Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

  “Thank you, Mr. Pickering,” George said. “Considering you have one Negro vote here, that speech should do you a world of good. Ladies and gentlemen, did you notice that my friend here, Mr. Pickering, failed to answer the second part of the question? This is why.” He paused for effect, having captured everyone’s attention. “He has directed his home over the years under the disguise of a women’s house. Married women indeed hide here from their estranged husbands, but in fact Mr. Pickering has taken advantage of this to his own personal pleasure. I have very recently learned that his house is no more than a harem.”

  He held his hands up to the disturbed crowd, murmuring and moving about in their seats like the hens were suddenly awakened by a fox.

  “That’s right. Wives, women relatives, concubines, and Negro slaves have lived there. One little girl living there now is only fifteen years old and is willing to testify that Mr. Pickering made inappropriate advances toward her. His second wife lived in Mr. Pickering’s home for years under the disguise of taking care of these supposedly-battered women but the truth was she had a husband somewhere else, too, while carrying on an affair with Mr. Pickering. What must our Christian town of Annan think he’s been doing with all these women? Now he claims he’s settled down, if you can call it that. Oh yes, Mr. Pickering is married to a divorcee. A divorcee with a criminal record, arrested and jailed in Washington for her suffragist antics.”

  I sat on the front row, mortified into staring straight ahead. The rumblings behind me became louder, the hens turned into hornets and George had thrown a rock at their nest. His hands clutched the gazebo railing hard enough to make his knuckles white. He raised his voice to be heard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you should know that I am a deacon of the Clover United Church, a solid citizen who believes in right and wrong and if it’s wrong it shouldn’t be allowed. What message are we relaying to our children? What do you think they would choose, if told they could have the freedom to choose between going to school and staying home? Wrong is ugly, plain as the wart on your nose—”

  “I’ve heard enough!” someone shouted. I twisted around in my seat to see a woman in the back row work her way around knees to the aisle, her long blonde braid bouncing like the reins of a mare. I saw then it was Aimee, Mama’s soft-spoken next-door neighbor. Her high pitch shook as if unaccustomed to these elevated heights but she projected her voice for all to hear. “Mr. Groves, I am one of those supposedly-battered women you refer to and if it weren’t for Mr. Pickering’s generosity of the Lighthouse, I would be dead! You are being brutally unkind, Mr. Groves. Mr. Pickering did not direct his house of women. He gave his house to women. He saved my life and many other women who had been beaten by their husbands. No one else would have done such a thing in those days. And I can testify that in all the time I worked and lived there, Mr. Pickering did not sleep a night there.”

  “And I can testify as a former slave,” called out Lizzie as she stood, “that Mr. Pickering never slept there a day after his first wife died, until he married Miss Wright.” She jerked an indignant thumb toward her heaving bosom. “I ran the Lighthouse, Mr. Groves. Only Mr. Pickering would trust a poor old Negro woman to do such a thing.”

  Phyllis of the original Ladies Legion stood. “I, too, worked there for years and can testify the same.”

  “So can I,” shouted Mama. “And I,” shouted another.

  George raised his hands in surrender. “I apologize, ladies, if I have offended you,” he said in a patronizing tone. “I only thought it proper to let the public know what I’ve been told – by what I considered a most reliable source, since Miss Mary Sue Phillips also lives in this same house. She is also willing to testify, but to quite a different story I assure you.”

  “Your time is up,” Mr. Gibbons announced abruptly. “Mr. Pickering, your rebuttal, please.”

  I sent a subliminal message to Thomas: Do some negative campaigning for once - please bring up his “housekeeper” and divorce from Eunice!

  Silence followed for a pregnant moment. I could almost hear Thomas’ thoughts gather and rearrange themselves. My own thoughts screamed against the silence, Mary Sue, you’re going to wish you had a Lighthouse to run to, when I finish with you!

  “Mr. Groves, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been a resident of Annan for thirty years, and for that thirty years I’ve spent my time reporting to you all of the town activities, whether that be crime, corruption, war deaths of our men, or suffrage for our women. Never, in all that time, was I accused of falsehood or dirty dealings. You be the judge. Let-The-People-Choose.”

