by Sydney Avey
Nellie opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Norris jerked her head toward the vacated seats.
“It’s the rules.”
Wanting no more fuss, Nellie obeyed.
Once they had settled themselves, the society’s president welcomed the group and called Mrs. Thrasher to the podium. Although she was well under five feet tall, Mrs. Thrasher was an imposing figure. As she approached, she fixed her eyes on a soapbox that sat in the corner. Then she stood in front of her audience and looked pointedly at the society’s president. That lady lost no time retrieving the box and setting it in place. Mrs. Thrasher put a heavy hand on the president’s shoulder and ascended her platform. She had no notes that needed assembling. Looking down through her spectacles on the ladies gathered below her, she raised her finger and wagged it in the air.
“Here in your midst, you have a white man and a squaw living openly and notoriously together.”
Ladies looked down at their folded hands, shifted position in their seats, or turned to whisper in their neighbor’s ear. Mrs. Thrasher launched into a rambling account of the threat such a situation posed to the moral education of the town’s children. She then called for the ladies to sign a petition calling for the removal of the debauching menace.
After an uncomfortable silence, a thin-faced woman wearing a clean calico dress ventured a question from the back of the room. “Has anyone ever seen them do anything so very notorious?”
“My goodness, yes.” A tall woman in front stood up and turned to face the group. “My husband was over to that shack they’re living in and he saw the colonel showing Three Stripe pictures in a fancy magazine and trying to explain things to her.”
“What kind of things?” the thin-faced woman asked.
Mrs. Thrasher rolled her prominent eyeballs and pursed her lips. “Use your imagination.”
The meeting adjourned, and a line formed in front of the petition table. Nellie had developed too much respect for the role solid evidence played in the administration of justice to be comfortable with the condemnation she had just witnessed. Strangely, a sharp pain in the bunion that the ministrations of Three Stripe had eased flared up.
“The stale air in here is giving me a headache,” she told Mrs. Norris. “I will wait for you outside.” Then she bolted for the door, but not before the woman in the calico dress made her escape. Nellie would have liked to have talked to her; she admired women who asked questions, but they were rarely the type who banded together. The Calico dress had come late and alone and left at the first opportunity.
By the time Mrs. Norris trailed out of the meeting place, Nellie’s bladder was full and her store of patience empty. “Who was that woman to come to town and say such things to those ladies?” she asked as she limped alongside the innkeeper.
“She did get them riled, didn’t she?” Mrs. Norris quickly changed the subject to a new recipe for bean soup she planned to try out for dinner the following evening.
R
The next day, Nellie had to be in court. She made her way through a small crowd and entered the wooden structure that served as a courthouse in tiny Gold Beach. Once a grocery store with a backroom pool hall, the building now stood empty, except for once a year when court was in session.
This Tuesday morning, people poured into town from the surrounding countryside. They had traveled by foot, on horseback or buckboard, motorcar or boat to reach the county seat. A court session allowed them to renew acquaintances and friendships, swap horses, and show off new babies born during the year. It also afforded the opportunity for the young people to do their own kind of courting.
Inside the dusty makeshift courtroom, Nellie found the table that had been set up for her and took a seat. Just before the bailiff said the “All Rise,” she spotted Ida Wells in the public gallery. Sitting beside Ida was the thin-faced woman. A slim skirt and a long, loose-cut jacket replaced the calico dress. The two sat apart from a cozy of townsfolk.
Nellie had no time to think what this meant. Court was now in session. She gave all her attention to the judge. The whiskered gentleman with an air of Santa Claus about him winked at her and asked the clerk to read the calendar.
Checking the short calendar as the clerk read, Nellie was surprised to see Mrs. Thrasher’s case against the old soldier and the Indian woman on the docket. How had she managed that so quickly? She would put her money on the tall woman with the well-prepared accusation. The two of them must have worked together in secret before the public meeting. What was the use of a petition, then, if the deed was done?
