I watched my sister’s backside disappear into the dark doorway making me think of a shark swallowing her whole. That was my first inkling of guilt; somehow I felt I had let her down. Somehow I felt too, that this was Thomas’ intention.
The next time I saw Pearl, we were on our way to vote in the federal election.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A glow in the sky, women flying while singing Halleluiah, tingling sensations, something.
“That’s the beauty of this kind of day, Miss Bess,” said Lizzie. “It will feel like any other day to the men-folk too, but we’re just going to sneak up on them, cast our woman vote, and the Democrats won’t know what hit them!”
To show her my celebratory mood, I gave her a rare day off to walk to the colored section of town to cast her vote.
I pinched Mama and Pearl, too, as the three of us walked downtown to vote for the next President of the United States. We played the game of the men and dared not divulge our candidate choices; although I would have bet my cherished autographed copy of The Woman’s Bible that we would vote Republican, just as the majority of this town was known to do.
“Oh, Bess, I feel different indeed,” Mama said, her eyes shining. “I woke up this morning remembering how town folks ridiculed the Ladies Legion and there were only five of us in the beginning. But Jesus fed five thousand with five loaves of bread. So five is a powerful beginning and look how we grew and what happened!”
She suddenly snorted loudly, giving me cause to frown. “Of course Robert insisted that I vote on his behalf and not on my own. God forgive me but I was forced to remind him of his last two Presidential choices. William Taft was so obese he got stuck in the White House bathing tub. Robert had installed a tub only a few years earlier and as soon as he heard this, became convinced that tubs could be hazardous. I was tempted to chain our lovely claw foot to the floor in case he had the notion to drag it outside and shoot it. President Wilson has faired worse and we all know his illness is so that his wife runs the White House. Ironic, ladies, when you think about it. Women were not permitted to have a vote on who runs the country, but a woman nonetheless ends this term in doing just that. Imagine what we can do now that we have the vote!”
“Today is a doozy alright,” Pearl said lackadaisically. She was gawking at the male driver and female passenger of an open Model-T as it bumped and swayed through the puddles and pits beside us. Recognition and hurt registered on her face but she said nothing. She shrugged it off. “I don’t know what you expected, sister. You’ve been a mouthpiece since I can remember, yelling that the sky is falling unless women get the vote. The sky should be clear now. As Harding said in his campaign, ‘Return to Normalcy’.”
Her acquaintance with Harding’s slogan was a revelation to me. I wondered why she practiced being shallow, when in fact her own ‘normalcy’ was quite the contrary.
I supposed she was right, although the noise level at the City Hall was up a notch or two to where we felt the vibration of a different day. Women sat at tables taking voter registrations from excitable women who filled out the form as if applying for the President’s position themselves. It pleased me to see so many women come out to vote. I counted two men in the long line, leading me to cynically think that such a womanly gathering diminished the man’s reasons to be here.
I completed my own form quietly amidst the cackles and clucking, checked the box on the voting slip for William G. Harding, and slipped this into the slot of the glass box on the center table. In doing so, a camera’s pop made me jump and I recognized the photographer and the newspaper reporter with him, pen and pad in hand.
“Miss Bess Wright,” he called loudly. “How does it feel as a suffragist to finally cast a vote like a man?”
Thomas had sent them, I was sure of it.
The high-ceiling and large pillars along the sides of the hall created echoes and his challenge traveled and quieted others.
“I managed,” I said with a smile. “I believe it is mandatory that all woman do so. It is no longer a man’s right to vote but also a woman’s. The Nineteenth Amendment states: ‘The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex’.”
My mind flooded with the many roadblocks and excuses given over the years, many times over. I knew them by heart. I opened my arms to include women standing around me. “And what about the other women here? Did you leave your husbands abandoned and dirty, your children crying, your homes in shambles, to come here and vote?”
“No!” some shouted.
“Did your ballot create divorce, take the place of head of household, or cancel out your husband’s vote? Or worse yet, did you only vote as your husband told you to, thereby wasting votes?”
“No!”
“Have you lost your feminine ways? Do you feel corrupted by politics? Do any of you feel like a man, now that you have the audacity to think like one?”
“We can think for ourselves!” called out a familiar voice. Mama blushed when I tracked the voice to her.
“Do you believe we went against God and Government?”
“Certainly not!” another yelled.
“Then all those who resisted us for these many years were liars, and we’re here to prove it!” I decided then to use my own slogan from years past. “We’re not only here to prove they’re wrong, but to improve our right!”
Applause sounded throughout the hall and as Mama came to my side and cast her ballot, another picture was taken. I forgave her past transgression with Jere long enough to feel secretly thrilled that she could find a sitter for Papa and get away to be here. I also secretly wished I could be a fly on the wall when Papa saw Mama’s picture in the paper.
