He fastened on the usual array of pins and headed downstairs. Lifting the cake cover, he found a day-old biscuit. Breaking it open with his thumbs, he spooned on strawberry jam and reassembled the two halves. Bundling his breakfast in a napkin and dropping it into his pocket, something Winnie would never have allowed, Deuce retrieved his boater from the hall table and settled it on his head. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Something prompted him to skew the hat to the left. He walked out of the house, letting the screen door bang behind him.
Deuce’s two-story house, with its cedar shakes painted forest green and a wide-columned porch was considered substantial by Emporia standards. Three hoary chestnuts shaded the front lawn and a narrow strip of concrete led from the porch to the sidewalk. To one side was an open lot, waiting for Emporia’s steady progress in the form of another solid middle-class manse.
On the other side, one step closer to town, was the Lakes’ boxy four-square with its coat of whitewash where the never-married Tula kept house for her brother Clay. Devoid of trim work and shutters, its shallow porch and four rooms per floor held a certain charm for townspeople who were nostalgic for the rural life. It brought to mind Emporia’s farming roots when this shady street, now grandly renamed Mount Vernon Boulevard, had been known simply as Route 7 and was used by farmers, like Deuce’s grandfather, to bring crops to town. Even now, a cornstalk sometimes sprang up between the brick paving stones as long-dormant kernels, dropped from wagons, made up their minds to germinate.
Deuce’s father had left the farm but not gone far, just six miles into town, to clerk for the railroad. But every summer he sent Deuce’s older sisters out to Grandpa’s. Deuce was the youngest of six, the only boy. He was still a toddler when the two oldest caught typhoid out at the homestead. The undertaker’s wagon carried them back into town, along this very street.
He gazed abstractly down the embowered boulevard. Maybe I’ll telegram the Springfield editor today and get permission to reprint that piece on adulterated milk. But his courage wavered when he thought of angering his advertisers and his father-in-law.
At the fork, where Mount Vernon slanted eastward, Deuce veered onto State, with its closely packed row of storefronts. A stranger in gray pinstripes, aggressively employing a toothpick to his molars, was lounging in the doorway leading to the second-floor photography studio owned by Tula’s brother Clay. There was something unsavory about the man’s stubbled cheeks. Deuce considered questioning the fellow about what his business was, when a voice from behind broke through his thoughts and the stranger was forgotten.
“Sure looks fine,” Alvin Harp, the garage owner, was saying, pointing to the canvas banner slung across the street, shouting, Chautauqua Week, August 12-19, in a fancy font.
Deuce grinned. “Surely does. Emporia has done herself proud.”
“Those too.” Alvin gestured with his chin toward the red and yellow placards in the window of Fitzer’s Market.
A wagon bumped down the street pulled by two mules. A lanky farmer with shirtsleeves rolled up held the reigns beside his straight-backed wife in her best Sunday dress. In the back, four youngsters gripped the sides, ogling the store windows.
Deuce said, “I’d say Chautauqua is just about the best thing to ever happen here. First of all, it brings the farm and town folk together, and then there’s the educational . . .”
His voice continued, but Alvin’s gaze drifted past Deuce’s shoulder to a lanky Negro in overalls walking toward them. Everyone called the man, who was a janitor at the depot, Smitty. As Smitty approached, Deuce’s editorializing ran out of steam. He pulled a watch out of his vest saying, “Better get to the typewriter.” Alvin smirked, anticipating what was to come. Deuce was turning toward the Clarion when he caught sight of the colored man.
“Oh, uh, think I’ll go over to the post office first, though, and make sure Helen picked up the mail. See you tonight in the tent,” Deuce called over his shoulder. He hurried across the street, scarlet staining his cheeks. Alvin and everyone in town knew the rumors of Deuce’s family history and those who were mean-spirited got a laugh over the excuses Deuce came up with to avoid crossing paths with the town’s colored population. Alvin ambled off to the garage with a grin.