A commotion at the door caught Nellie’s attention. She looked up to see several ladies silhouetted against the morning sun that streamed in through the door. Skirts rustled. Boots clicked on the floor. Scents of rose water mingled with the faint odor of dry rot.
The bailiff rushed up and escorted Mrs. Thrasher and several members of the Ladies Aid Society to a long bench behind the district attorney. The district attorney turned and nodded politely to the gallery of women that Nellie supposed were there to give him moral support for the important task ahead. Heat flashed through Nellie’s body that she refused to attribute to menopause.
Despite her sneezes, Nellie’s pencil raced across page after page in her reporter’s notebook forming squiggles and word abbreviations, verbatim transcripts she would later format and file with the county clerk. She set down every word.
The Clerk:
Your Honor, we have only a criminal docket.
The Court:
Very well, read the cases to be tried and the offenses with which each defendant is charged.
The Clerk:
State of Oregon vs. Jim Marks, charged with rape.
The State of Oregon vs. Pete Bean, charged with having in his possession one quart of White Mule.
The State of Oregon vs. David Plummer, charged with maintaining and operating a still.
Four uncontested divorce cases; desertion is charged.
The State of Oregon vs. Colonel Reynolds, charged with living openly and notoriously with Three Stripe, a Yurok.
The Court:
I have read somewhere, and I can’t seem to recollect where, that the first shall be last and the last first. I think that is a pretty good idea, so we will call the Reynolds case first.
District Attorney:
Your Honor, I object to the introduction of documentary evidence that has not first been submitted to me.
The Court:
I do not think the court is going to be unduly biased by looking at this paper. I will just take a look here and if I think it is of interest to you, I will ask the clerk to pass it over.
The district attorney tugged a file and a few notes from his overstuffed folio case. Nellie looked over at Three Stripe, who sat on a blanket on the floor. The colonel limped forward to be sworn in and take the witness stand, where he was questioned at length about his living arrangements. Nellie recorded the proceedings:
The judge glanced at the paper and handed it to the clerk, who passed it to the district attorney.
District Attorney:
Are you MARRIED to Three Stripe, Colonel Reynolds?
Defendant:
Yes sir. That is what I have been trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t let me. Hateya, that’s her Indian name, takes good care of me. Your honor, I’ve been teaching her how to read and write her name and …
The Court:
Case dismissed. The defendant is discharged. Recess until one o’clock.
The judge looked with bemusement at the backs of the women of the Ladies Aid Society, who filed out singly or in pairs. Mrs. Thrasher had slipped away shortly after the district attorney had made the old soldier’s circumstances public. A charge of public indecency would hardly stand. The colonel had produced a marriage certificate.
Nellie readied her pencils and notebooks for the afternoon session. Then she caught up with the colonel as he ushered his wife from the room.
“Colonel, I was wondering: what is the meani
ng of the name Hateya?”
The Indian woman lifted her tattooed chin and spoke up clearly, lisping only on the last word. “It mean, footprint in the sand.”
As promised, Mrs. Norris served a delicious bean soup for dinner that evening. Nellie emptied her bowl. As she lifted her napkin to her lips she addressed her hostess. “That was a lovely soup.” Then she nodded at Ida Wells.” Much tastier than the crow I imagine Mrs. Thrasher is eating tonight.”
16 - A Growing Family
16
A Growing Family
Portland, 1925
Four years after Opal and Felix married, great joy and great sorrow visited them. Opal gave birth to twin girls, Jane and Jean. Jane lived, but Jean failed to thrive and died a few weeks after her birth.
The progress Felix had made winning over Leone diminished. No more weekend afternoons at the movies or trips to the beach, Felix now had his hands full making funeral arrangements for the tiny infant, fixing bottles for the surviving twin, and comforting Opal. It was Nellie who noticed Leone’s barely contained resentment. Leone seemed to have three temperatures. She simmered on sulky, erupted into heated outbursts, and boiled over in defiance.
