Stories from Suffragette City Page 2

  Ash wheels about and sprints after them, dodging mudholes and ruts, keeping a view as long as she can. A yellow blanket, tied across the back of the auto, puffs in the breeze. Big, black words are painted on, but she can’t read them before the rumbling beast rounds a curve and is gone, its polished skin flicking back splinters of sunlight.

  When she returns to the wagon, Blue’s mouth is still hanging open, and his eyes are as big as tin dinnerplates. “Woweee! A oh-doough-mobile.”

  “Automobile,” Ash corrects. She reads to the twins, when they can find the time to play pretend. In their games, she’s the pretty teacher and they’re the little hill kids who’ve come down to her school to learn things that can’t be known up on the mountain.

  “Ff f f,” the farm wife spits under her breath. “Suffragettes.” Brushing the mud-spatter from her dress as she clutches an apple-filled apron, she scowls at the now-quiet road, her face narrow and red. The angry sweat breaking out over her cheeks doesn’t match the coolness of the day.

  Ash fidgets uncomfortably, wondering if the woman might change her mind about the apples. Having grown up always watching for the signs of Pa’s mood going sour, Ash knows how to read the clues. Fists clenching, hands slapping, tools banging, red skin, eyes that scrunch up and turn hard.

  Time to run for the orchard, if you can get away with it.

  “We best settle up and be on our way, I expect.” Ash holds her arms stiff at her sides, fingers clenched over wads of her threadbare dress.

  “Votes for women,” the farm wife grumbles, staring off down the road yet. “A travesty, that’s what that is. What in heaven’s name would a woman want with a vote? She’ll only have to do what her husband pleases with it.”

  Ash sends the twins to the wagon with only the slightest twitch of her head. They have their signs, the three of them. Things no one else can see. Ways of warning each other that there might be trouble.

  “Well, won’t she?” the woman demands, crooking her head to regard Ash.

  “I guess so,” Ash says, and hopes it’s the right answer. The one that won’t upend the apple sale.

  “Shamefulness, I tell you. No decent woman would go about in such a way.” Cradling her apron load like a pregnant belly, the farm wife sweeps off toward the house. “Come along!” she snaps when Ash doesn’t follow.

  Ash trots after her into the yard, then hurries ahead to hold open the door, hoping that might sweeten the farm wife’s bad mood. Ash’s stomach grumbles and knots up as she gently lets the door close, then waits on the porch, crossing her fingers behind her back, praying the woman’s apple money is enough to provide something better than walnuts and persimmons to eat tonight. Maybe they can buy some buckwheat flour, even. Fried buckwheat flour cakes would taste as good as cream straight off the milk right now. Better, even.

  When the woman comes back, she offers Ash a small muslin bundle, tied up with a piece of string. “Here’s four slices of bread and a bit of cheese. You share it with the others,” the farm wife says. When Ash tucks the gift in one elbow and holds out her hands, the woman drops in three silver nickels, as well. “Now, you won’t get five cents a pound from most other people you meet, but don’t take less than four. Those are fine apples. You’d do well to go on south toward the crossroads to Patterson and Quaker Hill. It’s early in the day yet, and fools will be traipsing off to catch the train to New York City, I suppose … so as to see those suffragette women make a spectacle of themselves this afternoon in their silly parade.”

  Fastening her gaze to the bundle and the coins, Ash nods, swallows the water in her mouth and the prickly swelling in her throat. The food smells good, and kindness is a thing so far back in her memory that its sudden presence makes her feel dizzy and uncertain.

  “And take care you don’t end up like that girl in the wagon with you. There’s no good to come from marrying so young.” Propping her fists on her hips, the farm wife towers over Ash. “You hill girls. Honestly. You can’t help it, I suppose.”

  The sweet taste in Ash’s mouth turns sour.

  “Well, get on with your troubles, now,” the woman commands. “I have wash to hang. If you hurry down the road, you’ll likely catch some business yet.”

  Ash does as she’s told, tucking the coins safely in her pocket and returning to the wagon. Giving the food bundle to the twins to divide, she prods the mule into a trot, hurrying on toward the crossroads, where, if the farm wife is right, they might find people who have money and need apples.

