The Hope Chest

by Karen Schwabach

  Violet felt a sinking in her stomach. What Miss Kelley said made perfect sense. When she looked up to reply, Miss Kelley had vanished in the moving throng. There was still no sign of Chloe anywhere.

  The crowd carried her into the dark, vaulted first floor of the capitol. They surged up the wide stone staircase with the bullet-gouged handrail. Violet looked around, hoping to see Chloe in the crowd, but elbows and shoulders closed in all around her, blocking her view.

  In the light, high-ceilinged main floor of the capitol, everyone was pushing toward the House chamber. The doors were open, and people were pouring onto the House floor. Violet joined them. Soon she was one of hundreds of women crowded among the old mahogany desks in front of the high Speaker's dais. “Out, ladies, please! Out!” a harassed-looking man in a uniform was saying. “Spectators are forbidden on the floor. All up to the galleries, please.”

  He put his hand on Violet's shoulder. “Up to the gallery, please, miss.” He gave her a little shove toward the door.

  Violet went out. It was too crowded on the House floor, and she couldn't see what was going on very well from there anyway. She started toward the narrow stairs to the spectators' gallery. Then she noticed a folded paper on the stone floor.

  It was an envelope. It was addressed Harry T. Burn, Hermitage Hotel, Nashville, Tennessee.

  Violet held the envelope in her hand, uncertain what to do. It was a letter to Mr. Burn, and it might be important. But Mr. Burn was an Anti. He had danced with Chloe, and with Violet, and remained an Anti. Every list she'd seen had had him listed as an Anti.

  The envelope was open. Violet looked around her. The high-ceilinged hall was full of people heading toward the galleries or toward the House floor or just milling about in confusion. The stone walls and ceiling rang with voices, and footsteps, and an occasional high-pitched, nervous laugh. You could feel the tension in the air, Violet thought. There was a sense that today really was the day, after yesterday's false alarm.

  It was very wrong to read other people's mail, and Violet knew it. She thought about how angry she had been at Mother for reading her letters from Chloe. But this was different, she told herself. This letter had already been opened. She glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to her. She slid the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. This is very wrong, she thought, but she read it anyway.

  Dear Son:

  Hurrah and vote for suffrage! Don't keep them in doubt! I noticed some of the speeches against. They were bitter. I have been watching to see how you stood but have not noticed anything yet. Don't forget to be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt put the “rat” in ratification!

  Your Mother

  Violet folded the letter hastily and stuffed it back in the envelope. The letter was from Mr. Burn's mother, who sounded less distant than her own mother. She couldn't imagine Mother starting a letter to her with “Dear Daughter.” But then, she couldn't imagine Mother writing a letter to her at all. She wondered if Mr. Burn was in the habit of listening to his mother—a lot of people were. She'd better get this letter back to him. He might not even have read it yet—so many letters and telegrams had been stolen over the last few days. If he had gotten it, maybe he needed to read it again to remind him that millions of women needed his vote and that one of those women was his mother.

  Violet knew that the Suffs had once considered Mr. Burn “persuadable.” Maybe it wasn't too late. She wove through the crowd and worked her way back into the House chamber, darting by the sergeant at arms and wending her way through the crowds of women and men wearing red and yellow roses. “Mr. Burn!” She looked among the dark mahogany desks. “Mr. Burn!”

  There he was. Mr. Burn looked up from his desk, a guarded, nervous expression on his face. It was the expression all of the legislators had come to wear since Monday—they reminded Violet of Mr. Martin, being hunted by agents. “You dropped this, Mr. Burn.” She held out the folded envelope.

  Wordlessly he took the envelope, without looking at it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He didn't meet her eyes. Violet thought that was a bad sign, then thought maybe it was a good sign, since Mr. Burn thought Violet was an Anti.

  The sergeant at arms was coming toward Violet—why did he keep picking on her? There were at least a hundred women on the floor who weren't supposed to be there. Violet wove her way out of the chamber and into the great cross-shaped hallway again.

  “Excuse me.” A woman wearing a red rose tapped Violet on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where the ladies' lavatory is?”