It was an exciting moment and yet, as I walked away, somehow the whole event was anti-climatic to me. Voting was a personal choice, a human right, a small contribution to democracy, and yet women had to fight hard for such a minor freedom, to be treated as a person. To earn the simple right of checking the box next to a male politician’s name. Bittersweet, indeed. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Tired of looking homely or old? Do you want youth and beauty? Rub Fountain of Youth Vanishing Cream well into your face and the wrinkles will vanish with the Cream. The Cream has no oil in it, so next apply your face powder and that ugly shine will vanish too! It makes all the difference between looking commonplace and …
I drummed my fingertips on the desk. I inked in a white scar chipped into the wood surface. I gazed off through the window to a scattering of buildings and trees of the park beyond. Writing one more falsehood about a product would surely cause me to scream. A simple gadget can do everything except tuck you into bed at night. And of course there’s always an elixir out there that can even do that. I had indeed swallowed my pride in taking this job.
My guilt was augmented in a recent visit with Papa. He was having increased difficulty in distinguishing reality from radio reality. He talked as if he were an amused spectator in all radio events. News, tragedy or comedy, was to him a performance. He believed in all radio advertisements, no matter how farfetched the claim to eternal health or wealth. The more he listened, the more ignorant and disillusioned he became. It saddened me that my advertisements with unproven boasts contributed to the nation’s hunger for fairy tales. I was further depressed in remembering that it was that evening that I would return to Papa’s bedside to listen to the coverage of voting results. Papa had the token radio and for the first time in radio history, commercial radio was broadcasting coverage of election returns. A radio station out of Pittsburgh was going to read telegraph ticker results over the air as they came in. With some degree of agitation I resolved to silently tolerate his ravings. I would not argue. These were my thoughts as Thomas appeared and perched on the edge of my desk.
“You’ll not guess the offer I just received,” he said, smiling so broad his laugh lines doubled.
“You’re moving to The New York Time
s and I’m getting your job here.”
“No, but such a presumptuous attitude from a woman reminds me – did you vote today?”
“I find it quite humorous that so many ask me this question. What am I lacking that make others think I would not be thrilled to place a ballot?”
“Passion,” Thomas said without hesitation.
“P-passion?” I felt my face blushing and was as mortified by this, as I was by his statement.
“When I would see you on one of your women’s campaigns, I had the urge at times to shake you. To say, Bess, wake up! You know that expression, ‘he could do that in his sleep’; well you looked to me like you were sleepwalking, saying and doing the right things, but without heart or feeling.”
“Well, worse than that, Thomas. You make it sound as if I’m not even aware.” I found myself wishing someone would walk by to allow me to smile broadly and say Good day! with feeling. But of course, discreet as usual, he stopped by during our lunch hour and the office was empty.
He placed his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with such intensity that I very much wanted to look away but to do that would give in to what he said. “Bess, don’t be defensive. I think you are very much aware, which is why you’re the first I wish to share this bit of news with. A member of the city council just moments ago asked me if I would be interested in running for mayor in the next election.”
“Mayor! Why Thomas, that is wonderful news.”
Thomas backed up and tilted his head at me. “Your eyes literally lit up. I believe I’ve found the switch, by golly!”
“I think you’d make an excellent mayor, and this town needs a liberal thinker at its helm. Why … why I could advertise you. Let me do this, Thomas, it would mean so much.” A new cause and for my friend, Thomas.
“You mean act as my campaign manager?”
I nodded. “I certainly learned a lot about politics over the years as a suffragist.”
“Have you now? Then I do hope that means that you voted for Harding. He was a newspaper editor, like yours truly.”
“Oh really?” I said and batted my eyes demurely. “What a coincidence. So is his opponent, James Cox. And both were editors in Ohio.”
He did not hide his surprise at my knowledge of this. “Very good!”
His condescending tone irritated me immensely but I wished not to get into a political debate at the national level, but focus on the local level. “Please don’t patronize me, Thomas. Look. All we need is a campaign strategy and some necessary campaign stunts.”
“Stunts? I’m not a vaudeville act, my dear.” He was looking in front of him, twirling a pencil between his fingers, a recognized habit when he was deep in thought. “What kind of strategy?”
“Strategy based on what you believe in, of course. You said yourself you wish there was more you could do about women’s equality at our textile mill. And paved streets - I know how much that means to you, and to every motor car owner. And when I say stunts I mean, for example, milking a cow on my uncle’s dairy farm to get the farmer’s vote, sweeping the streets to get the business man’s vote, shaking the mill workers’ hands to get the common folks’ votes, and holding children to get the women’s vote. You need to give the public a necessary ration of affection … of passion.” I grinned at this, predicting his reaction.
“You are going to campaign passion?” he asked, returning the grin. I laughed easily at this, and Thomas joined in.
He was silent for a moment, still perched on my desk, his one leg solidly on the floor, the other leg dangling and swaying to and fro beside my desk, leading me to think that part of him wanted to stay, part of him was anxious to go. He finally looked down at me with tenderness there, yes there in his green eyes and in the relaxed corners of his mouth. “I don’t want to lose that light in your eyes. If it pleases you, I’ll do it,” he said.
