Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

  “I am more accustomed to dressing for New York’s cooler nights,” I say. I hope this explains why I’m dressed in long sleeves and ankle socks. A woman can’t get stockings nowadays with war time, and truth be known, I have hairy legs that I hadn’t tended to. I cross my ankles and tuck my legs under my chair. “You have a lovely home. And I love that old oak tree with all that Spanish moss hanging from it. It sounds like a choir of birds in there.”

  “Thank you, honey, that’s sweet. It’s a wonder we have any birds in that tree. Thank goodness TJ outgrew his sadistic slingshot. He killed about all these birds’ ancestors. Where did you say your home was?”

  “It’s a small town you never heard of, in New York, Mother,” William pipes in. “Don’t start getting nosy. Let me guess what’s next: you’ll bring out a picture of me as a baby, naked and being washed by my mammy, to ensure my complete embarrassment.”

  “And would it make you terribly un-cheery if I asked your friend where her home is now?” She says this softly but her eyes carry a big stick. She doesn’t wait for his answer but turns to me for mine.

  “I’m staying with my — ”

  “She’s staying with a friend of her mother’s,” William interrupts. “It’s on the other side of town, on the outskirts of town, and no, you don’t know her, or her family, or where their grave plots are.”

  I open my mouth to correct him but he locks his eyes with mine and I can’t seem to get any words passed that stare. His mother seems the same way, although she has a right to be angry at his rude retort. We both just sit there looking at him. I’m asking myself why he doesn’t want her to know that I’m staying with Uncle Joe. Does she know him? Is his reputation so bad that William is protecting me? Would his mother think less of me? I certainly don’t want that. I finally nod. “Clary is her name,” I say, the first name that comes to me, and at least this name is true to where I’m staying. I can meet her eyes that way and look confident. “Clary and my mama go way back,” I say, and then stop because I’m not certain if Clary was here when Mama lived here with Papa. I blush in spite of myself. I’ve always been a lousy liar.

  Something in her eyes and stiff lips tell me that I’ve lost some points with her and I’m sorry for that but William had dug our hole and I’m going to have to sit in it.

  He slaps his knees and stands. “Well, thank you for the drop-off, Katy. Come on, I’ll walk you to your motor car and give you directions on how to get back to … your …”

  “To Clary’s?” I fill in for him. I narrow my eyes at him in mischief. Keep up; you started the lie. I give him a big smile and he has to smile back in spite of himself.

  I’m grateful for his mother’s forgiving hug and invitation to return and I tell her I hope to come back. This seems to cheer William up and she notices that straight away and then she cheers up and now everybody’s cheery again. I can reckon easily that this baby of the family is the sun in his mama’s world.

  We walk over to my motor car and William leans against the door handle with his arm up over the roof. He’s so casual in his moves, he makes me stiff. We listen to the front door close as his mother goes inside.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For helping me out back there. Mother is far too nosy.” He gives me his lazy grin and holds my chin between his thumb and finger. “You’re fun. You’re a lot like me. We make a great team. We should get married.”

  “And have matching slingshots?” I ask, thinking he’s being flippant.

  His eyes squint in that intense way of his. “I’m serious.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Marry me.”

  “Look, you’re cute, copacetic and all but—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me. Just say yes.”

  I slap his hand away, the fingers now pinching my chin. “I’m not saying anything.”

  He sighs. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t ask.” Like I’ll be sorry.

  “I won’t mention it if you won’t,” I say, giving him a slight push so that I can reach the door knob.

  He laughs and moves aside. I get in and close the door. He leans into the window opening. “I could love you, I think. And somehow I’ll convince you to marry me.”

  I relax again, now that I’m in my own space. “And would it make you terribly un-cheery if we don’t?” I ask, imitating his mother’s soft southern drawl.

  “Yes,” he says automatically, and then pauses as if thinking about it. He nods. “Yeah, I think it would. I actually like you. A lot. Which is a bonus; I didn’t think I’d like you this much.” He gives me a peck on the lips. “Like my daddy says to Mother, I’d walk through hell with gasoline underwear on for you.”

