Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

  ‘Yet, best is not good enough for some amongst us. We, in our peaceful town, were abruptly confronted with a group of women marching like soldiers in uniform, carrying banners of protest through our serene streets, as if marching to war. Who are her enemies?

  While the band played America the Beautiful, these female fighters of disruption seized the opportunity to sew strife amongst us, to turn us against ourselves, man against his wife, to attempt to divide us so as to tear at the fabric of our families, to conquer us back to the era of cave men. Evolution of Girl? I think not. Devolution, perhaps.

  This legion of women carried a banner saying ‘give us a voice’. I ask this: What are they going to say that we haven’t already provided? America the beautiful has the best system of governing in the world. Our democracy is a vast improvement over any former system of government. I thank our forefathers who struggled tirelessly to prepare our constitution. I thank our fathers of today: state governors and our mayors, who work to provide us with effective government. The issues of the day are complicated and difficult. It is foolhardy to have female fighters voicing opinions to further complicate today’s issues and delay governmental proceedings. With such angry female voices in our legislature, we would not get any laws passed! They ask to change the law in the institution of marriage. Yet women have the choice to accept or deny a man’s proposal of marriage. When she says yes, she is accepting the rules that protect this institution. The old adage applies here: ‘If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen!’ Evolution of Government? Not required. I say ‘If it’s not broke, don’t fix it!’

  ‘This legion of women asserts to change the order provided by our God, but I ask you, who are they to improve on God’s work? They advocate that men and women are created equal. Have they not eyes to see? Do they not know that the contents of men’s britches differ from the contents of women’s petticoats? Do these female fighters not see that men naturally carry the seed of life, women naturally carry the child, and women naturally nourish the child at their breast? Can they not see that men and women are not created equal, but are complimentary? Do these women pretend that they will fight to defeat nature? Evolution of God? Read your Bibles, ladies: ‘He is the same yesterday, today, and always’.

  It is unnatural for women to fight. These legionnaires who fight against our established order, God’s order, against good government and good family, are fighting against our children growing up in the images of their parents. It is right that a son should grow up in the image of his father, and a daughter grow up in the image of her mother. From an early age our children start to assume their proper roles. If these female fighters are successful in their battle against government and God, then our whole order of society will be tossed upside down. Our children will not know what is expected of them. They will not know what path to follow through life.

  ‘The Ladies Legion, as their group is called, have chosen to fight Our Father, our forefathers, our fathers, and to fight the natural order of hierarchy of family and state. It is no wonder they are also called men-haters.

  Fueling my doubts first planted by Formen’s article, I wandered out to the front porch and around to the backyard, long ago memories running through my mind like a nickelodeon, showing me what family is supposed to be. The scene in the backyard and beyond to the garden stopped me in my tracks, so much like an oil painting, so much like my childhood here. Opal was off to my right in the distant garden, her large pink bonnet shading her face from the bright sun, walking, bending, stooping, basket on her hip. Edith stood in the center of the scene, bent over the large black iron kettle, a hungry fire licking around its grate. She was dappled in sun and shade from the trees behind her, her face flushed, her bonnet dangling down her back. Mama sat on the left of the scene, on her red chair with the cane bottom, her favorite place to sit in the shade by the back door, churning butter, her hand moving the thick handle up and down inside its clay crock without notice. Her attention stayed on Joey who was chasing a chicken.

  “Now grab its neck, Joey,” Mama called out. “That’s it. Now hold on tight to the neck and spin it in the air, like I showed you. That’s it!” She cackled loudly at Joey’s beaming expression as he looked down at the severed head and neck in his hands. The chicken’s body ran in circles back down on the ground.

  The only thing I could relate to was the chicken.

  I joined Edith at the fire and Mama called out to me, “Do you remember that little poem you wrote when you were young about all the chores?” She started reciting it and Edith and I joined in:

  Monday wash my sins away,

  Tuesday iron out my wrinkles,

  Wednesday knead my cares all day,

  Thursday mend my crinkles,

  Friday cook a pot of love,

  Saturday buy more trinkles,

  Sunday pray to God above,

  That Monday I don’t stinkle!

