by M. J. Rose
They stood for hours in the immigration line, unwashed and stinking in the salt-sharp humidity. She was eleven now, she realized when the official asked her age. Every year hard-earned.
That night she and her da slept in the cluttered back room of a pub owned by an Irishman, with four of his mates from the ship. Just till I get on me feet, her da told her, but the days passed and that was where they stayed. He slept until midafternoon and was seated on a barstool by four. Staggered back to the room in the wee hours of the morning, wreathed in whiskey.
The room was dark and drafty and smelled of vomit. Kira slept on a small pallet behind an overturned table, a part of her brain always alert. She only talked to the other men when she had to. Come ’ere, lass, they’d say, but she spit at them and bared her teeth. When they tried to joke with her, or flirt, she’d let loose a string of insults she’d learned from her brothers: Hump off, ye fat-headed lobcock. Yer full of shite, ye dumb bollix. Bunch of feckers. Bleedin’ eejits …
She wanted them to find her hateful. They did. And eventually left her alone.
Sometimes her da brought her food, sometimes he didn’t. She began helping out in the pub, washing glasses and sweeping floors before it opened in the early afternoon. The owner’s wife, Mrs. Connolly, paid her in mutton stew and soda bread. The beer she gave Kira to wash it down was dark and bitter; she only gulped it to quell hunger, but she came to like how it blurred the edges.
One day Kira was stocking shelves with liquor bottles when Mrs. Connolly said, “Those don’t go together. Can’t ye read?”
“Course I can.”
Mrs. Connolly pointed at a line of letters above the door. “Read that.”
Shame burned Kira’s face. She’d been faking it for a long time, relying on cues like a carnival psychic.
Mrs. Connolly tapped her lips. “Ye should be in school.”
The next day she set a book on the bar. “It’s a primer,” she said. We’ll start with the ABCs.”
A few weeks after learning the alphabet, Kira was piecing together words wherever she looked: labels on boxes and bottles, storefront signs, scraps of newspaper. Within a month, the jumble of letters above the door revealed itself as an Irish proverb: May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten.
* * *
“I need ye to keep a secret,” Mrs. Connolly said. “I’m holding a meeting here tomorrow morning. A group of suffragettes. You know what that is?”
Kira shook her head.
“Women who want the right to vote. We’re planning a parade. Mr. Connolly will be at the supplier’s, and he doesn’t need to know.”
The next morning, as Kira washed the floor behind the bar, she listened to half a dozen women plot and plan as they sewed banners out of purple and white and green cloth. They were all in agreement that women bore most of the burdens and had none of the benefits of citizenship, and it was high time they were recognized and respected as full members of society.
Kira kept her mouth shut, but she couldn’t see the point. The poor were poor and the rich were rich; the men made the laws and women birthed the babies, and that was how it was. A gaggle of angry ladies marching up and down the street wouldn’t change anything.
Within an hour she was conscripted to cut fabric and thread needles, to iron finished banners and tuck them into boxes. As she worked, she mouthed the words on the banners:
A VOTE FOR SUFFRAGE IS A VOTE FOR JUSTICE
YOU TRUST US WITH THE CHILDREN TRUST US WITH THE VOTE
“How many are marching?” she asked.
“Thousands,” one woman said.
“Millions,” said another.
“It’ll be the largest gathering of women in the history of this nation,” Mrs. Connolly said. “An army of women, all in white. They can’t keep saying no. We’ll overwhelm ’em.”
That night Kira’s da got it into his drunken head to swipe from the till at the pub. He was swiftly foiled, arrested, and hauled off to jail, but not before protesting loudly that it wasn’t his idea; someone else in the back room planned it. He was the fall guy, the patsy. Kira was asleep when Mr. Connolly stormed in, calling her da’s mates traitors and coconspirators and worse, ordering them up and out, and Kira along with them.
She never had the chance to say good-bye. Whatever else he was or wasn’t, he was still her da.