  With that, he stepped down from the gazebo, grabbed my elbow and we walked away, leaving behind us a silent crowd and the sound of camera flashes popping.

  I clung to the notion that Thomas would win the election right up until the announcement was made that he didn’t. The night after the debate, I sat there numbed from exhaustion and comprehended nothing. Shocked from the news that George had won by a tight margin of eighty-nine, I absent-mindedly patted Thomas’ shoulder. I looked around our crowded parlor and entrance hall to family and volunteers and felt as if I had personally let them down. Their eyes of disbelief trailed into pity and I hated this road we were on. I wanted to get off and get away from the “I’m-so-sorry-I-can’t-believe-it”.

  But somehow Thomas carried this with strength of character, raising his arms as if lifting this weight above his head. “Folks, can I have your attention, please!”

  He stepped up onto an entrance hall chair and the group immediately hushed, looking up to him for relief. He bestowed on them his heartwarming grin. “I’m the luckiest man in town so let’s not have a pity-party, shall we? I say that because I see love and support that I didn’t know before that I had. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for that support. You’re what gave me the votes I got – I have no one else to blame but myself for the votes I didn’t get. Insisting on a debate the day before the election was a political faux pas on my part.”

  Uneasy titters circulated around. “The point here is the majority ruled that George would be the best man for the job and we’ll just see if they’re right. He’s a conservative right-winger who took the moral high ground promising closed nightclubs, strong business, and less union. My scales of equal opportunity were no match to his lead bottom.”

  He grinned and raised his hands to the guffaws. “In a nutshell, what this means to our little town, is now it will be all work and no play, and more signal lights telling us to stop and go on roads too bumpy to go anywhere.”

  “Pos-a-lootly!” said David.

  “I could be wrong, I could be wrong,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “We’ll just have to wait and see. If not, perhaps David here would be interested in running?” Rumbles of laughter ran through the group. Pearl put her arm through David’s, smiling hopefully up at him, proud he received the attention. David’s chest rose as if inflated.

  “In the meantime, I intend on heading south for awhile and enjoying my old age a great deal more before the Almighty votes me outta here for good. I’m sorry I can’t serve you from the mayor’s office, but today let’s just celebrate life and let me at least serve you tea and butter biscuits in my humble home. No more sad faces, agreed?”

  I analyzed his composure and his gestures as they emphasized his words, and he was as cool as a cucumber. Not only had he lifted that weight, but he had thrown it off. He actually looked relieved. “Again, I want to thank all of you, I don’t have to name names because all of you are here. Well, I guess I better recognize one. Bess come over here. Bess was the wise woman behind me, telling me what to say and when to say it.” He placed his hand over his heart and looked directly down at me. My heart soared up to meet his. “Bess, honey, thank you for your devotion and trust. Now can we live our lives in peace?”

  Everyone looked my way, laughing easily. I pretended to think about it and then nodded. They all applauded, including Thomas.

  I was amazed at how he had switched
the mood from dark to light, as easily as turning on a light switch. The air became almost festive, definitely light-hearted, for they saw what I saw: Thomas was as happy – if not happier – without the added responsibility of political office. Why hadn’t he told me this before?

  I asked him this precise question that evening as my head settled on his shoulder in the privacy of our bed.

  “If you’ll recall,” Thomas said, “it was not I whose eyes lit up at the thought of campaigning. You were most eager to step out and petition for another cause, albeit for opposite reasons than before, in bringing in yet another lowly man into political power over women. Not nearly as exciting as saving women from men, I wager. I thought my being mayor would make you happy. I’m sorry I have failed you.”

  “Oh, stop it Thomas. You haven’t failed me at all.” I thought about my unhappiness in the midst of celebrating the women’s vote. “Besides, I think I’m most happy in the journey, not at the end of the road. Where shall we journey? South?”

  I was thinking short-term as I snuggled in against him, my hand moving down his stomach. We hadn’t been intimate since the night Mary Sue encroached on our most private space. He grasped my wrist.