  “Liking someone you ask to marry is a bonus?” I ask. “Is this a southern custom along with dowries?” I laugh and wave away his malarkey. “And like my Grandmama Ruby says, I’m off like a bride’s nightgown.” I put Duesy into reverse and back away from him, feeling like I have the upper hand. I wait until I’ve reached the end of his laneway before I give in to giggles.

  Sadly I thought we both were being funny.

  I can’t sleep that night. I grab Papa’s journal and snuggle into the deep feather bed to read his next entry.

  July 28th, 1921. This morning I promised Bess we’d look for a place of our own in Savannah and I’d apply for assistant editor to the Savannah News. I think I’ve lied to her. I have no desire to move from here. I asked her: Only my brother and his wife live in this big house, a good size plantation, why don’t you want to live here? I know her reasons, but I put her on the spot anyway, if nothing else but to have a feisty dialogue to get her dander up. She’s restless, listless. Hard not to be in this heat, but it’s more than that.

  My cousin, Jimmy, telephoned today. I haven’t told Bess about Jimmy but here’s the truth: Jimmy and I go way back, him being my Uncle Willy’s son on my father’s side, and my Aunt Marge’s son on my mother’s side. Not incest as Bess would read into it; just two local families that married brothers and sisters. As double-first cousins, Jimmy and I attended the same family gatherings, sharing the same grandparents and relatives. (Exception: I didn’t claim his younger brother as kin; one of those midlife “oops!” babies. More on him later.)

  Anyway, Jimmy tells me that brother Joe owes my uncle money and plenty of it. Seems they made some sort of bootlegging deal.

  Which brings me to this: Bootlegging is bad business but mark my words, Prohibition is worse. When I was editor of Annan News in NY, we wrote plenty of articles on the damn Prohibition and all the problems it’s causing. Passing the 18th Amendment in making alcohol illegal was supposed to stop men from beating their wives during a drunken stupor, or so said the Christian Women’s Temperance Movement.

  Well, how ironic is it that both the 18th and the 19th Amendments (whereby women are allowed to vote in Federal elections) were passed last year? Congress was too fucking busy but I can say without a doubt that neither amendment will be successful or enforceable in my humble opinion (of which Bess would say those two words don’t belong together in my vocabulary). Both amendments go against the nature of the man and woman. Consider these comparisons:

  –One takes away rights in order to give to the other. It’s as if Congress has only so many rights to give out and if some go to one group, then others must be taken away. Right now I’d give up my own right to vote for a strong drink.

  –Underground saloons are renamed speakeasies because you have to whisper the secret entry code. Above ground, parlors are no longer for tea, but for shouting women wanting more rights. It seems to me that the more women shout from their parlors, the more men whisper underground. Reliable sources say that speakeasies in NYC alone have grown to more than 100,000, which proves my point.

  –Corruption began with the 18th; Interruption began with the 19th. Now you may think that’s funny but there’s some truth in it.

  –They say alcohol is the devil’s advocate and that Prohibition is the noble experiment. Then I say, Suffrage is the ange
l’s advocate; winning the vote is the mobile experiment. Women’s roles are now shifting around like sand on a high tide.

  –Both Amendments are unenforceable; men still choose to drink, women still choose not to vote.

  –Men don’t obey their government; bootlegging has increased crime by 75%. Women don’t obey their men by staying in the kitchen and voting with head-of-household. Divorce has increased 25%. Motto: Poorly fed men with guns are dangerous.

  –I’ve heard it said that Prohibition has succeeded in replacing good beer with bad gin, since it’s easier to transport hooch (or make it in the bathtub – I’m not naming names here). I’d also argue (underground) that the Right to Vote replaced good women with bad marriages.

  Now I realize that writing about another woman would not be as hurtful to Bess as the words I just wrote. But, hell, I can’t help my cynicism any more than Bess can help her criticism. I don’t roll with the punches like I used to. I was a helluva good reporter, and rewarded well in my day, in seeing both sides and writing an objective article, while still standing straight at my first wife’s Women’s Rights March and Convention. Well, to be honest – and what else can I be when I’m writing to myself? – I was doing more than seeing both sides; I was living two lives.

