Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  Deuce crossed his arms, tucking his hands in his armpits. Best to let the man blow himself out. He was aware that Helen and the three or four reporters were listening to every word out in the newsroom. Helen had been warned, but the others must be in fear for their livelihoods. Beneath Deuce’s feet, Jupiter shifted uneasily.

  After five minutes of accusations and lecturing, Father Knapp screwed the newspaper into a wad, threw it down on the desk in front of Deuce, and sat down. “Well?”

  “Well, I did what needed to be done. I’m not apologizing and there will be no retraction, if that’s what you want. The dairy operations in this county need oversight. You know that. We all know that. Most municipalities have had sanitation inspectors for years, for God’s sake. This editorial isn’t stating anything that hasn’t been obvious for a long time.”

  Father Knapp flapped his hand as if swatting flies. “Just because Fuller, Schuyler, Hancock, and all the rest of the counties in Illinois are doing it, doesn’t mean crap to me. The people in Macomb County are good people. They’ll do the right thing, take care of their own.”

  Deuce rose, leaned over the desk, and said in a barely controlled voice, “They aren’t, though. Children have died. And it’s we. We aren’t taking care of our own.”

  “It’s that dress reform female, isn’t it? She’s got you all stirred up. Someone spotted you two driving out of town yesterday. Did you take her along on your little scouting mission?”

  “Nobody has got me stirred up except myself. This is something I should have done two months ago.” Deuce’s eyes were hard.

  The banker picked a bit of thread off his trouser leg. “Which farm was it? The write-up didn’t say.”

  “Wait a couple of days and you can read all about it in here.” Deuce poked his finger at the twisted edition. “I’m still collecting the facts and want to give the dairy a chance to tell their side. I’d be surprised if it was just one operation causing the typhoid anyway. I don’t want to brand some farmer as the villain when others are just as lax in their hygiene.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

  Deuce nodded. The two men sat in heated silence for a number of seconds. Finally the banker stood, his face flushed, his eyes burning.

  “All right, if that’s how it is,” Father Knapp said. “I’m going straight from here to my lawyer. And I’d advise you to pull out that agreement you signed when we set up this arrangement.”

  The slamming of the door woke Jupiter, who emerged from under the desk, blinking in the morning sunlight.

  “Don’t count on getting much shut-eye today,” Deuce said. “I’m a’guessing there’s a whole stream of angry county commissioners and dairymen, not to mention the ag agent, lined up outside waiting their turn.”

  * * *

  By evening, Deuce was wrung out. He’d gotten a fair number of irate telephone calls and visits, but there were also some supportive comments, with Dr. Jack at the forefront. There were four kind notes left at the front desk and a silent handshake from the pressman, who had lost a niece to typhoid.

  Glad this day is over, Deuce thought as he flicked off his office light. Then he suddenly remembered that he’d invited Tula to the bell concert. The strain of the day was pulling the muscles around his eyes into a steel band. The last thing he wanted to do was face the crowd under the tent. Surely she’d understand. Tula of all people would understand.

  When Deuce knocked on the Lakes’ screen door an hour later, Marian answered. She was wearing a faded cotton wrapper and there were deep lines etched on either side of her mouth. “Tula will be out in a minute,” she said in answer to Deuce’s good evening.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, concern wrinkling his brow.

  “Got a whopper of a headache. Great work on the editorial, by the way.” Marian started to turn away.

  The skin around her eyes, he saw, was pebbled with fatigue, the eyes themselves matte.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “A headache.” She suddenly slumped against the doorway. “No, that’s a lie. I went up to the Bellmans’. That girl is at death’s door. And it’s my fault. I just want to crawl away, get out of here. But I’m stuck.” She raised her foot.

  From the front lawn came a cricket’s sawing chirp. Fall’s coming, Deuce thought. “Don’t beat on yourself. She’s a fighter. I’ve heard Dr. Jack say that a hundred times. She’ll pull through. You’ll see.”

  Marian’s voice tightened in dismay. “She’s very sick.” She turned away again.

  Deuce put a restraining hand on her arm. Unexpectedly, he heard himself suggesting they go to the Clarion’s offices. “It’s quiet there and I have a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer. We can talk.”