  Violet looked at the woman. She was tall and thin and in her forties. She was wearing a worn-out polka-dot dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat with tired-looking poppies on it. Everything about the woman looked tired. “I think it's at the top of the stairs.”

  “No, I looked,” said the tired woman. “There's only a men's.”

  Violet looked. There was a huge oaken door with a sign over it that said Gentlemen.

  “Well, maybe it's around the other side of the hall,” said Violet, pointing.

  “I looked there already,” said the woman. “I don't think there is a ladies' lavatory.” She looked close to panic.

  “What do you expect?” said Violet, losing her patience. “Of course there's no ladies'. If you don't want women to vote and you don't want women to have any say in government, then why on earth do you expect to find a ladies' lavatory in the capitol?” She had raised her voice much more loudly than she should have; she knew she was being rude.

  “What do you mean?” The tired-looking woman looked shocked. “I never said anything about voting. I just want the lavatory. Goodness, you young people today have no manners at all.” Tears started in her tired eyes, and Violet felt terrible for having been rude.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “Maybe there's a lavatory over here.” She gestured to the woman and went over to the other side of the huge, vaulted marble hall to a place where it looked like there might be a recess that could lead to a bathroom.

  The woman followed her. “Why are there so many people here?” she said. “What's this all about, anyway?”

  Violet stared at her. “We're here to fight for justice. For the right to vote. You're against it.” She pointed to the woman's red rose, even though it was rude to point.

  The tired woman touched her red rose gingerly. “Is that what this means? They just rounded all of us lady workers up at the mill and gave us red roses to wear and brought us up here in an omnibus.”

  Violet was too surprised to answer. She opened the door to what she'd thought was the ladies' room. It was a broom closet.

  “Brooks, tell Turner that Governor Cox is on the phone,” a man's voice snapped.

  Violet looked around. They were next to an open office door. She peered in. Two men were standing over a telephone. The man with the receiver in his hand had a stern, thin face with a pointed nose. The other man, Brooks, was round and chubby. They glared at each other.

  “Get Turner in here now,” said the man with the pointed nose.

  Brooks muttered something about “attempts to influence the vote.”

  “Of course it's an attempt to influence his vote! Now get him in here at once. We can't leave a presidential candidate hanging on the phone.”

  Brooks said, “Yes, Governor Roberts,” and turned and walked out of the office.

  The man with the pointed nose—Governor Roberts—looked up and saw Violet. He looked at the yellow rose on her hat. “He's not going to do it. Go get Turner for me, girl.”

  Violet paused on the threshold. She had never spoken to a governor before. She was almost sure you were supposed to curtsy when you did, but she had more important things on her mind. Chloe had said Governor Roberts was a Suff. He was the one who had called this special session in Tennessee. But some of the Suffs' strongest supporters had changed sides. People seemed to be changing sides every minute. Violet had no intention of helping out the wrong side.

  “Are you still a Suff, Governor?” she asked.
/>   “Of course I'm a Suff,” the governor snapped. “And Governor Cox is a Suff. And he's going to be the next president of the United States, and he's right here on the phone—long distance, which is not cheap—and he wants to talk to Turner. Now run, kid!”

  Violet turned and hurried back to the House chamber. She passed the tired-looking woman with the red rose, who was saying in great embarrassment to Brooks, “… a place where I could wash my hands?”

  “The ladies' is down on the ground floor,” Brooks said. “Here, let me show you where it is.” He held out his arm to the tired-looking lady and guided her toward the stone staircase. It could not have been clearer that he wasn't going to look for Turner.

  Violet ducked past the sergeant at arms and into the chamber. “Mr. Turner!” she called. She didn't know what he looked like. “Mr. Turner!” There was no answer. One thing all of the legislators had learned in the last few days was not to answer when they were called. With a flash of inspiration, Violet pulled off her hat and plucked the yellow rose from it. She stuck it inside her hat and clapped the hat back on her head. Then she grabbed a page boy. “Where's Mr. Turner?”

  The page boy nodded toward a man who was studiously looking away from her. Violet went up to his desk. “Mr. Turner, there's an urgent phone message for you. Please come at once.”