  They both cackled like that was the funniest poem they’d ever heard. That’s what planted the seed - I’d write a poem for the convention. As I spent the rest of the day washing and hanging boys’ clothing on a line that seemed eternally to suspend the same apparel, I created and memorized rhyming lines. And as the clothing dried, so did my doubts dissipate. My womenfolk had no idea that their sameness made me want change.

  It wasn’t until suppertime that I realized that no one had prodded me as to why I was there.

  Opal had returned from the home of Amish-Jacob-Penn and quietly took her seat at the supper table. Her pink glow had faded into cream. Her clear blue eyes looked ready to cry. A face accustomed to the simple life that was suddenly becoming complicated.

  I had my own difficulties swallowing food past the lump in my throat. Sitting there with Jesse’s boys around me silently shouted that my own children were not present. I longed to see my boys cajoling with their cousins, forgetting their manners, talking loudly with their mouths full. More so, I missed watching Bess and Pearl watch the boys. Bess did so attentively, only to roll her eyes in mock disgust when their teasing directed toward her. I think Joey actually had a school-boy crush on her and I meant to warn her about it but didn’t know how to broach the subject.

  Jesse signaled the end of the meal by scooting his chair away from the table. He pulled out his small leather pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket. He glanced around the table and then cleared his throat. Edith jumped to her feet removing his plate and bringing him a cup of coffee and a battered tin plate he used for tapping his ashes.

  He concentrated on the small white paper within his fingers as if tending to a delicate insect, crumbling leaves into the paper’s fold. I looked forward to the aroma of the smoking tobacco, often wondering what this smoke tasted like. Men obviously became relaxed and derived pleasure from its inhalation.

  “Boys, your Aunt Ruby is staying here awhile, and her boys and girls may show up any day now,” Jesse announced.

  I understood his logic and my spirits lifted. Robert could not abandon his shoe store to stay home with the children, and they were out of school for the summer. Soon they would need fresh bread baked and Robert had never picked a vegetable in his life. Jesse’s explanation seemed to satisfy any curiosity, and the boys one by one left the table as evening chores were assigned to each by their father.

  “Ruby, really, what is going on?” Opal asked, in no mood for mystery.

  “Robert left her to die on their front porch,” Jesse answered.

  “My goodness!” Mama and Edith chorused.

  I had planned to start from the beginning and explain my way to the parade, but now I would have to go backwards from the night before, thanks to Jesse’s dramatic opening.

  “It’s not all Robert’s fault,” I blurted. “He-he didn’t know I would be in the parade, well, I told him I was going downtown for another reason. I had to. He forbids me to do anything with the Ladies Legion. He was quite upset, you see, and for a good reason.”

  “So he leaves you to sleep outside, like some ca
t?” Jesse asked. “And that was the right thing to do?”

  It was coming out all wrong.

  “You lied to Robert? Is that what you are saying?” Opal asked. “This is wrong if Robert forbids it. Remember what Preacher Paul said: the husband is the master. You made a vow to obey him.”

  I sighed audibly. They were all going to be upset with me for their own reasons, no matter how I explained it.

  “The Ladies Legion only wishes to protect women through better law. And I know women who need protection.”

  “Ruby, these women you speak of, are they Christian women? Because I don’t think this would happen if they went to church,” Mama said.

  “Mama, that is unfair. You don’t know what it is like to be mistreated. You were fortunate to marry Papa. He was a good man. He protected you,” I said.

  Mama’s weathered hand, bumped with arthritic nodes along its fingers, smoothed down the tablecloth in front of her as she thought about this. Her eyes of light blue film, looked up at me finally, eyes that were looking into her own past and it pained her to do so. “He was a good man because I was a good woman to him. I carried his children; three to live, five to die. I fed him three hot meals a day. I worked by his side and I prayed by his side every day of our married life.”

  This stung. Was Mama implying that I deserved what Robert did, because I was not a good woman?

