“So, in cubism, you think about something you might paint such as, say, someone’s face. Your face, let’s say. But instead of trying to get it to look as much like you as possible, like a mirror image, I take the pieces apart.”
Helen raised her brows.
“The face is made up of all different pieces, right? Eyes, nose, mouth, nostrils, all that. And also, when I look at your chin, say, from this direction . . .” They were under a streetlight. Louie grasped her chin and tipped it to the left. “. . . I see it one way. But when I do this,” he continued, pulling her face to the right, “it looks different. And when I do this . . .” He bent toward her, pressing his lips against hers. After a moment he said, “And when I do that, I don’t see your chin but I feel it.”
Helen pulled back, her eyes narrowed. “That just seemed like an excuse to kiss me.”
Louie threw up his hands. “Not at all! Just trying to bring some of the world of modern art to the culturally impoverished.”
“Now you’re making fun of me,” she laughed, thumping her handbag across his shoulders.
He grinned. “Just saying maybe you should get out more. Visit Chicago.”
“I have,” she said smartly. “And I’m moving there.”
“Terrific. This is my last job of the summer. I’m heading back to Chicago in a couple of days. I’ll take you to the Art Institute, give you some education.”
“You really don’t give up, do you? But it won’t be until next year.”
“Next year? Can’t you make it sooner?”
Helen flung a hand up. “Too complicated.” Inside, her mind was busy: Why not now? She was not going to change her mind even if Grandfather Knapp made her wait ten years.
“Say, what’s over here?” Louie was saying. He took her hand and pulled her toward a stone building flanked by wide granite steps.
“It’s First Baptist. My friend Mildred goes here.” Helen allowed herself to be led down a shadowy concrete walkway along the side of the church.
“Is that so?” he said absentmindedly, as if he wasn’t really listening. “What’s in here, do you think?”
Helen started to answer and then realized that Louie wasn’t really asking her a question. He pulled her under the small portico of a side door and put an arm around her waist. Helen glanced fleetingly over his shoulder at Reverend Carlisle’s manse next to the church. None of the lamps were lit. Louie’s other hand hung at his side, pinching the burning cigar.
“Put that out,” she said and he immediately dropped it. The cigar emitted a small shower of sparks before it was ground out by his shoe. She put both her arms around his neck and, when he kissed her, his lips were pleasantly moist and firm.
After a few more kisses, Helen pulled him out from the doorway. “Let’s keep walking.”
They turned left onto State Street, passing a stray dog with a wiry coat who trotted by purposefully. A display in the sporting goods shop caught Louie’s eye and he spent some time talking about the athletic prowess required to work scaffolding, as he examined the fishing hampers, golf bags, and medicine balls.
At the corner of Main and State, he stopped to light another cigar.
“How old are you?” Helen asked.
“Twenty-seven. That okay?”
“Yes.”
“So, your daddy’s a big shot in town,” he said, leaning against a streetlamp.
“Stepfather. Sort of. But it’s more my grandfather. He’s president of the savings and loan.”
They took a different route back toward the Chautauqua grounds. When the brick belfry of the United Methodist Church came into view, it was Helen who pulled Louie around the rear and down into an open basement stairwell. This time, after kissing her lips a number of times, he pressed his mouth to her temples, the space between her brows, and the tender spot just below her jaw where her pulse fluttered. She looked up at the rectangle of sky visible from the stairwell as he unbuttoned her shirtwaist. There were no stars visible, only a skim of clouds hanging in the warm night air.
Louie had smoothly freed her four top buttons and Helen felt his fingertips skimming her bare right shoulder in brushlike strokes. The sensation was dizzying, as if a cord below her belly, from deep within, was vibrating until her entire body thrummed.
“Did you say something?” Louie breathed into her ear. His fingers scooped inside her shirt.
“I need to get back to the tent before the program’s over,” Helen said, stepping away and securing her buttons. He protested, but she was already halfway up the stairs.