  The man looked up at her sourly. He had heard a lot about urgent phone messages in the last few days.

  “There really is,” said Violet. “I'm not lying. It's from …” She took a deep breath, not sure if this was a mistake or not. “It's from Governor Cox. The presidential candidate.”

  Mr. Turner looked even more sour. “I know who Governor Cox is, miss.” He got tiredly to his feet. Violet led him out of the House chamber (the sergeant at arms scowled and said, “Don't come back in here again, missy”) and across the great hall to the office where the phone call was waiting.

  Mr. Turner reached for the telephone, glaring at Violet at the same time. “All right, I'm here, miss. Now scram. Good morning, Governor.”

  Governor Roberts smiled at Violet. “Thanks, kid. Now run along.”

  Violet went back out into the hall. The crush of people moving up the narrow staircases to the spectators' gallery had slowed to a trickle. Violet went up the stone stairs to the gallery. It was swelteringly hot. From the balcony at the top of the stairs, she looked down at the cross-shaped hall. Still no Chloe.

  Violet looked around the crowded gallery for a seat. There were none left. People were crammed into the aisles. There were deep windowsills, two feet deep and at least six feet wide, near the floor, and people were standing on them.

  Violet wormed her way through the crowd to the brass rail at the front of the gallery. She stood behind the rail, with people pressing close all around her. She looked down at the House floor below. She hadn't had a good view of it when she was down there. The whole chamber was hung with yellow—yellow bunting, yellow flowers.

  There was even a yellow sunflower wound around an eagle on the wall. Chloe wasn't down there either.

  “There are too many red roses,” a woman standing next to Violet murmured.

  Violet looked up and saw Miss Dexter, the lady she'd ridden with on the train from Washington. “There's an awful lot of yellow,” she said.

  “Up here there is,” said Miss Dexter. “But there are too many red roses down there.”

  Violet looked down at the floor again. Miss Dexter was right. More legislators were making their way into the chamber from the committee rooms alongside. Some wore yellow roses, but far too many wore red roses. Violet saw Credwell, the Suff legislator she had retrieved in the Hope Chest the day before. He was a Suff no longer. He was wearing a red rose.

  “Did you notice Harry T. Burn has a red rose?” someone near Violet said. “Cross Burn off.”

  Miss Dexter winced. “We worked so hard on Burn,” she said to Violet.

  A ripple of excitement spread through the galleries as a man with a yellow rose made his way onto the floor. “Griffin!” Miss Dexter said. “Griffin made it back from California. Thank God.”

  A very pale, unhealthy-looking man limped out onto the floor, leaning on the shoulder of an aide. He wore a yellow rose on his lapel. Cheers broke out in the gallery.

  “Dowlen!” Miss Dexter cried, cheering with the rest. “Dowlen! He's alive.”

  Seth Walker pounded his gavel. “Order! The House is in session. All non-members must leave the floor.”

  “Turncoat,” Miss Dexter hissed, glaring at Walker. “Traitor. Benedict Arnold.” A woman wearing a red rose turned around and scowled at Violet, apparently under the impression that she was the one who had spoken.

  “Non-members, leave the floor!” Seth Walker commanded again.

  There were plenty of non-members on the floor, men and women, pleading and cajoling with the representatives, trying to change their votes. Officials came around taking people by the arms and leading them off the floor over to the sidelines.

  “We haven't got it,” Miss Dexter murmured. “We haven't got it.”

  Other people around Violet were whispering the same thing. Violet felt her stomach do an anguished flip-flop. How was it possible? How could everything they'd worked so hard for fail?

  “What do you mean, we haven't got it?” she demanded.

  “We have forty-seven votes,” said Miss Dexter. “Out of ninety-nine. Ninety-six members are present. And the Antis have forty-nine votes.”

  “That's impossible!” Violet said.

  “Shh!” several people hissed.

  “Count the roses for yourself,” Miss Dexter snapped.

  A young woman in a wide-brimmed hat turned around. Violet recognized Miss Anita Pollitzer. “Here's the list, Violet. See for yourself.”