  Opal leaned toward me. “What Mama is saying here, Ruby, is that God is the law in a Christian home. And we know our places in our home. Why, without God in a marriage, I suppose the woman could dress in knickers and rule the roost! What is this group of women going to do next – ask that the law be changed, so that men would bear children, too?” Opal shook her head and smiled.

  I hated Opal’s superior tone. “Really Opal, if you’d come to the Women’s Rights Convention with me, you’d understand.”

  Opal sat up stiff and sniffed. “Right is what the Bible says—”

  “Girls, girls” Edith said softly. She had a way of soothing and reproving at the same time, clicking her tongue, drying her hands. She had continued cleaning since Jesse’s meal ended, and now the dishes were washed and stacked for drying.

  Jesse uncrossed his legs and stood up slowly. “I have only this to say, Ruby.” He ended the smoking of his tiny paper cylinder by squashing it into the tin plate. “My home is your home as long as need be. But when you go back to town, be careful. I’ve heard talk in town, and men don’t like it – they say these women are getting all womenfolk riled up over nothing. So just be careful, is all I’m saying.” He put his cap on by the door, tipped his cap rim to his own womenfolk, and headed outside.

  “Did you hear Jesse, Ruby?” Opal asked. “Is this worth risking your life over? This is a man’s political world we know nothing about. Nor do I care to. You weren’t raised to believe this way either. What in God’s name are you wanting, when you have it all?”

  Was I ‘riled up over nothing’? None of my family were listening to me and maybe that was because I didn’t have anything really to say. I didn’t have a cause for complaint. Admittedly my problems with Robert didn’t begin until I started holding the cross for other women’s woes. Was it worth all this? This judgment? I could see disappointment in Mama’s eyes, disapproval in sister’s eyes. I remembered Robert’s eyes the night before, burning with condemnation. I closed my eyes to it all and lowered my head into my hands, all energy spent.

  My prayer to go home was answered the next morning by way of a note tied to an empty milk bottle. Jesse’s expression looked sad as he handed the folded paper to me and walked away. I read the note and ran to the back screen door, calling out to him.

  “Jesse, can you take me home today? Robert says that Bess is not feeling well and I’m needed at home!” I waved the paper at him, as if he hadn’t seen it already.

  He continued his walk toward the barn; his only sign of hearing me was his backward wave.

  “I must get my things together!” I called out as I ran up the back stairs. I felt excited, worried, and nervous all at once.

  Opal sat at her sewing machine, her slippered feet moving rapidly up and down on the black iron pedal to keep the sewing steady. She’d been here since dawn.

  “The clothing you wore here is cleaned and hanging over there on the hook,” Opal said without looking up. “Fresh water is in the pitcher for washing. I’m taking in my dresses to give you a better fit, they’re all yours. And my ruffled and lace petticoats, too. I have one petticoat you are going to love. Eleven inches from the hem are three rows of beautiful white lace. The other petticoat is cotton with a silk ruffle at the bottom. Wear the two together and your skirt flares beautifully and your waist shrinks like magic. You could use some flare - you look like a poor orphan girl wearing my housedress.”

  She stood up with a measuring tape in her hand. She measured my length of limbs in almost a feverish way. “Silly me fretted about how much time and money we needed in order to sew my lace and pearl wedding gown. No need to worry. I found out yesterday that not only do I dress too extravagantly now, but my simple wedding dress will be of blue cotton – I can choose the shade. Don’t you think sky blue would go best with my eyes?” Opal talked on quickly. “I will also make my newehockers’ dresses. Newehocker means sidesitter in Amish. That dialect of German they speak. You know – bride’s attendants. Which will be Jacob’s sisters. Anyway, it won’t take long because the dresses are unadorned, without trim or lace, or train. How simple! Jacob’s sister told me this dress would also be my Sunday church dress. I will also be buried in the same dress. Isn’t that practical?”

  I noticed even her pink and lace nightgown had pearl buttons. She was the best seamstress in town, creating the prettiest of wedding gowns for so many young girls.