At the top she glanced at her watch and judged it would be about an hour before the Mystic Entertainer reached his grand finale. There were, she knew, at least two more churches between United Methodist and the Chautauqua grounds, and she meant to stop at each.
CHAPTER SIX
THE MYSTERIES OF HEREDITY
“YOU’RE SURE?” Marian asked.
The Negro youth sitting beside her in the driver’s seat of the Packard nodded. “Yes’um. I carry Mrs. Mummert in her touring car when her gout acts up.”
“You’re positive you know how to operate this?” Marian repeated uncertainly.
He skated a finger around the glossy rosewood steering wheel. “This a fine machine.” His cushioned voice knocked against the words like felt-covered piano hammers.
It was the morning after the Mystic Entertainer had conjured a cloud of Hindu spirits. The day was clear and already too warm. Just minutes ago, at ten a.m. sharp, Emmett Shang, Laylia’s son, had tapped on the Lakes’ front door. His hair was parted to one side with mathematical precision, his white shirt spotless.
When Marian had reluctantly come around to the understanding that she would be remaining in Emporia until the ankle healed, Tula cranked up the telephone. One call was to Nettie Harmon, the piano teacher, requesting that some of her more promising pupils entertain Marian in the afternoons. The other was to Harp’s Garage, pleading for someone to take Marian on morning outings in the Packard, now parked alongside Tula’s gardening shed.
Marian fidgeted in the passenger seat, searching for the least painful position for her swollen ankle. “All right, let’s see how you do. Crank her up. I don’t want to sit in the driveway all day.”
“Certainly, ma’am. I was . . . uh . . . just waiting for you to get ready.”
“I am ready.”
“Yes’um, I see that.” Emmett quickly got out of the car and moved to the front of the grille. “I just thought maybe you’d forgotten something.”
“No, I did not. I’m crippled, not addled.”
“It’s just that when I drive Mrs. Mummert, she wears a hat and veil. For the dust. That’s all.”
“Umpf,” Marian snorted. “Nothing wrong with fresh air. A little dirt never hurt anyone.”
“No ma’am.” Hiding a grin behind the Packard’s glossy hood, Emmett jerked the crank efficiently, slid behind the wheel, and released the handbrake in smooth choreography. The auto rolled down the driveway.
“Any place special you’d like to see?”
Marian stared at a passing parade of lawns, porches, and an elderly man pushing a mower. “Hard to believe there would be anything special here.”
Emmett bit his upper lip, considering. “There’s the courthouse, and Spring Lake’s just outside of town.”
She threw up her hands as if they were a white flag of surrender. “Fine, fine. Anywhere.” She eyed her chauffeur’s erect posture. “Tula says you’re registered for the army?”
“Yes’um. Just awaiting orders. The training camps aren’t ready for us. That’s what I was told anyway . . . This here is the business district.”
A handful of shops on either side of the street slid by, mirror images of those in all the other Chautauqua towns Marian had visited.
“The train station’s up ahead.”
Marian shifted in her seat, unsticking the green kimono that was clinging uncomfortably to her thighs. In the open car, the August sun beat down mercilessly.<
br />
“Would you mind if I stopped at the station?” Emmett asked. “Mr. Harp asked me to pick up a package—if it’s all right with you, of course.”
“Oh, certainly! That will be the highlight of the excursion so far,” Marian said dryly.
After Emmett disappeared inside, Marian billowed her garment. No relief. Across the street, a small park baked in the heat, its half-dozen young trees bent like buggy whips. For a long time, no vehicles passed. Finally, a horse-drawn wagon hauling a large water tank rolled by, sprinkling water on the dusty paving stones, and then all was quiet. She dozed.
Suddenly a train whistle blasted, waking Marian who self-consciously wiped a thread of saliva off her chin. The engine pulled into the station with a hissing gush of steam. A small greeting party quickly assembled on the platform, including a baggage clerk pushing a wooden dolly and a young couple, arms linked, kissing in the shade of the depot’s overhang. Marian imagined they might be parting. A newsboy hawked papers as the train cars coasted by, then screeched to a stop. Clarion was stenciled in block letters on his canvas bag.
