“Papa,” I said, between bites, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let us resolve our unfortunate dispute with regard to my prayer shawl.”
He wiped his lips on his napkin. “I do not like your tone of voice, young lady.”
My mince pie turned to mud.
“Miriam, please,” Mama implored.
Stupid me. I should have kept my mouth shut, at least until after Tuesday, when I went to the print shop. Now was it too late? I looked at Papa, keeping my eyes soft, my tone pleasant but confident. “I am not trying to argue. But Uncle Hermann made it quite clear that—”
“Uncle Hermann is not in charge of what goes on in this house.”
My left hand, the one I’d been trained to keep in my lap during a meal, curled into a fist. “You are perfectly right, Papa. But that shawl is my personal property.”
Papa threw his napkin on the table. “Enough nonsense! You have ruined my meal. Lillian, I will take coffee in the parlor.”
After he left, Mama shot me another disapproving look. “You’ll never get what you want from him this way.”
“Papa has no right,” I told her. “This is the United States of America in the twentieth century, not some faraway land back long ago. Women should be equal to men.”
“He has every right. He’s your father.”
“I need my shawl, Mama. It belongs to me.”
“I’ll buy you another one, something not so woefully out of fashion. Shall we shop for it at that French boutique Mrs. Steinbacher raves about?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Think, Miriam,” she said. “Perhaps you are the one missing the point. You should listen to me more. You have a lot to learn about men in general and your father in particular.”
I was quiet a minute, while I collected my thoughts. “You don’t know anything…special…about my shawl, do you? Papa never told you. Neither did Uncle Hermann.”
Mama put her hands on her hips. “Men are entitled to their little secrets. They feel more important that way. And heaven knows women have their little secrets, too.”
I stifled a snort. My secret was hardly little. An image of Tirtzah flashed through my mind. “Mama, can women inherit land?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“Well, can they?”
“Yes, I suppose they can. I have a small fund Grandma and Grandpa Goldstein left me. Your father sold their house for me after they died, and he’s invested the proceeds.”
“In your name? I mean, is it all yours?”
“I should think so.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“Miriam, what is all this nonsense? I trust your father’s business judgments completely. He came here with just the shirt on his back and a younger brother no older than you. Now he says you and I can afford to spend a whole month at the Algonquin Hotel when we go to New York in December. Believe you me, I intend to see that you are married to a man who can provide for you as well as your father has for me.”
She bustled out of the dining room, leaving me to devour a second helping of pie, which tasted better without parents. In my room that night, I wrote to Florrie.
I went to a suffrage rally yesterday with Charity and Prudence—yes, me, your friend who planned to avoid the campaign. Kirsten was there from Papa’s shop, and her fiancé Nils told everyone about an anti-suffrage card Papa printed in 1906. Oh, Florrie, it was so embarrassing! It made me furious, but it also made me glad that I had attended the rally after all, as if just being there would somehow help counteract Papa’s actions.
The strangest thing happened afterwards. At first I was sure it was a dream—a fantastical dream about a prayer shawl with a blue thread that Uncle Hermann gave me. I know you probably won’t believe me if I tell you now—I scarcely believe myself, but Florrie, this changes everything!
I know this must sound confusing. But I’ve realized something. Something important. I’ve been asking for the wrong thing! Not wrong, exactly, but too small. I’ve been asking Papa for a chance to prove myself in his print shop—which I will do starting this Tuesday (yes, I finally worked up my courage). And I’ve been moaning to you that Uncle Hermann’s boys will inherit Precision Printers one day.
Well, from now on I am going to ask for a bigger inheritance—more than just a portion of the print shop. I want the same rights that Papa has. The same rights Albert and Baby Nathan will have when they become men. Why not? Women should be citizens just as much as men are.
I so wish you were here in Portland! I wish you could click your shoes and fly home like Dorothy from the Land of Oz. I have so much to tell you.
In friendship forever,
Mim
I reread my words, and there they were, the three things I had to do, my next three steps.