  “I won’t be very good company.”

  “That’s all right. Neither will I.”

  Tula emerged. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I couldn’t find my seed pearl broach anywhere. Do you know where it turned up? In my sewing basket! I can’t think how it got—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes darting to Deuce’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Marian’s got a headache, for one thing.”

  Tula turned to her houseguest. “Do you want some tablets? I think there are some—”

  “She’s not up to facing another night of crowds. And to be honest, neither am I. Father Knapp and some others really put me through the grinder today. I’ll get more What for? if I show my face at Chautauqua this evening. We’re going to commiserate down at my office. But I know how much you love the bells, and I’ll run you over there in the auto. Would you give me a rain check on our date, just this once?”

  Tula ducked her head, seeming to concentrate on buttoning a glove, murmuring, “If she’s got a headache, bed is the best place.” But when she raised her head again, she said politely, “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  * * *

  As they entered the newspaper offices, Deuce flicked on the overhead light. A scarred wooden counter extended the width of the entire first floor. Beyond that were several rows of desks. Three calendars as big as windows, courtesy of three different funeral homes, hung above a bank of filing cabinets.

  “The tour starts here,” Deuce said. “Sales department—want ads up front, salesmen at the desks.”

  Hearing the pride in his voice, Marian mustered a smile. “It all looks very efficient.”

  “We’ll take the freight elevator up to the newsroom so you won’t have to climb the stairs.” He ushered her into the cage at the back, closed the grille, and pushed the throttle forward. Marian gazed up into the open shaft as they rose, the big gear pulling them upward. The oily cable creaked as it wound above her head.

  Deuce pulled back on the throttle and the suspended box swayed slightly. He pulled open the grille. “And here we are.”

  The newsroom was cozier than the first floor. The ceiling was low and several desk lamps cast pools of light. A black-and-tan hound trotted up out of the shadows, toenails clicking like typewriter keys. Deuce bent to scratch under the dog’s muzzle.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Jupiter. Great old dog.” Deuce straightened.

  The windows were open and the night was still. No thunderstorms tonight. Why, for God’s sake, didn’t I pay more attention to that storm when I was on the stage? I could easily have cautioned— Oh, hell! Marian thought.

  Deuce was saying, “Let’s crack open that bottle.”

  He guided her to an office with Publisher stenciled on its frosted glass door. Stacks of yellowed editions cluttered the floor and on a legal table another mountain range of newsprint rose against the wall. Deuce pulled out the leather chair behind the desk for her.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, some whiskey?”

  He opened a drawer and brought out a bottle and two shot glasses. As he poured, Marian surveyed the room. On one wall, a lithograph of Lincoln hung among printing samples. A not-unpleasant combination of printer’s ink and cigar smoke perfumed the air.
He handed her a glass and they clinked. The whiskey slopped over her fingers.

  He smiled sheepishly and handed her his hankie. “Guess I overpoured.”

  She wondered what this man could possibly want from her. He wasn’t one of those fellows enraged about her effect on their womenfolk—in fact, he seemed to genuinely welcome her influence on Helen. But he didn’t seem to be inclined toward lewd speculation about her unmentionables, either.

  “So, what happened at the Bellmans’? Did Hazel give you a piece of her mind? She can be—”

  Marian tossed back the contents of the shot glass. “I’ve never seen anyone that young so close to death. Her fingers. If she’d been holding a book, I could have read the title right through them. Christ. I never dreamed. You stand up night after night in front of the crowds, you stop thinking of them as people. They’re just a blurry mass. You pour out the same words. And you know that only the tiniest percentage of those words will hit their mark, make a change. The bit about the consumption and sleeping outdoors, that isn’t even my main point. It’s just an illustration, for Christ’s sake. To explain how I developed my philosophy about dress. But this girl, she took it to heart and now she’s sick as hell and it’s my fault.” Marian stopped abruptly. “Could I have another?”

  Deuce poured one for both of them. “Like I said, she’s been sick a long—”

  “It was all I could do not to burst out in tears in front of her.”

  Marian emptied the second shot.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Deuce said gently. “Chances are good Jeannette will pull through. She’s had a couple of setbacks before and was able to get past them.”

  “But not this bad.”