An old man debarked gingerly onto a wooden step provided by the porter, followed by two business types. Then a familiar figure, her mentor, Placidia Shaw, stood framed in the passenger car’s doorway. What luck! Marian thought. At least something positive will come out of this delay. Although they had lectured in tandem during Marian’s first Chautauqua season seven years ago, now that Marian had been promoted to the position of first-nighter, their paths rarely crossed. Chautauqua performers were deployed in relay fashion, and so the two never again appeared in the same place at the same time. Placidia remained a “preluder,” Chautauqua lingo for the lead-in before the main speaker. Still, they continued their friendship through letters and postcards, although, Marian realized, these had become less frequent. This summer, Marian and Placidia traveled down the line two days apart.
The older woman, clutching the same satchel Marian remembered from seven years ago, stepped onto the platform. She disappeared inside the station, emerged through the main doors, and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Marian remained planted in her car like a hobbled goat. A minute later Emmett stepped out—what in heaven’s name had taken him so long? Marian pressed the horn frantically and, when he finally looked her way, waved vigorously. He rushed over.
“You all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, but that woman. I know her. Crank this up.”
Emmett hastily got the Packard running, driving it down the block.
“Yoo hoo!” Marian called. “Can we give you a ride?”
The older woman paused, squinted, hurried on.
“Move up, move up,” Marian said to Emmett, making swishing motions.
The Packard inched forward.
“It’s me, Marian.”
Placidia stopped again. “Oh, yes. So you are.”
“Let me give you a ride.”
“What are you doing here?” Placidia’s head tipped to one side.
“Long story. Come on, get in.”
Lifting several layers of heavy black skirts and petticoats, the traveler climbed into the tonneau seat behind Marian while Emmett tied her valise on the running board.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Marian said, twisting around, ignoring the pain shooting up her leg. “I just can’t believe it!”
A few swift cranks and Emmett was back behind the wheel.
“How was the gate in this town? Standing room only?” Placidia asked, clasping and unclasping her hands.
“There was an overflow. Can I carry you to the hotel to freshen up before—” Marian began, but Placidia interrupted.
“No, no. Straight to the grounds.”
“But you must be exhausted,” Marian said, while at the same time noting that Placidia’s nails were bitten to the quick.
“I have to make sure everything is set up properly. You can’t trust those crew boys to do anything right.” Placidia abruptly snapped open her handbag, shuffling through a number of papers that were covered in tight script.
“You must be wondering why I’m still here,” Marian said. “You see . . .” Her voice petered out. Placidia was muttering to herself, pulling out a newspaper clipping only to examine it with a grimace and shove it back in her bag.
She’s acting awfully odd, Marian thought. “Can I help you look for something?” she asked.
“No, I’ve got this well in hand. Go on.”
Marian described the fall, the ankle, the interruption of her schedule. “The doctor says I must stay off it an entire week, but I’m thinking, if I could get a driver who would take me to Vernon tomorrow . . .” She paused and glanced at Emmett who seemed to be making of point of keeping his eyes glued to the road. “If that happens, I’ll be back on track. Oh, I’m just so happy to see you. And still fighting the good fight for Hull-House.”
“Here it is!” Placidia cried triumphantly, waving a pamphlet she unearthed from the valise. “Hull-House? That’s all in the past. I was misguided. I have a completely new message now.”
“Oh?” Marian drew back.
Placidia inched forward, her face suddenly animated. “Race improvement.”
“I’m not sure what that is,” Marian said slowly.
Eagerly, Placidia explained, “I had always assumed—well, we all did—that the problems in the slums, with the immigrants, were due to environment. You know, slumlords, poor sanitation, the industrial machine.”
Marian nodded.
“But that was all wrong, don’t you see? That view didn’t take advantage of the new thinking, the new science that proves—proves scientifically—that it is heredity, not environment, that is the key to national vitality so that—”
“Just a minute,” Marian said, holding up her hand. “You’re saying that the solution to social problems is . . . is what?”