  Real bread and bites of cheese improve everyone’s mood, except the mule’s, and help to make short work of the trip downcountry to the junction.

  When they arrive, there’s a woman in the road. Tall, and thin, and straight, she seems at first like a strange, wandering spirit, standing there in her white dress and hat. Her arms stretch skyward, hands extended all the way through the fingertips, as if she means to grab on to a cloud and float away.

  The mule slows, unsure, or perhaps Ash pulls him up as she tries to make sense of the woman. Maybe she bounced out of the automobile and it drove on without her? The white dress is smudged and mud-spattered, and her hat hangs off-center in a way that says something’s gone wrong with her day. Her long yellow silk scarf has fallen from one shoulder, its tip trailing in the mud.

  The wagon is almost upon her before the rattle and squeal cause her to lower her arms and shuffle in a slow, unsteady turn that shows she can’t be one of the young women who raced by earlier. Even before strands of gray hair come into view beneath the crooked hat, this woman’s age is clear.

  Not one of those from the automobile, Ash is relieved to realize. Not one of the terrible kind the farm wife didn’t like.

  “Praise be! You’ve come!” The stranger staggers impatiently over the muddy ground to meet them as Ash pulls on the mule. “I am the Reverend Octavia Rose, and I must have your help.”

  “We don’t know you,” Ash answers, but her throat is dry and the words come out weak and small. Pa never trusts strangers, and the few times one ever came up the mountain, he didn’t take it well. Twice after Brother died, somebody named “Reverend” rode up and Pa turned that man away with a gun. Said nobody calling themselves “Reverend” was welcome. Ever.

  “We just came to sell our apples here. To folks passing by,” Ash lets her know. “You have need of some good apples? If not, we’d best get on with our work. Blue, Dab, hold some apples up so she can see.”

  The old woman doesn’t even wait for the twins to scramble around and uncover the baskets. “I’ll buy all of them,” she says. “If you will kindly bring them to my automobile and assist me in righting it on the road. I’ve had an accident, but only a slight one. Even so, the poor thing can’t seem to make its way out of the ditch. It’s most important that I continue on my way as quickly as possible. I must be in the city by three o’clock for the parade.”

  Ash’s heart upticks a bit. This is the sort of person the farm wife warned about.

  But, if she might buy the whole load of apples …

  “You one of them sufferin’ women?” Blue pipes up, leaning around the wagon seat.

  “Hush, Blue,” Ash tells him, then turns back to business. “Now … we get four … I mean five cents a pound for our apples, and—”

  “Yes, yes,” the woman answers impatiently. “You may estimate the total pounds and we will settle on a price once the work is done. Is that a good, strong mule? And have you a length of chain or rope we might use to pull my automobile free? I don’t believe much will be needed to set her right again. She’s a good, sturdy Model T. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have dug her out myself.”

  “Haven’t you got nobody with you?” Blue asks, and this time Clarey and Dab shush him together.

  The Reverend Octavia Rose raises her chin and straightens her hat. “Young man, I have not, and I need not,” she tells him. “I’ve traveled the length and width of a dozen states in my day. Served as one of the first ordained female ministers i
n this vast country and campaigned in the cause of justice for the female sex. I’ve not required the help of man or woman to make my way, and I won’t begin now.” Moving to the rear of the wagon, she braces her hands against the rough wooden bottom. Her breath comes in tattered gasps as she attempts to gain a seat there. “And … while … some … some well-meaning persons in the family may attempt to question … my competence … at this … this juncture, I will not be dissuaded … in today’s mission. Not by anyone. Boy, find something I might stand on to hoist myself into this wagon, or gather your sisters and help me in. We haven’t time to waste.”

  “Her and her are my sisters. That one’s my stepma, Clarey,” Blue offers up, then scampers off the wagon.

  The woman studies the three of them, then sighs. “Merciful heavens!” Her eyes roll upward. “I am reminded of why we must fight this battle until we can stand on the field no longer.” With a sudden rush of strength, she drags and wriggles herself sideways into the wagon bed. Her lacy dress catches on rough boards and loose nails as Blue rushes around to help and Dabine crawls over.