  If Cady had known that it was I who had written that editorial titled Evolution: Girl, Government, or God? after her march in the 1910 July 4th parade … why, she would have died sooner. That’s something I never told a soul, no, not even to my then-mistress whose scruples in those days gave her no right to judge – but such beautiful bee-stung lips! She cared only in how to please a man - until she tired of my false promises. In revenge she moved in with my arch enemy, George, thus kicking out his wife, Eunice, who was also Cady’s friend – whew! That felt good to get off my chest! Here’s some irony: As a result of their separation, Eunice lost custody of her children to her husband and this injustice is what got Cady in gear to begin that damn ladies suffrage group. So I only have myself to blame for Cady’s involvement. And get this: It was George who ultimately beat me out of becoming mayor of Annan. What a tangled web we weave. What a cad am I! If I were a Catholic, I could be absolved of such sins; instead here I am carrying them all these years on my way to the grave.

  Even Bess would hate me now for that long-ago article. (And even more so for the one I wrote later attacking Bess for her speech that - I’m ashamed to say - I knew would bring her to my office …). I justified writing this first article by thinking that Cady would read this “Edrite Formen” letter in the newspaper, become frightened of repercussions and quit the women’s group. I should have known her resolve would only become stronger. But the other side is, I hid like a coward behind a pseudo-name of Edrite Formen in order to be able to give the male perspective, or, more to the point, my perspective, the only way I could and still keep peace with Cady, and then with Bess. Is it my fault that I’m surrounded by do-gooders?

  Except I’m tired of it all now as I sit here on my memory bank, like looking at a post-party mess of deflated balloons, dried cake and dirty (soda only!) glasses, with no energy left to clean things up. Like my own worst enemy, I’ve had enough of me. I reckon, too, that Prohibition has put me in a very bad mood. Whatever my reasons, I must hide this diary as I must hide my flask. I’ve sat here and drank the whole damn thing.

  More to come.

  More to come, alright – a lot more when Mama reads this and finds her husband deceived her. But it’ll be easier on the eyes to read my writing than to read his writing; his last few paragraphs really got sloppy. After reading this entry, out of respect for Mama, I didn’t read more of his entries for some time, not wanting to know any more details for awhile. But I should’ve been reading – so much happened and I stayed in the dark. Papa became my flashlight – but it shined on a crime already committed.

  Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing?

  Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago?

  Where have all the young girls gone?

  Gone for husbands everyone.

  When will they ever learn?

  When will they ever learn?

  Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?

  Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?

  Where have all the husbands gone?

  Gone for soldiers everyone.

  When will they ever learn?

  When will they ever learn?

  I think of My Mamas when I hear Peter, Paul and Mary singing that one. I don’t want to make that same mistake if that Vietnam thing takes off; I’ve got a high school friend over there now flying helicopters and he wrote me to say that with both our president and the Vietnam president assassinated last month, we’re in Deep Crap.

  My Mamas don’t like me not finding a husband but I’m just telling it like it is with that song.

  They say that you create your own reality, so here’s mine: I live my life through songs, man, and Bob Dylan is The Coolest. And that’s all I have to say.

  GB hands this paper back to me and tells me to write more. For a grandmother, Bess is a pain in the ass. I don’t know what she wants from me. I don’t care about women’s rights and I don’t have anything to add to their war stories on Equal Rights Amendment bullshit. With this bum leg, I couldn’t march in their damn parades anyway. They’re out of it. They may be pure and always right but that’s easy when you’re not with it.

  It’s Civil Rights, where it’s at. Let’s just say I’m not their Equal but I can be Civil – real Civil. Do you get my drift, man?

  Anything I’ve done – that I can talk about – is done here and I can do this in my sleep I’ve done it so much: changing countless sheets, washing and hanging endless panties, more women and kids coming in with the same sad stories. And no matter how hard I work, Jesi Messy, is Mama’s nickname for me. Where is the love, man?