The newspaper building was owned by Father Knapp who believed in maximizing his investments whenever possible. Its exposed north wall faced a busy cross street. Over the years, Knapp had leased the wall to a succession of national concerns—Tiger Head Malt Syrup, Sweetheart Bread, and Coca-Cola—to use as a sign board. This went against the grain for Deuce, who believed that local products should command the town’s allegiance. But asking Father Knapp to take a smaller profit was out of the question.
The painted Coca-Cola advertisement had been shucking off the building’s raw bricks for a couple of months. Turning the corner, Deuce saw that was about to change. A sign painter and his helper were noisily hoisting a plank and themselves up the side of the building with rusted pulleys. Upon learning from the men that the new ad would be for U-Needa Biscuits, another big-time outfit, he threw the front door open with a bang.
“Morning, fellas,” he called gruffly to the two young salesmen hunched at desks behind the counter. He took the iron stairs two at a time up to the newsroom. By the time he reached the top, he’d cooled down a little. The room was already thick with cigar smoke that clung like bacon grease to the rows of desks and stacks of old editions. Helen was at her place in the far corner. A potted geranium occupied her side-facing window that was now festooned with scaffolding ropes. The first time he’d laid eyes on Helen, Deuce was working at the print shop. Winnie Richards, as she was known then, came in to order calling cards. She’d recently moved to Emporia from Chicago with her father, George Knapp, the town’s local-boy-made-good, and her young daughter, Helen. Her father let it be known that Winnie had been married to an up-and-coming banker who died of yellow fever when Helen was only three months old. The alternate version, passed around the town’s watering holes and sewing clubs, was that the baby’s father was the son of a prominent family, but had a drinking problem and was crushed to death by a train when he’d passed out on some railroad tracks. Deuce was behind the print shop counter when Winnie entered with Helen, a toddler wearing a frilly cap and a serious expression. Something about the little girl’s grave brows contrasted with the silly bonnet had captivated him.
Smiling at this long-ago memory, Deuce approached her desk. “You’re an early bird.”
She lifted her head from the open accounts book. “Remember? I’m leaving at three to set up the women’s booth at Chautauqua?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
Jupiter, the office dog, emerged stiffly from under Helen’s desk. He made a show of rearing back to stretch his front legs before shoving his narrow snout into Deuce’s palm.
“Any word on Mrs. Elliot Adams? Did she break anything?” Helen asked.
Deuce shrugged. “Things were still buttoned up tight when I passed Tula’s just now.”
Helen frowned at the ledger and erased an offending entry. “You should check on her. Include it in the article.” She brushed crumbs of rubber onto the floor.
He pointed at her and snapped his fingers. “Good idea.” He turned on his heel.
Helen nodded approvingly. One of the positives, the only positive, about remaining in town, was her role in nudging Deuce toward making the Clarion a real newspaper.
A volley of clattering sounded outside her window and she saw a pair of muscular hands pulling hard on a scaffolding rope. The rope was threaded through two pulleys that squealed in protest as they were set into jerky motion. A shock of black hair appeared above the sill—with another screech, the head and upper torso of a young man in white painter’s coveralls. His thick hair needed trimming and his eyes were squinty—like one of N.C. Wyeth’s sunburned pirates on the plates in Treasure Island. From the other end of the plank, a voice shouted, “That’s it!” and the young man tied off the rope. Helen was staring when
he suddenly turned and grinned, displaying brilliant white teeth against tan skin.
“Hello there,” he said. “Admiring the view?”
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Helen answered, her words clipped.
“Well, I’m enjoying the scenery, and I’m not talking about out there,” the painter said, poking his thumb toward the buildings in back of him. He grinned again and his ears rose slightly. “Guess we’re going to be neighbors for a day or two. I’m Louie Ivey.”
Helen smiled tightly and busily began ruling off a ledger column.
“I think it’s the polite thing to tell me your name, don’t you—?”
He was interrupted by the gruff voice from the other end of the scaffold. “Hey, Louie, quit your gabbing and get started before the brushes dry out.”
Louie cocked his head at his unseen partner. “Guess it’s time to get to it.”
“It’s Helen,” she said quickly. “My name’s Helen Garland.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Garland. Guess I’ll see you around—ha ha,” he said loudly.