  “No fussing over me,” the reverend admonishes, as Dab recovers a bit of dislodged lace and tries to hand it over. “We must hurry to free my Tin Lizzie from the mud. With a bit of good fortune, I will still arrive at East Eleventh Street in time to be in line with the autos and join the parade.”

  But luck, as it turns out, isn’t with them. The Model T is heavier and more thoroughly stuck than the woman said, and the traffic coming down the road from Quaker Hill isn’t what the farm wife predicted. An hour passes as they dig around the tires, and try with the mule, and dig and try. As the last great pull wrenches the automobile free, and it roars onto the road, its tires spitting out a fan-shaped spray of mud, the mule’s dry, worn harness snaps at the uptug strap.

  The reverend inspects the damage with Ash and Clarey, while the twins circle the Model T, peeking over and under, surveying its untold wonders. “These harness leathers are on the verge of disaster throughout. You’re fortunate to have made it this far with such an ill-kept rig.” Drumming her fingers on the mule’s collar, the reverend eyes the road impatiently. “I can’t send you off in this condition.”

  “If you’d just pay us for the apples, we’ll be on our way,” Ash prods nervously. “We can load them in your car? All the apples, like you said?”

  But the reverend won’t look her way. “It will be on my soul if the lot of you should perish in a wreck.”

  “If we head back upcountry now, we’ll make it home before dark.”

  “I do know my way around a harness.” The reverend turns from the road, her blue eyes gauging each of the twins, then Clarey, and finally Ash. “I was a farm girl … once upon a time, long ago. Worked to the bone caring for eight brothers and sisters and a mother who’d long since broken down under the strain. I know my way around a rig, and a mule, and the sort of toil that is heaped on a girl much too young to withstand it.”

  A chill travels Ash’s body, but it’s not the nippy fall wind at fault; it’s the way the woman seems to look not at her, but through her. Into things Ash knows better than to tell.

  Their eyes lock and hold.

  Ash shakes her head a little to break the tie. Why is the woman watching her that way? What’s the thing Ash should say? The words that will finish up their bargain?

  “I simply must continue on to the parade,” the woman mutters, tapping a knuckle to her chin. “I signed the participation pledge, and aside from that, it is the culmination of my life’s work, this one final push in the fight to free women from their bondage, to give them the dignity of a voice in public affairs and the power of the vote.”

  “What would a woman want with a vote?” Ash echoes the farm wife’s words in hopes of showing that she’s not some little child. Not a baby like the twins. She knows things. “She just has to do what her husband tells her with it, anyway.” As soon as it’s in the air, Ash wishes she could take it back. The reverend’s eyes go wide and fiery. Ash tucks her chin and ducks away. There’s no mistaking that kind of look and what it means.

  But the reverend doesn’t strike. She doesn’t slap, or grab hair by the handful, or clutch a skinny arm and twist it until it burns and stabs and goes numb. She only looks at Ash for a very long time.

  “Transfer the apples to my automobile. Fill the splash apron in the back seat with as many as can possibly fit,” she says finally, in a way that leaves no room for argument. “But leave the seats for yourselves. You will accompany me to the parade, in case I should need further assistance along the way. When we have completed our mission, I will pay you for the apples, as well as the day’s work, and we will return to see about your wagon … and then we will see about you.”

  It’s that last part that worries Ash. We will see about you. Those words cast a shadow over how exciting it’d be to get a ride in an automobile for the first time ever. “But … we’ve got our mule.”

  “There was a farm up the way I came, not more than a half mile.” The reverend squints over her shoulder toward Quaker Hill. “No one was around the place when I tried for help there. We’ll put your mule in the corral and leave a note on the fence explaining. We will manage the rest upon our return. Sometimes, my dear, we must do whatever is needed to seize the day while it is yet the day.”

  Within the hour, they’ve followed the orders of Reverend Octavia Rose, parked the wagon, secured the mule, and left a note signed by the reverend herself.