“Who marries whom and, of course, the number of children they have. That’s it in a nutshell.” Placidia handed Marian the pamphlet. “It’s all in here.”
The Packard bumped over an uneven set of trolley tracks. The sun continued to beat down. In the shade of a store awning, a mother was unfurling the hood of a baby carriage.
Marian read the brochure’s title, The Low Immigrant Gives Us Three Babies while the Daughter of the American Revolution Gives Us One. Her cheeks reddening, she faced forward, crumpling the paper in her hand. She glanced at Emmett, trying to gauge his reaction. He was looking forward, his back ramrod straight. What in heaven’s name was Placidia talking about? Had she lost her mind?
The remaining minutes of travel were made in silence. Marian directed Emmett to pull up behind the performers’ dressing tent, fortunately pitched under a maple, and told him to let the superintendent know Placidia had arrived.
As Emmett ducked through a tent flap, Marian turned back to her friend. “Are you feeling all right?”
Placidia was shuffling pamphlets. “Yes, never better.”
Marian had meant the question as a general entrée to feel out exactly how this drastic change in her friend had come about. Now that she looked more closely, Placidia did appear unwell. Her eyes jittered hectically; her skin had a greasy yellow patina.
At that moment, Placidia opened the door and began tugging at the handles of the heavy valise.
“Why don’t you wait until Emmett gets back? He can carry that.”
“I can manage.”
Marian, attempting to lessen the tension, laughed lightly. “You’re still the modern woman, I see. Taking on a man’s job.”
Placidia yanked the bag so hard it hit the ground with a thud. “Not in the least.”
A smile crossed Marian’s lips. “It was a joke.”
Placidia looked away for a minute. Her words burst like a thundercloud: “Ever since I recognized you down at the depot, I’ve been struggling to hold my tongue. But I can’t any longer.” The older woman shook her finger in Marian’s surprised face. “You and your ilk. Talking up dress reform so that our young wom
en can venture even further from home, go to college, take up men’s work, ride bicycles, golf, dance, and who knows what all? Have you given any thought to the consequences of what you are promoting?”
Marian’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
Placidia continued, “No, I see not. I’ll spell it out for you. The consequence is that nowadays the purebred American woman has less interest in raising a family. Birthrates are falling among our nation’s native stock. And who is stepping in to fill the void? Why, the immigrant horde, of course. While our Daughters of the American Revolution have one child each, maybe two, the Italian, the Irish have three, five, eight. While our young girls play at being modern women, the immigrants breed like rabbits.”
Marian’s heart sank. This was not the woman she had known. Something must have happened to her mind. Hardening of the arteries? Marian had witnessed the curtain of dementia falling behind her own father’s eyes, at first slowly, then rapidly. Marian wanted to leap out, pull Placidia to her, shake her, bring her back to her senses, but the older woman was stepping away from the Packard and Marian was trapped with the damned ankle.
“But don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Placidia said, “and I’m unraveling it as quickly as you’ve knit it. Two days after your lecture, I take the platform and I don’t hesitate to give our young women the message they need to hear.” She angrily snatched up her bag and marched toward the dressing tent, calling out over her shoulder, “Just leave me alone!”
When Emmett returned to the car, Marian was staring without focus, fingers pressed to her mouth.
“Should I take Miss Shaw’s bag?” he asked.
Marian shook her head. “She’s already taken it. Let’s just leave. I don’t want to be here right now. Take me anywhere. I don’t care.”
“The lake?” His voice was uncertain.
“Fine. Fine. Anywhere.”
On their way through town, the gas gauge bumped around E. Emmett pulled up to Harp’s twin gas pumps, disturbing a bony cat who had been sunning itself beside an incinerator. It slunk off into the weeds. In the garage, a mechanic in striped coveralls, poking around the guts of a Model T, glanced up. Emmett unscrewed the gas cap and inserted the nozzle. The fellow sauntered over, wiping his hands on an oily rag. A second mechanic, emerging from the garage’s shadowy interior, joined him.
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