  “Not tonight,” he said to the ceiling.

  My hand rolled in on itself to hug my stomach. I desperately needed a hug; Thomas had been less than affectionate these last two weeks. A moonbeam coming through our window lit checkered patterns onto the Wedding Ring quilt, leaving half of some circles in the dark. I turned away, onto my side.

  “We’re at a crossroads, Bess, if you want to know where we are. I’m not sure which direction I’m taking. For now, I’m heading back to my southern roots, if just for a few weeks. This town has taken everything I have and I need to replenish these old tired bones.”

  “I understand you’re tired, Thomas, but couldn’t you rest here?”

  “I have trouble sleeping in this room.” He paused and caught his breath as if wondering whether to finish his thought. “I have strange dreams.”

  “About your first wife?” This was a natural guess since he had called Mary Sue by his first wife’s name that nightmarish night.

  “She’s either dressed in all white with a sickly face not unlike her last days, or in all black and looking most healthy. Either way, she’s propped up in this bed and watching me pace the floor. In these dreams my role is to enter the room and pace the floor. Sometimes she only watches, other times she says things like, “stop moving”, or “you must settle or you’ll be sick like I”. Once she said, “I love you, Thomas” and I looked at her as I walked by the bed and her face changed into Mary Sue’s.”

  “She was likely wearing black in that dream,” I said.

  “Yes, she was!” he said, sounding surprised.

  I wasn’t.

  “I’ve had this dream in one form or another about four or five different nights now and it’s to the point that when I enter this room, I half-expect to see her here, propped in bed. I’m haunted by this. Can you understand?”

  “Yes. After I received word of Billy’s death, I dreamt one night that he was running toward me on the street, his clothes were ablaze and he was yelling, ‘The British are coming! The British are coming!’”

  Thomas chuckled. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. Were you frightened in the dream – or mistake him for Paul Revere?”

  “Yes, of course, I was frightened – he was on fire for goodness sake. But I also realized that I’d combined several facts into one dream. First of all, his body was burned when they found him and his aeroplane. Secondly, he wrote a great deal in his letters about the British folk, and thirdly, although I hadn’t thought about this until now, he was warning me he had fallen in love with a British woman.

  “So, if that were so,” I continued, “then Cady is giving you a warning to rest. She represents white and goodness, and the face of Mary Sue represents darkness and evil. Easy interpretation.” So easy I hoped he would have another dream to tell him to settle down here.

  “Speaking of Mary Sue, have you heard from her?”

  “No, she told Mama that she’s staying in hiding at a friend’s until she’s prepared to explain her conversation with George Groves. She claims he twisted what she said to him.”

  “He has a knack for that, you must admit, Bess.”

  “We can resolve this problem with Mary Sue together. Don’t leave me alone here, Thomas.”

  “You will be fine with Lizzie, just like the old days.”

  “I don’t want to journey backwards.”

  “I do. I need some time to think, reflect. I think I’ll start a journal. Why must old age make you look back to where you came from? To measure the distance we came? At any rate, I need to be alone. People have swamped me for months now. Since I’ve been courting you, come to think of it. You’re a loner like I, yet you seem to bring in an entourage of people for one reason or another. Most of them, like your first husband or Mary Sue, you don’t really know or care to know, and it’s hurt our reputation. You’re like a magnet.”

  “Then you won’t find peace with me, then, is that it? I attract chaos?”

  “Your voice is shaking, Bess. I’ve upset you. Once again I say I’m sorry. I’m not really blaming you. I’m not leaving you for good. I’ll be back in the spring. But just so you’ll know, I’m heading south the first of March.”

  Lost election, the bedroom, the dreams, Mary Sue, me – I could close my eyes and throw a dart at any one of these as a reason he was leaving. I swiftly felt shallow and chilled as if a wind had blown me backwards, as easily as tumbleweed.