“Mr. Connolly is fit to be tied,” Mrs. Connolly whispered as she ushered Kira out the door. “I wish ye could stay, but there’s nothing I can do. We’re not a charity, he says.”
“I’ll be all right,” Kira said.
“I know ye will.” Mrs. Connolly shook her head. “I’ll look for ye at the parade.”
For several weeks Kira wandered the streets. Trailed chestnut carts, waiting for vendors to toss out nuts that were too charred for paying customers. Fished penny papers out of trash bins to resell. Plucked apples from the fruitmonger’s display when he turned his back to make change. She offered to do errands for shopkeepers, but mostly they shooed her away. She wasn’t the only stray—there were plenty. Newsies in flat caps, bootblacks carrying brushes and wax. Packs of eight-year-olds making mischief and noise to look bigger than they were. Girls no older than her simpering with painted lips, begging for change.
It was a mild autumn, at least. Kira slept on a pile of rags in Washington Square Park with the other vagrants. When it rained, they curled up under awnings or in stairwells.
Early one wet morning she woke to find two constables, one fat and one thin, bending over her.
The fat one poked her roughly with his stick. “Can’t sleep here.”
“I’ll move.”
“Where’re your parents?”
“I have no parents.”
He frowned. “You’re on your own, then?”
She realized her mistake. “No—I live with me gram. Just thought it would be a laugh to sleep outside for a night.”
“Where’s your gram?”
“Asleep.”
He grunted. “Don’t be wise. Where’s she live?”
Ahh …
The constables looked at each other. Then back at her. “You’re coming with us.”
“I’m not.”
The thin one hauled her up by the arm. “You Irish are trouble.”
“You’re Irish yourself, ain’t ye?” she asked.
“I’m one hundred percent American,” he said.
They stuck her in the dark and smelly back of a paddy wagon.
“Where’re ye taking me?” she shouted through the grate.
“Children’s Aid Society. The only place that’ll have you.”
Oh, no. She’d heard the newsies talk. Rumor had it the Children’s Aid nabbed children off the streets and put them on trains—orphan trains, they called them—and sent them out to work on farms in the middle of nowhere. Once you left the city on a train, you were never coming back.
The building they pulled up to was large and imposing, with a wooden front door and a broad stoop.
“Where’d you find this one?” asked the matron who came to the door.
“Washington Square,” the fat constable said.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Kira.”
Surname?
“Kelley.”
“How old are you, Kira Kelley?”
“Nearly twelve.”
The matron sighed. To the constables, she said, “Well, if she doesn’t find a placement, she’ll age out soon enough.”
Once inside, Kira gave her a defiant look. “I heard about the trains.”
The matron eyed her. “What did you hear?”
“That ye load ’em up with children and send ’em far away to work like slaves.”
“You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip. Hard work and fresh air are good for children.”
“I’d rather be back on the streets.”
“Have you started your monthlies?”
“Me…?”
“Your v
irtue is the only thing of value you possess in the world, Miss Kelley. On the streets of New York City you’ll lose it before you know it, and then you’re done for.” Handing her a bar of lye soap, the matron herded her toward a room with a porcelain tub. “No belongings?”
“No.”
“One last thing,” the matron said. “Don’t talk about the trains with the others. No need to scare them.”
After a cold bath, the matron handed Kira a stiff gray shift and led her to a dormitory filled with girls of all ages, where she was assigned to a metal bed with a horsehair mattress. As the matron left, she whispered: “You probably won’t be chosen anyway. Females your age are hard to place. People would rather have a strong boy or a healthy baby than a querulous twelve-year-old girl.”
* * *
Life at the orphanage, Kira had to admit, was better than life on the streets. She wore clean, dry clothes and shoes and was given her own hairbrush. Most of the staffers, while not particularly friendly, were not unkind. Three regular meals a day, morning, noon, and six o’clock. For the first time in her life, she attended school. The girls were kept separate from the boys, which suited her fine.
One morning, a few weeks after she arrived, she was roused from bed with a tap on the leg. Come on. Time to get ready.