  And speaking of love, where the hell are the men? I don’t get it, why My Mamas make such a big deal about birth control clinics when they never do anything to get pregnant. Women Only: there are enough sanitary pads around here to choke the old well out back. I love men, man. Just call me Jesi Yessy. Thank God for The Pill.

  I had my awakening and it wasn’t here. And that’s all I have to say, period.

  GB hands me back this paper a second time. THIS IS GETTING OLD.

  “Write more,” GB says. “I’m tired of your insolent attitude. You’ve contributed nothing thus far.” I write down just that, just what she said.

  “Why are you staring at your Grandmama Bess like that?” Mama says to me, referring to GB. “Be respectful! And sit up straight, stop slouching,” I tell her I’m just thinking, but I’m really just waiting for GB to say more so I can write it down. What I’m really thinking is, Why does Mama sometimes look at me with hate in her eyes? Not Cool.

  “Leave her be,” says GG. “At least she’s writing something.” For a Great Grandmother, Ruby is groovy.

  “As long as she’s not writing about Bob Dylan again,” Mama says, taking a long draw from her cig and making me wish I had one. “That long-haired beatnik can’t carry a tune in a bucket and that’s all I hear her record player playing. He sounds like somebody is stepping on his tail.”

  “‘It ain’t me, Babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me, Babe, it ain’t me you’re looking for, Babe,’” I sing softly as I write my Dylan’s words.

  “How do you know what she’s writing about?” GB asks Mama. “No one is supposed to read the submissions except me. I have the papers locked in my wardrobe.”

  Mama blushes and lies badly. “Shit. It’s not hard to figure out.”

  “Just. For. You.” I stab the air with my pen with each word. “I wrote a Peter, Paul and Mary song just for you but it still isn’t good enough,” I say. “What I do is never good enough.” I start singing Bob Dylan:

  “‘Come mothers and fathers throughout the land/And don’t criticize what you can’t understand/Your sons and your daughters are beyond your com
mand/Your old road is rapidly agin’.”

  “Katy, would you please stick to our agreement?” GB says to Mama, ignoring my off-tune. “Why must you go your own way and then learn things the hard way? And your language is trash ever since you returned from Georgia. (“Here we go again for the thousandth time,” Mama mutters.) For once do as I say,” GB continues, “and please stay out of my locked wardrobe.”

  “Don’t we have enough damn secrets around here?” Mama snaps back. “I thought the whole point—”

  “The whole point is to write exactly what’s on the chalkboard,” GB interrupts (it’s so cool to call Grandmama Bess by her initials – she hates it).

  GB gets up and leaves the dining room and soon returns with tonight’s second bottle of red wine. Between you and me, I think they’ve all had enough and I don’t know how they can drink something that looks like blood and tastes like vinegar. There are better things out there to make you Feel Good.

  “Mercy, Bess, my head is swimming from the first bottle,” says GG, reading my thoughts – or is my great-grandmother being sneaky and reading my paper? She goes on with “You need to be careful of how much drink you take. It’s not good for your nerves. And what is another word for clothesline?”

  “My nerves are fine, Mama,” GB says with a sigh, always in that it’s-hard-to-tolerate-you voice. “String. Another word is clothes string.” And when GB talks to my mama, Katy, she uses that voice that says I’m Superior. And when GB talks to me, I feel about five years old.

  She refills their wine glasses but leaves me out. By this point I could use the buzz.

  “Then why is there an empty wine glass in your room every morning?” Mama says to GB in a syrupy southern drawl. We all blush to that even though I’m thinking the same thing, especially since I’m the one who usually makes GB’s bed.

  “I’ll forgive you for that, Katydid,” GB says to Mama after a moment of silence. Mama flinches at the down-low of hearing her whole name. “I realize that asking you all to write the truth exactly as it happened may have opened a Pandora’s Box – it’s causing you to be far too outspoken. But I simply won’t hear anymore.” GB stands and gathers her papers. “If you want to say it, write it down. I’ll finish my chapter in my bedroom.” She picks up her wine glass and then reconsiders and sets it back down. She leaves the room with her head in the clouds, Miss Mount Everest.