Just when I thought our friendship had deepened into a meaningful partnership, where we could work together for a common cause, Thomas announced that he was heading south to Georgia to visit family and continue research on a story he was writing on the advances made in technology. In line with the machine age, he wanted to know more about the labor unions in the north and south, and to educate himself on the highway construction program. Nothing would please him more than to see the eastern states crisscross thousands of miles of hard-surface highways. If he was going to be a serious contender for politics, he would have to do his homework, he said. Thomas was such a modern fellow, traveling without thought to distance as others might do, roving from north to south as easily as the rest of us drove from the farm into town. Many people continued to think of travel between states being a week’s journey apart by stagecoach, although paved roads and motor cars were fast becoming the reality.
During this time I received a letter from Thomas. “I have an assignment for you,” he had written. “There is to be a large conference to focus on the Equal Rights Amendment. Supporters such as you (you know the type; middle-class professional women competing with men – yes you are, just look around your office) are meeting with the opposition – women in lower working class and their unions. Representatives of the United Textile Workers union will be there. I tell you this because your sister is now one of their members (I have my sources). Go there and write a story on it – an unbiased story. Look at both sides. It appears that your suffrage was only the beginning to women’s revolution.”
This assignment gave me a dilemma. I had previously agreed to attend the conference and speak in support of the Equal Rights Amendment, even though I knew this was in opposition to Pearl’s union. A business conflict; a personal conflict.
“Life is such a kaleidoscope,” I whispered to Thomas’ clearly defined handwriting.
Despite the cold November air, the conference room of the Annan Hotel sizzled like frying bacon. More than fifty women delegates from national organizations or state branches thereof appeared ready to have their say. Contrary to Thomas’ instructions, I came prepared as the opposition; opposition I say because the agenda had been built only around protective labor laws that my group opposed.
Following the lead of Miss Gail Laughlin of the National Woman’s Party, we planned a campaign of disruption typical of our suffrage days.
In the first day’s open session, Miss Laughlin challenged the program because it did not allow opposing viewpoints on labor laws for women. The other delegates overwhelmingly voted her down; in other words, not wanting to hear any opposition. Consequently, with each pro-protective law speaker, our group stood up, yelled, hissed, and clapped our hands. It was all I could do to stand up and hiss, for Pearl was squirming angrily and watching me closely from the back wall.
At last, to avoid another “militant outburst”, our proposal was adopted to meet in debate and lively debates they were, beginning with President John Edgerton of the National Association of Manufacturers. He pleaded for women’s right to work unlimited hours unencumbered by “legislative poultices” as he called the labor laws. President William Green of the American Federation of Labor opposed him by saying, “Of course Mr. Edgerton doesn’t want restrictions in his wishes to employ his women at any hours he wishes.”
Miss Laughlin agreed that a shorter workday and sanitary and humane conditions were most favorable, but should be obtained based on the industry, not upon the sex of the worker. She declared that the Woman’s Party would not rest from its labors until the goal envisioned by the Declaration of Sentiments in 1848 was realized – the complete emancipation of women.
As planned, she introduced me. Because she hadn’t allowed opposition to speak next, I was forced to shout much of what I had to say over the cat-calls, Pearl being one of those standing.
“Many good men sighed with relief when suffrage was won. They said, ‘The woman problem is solved; let’s move on.’ But women have returned to being seamstresses and what, in God’s name, do we want now? Why aren’t we satisfied with what we have? It is because we’re not yet fully cl
ad. We cannot go out on equal grounds in our camisole now can we? We would continue to be viewed as sexual beings and nothing more. We ask for the same rights as the opposite sex receives in being accidentally born a male. As inadequate as these laws and custom are, women are deprived of many of them. Here in New York, fathers control the earnings and real estate of the children. In other states, the father can still will away the custody of children from the mother. In most states, prostitution is a crime for women, but not for men. How many more examples do we need in order to know we cannot make fair earnings, control our income, home and children? We all know this. Why should we only ask for political equality and not for civil and industrial equality? We should be dressed in the same protective law that men have, from head to toe, or else men will always feel superior to our flimsy see-through labor laws. The Equal Rights Amendment will give us the ultimate protection.”
Annan was a small town and many in that conference room knew my sister and I, including Mollie Mills who stated she was “outraged” at the Woman’s Party’s rude antics. She introduced my sister. Pearl, with a vendetta visibly displayed on her expression. Pearl walked to the podium in a conservative light blue wool dress with a wide collar and this was quite becoming.
“I’m not good at speeches. Don’t think I’ve ever made one,” Pearl said, her voice weak and quavering. “But I have made my own living, grimy as that may be, so I know what I’m talking about. Miss Wright does not; Miss Wright is wrong.” Her play on words brought out a few snickers. My group began hissing in the same manner as the opposing side did while I had spoken.
“A working woman is not equal to a working man; he’s stronger and he’s meaner, and he could care less about an equal rights amendment. That’s way above him and too far away to touch him. He only knows he can lift more than the woman working next to him, so why does she have the job instead of his brother.”
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 19