Standing in line for a bath, Kira tried to imagine what she was in for. She’d been born and raised in cities; everything she knew about country life she’d learned from ballads. Thyme and roses, hares and pheasants, streams and meadows; the high mountains o’er the west coast of Clare, the rocky slopes round the cliffs of Dooneen … Maybe the fresh air would be good for her, as the matron had said. Maybe the people who took her in would treat her kindly. Maybe she’d find a family.
But she’d experienced enough misery in her short life to doubt it.
After their baths the girls were given new white dresses and white socks, scratchy gray coats, and brown leather lace-up shoes. Ribbons for their hair. Each received a small valise with extra clothing sewn by volunteers—a dress, socks, and undergarments—and a Bible. Then they were led into a classroom to be lectured by the matron.
“You seven girls are extremely fortunate,” she said. “You’re about to embark on a journey to find a family who will love you and care for you as their own. But you must be on your best behavior. The more polite and presentable, the better your chances of being chosen. Put yourselves in the shoes of the people making the decision! Wouldn’t you prefer a well-behaved, pious, respectful child to a whiner or a complainer?”
Nobody spoke. The question was clearly rhetorical.
The girls lined up with a group of five boys by the large wooden door.
After being ushered outside, Kira cocked her head and listened. She heard a distant shushing sound, a faint tinkle of music. Even before the matron said it, she knew it was the parade. An army of women, all in white. She looked down at her dress. It should be easy enough to disappear into a crowd like that, if she could only get there.
* * *
It was a crisp October afternoon. The trees on the avenue rustled in the wind. The side streets were quiet, drained of people. After running several blocks, Kira stepped into a vestibule to catch her breath. She’d kept expecting to hear the matron’s shout, or a policeman’s whistle, but no one was behind her. She knew she was conspicuous in her coarse orphanage coat, carrying the brown valise, so she tied her coat around the waist of her dress and tucked the valise in a corner of the vestibule; if she could, she’d come back for it later. Spying an errant sash with purple and green stripes in the gutter, she put it on. Votes for Women. Now she looked like any parade-goer.
She hurried toward the noise, which surged to a roar as she got closer. Crowds twenty deep lined both sides of Fifth Avenue, many wearing sashes and pins. She slipped through the throng, all the way to the front, and peered down the street.
She’d never seen so many women in one place. All shapes and sizes, young and old. Row after row of them marching in formation, unsmiling, wearing floor-length white dresses, multicolored sashes, and large hats. Old women hobbled along with canes; young mothers carried children or pushed them in carriages. Some marched with American flags that flapped in the wind. Others carried placards from states all over the country: GOVERNMENT LEAGUE OF MARYLAND, WOMEN OF OHIO, NEW YORK CITY WOMEN HAVE NO VOTE AT ALL …
A lively brass band passed by, trumpets and trombones blaring. Then five women hoisting a large banner: NEW YORK STATE DENIES THE VOTE TO CRIMINALS, LUNATICS, IDIOTS & WOMEN. A group on horseback clip-clopped along, the horses wreathed with garlands of white flowers, the women wearing matching flowers on their hats. A group of four carried ballot boxes on a stretcher; men wearing white jackets and boater hats marched by, sporting orange-and-black buttons in solidarity.
As Kira stood on the sidewalk, taking it all in, she heard a whimper beside her. She looked down to see a young girl with ringleted auburn hair, wearing a white dress and coat and a satin sash that spelled out Miss Suffragette City. She carried a large brown box.
Kira stepped back a little. This girl was not her problem. But when the girl looked up, her face was streaked with tears and her bottom lip trembled.
Kira sighed. “Are you all right?”
The girl shook her head.
“Where’re your parents?”
“I’m … I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.”
“Ah.”
For a moment they stood silently, watching the parade. Then the girl blurted, “I’m lost. I was with my aunt and my uncle, but I turned to take a picture of a woman on a horse, and when I turned back, they were gone.”
“D’ye know your address?”
She sniffed. “I’m staying with my relatives. They have a chauffeur. I never paid attention.”