  She laughed but it sounded bitter to me. “And do you remember how much trouble I always have making button holes for buttons? Well, never again, because all Amish clothing only have hooks and eyes. Simplicity at its best!” She took a deep breath. “Which means, of course, there is no longer a need for these costumes of colors filling my wardrobe. I don’t mind really. It is a small sacrifice to give them all to you.

  “Why is it that you got Mama’s small waist, and I got Mama’s large breasts?” Opal asked. “Seems hardly fair.”

  “I’ve heard it said that Mama was a beauty in her younger days. Farm life and babies take their toll,” I said. Opal seemed not to hear the intended warning toward her upcoming marriage.

  “Well, she is forty-five years old, Ruby. We can’t stay young-looking forever.” She patted my elaborate braided updo that she’d clinched with her opal comb. “Your hair is holding nicely after that thorough wash with egg whites last night. Continue rubbing your lavender water into the roots. The braiding should be good for another month. And remember, a woman’s hair is her glory.”

  She sat back down at her machine. “I’ll continue sewing while you wash. I promise I won’t look. Now I need to know what length you prefer in your skirts. The instep length is appropriate for shopping; the clearing length is one inch longer for general street wear; then there is the round length, for visiting with the ladies for tea. Now if you host the tea—”

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” I interrupted. I took down my corset from the hook. It had been brush-cleaned and aired outside, by the smell of it. I slipped my arms through it and began the tedious job of sucking in my stomach and squeezing together the many hooks and eyes.

  “Ruby, you are a walking contradiction,” Opal said irritably.

  I stiffened at the words and tone. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You wish to socialize with the ladies of the town, yet you wish to dress like a farmhand. You wish to be free as a bird, and yet you can’t wait to get home to the very chains that bind you.”

  I stared at Opal’s back for a moment. Could this be true? I watched Opal gently handling the sleeves of a light green frock trimmed at the sleeves and neck in dark green velvet, its many yards of fabric
flowing over the side of the table onto her lap. As if tending to a child.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I said softly. “Perhaps we both are contradictions. Or perhaps we both are willing to make sacrifices to do what is right. Or ... perhaps we have no other choice?”

  Opal stopped, her head down. Then slowly she nodded, and resumed her work.

  Finally dressed, I bent to Opal and gave her shoulders a tight squeeze. Her hair was smoothed into a uniquely braided bun. “Keep the dresses and wear them as long as you can,” I whispered.

  “I’ll deliver these dresses myself,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Poor Jesse must feel like a mailman at times.” She handed me a note she had written: Hebrews 13:4. Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.

  I sighed and said nothing. What would be the point?

  Mama was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs in the mudroom wearing a worried frown. “What is wrong with Bess do you think? Send me a note tomorrow with Jesse. Why do you suppose Opal sent a note this morning to Robert? We’ve packed up some eggs, butter, soap, and a fresh-killed chicken for you. All you need do is pluck it,” she said, patting my back. “Remember, you are in my prayers.”

  Edith came in with their basket of goodies. She, too, looked worried and sad. But then when did they not? I decided. I picked out the chunk of soap. “Oh I forgot about the soap making at spring cleaning. Do you still do that? Why, you can find wonderfully fragrant hard soaps now in town, in all sizes and shapes, even heart-shapes, for only pennies. And soft soaps you add directly to your washtub. Making soap is such hard work!”

  “I was worried when you moved into town, Ruby,” Mama said, “that you would be forever tainted if exposed to city ways and radical thinking. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? You need to come to church more!”

  Opal suddenly showed up, to join in Mama’s tune. “Why do city women want to vote?” she said loudly, as if busting at the seams. “It’s ridiculous! What business would I have at the polls, talking men’s politics when my place is in the home? Where I want to be! If I voted, I’d simply vote the same as my husband to support him. I would certainly value his decisions on such matters, more than mine, just as I would expect him to value my advice on matters, such as, well, canning tomatoes, or birthing babies!”