this end … keep pressure on the president, on both political parties, and on Governor Cox and Senator Harding. The two presidential candidates.”
Myrtle got up and walked over to the map. She traced the states that didn't have stars with her finger. There were thirteen of them. “There are a lot of states here that could become number thirty-six,” Myrtle said. “Why Tennessee?”
“Tennessee has agreed to hold a special session of their legislature to consider ratification,” said Miss Dexter in a tone of voice that suggested that she still hadn't forgiven Myrtle for being in their kitchen. “North Carolina is holding a special session to take up a tax question, and they've decided to vote on ratification too. But we have a much stronger organization in Tennessee.”
“Well, you're sure to get one,” Violet said, looking at the long pink parallelogram of Tennessee, where Chloe was. “The other thirty-five ca
me so fast.” She remembered how the first thirty-five states had ratified the amendment, zip-zip-zip, one after another. Sometimes two in one day. She remembered Father and the Mr. R.'s grumbling about it at the dinner table and Mother clucking her tongue over what this world was coming to.
Miss Paul shook her head. “It's not that simple, Violet. You see, we haven't just been winning states, we've been losing them too.” She nodded at the map. “While we were winning thirty-five states, the Antis won eight.”
“Antis?” said Myrtle.
“Antis are people who are opposed to woman suffrage,” said Violet. “Like my parents.” Violet looked from the tiny star of D.C. across yellow Virginia to pink Tennessee and wondered how she was going to get there.
“That's right,” said Miss Paul. “So there are actually only five states still left in play. If we win one of them, the amendment gets ratified; if the Antis win all five of them, the amendment will be defeated, and that”—she sighed—“will be the end.”
“But they won't win all five, will they?” Violet said.
“Three of them are states the Antis have always told us they expected to win,” said Miss Paul. “Florida, North Carolina … and Tennessee.”
“Oh,” said Violet.
“And Vermont and Connecticut have refused to hold special sessions,” said Miss Paul. “The governors of those states are Antis, and the governor is the one who calls a legislature into session.”
Violet thought that this was starting to get confusing. “But they'll vote on the amendment when they come back in their regular sessions, won't they?”
“Maybe,” said Miss Paul. “There's a presidential election coming up in November, though, and I'd like to be able to vote in it.”
Myrtle stared at the map in fascination and drew a line with her finger from Washington, D.C., to Tennessee.
“Now I really think the best thing to do with you girls is to put you in a bathtub. Don't you agree?”
Miss Dexter shot Miss Paul an angry look, but Miss Lucy Burns said, “I do. Come along upstairs, girls.”
Myrtle and Violet were put into a spare bedroom once they were clean and robed in Miss Paul's and Miss Burns's extra nightgowns. In spite of how big the house was, they were aware that an extremely heated discussion was going on downstairs in the kitchen. Violet strained her ears but couldn't catch what was being said.
The Hope Chest Page 5