“What’s a chauffeur?”
The girl smiled a little. “A man who drives you around.”
Kira looked at her, noticing the mother-of-pearl buttons on her creamy dress and the fine stitching on her bodice. “I see. Well, d’ye remember anything about where ye went today?”
The girl thought for a minute. “We were at my uncle’s store. Called Tiffany’s.”
“That’s a start.”
“Do you know it? It’s famous.”
“I don’t. But if it’s famous, I’m sure you’ll find it. Ye may need to speak to a few more strangers, though.”
A woman on the other side of the girl leaned toward them. “I’m a stranger, but I promise I’m harmless.” She pointed a gloved finger in the direction the parade was moving. “Tiffany’s is on Fifth Avenue, at Forty-Ninth. Just follow the parade.”
“Oh, thank you,” the girl said. Lifting the brown box slightly with both hands, she turned to Kira. “You were so kind to me. Can I take your photograph?”
“I wasn’t really, but … why not, I suppose.”
The girl snapped a picture of Kira against the backdrop of the marchers.
Kira had seen photographs, of course, but she’d never had her picture taken. It was strange to think of her image captured inside that box.
“Good luck to ye, Miss Suffragette City,” she said.
The girl raised her fingers in a wave and disappeared into the crowd.
Alone now, gazing down Fifth Avenue at the long, slow procession of women in white, Kira felt something stir within her. She thought of all the girls in Shannon who waited breathlessly for men to ask for their hands in marriage, only to end up in misery, with too little money and too many mouths to feed. She thought of her sister, Aileen, sent to the asylum for the crime of pregnancy. She thought of her mother’s short and bitter life. And she thought: Here I am, in New York City. I can read. I can work. I have two legs and two arms and a head on my shoulders. Here I am, surrounded by an army of women and some men who believe that females should have an active hand in their own fates.
As she watched the banners waving in the wind, in the glittering sunlight of late afternoon, Kira remembered Mrs. Connolly and her har
dy band of suffragettes. They can’t keep saying no. We’ll overwhelm ’em. They had to be here somewhere, marching in their purple and yellow sashes. She wondered if she would see them. Probably not. But later in the day, when the parade was over, Kira decided, she would make her way back to the pub and see if she might earn a job.
Glancing around quickly, she stepped off the curb and fell in with a cluster of marchers. A young woman holding a baby gave her a nod and moved over to make room. Looking down at her shoes, Kira matched her steps to the women’s deliberate gait. Here she was, trooping up Fifth Avenue in a white dress and a suffragette’s sash, chanting, “Votes for women—Votes for women.” Maybe, for the first time in her life, she was right where she belonged.
Boundless, We Ride
JAMIE FORD
Mabel Lee, Bible in hand, clad in a yellow dress still stained with chewing tobacco from when she’d last been spat upon, led members of the Barnard Suffrage Association up the marble steps of the Low Library. The grand dome at the heart of Columbia University, with vaulted pillars and a façade of Ionic columns, was fashioned after the Pantheon in Rome, more cathedral than college, more temple than lyceum.
And like Rome, Mabel thought, institutions of oppression will burn.
As her cohorts unfurled a thirty-foot banner that read RESISTANCE TO TYRANNY IS OBEDIENCE TO GOD, other young women hoisted hand-painted signs emblazoned with WILSON IS AGAINST WOMEN and TODAY IS THE DAY.
Mabel blew a pitch pipe and the women began singing the hymn “Columbia’s Daughters,” harmonizing the lyrics:
Raise the flag and plant the standard.
Wave the signal still.
Brothers, we must share your freedom,
Help us, and we will.
Male students in matching Philo blue ties and dark wool suits laughed and jeered, shaking their heads, taunting, “Go back to the barn, you dozy cows!” and “What more do you man-haters want? You have your own school.”
We do, your sister school, at a building that was once the Bloomingdale Asylum.
Mabel was more incensed by the boys’ female companions who shouted, “Haven’t you done enough? You’ve ruined college for all of us!”