First, Papa’s shop. I had to continue to do what I had planned for weeks. I had to go to the print shop Tuesday and somehow make Papa see the businesswoman I wanted to become.
Next, the anti-suffrage card Papa printed. I had to speak to Kirsten about it, find out more. I could do that on Tuesday, too. I had to do something in this suffrage campaign to make up for what Papa did, something more than making yellow bows and going to suffrage rallies.
And then, most importantly, the blue thread. My dream that wasn’t a dream. What to do between now and Tuesday? That was obvious: find my prayer shawl and keep it close, in case Serakh returned at a moment’s notice. Serakh. Tirtzah. My stomach gave a lurch at the thought—an odd composite of eagerness and fear.
I sat back and gazed at the grains of sand still under my nails. Step One. Step Two. Step Three. They sounded easy, though I knew they wouldn’t be. Still, they were what I had to do here in 1912 and what I needed to do to get back to…to there and then. My “misadventure” was going to be the greatest adventure of my life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I came down to breakfast the next morning, Papa was already gone. Mama announced she had an appointment with Mrs. Steinbacher. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep yourself busy,” she said.
I cleared my throat, smiled, and took a sweet roll to the back porch. After I heard Mama leave, I searched the porch and potting shed for my shawl.
Mrs. Jenkins bustled outside with my coat. “You’ll catch your death in this weather.”
“Mrs. Jenkins, have you seen a white embroidered shawl with a bag to match?”
“Can’t rightly say that I have.”
“If you find them, you’ll tell me, won’t you, please? They belong to me.”
She tut-tutted, but agreed to help. Our library, parlor, dining room, and front hall yielded nothing. The same with the attic, cellar, and the nook under the stairs.
Mrs. Sablovsky brought my newly hemmed gray skirt right before lunch. I tried it on with its matching jacket and the hat Charity had decorated for me. Mrs. Sablovsky and Mrs. Jenkins pronounced me perfectly professional—I was ready for the print shop. Mrs. Jenkins invited Mrs. Sablovsky to stay for leftover pot roast, and I joined them. Then it was back to my search.
The cedar chest in our upstairs guest room held nothing new. Mama’s dressing room—nothing. My parents’ bedroom was tidier than an empty coffin. Not a wrinkle in the bed sheets, not an object out of place. I hugged myself and thought of the trip to New York in December. My parents would be thrilled to marry me off to some wealthy aristocrat, a German Jew with a country home in the Hamptons or a summer cottage on the New Jersey shore. I placed Papa’s left slipper where the right one should be and left Mama’s pillow askew. A little disorder never hurt anyone.
There was only one place left to look. I paced in my room, rustling up as much courage as I could. This is for Tirtzah, I told myself. I trudged down the hall and forced myself to open Danny’s door.
The air was musty and cold. Papa had insisted the room be redone into a sewing room for Mama and me, not that either of us sewed much. The wallpaper was similar to mine, ivory medallions on a pale yellow background. Mama’s Si
nger sewing machine stood in one corner, a rocking chair and ottoman in the other. Between them—emptiness.
Danny’s bed, books, and toys were gone. Only his big mahogany dresser remained, with nothing on top but a thin layer of dust. I opened the dresser drawers. Each was empty, except for the bottom one, which had something bundled in tissue half hidden in the back corner. I put the bundle on my lap and carefully unwrapped it. Danny’s bear peeked out with his brass button eyes. One ear was discolored where I used to suck on it—because Baloo had been mine, too, when I was little.
I suddenly felt very little again. I buried my face in Baloo’s matted fur and breathed in Mama’s perfume—it was a wonder that Mama’s scent had lasted this long. I remembered how good it felt to snuggle with Baloo on her lap while she read The Jungle Book to Danny and me. Danny had told me Baloo belonged to him first, so he got to name Baloo after the sloth bear in that book. I swore to him that I would never change the name.