  Violet took the paper Miss Pollitzer handed her. Names and tally marks had been crossed out and written over.

  “But some of these people were ours yesterday!” Violet said, remembering to speak quietly. Debate had started on the floor below now. “Like Blotz and Credwell!”

  “They certainly were,” said Miss Pollitzer. “But they aren't now.”

  “But it's not fair!” Violet managed with difficulty to keep her voice low. “They can't have just sold their votes like that.”

  “Of course they can,” said a woman near Violet, who was wearing a yellow sash. “All you need to buy votes is a whole lot of money and a few fools who actually agree with you.”

  Violet shook her head, rejecting this cynical view. She handed the paper back to Miss Pollitzer.

  Miss Dexter clutched Violet's shoulder hard. “He's called for a vote!”

  “What?” said Violet.

  The murmur went around the gallery. “He's called the question. Mr. Walker's called for a vote. That means he's sure. He knows.”

  Knows the Antis have enough votes to win, thought Violet.

  “So this really is the end,” Miss Dexter said. Violet heard tears in her voice.

  “It's not the end,” she said, more because she wanted to comfort Miss Dexter than because she believed it. “There's Vermont.”

  “We can't get Vermont,” someone said, and Violet whirled around to see Chloe.

  “When did you get here?” Violet cried. “Is Mr. Martin—”

  “Shh!” several people hissed at once.

  “Yes,” said Chloe. Violet thought she was answering the question about Mr. Martin, but what did “yes” mean?

  “They're voting on a motion to table!” an Anti near Violet snapped. “What's that mean, ‘table’?”

  Miss Dexter frowned. “It means to not vote on ratification at all,” she said. “To table the question—to put it aside. It's what North Carolina did. You blithering idiot,” she added.

  Several people around Miss Dexter gasped, and the Anti turned around and looked ready to slap Miss Dexter. “You take that back!”

  “Oh, shut up and go back to your kitchen,” Miss Dexter snarled. “Or wherever you think Woman's Sphere is.�
�

  Violet seized Miss Dexter by the arm and, with Chloe's help, led her away before a fight could start. The crowd squeezed aside to let them through. They found a space near the back. Violet and Chloe each kept a tight hold on one of Miss Dexter's arms.

  “I'd like to rearrange her face for her,” Miss Dexter said. “The idiotic traitor to her sex.”

  “Do it later,” Violet suggested. “Look, we can see better from up here.”

  A cheer went up in the gallery. “Defeated!” someone cried.

  “What happened?” Miss Dexter demanded.

  A man near them turned around, beaming. “Looks like Mr. Turner's changed sides. He voted against the motion to table and it tied.”

  “Tied?” said Violet, confused.

  “Forty-eight to forty-eight,” the man said. “That kills a motion to table. Turner was an Anti, but he just voted against tabling, with the Suffs. He changed sides. Either that or he made a mistake.”

  He didn't make a mistake, Violet thought. He got a phone call.

  “It's finished,” Miss Dexter said. “Turner changing sides isn't enough. We have forty-eight, they have forty-eight.” She stuffed her fingers into her mouth and began biting them.

  “I don't believe it!” said the man in front of them. “That Seth Walker is making them vote to table again. Can he even do that? And now he's down there with his arm around Turner, talking in his ear.”

  Violet stood up on tiptoes and was just in time to see Turner shrug Seth Walker away from him, get to his feet, and vote against the motion to table again.

  “Now he's calling the question!” someone said.

  “He's calling the question.” Everyone was murmuring and whispering it to each other. “This is it. Seth Walker's calling the question.”

  Violet desperately wanted to ask Chloe what had happened to Myrtle and Mr. Martin, but now wasn't the time. She and Chloe were on opposite sides of Miss Dexter, and a hush fell over the chamber and galleries that seemed to forbid even a whisper. Violet was still clutching Miss Dexter's arm, and Miss Dexter clutched hers now too. Violet didn't even especially like Miss Dexter—she couldn't forget about that business with Myrtle on the train—but right now they were clinging to each other as if their lives depended on it.