Nellie didn’t wish to intrude, but something had to be done. Felix lacked the will, and Opal lacked the strength to deal with a moody teenager. One Sunday morning, Nellie showed up at their house and shooed the exhausted parents out of doors.
“It’s a beautiful day.” Nellie held the front door open. “Take the baby for a carriage ride.”
Leone shuffled into the front room, her hair in her face, her pajamas limp with too much wear between washings. “I’m not going,” she said.
“No,” Nellie said, “you’re not. You are going to stay here, and you and I are going to have a talk.”
Felix mouthed a thank you over Leone’s head and scooped up the red-faced baby from where she lay on a rug, kicking tiny feet inside the blanket that swaddled her.
“Scoot,” Nellie said to Opal. “Go get some air.”
The door banged behind them, and Leone rubbed sleep and tears out of her eyes. “Fifteen is a ridiculous age to have a baby sister!”
“You are hardly the first to be inconvenienced by a late arrival.”
Leone threw her hands in the air and thrust her face heavenward. “I have been banished to Saint Mary’s so Mother can fuss over her new cub.”
Nellie clicked her tongue. Leone snickered and fell back on the sofa pillow. “Get it? Wolff. Cub.”
“Oh, I get it, Leone.” Nellie bent down and patted the girl’s knee. “My sister was born when I was seven years old.”
“Not the same.” Leone thrust out her lower lip and glowered at her grandmother.
“I suppose not. But listen, I have an idea. I have to go to Omaha next month for a meeting of the National Shorthand Reporter’s Association. How about you go with me?”
Leone brushed her hair out of her eyes. “What would I do while you are in meetings?”
“You are a big girl. You could wander around downtown and poke in the shops and art galleries. Omaha has the most beautiful playhouse in America. I will get us tickets to see Abie’s Irish Rose at the Brandeis Theatre.”
Teenage Leone was as stagestruck as they come. With such a grand adventure in sight, her mood improved, if only to ensure that the carrot would not be yanked from her grasp. More difficult was convincing Opal, but Nellie had an ally. Felix talked Opal into letting Leone make the trip.
“Travel is an essential part of her education,” Felix argued. “She’ll be with family. My people made several trips back and forth between Europe and the United States when I was young.”
Who were Felix’s people? It had never occurred to Nellie to ask. She was vaguely aware that he had family in San Francisco, but this was the first she had heard of connections in Europe. When they married, Nellie had quizzed Opal. What did she know about Felix? His French was more than an affectation; it sounded as if it might be his native language. Opal had been circumspect. Nellie had supposed it was disinterest, but now she wondered. There was no time to probe; all her attention went to what she hoped would be a glorious coming-of-age trip for her beloved granddaughter.
R
“Count your blessings,” Nellie told Leone the day they boarded the train for Omaha. “I was a good deal older than you when I got my first taste of freedom.”
“Freedom,” Leone growled the word like a wolf ravenous for something long denied. She clutched the handle of a brand new train case festooned with her very first luggage tag.
The trip proved educational for both grandmother and granddaughter. Listening to speeches at the association luncheon, Nellie wished she were young enough to consider becoming more active in the organization. Buoyed by legislation that had given them the right to vote and to be treated equal to men under the law, professional women were stepping into leadership roles. They stumped for safer working conditions and higher pay for themselves. They strove for better education and more opportunities for the generations of women who would follow them.
During the keynote speech, Nellie’s spirit soared. What would Amanda have thought of all this? Her mother had realized her highest aspirations when she moved to town and devoted herself to local charity work. What would she think of her daughter working to improve the lives of women across the United States? For the first time, Nellie felt a connection to some higher purpose. A fleeting sense of significance uncurled within her and sought the warmth of approval, but no mother’s eyes in heaven smiled down on her, no child’s eyes looked up to her, no lover’s eyes held her in esteem. Self-approval was cold comfort. What, then, was the source of the glow that flickered inside her, filling her with teasing seconds of contentment and delight? How could she hold onto it? Applause peppered the room and she returned her attention to the podium.