Smart aleck, Helen thought as she shuffled the Clarion’s July bills into chronological order. Still, she couldn’t help looking up one more time as Louie, now with paintbrush in hand, began swabbing above her window, the bristles making a persistent scratching sound against the rough brick.
CHAPTER THREE
HOLIDAY IN A FLYSPECK
TOSSING A RAIN-SOAKED CUSHION ASIDE, Dr. Jack collapsed into a porch chair, his head tipped back, eyes closed. He tried to catnap, but quickly snapped upright. Where was Hazel Bellman with that coffee?
It had been a long night in the house at the edge of the Chautauqua grounds. A cannon of thunder had awakened Hazel Bellman in the early-morning hours. Poking her head into Jeannette’s room, she’d been stunned to find the bed empty, stripped of blankets and pillows. She hurried downstairs. The front door was banging against the wall, sheets of rain drenching the carpet. Jeannette was curled in a fetal position on the porch settee, teeth chattering, soaked to the skin. The girl was burning hot. Hazel had screamed for Ted, who rushed down and gathered up their daughter. It had taken Dr. Jack hours of work but eventually he’d knocked down the fever and quieted the coughing so that now the girl slept peacefully.
Hazel toed open the screen door and stepped out with a loaded tray. She called to her husband, who was collecting branches torn from the wind-lashed maples, but he said he wanted to finish up.
“Are we past the worst?” she asked, handing Dr. Jack a steaming cup. She always had a mousy look, even at the best of times, but the strain of Jeannette’s illness had pulled down the corners of her mouth until they formed permanent streambeds.
He sucked a mouthful of coffee between his teeth. “Can’t answer that. What I’m afraid of is pneumonia. That on top of the tuberculosis.” He shook his head.
Hazel’s knees knocked under her wrapper. “I know. But not the hospital. Please, not that. Every time she goes in, I’m afraid she’ll never come out.”
Across the Chautauqua grounds, the Story Lady was leading a troop of youngsters in a song. The melody of that old chestnut, “Sunshine Bright,” drifted onto the porch.
“We got her through the night. Now it’s wait and see.” He gulped down the rest of the coffee and stood. “Got to go, but I’ll stop back later.”
“You know what she was doing, don’t you? Why she was camped out on the porch?” Hazel asked.
“I can guess. Jeannette heard last night’s lecture and followed that woman’s recommendation about sleeping out of doors.”
Hazel nodded. “I could kick myself for letting her listen.”
Dr. Jack shook his head. “If it’s any comfort, I’ll be doctoring Mrs. Elliot Adams later today and will give her a piece of my mind.”
* * *
Two blocks away, Tula knocked twice on the door of the sleeping porch and entered, juggling a cup and saucer in one hand and a rubber ice bag in the other. Although it was midmorning, the room was dim, the shades drawn. Tula set the china and the dripping bag on a rattan table, pushing aside a pile of magazines.
“I’ve brought some coffee,” she said to the elongated shape humped under a flannel spread. When there was no response, she tapped her patient lightly on the shoulder. “Mrs. Elliot Adams?”
Marian grunted and rolled onto her back. Her eyes opened and she grimaced. “Oh Lord,” she moaned, reaching toward her lower calf that was entangled in the blanket.
“Here, let me help.” Tula pulled aside the bedding. The ankle was red and swollen to the thickness of a small pot roast. “Let’s prop it on these pillows, and here’s an ice bag.”
“Thank you,” Marian mumbled. Squinting like a tabby in the sunlight, she examined her ankle. “I can’t believe this has happened. I should be on the road this very minute. I’ve never missed a lecture.”
“A Perfect Attender,” Tula said as she sprung the shades.
“What?”
Tula waved her hand. “Nothing. Just reminded me of a prize our Sunday school gives out.”
“I think what I will do,” Marian said slowly, narrowing her eyes as she sipped the coffee, “I’ll hire a driver. He can carry me to Galesburg. After that I’ll manage on my own.”
“Can I—” Tula was interrupted by the ringing telephone, a long and two shorts. “Excuse me, that’s us.” She hurried through the kitchen. “Coming, coming,” she said.