  Listless as I felt as his Duesenberg pulled away, there were still some areas of my life I wanted to take control. Areas that drove Thomas away, and if fixed, might bring him back. I closed the front door and headed to my roll-top desk, its opening like a large mouth willing to tell all. I began writing:

  Dear Jere,

  Here’s hoping this letter finds you and your children well. Your oldest daughter is doing well academically and her health seems fine. But her emotions are in turmoil and this has caused strife amongst those who care for her. To be more specific, I recently remarried and Mary Sue has developed strong immoral attachments for my husband. She is relentless in displaying her affections for him and in coming between us. This has made our living conditions difficult to say the least. I could attempt to ignore past indiscretions but recently publicized mis-communications have taken this too far. I can no longer allow these living arrangements and ask that you come to Annan to take her back home. In the long run, she will be happier there, as she never really outgrew her homesickness for her hills of Tennessee. I can only hope that schooling is available there for her so that she can graduate from high school and teach, as she had planned to do. I do apologize that I cannot help more than I have, but my marriage must come first.

  I ask that you make the trip here to escort Mary Sue back to your home at your earliest convenience, preferably by springtime.

  Warm regards,

  Bess (Wright) Pickering

  “Howdy Miz Bess.”

  I flinched so that I gave a curly-cue to my last name, making it look like Thomas’ signature.

  “I see you’ve come out of hiding.”

  “I wasn’t hiding.” She came over and stood beside me, looking at my paper. “Are you writing another speech for Thomas?”

  I placed my hand over the letter. “No, there will be no more speeches. You must have heard that Thomas lost the election? Doesn’t your friend have a radio or read the newspapers?”

  “Yes, I know he lost. But you’re always writing speeches for one reason or another. Maybe a Goodbye-I-Lost speech.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “You do realize you’re part of the reason he lost?”

  “You blame me for everything!” she said, putting her hands to her hips. “Now I get the blame for the way this stupid town votes, too?”

  “You made Thomas sound like he was chasing you, rather than the other way aro
und.”

  “That’s not what I told Mr. Groves. He got it all wrong. On purpose, I bet.”

  “Safe bet, Mary Sue. But what did you tell him?”

  “Where’s Uncle Thomas? Is he mad at me? I can explain everything but I want him here because he’ll believe me.”

  “Thanks to you, he’s gone away for a few weeks. You’re stuck with telling only me.”

  “Uncle Thomas is not here?” Her smug expression fell. A touch of fear watered her eyes. “I told him that Uncle Thomas kissed me when Mr. Groves asked me if he had made a pass at me while I lived here. That’s all I said, but it seemed to satisfy that dirty old man. He just nodded and smiled and said, ‘Just as I suspected!’ People were talking about you and Uncle Thomas anyway. So don’t blame it on me.”

  Forgetting about the letter, I folded my arms across my chest. “Really?” I challenged.

  She saw the unshielded letter then and snatched it from the desk. She backed away from my attempted grasp, reading it. “Oh. Oh! You sow! You harlot!” she screamed. “I’ll get you back for this! I will!” She ran from the back parlor, the letter clutched in her fingers.

  “I’ll simply write another one,” I called out to her, proud with the satisfaction of sounding calm. I pulled out another piece of paper from the cubbyhole, my hand trembling to spite me.

  Thank goodness Mama and Lizzie were out of earshot in the backyard, standing in patches of snow trying to resuscitate the old wooden washing machine with the annoying squeak in the crank. But this reminded me that I must concentrate more on the domestic necessities around here. I had no access to my husband’s funds and he had given Lizzie her monthly allotment for household goods as if nothing had changed, including my status here. I hoped to have enough money put away to buy a new washing machine with a stainless steel tub, one that ran on electricity. The Eden Washing Machine with the Sediment Zone. You can buy as you like and pay as you save, I remembered the advertisement read. I wished I had written that. A new machine would make Lizzie’s job easier – and eventually these duties would pass to me as Lizzie was becoming more feeble and bent, as if always ducking some imaginary doorway too low for her height. Mama helped where she could but hadn’t officially moved in although she slept here most nights. She was bringing in a couple of items at a time, like a squirrel taking a nut or two to its hideaway.