And I remembered when Papa told Mama it was improper to bury a ten-year-old boy with a baby toy. Mama was crying.
“Baloo was his favorite,” she moaned. “He’ll be lonely.”
Papa’s voice grew softer. “Lillian, please. He is gone from us.”
I wanted to run into their room and claim Baloo for my own. But I had stayed away. Mama and Papa had been so sad. Besides, Baloo had been Danny’s bear first.
Now, back in Danny’s old room, I hugged Baloo for another minute or two. Wrapped in sadness, I gently placed Baloo back inside the drawer and left, closing the door softly behind me.
Death pulled at my thoughts for the rest of the day—Danny’s death and the stillborn baby boy who came four years later. I thought of Grandma and Grandpa Goldstein from Seattle. Dead. And Papa’s parents, although I’d never met them. Papa’s grandmother, his savta. And Papa’s sister Raizl, who Uncle Hermann said had died in the shawl that was now mine.
***
That night a giant window hovered at the edge of my bed. A scorpion crawled across the glass. Then a bloody spike three feet high sprouted from the floor. Danny stood by the giant window. He was dressed like a tin soldier, and he wore my prayer shawl.
“No,” I screamed. “Don’t!”
But he didn’t listen. Danny jumped through the window and landed on that spike. Blood spurted from his foot. He took off the prayer shawl and wrapped it around a girl who looked like Papa, only with a long dress and long black curls. They walked toward me, with tin soldier buttons where their eyes should be.
My voice exploded. “No! No! No! No!”
They came closer. Closer. They called my name. They doused me with Mama’s perfume. Gasping for breath, I flung myself forward and opened my eyes.
“Shh…” Mama said. “Shh, Miss Marmalade. Everything will be all right. It’s only a bad dream. You haven’t had one in months, thank goodness.”
I stared at Mama. Her little girl name for me pulled at the back of my eyes, and I mashed my lips together so they would stop quivering.
“Mama? I—there was blood everywhere, all over them. Even on my prayer shawl. And a huge spike and button eyes.”
“Hush now,” she said. “There’s no blood. Go back to sleep now. Don’t worry about that silly shawl. I took it to the laundry today. It will come back Friday perfectly clean.”
I gulped in air and clutched my coverlet. “Wait! Mama, what did you say?”
Mama smoothed my hair. “Shh…go to sleep.”
I grabbed her hand. “You have my shawl?”
“Do you have a fever? You haven’t been yourself since you fainted in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”
Fainted? I’d done no such thing. Still, how could I explain landing on the kitchen floor after traveling back from…then? My head fell against the pillow. I stared at the ceiling. Mama returned with a teaspoon and a medicine bottle. “Here, this will help you sleep.”
“Where did you take my shawl? Please, I have to know.”
“To the Han Lee Laundry. But that doesn’t matter now. Drink this.”
“I don’t need any medicine.”
“Yes, you do. This is as harmless as Lydia Pickham’s Vegetable Compound. It will help you sleep.”
I took the medicine—Mama can be very insistent in these matters. I turned on my side and felt her straighten the bed linens. Han Lee, I thought. Remember Han Lee.
***
The next thing I knew, morning sunlight was streaming through my window. The grandfather clock chimed ten. Ten o’clock…no! The print shop! I stormed into the kitchen.
“You look out of sorts this morning,” Mama said.
“I have a dreadful headache. Plus, it’s Tuesday. I was supposed to go to the print shop with Papa today. I’ve been planning this for days.”
Mama shook her head. “You had a difficult night last night, as you might recall. That’s the second time in three days. Surely you can go to the shop another time. I trust you’ll be relaxing at home again today.”
Mama glanced at Mrs. Jenkins, who was busily making poached eggs and toast. “There are worse things in life than staying in a comfortable house and having someone to look after you. I can’t help it if you have a headache,” Mama said.
“I told you I didn’t need any medicine.”
“You did? You were in no condition to decide anything for yourself.”