  “Now, you children needn’t worry about a thing,” the old woman promises, as the twins, and then Clarey, scramble eagerly into the rear seat of the automobile and Ash slides uncertainly into the front. The reverend offers quilts to keep them warm. “Despite my slight miscalculation earlier, I am fully competent in the operation of a Tin Lizzie. In New York it may be uncommon for women to drive, but in Detroit where I am from, even the most common working families are now in possession of automobiles, thanks to Mr. Ford’s affordable products, and the women operate them as well as the men. Even women of an age. I am a bit … out of practice, since a bout with pneumonia last winter brought me here to convalesce at my niece’s home in Quaker Hill, that is all. But I believe the Lizzie and I are finding our stride, even as we speak.” She adjusts various buttons and levers, places one foot on a floor pedal, and the Model T lurches forward.

  “Verbluffend!” Clarey’s squeal rises above the noise. “Ik kan dit niet geloven!”

  The twins turn her way in surprise and the reverend lifts a brow, pausing to glance over her shoulder. “Ben je Nederlands, Clarey?”

  “Ja,” Clarey answers shyly, her downcast gaze lifting and fastening to the woman. “Mijn grootouders zijn Nederlands.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” the reverend remarks. “Your stepmother is a Dutch girl.”

  “She is?” Ash turns to study the stepma she has put up with for almost a year now, but barely known. “I thought she was a Indian. She looks like one.”

  “Ah,” says the reverend. “More likely Black Dutch. Which only goes to show that gauging the truth of a person merely by looking is a fool’s habit.”

  Ash sinks back in her seat as they start off down the road. The car’s odd rumble tickling her feet and legs and its thrilling speed barely tug at her attention. She watches and listens, instead, as the reverend continues questioning Clarey, their loud conversing carrying on the cold breeze in that strange-sounding language Clarey long ago quit using on the farm, because nobody understood it, anyway. Now that someone hears her, Clarey has come to life. She pours out a story of some sort, her hands whirling and her face lengthening as tears pool in in her dark eyes and drip onto the quilt. Clarey has never cried before, not that Ash knows of, anyhow—not even when the too-small baby came into the world and never drew a breath.

  The reverend listens, answering in soothing tones, until finally Clarey sighs and presses herself back into her seat, looking intently at the passing fields and wiping her moisture-stained face.

  “Th
at poor child,” the reverend says, shaking her head. “That poor, poor child.”

  “What’d she tell you?” Ash can’t help but ask, and wonder. And worry.

  Shaking her head, the reverend considers the story for a bit, seeming to decide how much to repeat. “When Clarey was barely eleven—about your age, I’m guessing—a man came to her grandparents’ farm promising that he had good factory work for her in the city. He told her grandparents she would be permitted to come back to visit on holidays, as well as to send money home to help the family save for her parents’ passage over from the Old Country. But the man who took Clarey away was not a good man. He was the worst sort of man. Terrible fates have befallen this dear girl, and that is how she came to meet your father, whom she believed would help her escape and return to her grandparents, but indeed did not. He took her to the mountains and kept her for himself. I have, I can see now, been given a mission to see that she, as well as you and your brother and sister, are left in different and better circumstances before this is through.”

  Different and better circumstances. Ash tries to decide what that might mean. Given a mission …

  Sniffling, the reverend moves her mouth as if she’s working on a bite of gristle. “You asked me,” she says finally, “a question some time ago as we started off on this journey.” She turns Ash’s way as they slow at a bend in the road, where the automobile splashes through a shallow pool of water and the wind quiets. “You asked why a woman would want a vote. What she might do with it. This girl, my dear—your stepmother by no choice of her own—is the reason. She and thousands more like her. They are the reason we fight. The reason we persist in our cause, though the way be rough and rocky. Until women and girls are given a voice, they will have no rights. It will continue to be the case that the young ones are bought and sold, forced into marriages when they are but children themselves, and that the old ones are robbed of their property and their independence. Those of us who can protest it, who can insist on fairness and justice, simply must. That is all. We must make a nuisance of ourselves when it matters. That is why we march.”