While Nellie attended to business, Leone strolled the prosperous downtown. Back at the hotel as they dressed for dinner and an evening of theater, Leone gushed about straining to get a peek at what looked to be an Old Market speakeasy.
Nellie frowned. “You’d better not tell your mother that. Did you spend some time in the shops and the galleries?”
“Oh sure,” Leone said, but further questioning elicited no information on what she saw on store shelves or gallery walls.
Any concerns Nellie might have had about her granddaughter’s cultural interests vanished as they settled into their seats at the Brandeis Theatre. Grandmother and granddaughter both enjoyed the new comedy about the Jewish boy and Irish Catholic girl who marry against their parents’ wishes. As they were preparing for bed in their hotel room after the play, Leone questioned Nellie. “What religion are we?”
“I suppose we are Protestants. I was raised in the Presbyterian church.”
“When did you stop going to church?”
“When I left Kansas.”
“Why?”
Nellie thought for a moment. “I felt no need.”
Is that true? Something hard and dry prickled. A nameless heartache attacked a bit of damaged tissue and ripped the cover off an unknown hurt.
“Grandmother?”
Nellie pulled herself back. “No, that’s not precisely true. I had no desire to let other people tell me how to live. Now go to bed.”
R
It rankled, that silly comedy. A Jewish boy, an Irish Catholic girl, bonded in love and reconciled to their families and a future together. A fairy tale. Nellie lay on her pillow, thinking furiously. A streetlight shot a beam through the part in the curtains. It cast light on the sleeping form in the bed next to hers. Nellie watched the bedcovers rise and fall. She tried to slow her racing heartbeat by tuning it to the rhythm of her granddaughter’s soft snoring.
When had she stopped believing the fairy tale? She knew the answer. When Eustace chose Helen. What was the fairy tale? That there was someone who would see her, know her, want her, love her, and set her free from old wounds? Someone who would show her a better way to live?
Had she done so badly on her own? She would not have thought so until this moment. Nellie fought for sleep, calming herself by summoning the gentle clack, clack, clack of train wheels rolling on the smooth track, the flutter of aspen leaves painting the sky in high passes. Her body relaxed and floated on the river of forgetfulness to a dark place.
She lay there, aware of her limbs but unable to move them. She fought to open her eyes, even as a vivid image torn from a familiar dream fixed itself clearly in her vision. Two birds perched side by side inside a wire cage. Lovebirds, she thought. She tittered at them, tapped her fingers on wire bars, but they ignored her. There was something else she could do. Should she? She moved her fingers to the cage door, lifted the latch and pulled open the door, then stepped back. One by one, the birds hopped forward, stretched their wings, and flew away. She stood open-mouthed before the empty cage. Accusations whooshed out of the cage and followed the birds. You shouldn’t have done that! They will die! You’ll get in trouble!
Nellie woke abruptly, her heart pounding. Leone stood over her, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up; we’re going to miss the train.” Morning light streamed through the open curtains.
Nellie threw off the covers and planted her feet on the floor. “Oh no, we won’t. We’re not going to miss a thing.”
17 - Payment in Kind
17
Payment in Kind
Gold Beach, 1925
Leone started her freshman year at Saint Mary’s, and Nellie took her last assignment with the circuit court in Gold Beach. This term, the inn was filled with attorneys, court officials, and a sequestered jury.
Shadows cast by the flames in an open fireplace danced on the ceiling above old Mrs. Erwin and Mr. Ross.
“You are late.” Mr. Ross addressed Nellie as she entered the parlor of the Sunset Inn.
“I’ve been transcribing some instructions for the judge. He is going to charge the jury in the morning. Where is everyone?”