Mrs. Jenkins shoved a dish of poached eggs on toast under my nose. “Eggs are good for what ails you.”
Breakfast was delicious. So was the news that Mama had another appointment downtown. Angry as I was at missing my first real work day at Precision Printers, I could now concentrate on reclaiming my shawl. Two minutes after Mama left with Mrs. Steinbacher, I strode into Papa’s study to examine the Portland City Directory. Han Lee Chinese Laundry was listed at the northeast corner of Second and Pine. I snatched a few coins from the rainy day sock I kept under my mattress and raced downstairs.
***
Although Han Lee’s was only a few blocks from Precision Printers, the two places were worlds apart. After I got off the streetcar, I walked past shops with bright red lanterns, exotic scrolls with bold black calligraphy, and exquisite painted fans. Smoked ducks hung in front of shops that smelled of spices and cabbage. And the newspapers! A compositor would go crazy setting Chinese type.
The woman behind the counter frowned when I asked about an embroidered shawl that she had received the previous day. “It was a mistake,” I explained. “It should not have been brought here in the first place.”
“Ticket?”
“For the laundry? My mother has it, I suppose. I’m not picking up any clean clothes, just the shawl she gave you by accident. She might accidentally have left an embroidered bag, too.”
“Come back Friday.”
“I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. I need the shawl now.”
The woman disappeared behind a curtain of green and orange beads. Soon a girl about nine years old came out front and asked me what I wanted. I explained about the shawl and added before I stopped to think, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m very sick today.” She faked a cough. “Very con-ta-gious.”
The girl was the picture of health, with a starched white top and a bright pink ribbon in her shiny black hair. “I’m not a truant officer,” I assured her. “I’d just like my shawl. Here,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket, “would you like this yellow bow as a gift? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She grabbed my bow. “This is better than a sash.” She disappeared behind the beads.
“What about my shawl?” I called after her.
The girl returned a moment later with a clipping from The Morning Oregonian and a bundle wrapped in brown paper. She jabbed her finger at a newspaper photograph of two white women and several fashionably dressed Chinese women and girls attending what the caption said was the Portland Suffrage Luncheon last April.
“See?” She pointed to a girl in the first row. “This is my cousin. She has two
yellow sashes, but a bow is better. A bow you can put in your hair.”
I smiled at her enthusiasm and admired the picture for a moment before getting out my change purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“You are a nice customer. No charge.” At last she placed the bundle on the counter. “Your shawl and bag are still dirty.”
“Here’s a penny anyway. Buy some candy.”
The girl pocketed the penny in half an instant.
I practically kissed the bundle as I left the laundry. A block away, I saw Mr. Jacobowitz, that serious-looking fellow who was Papa’s office assistant. He was across the street and walking in my direction. He clutched a small bag, and I wondered what he had bought in this part of town. Tea? An herbal remedy? Curiosity almost got the better of me, but then I remembered my shawl. Suppose he told Papa he saw me? I put my head down and hurried away.
A few steps from the streetcar platform, I noticed the back of someone’s head reflected in a shop window—someone with a long braid of the purest white. My eyes grew wide and my heart thudded in my throat.
It had to be Serakh. She must have waited until I had my blue thread back. Magical Serakh. She seemed to know my every move.
I whipped around. There was the braid again, bobbing along on a short person huddled under a dark blue coat and wobbling down the street. She’d found a gray dress when I first saw her—maybe this time she’d found a coat. The blue was almost the color of that magical thread.
“Serakh, wait!” I shouted. “I’m over here!”
An old Chinese man turned my way, his long white braid falling over one shoulder. I faced the shop window again to hide my embarrassment, and my fear that Serakh might never come back.
***
Mrs. Jenkins explained how to wash a woolen garment stained with salt and honey. I followed her instructions to a T—a Baskerville capital T to be exact—dissolving soap flakes in a stream of hot water in the bathtub, and then switching to cold water and easing the shawl into the tub to soak.
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