The ringing stopped. Through the beadboard walls of the sleeping porch, Marian heard the murmur of Tula’s voice. The lecturer surveyed her surroundings. An ironing board heaped with table linens stood in one corner. Snowshoes, golf clubs, and a croquet set were piled in a dusty jumble before the altar of an overstuffed bookcase. From a random pattern of nails driven beside the door to the kitchen hung a leather driving helmet with goggles, a rusted washboard, and a butterfly net. Tula’s voice ceased; her footsteps approached.
“Somebody has a lot of interests,” Marian said, waving a hand around the room.
Tula studied the walls. “That’s mostly Clay.”
“Your husband?”
“Oh, no,” Tula said. “He’s my brother. I’m a maiden lady.”
Marian snorted. “Wise woman. I was married for seven months. Worst seven months of my life. I’ve got very little use for the male species.”
Tula stifled a smile. “Really? You don’t enjoy their company?”
“Their company’s fine—for short periods. I just don’t want to be restrained. They hold the reigns right now. But it won’t always be like that. Especially when we get the vote. But enough,” Marian said. “As I was saying, the solution is a driver. Is there someone in this town who does that sort of thing?”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.” Tula pulled a wooden chair to the bedside. “That was Dr. Jack. He’ll be here shortly. You’re to keep that foot elevated and iced until then.”
“Did you tell him that’s not possible? I’m expected in Galesburg.”
“He’ll be here soon enough and you can tell him.”
Marian puffed. “It’s not for him to say, is it? I’ve coped with more than a twisted ankle over the years. This is nothing but a minor annoyance and I’ll tell him so.”
“You sound just like Winnie.” Tula gazed absently out the window. “She wouldn’t take orders from the doctor either, poor thing.”
“Who?”
“My next door neighbor. She passed away . . . well, I guess almost two years ago.”
Aggressively pushing the pillows at the head of the bed into a mound, Marian threw herself against them. “I’m not going to let any small-town doctor interfere with my work. And on top of that, it’s ungodly hot in here.” She kicked the covers off the bed, sending spasms of pain through her ankle. “Damnit!” she yelped.
Tula jumped up. “You need to lie still.” She rearranged the pillows under the injured foot, repositioned the ice bag. Marian screwed her eyes shut, gathering herself. I’m nothing but
a jumble of nerves, she thought.
While Tula was adjusting the sheets, Marian grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to lying around. On the circuit, we’re constantly on the move.”
She flopped back on the pillow, trying to remember the last time she’d spent two consecutive nights in the same bed, the same town. For the past seven years, she’d traveled the circuit in the summer and, come fall, shouldered a merciless schedule of Lyceum appearances up and down the eastern seaboard, until June rolled around again.
Her traveling life had begun three years after her recovery from tuberculosis. As soon as she’d been strong enough, she’d thrown herself into the cause of dress reform. She made the rounds of the largest settlement houses in New York, evangelizing to the shop girls and garment workers who gathered, after exhausting days of labor, in basement classrooms. A regular at the outdoor rallies held by the National Woman Suffrage Association, Marian soon began writing articles for the National Suffrage Bulletin and a couple of small progressive publications. She was unable, however, to break into the leading ladies magazines, despite the flood of write-ups she poured into their in-baskets.
Meeting Placidia Shaw changed all that. It was during a suffrage parade down New York’s Fifth Avenue on a bright fall day. Marian managed to get herself assigned to the opposite end of a long banner carried by Shaw. An associate of the famous Chicago reformer, Jane Addams of Hull-House, Placidia Shaw was a well-known figure in her own right, most notably for her articles about slum conditions published in Ladies’ Home Journal and Collier’s. During the three-hour march, Marian discussed safe and hygienic dress so tirelessly that when they reached the end of the parade route, Shaw had agreed to help her get some of her articles published. Placidia had become her mentor. Marian’s career on the road began when the older woman secured her a place as a lecturer with her own employer, the Prairieland Booking Agency. Now, considering these exhausting years on the road, Marian thought that, perhaps, staying with Tula a few days wouldn’t be so bad.
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