  “Oh, they were just as bad.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She relaxed a bit. “What about your day? You caught hell, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I don’t feel like talking about it now. But thanks for asking.”

  They fell into silence. Beneath the desk, Jupiter sighed damply. A crimson mortar board tassel swayed from the desk lamp as a weak breeze passed through.

  * * *

  Four blocks away, a couple was drawing apart. Pulling back from the pressure of Louie’s lips on her mouth, his fingers on her breasts, Helen buttoned up her shirtwaist, wiped saliva from her chin. They were seated on the steps of the Garlands’ back porch.

  “So, will you write?” she asked, pretending to be occupied with smoothing her skirt.

  “Certainly.” His voice sounded firm. “And let me know when you escape from here and make your way to Chicago. I’ll take you round to some galleries. I know lots of artists I think you’d be interested in meeting.”

  “All right. How about suffragists? I want to be a part of that right off.”

  Louie tapped his lips, gazed toward the grape arbor, a gray shape against the darkening sky. “Not sure. Most of the women I pal around with are artists’ models or mistresses, or both. A few are painters themselves. Suffrage isn’t on the agenda at any of the parties I get to.” He moved closer again. “Now, since it’s my last night in town, I think we should part on friendly terms.” He slipped an arm around her waist and busily unfastened the buttons she’d just closed.

  Later, one hand on the wire gate leading into the grassy alley, Louie handed her a note. His handwriting was an artful scrawl with strokes dashing at odd angles.

  “I don’t tend to room in the same place more than a month or two. But you can always reach me there.” He pointed to the address. “It’s sort of an artist salon.”

  After a final kiss, Helen watched Louie’s white trousers flicker, then disappear in the dimming light.

  I guess I should be feeling sad, she thought.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  REFUGEE

  “HAS ANYONE SEEN KING COLE’S PAGE? Don’t tell me he’s run off again!” A red-faced young woman, surrounded by several dozen youngsters, was clapping vigorously. “If you don’t stay in your places, we will never get through this.”

  A little girl dashed over, her long velvet gown dragging in the dust. “I’m hot,” she wailed.

  “You’ve strayed too! And where is that page?” the Story Lady shouted.

  A young boy snatched off a ruffled collar as thick as a seat cushion and threw it on the ground.

  “Jack-Be-Nimble, put that back on this instant,” cautioned the Story Lady, pushing sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  Withering noontime heat swathed the Chautauqua grounds. Behind the tent, the crew boys listlessly tossed horseshoes, producing an occasional clang. Seated on a pile of lumber and observing this scene, Marian and Helen waited for the afternoon program to begin.

  Earlier that morning, Tula received a telephone call from Hazel Bellman, reporting that Jeannette had a restful night and was improving, which had lifted Marian’s spirits.

  She turned to Helen with a wry grin. “The circuit runs through twenty Story Ladies a season.”

  “No wonder.” Helen covered a yawn. “Excuse me. Up too late. Not a job I’d take, that’s certain.”

  “At least the poor girl’s got the lungs for it,” Marian said as the Story Lady bawled out another set of instructions.

  “It’s great having you to talk to. I’m going to miss you when you leave.”

  Marian shook her head. “It’s time for me to move on. I’m a restless soul. Another day or two and I’ll be back behind the wheel. But I’ll miss you too.”

  Helen sighed. Marian’s eyes followed several small knots of women strolling toward the tent. “Guess we better think about getting inside before all the best seats are taken.” She picked up her cane.

  “I wanted to ask you,” Helen said in what she hoped was a careless tone. “You’re familiar with Chicago, right?”

  “Been many times.”

  “Have you ever heard of an artist salon called the Dill Pickle Club?”

  “Of course. It’s famous—among a certain set. I had a long talk with Emma Goldman the anarchist there one time. Why?”

  Helen looked away casually. “No reason. Just a place on my list to visit when I move there.”

  Despite the heat beating through the tent’s canvas walls, the superintendent moved briskly up the steps to the platform. With the week almost concluded, his once-white trousers were a dusty beige, but the part at the center of his head remained razor straight.

  “Before I bring out this afternoon’s speaker, I want to remind you of our big finale tomorrow night with the internationally renowned Bohumir Kryl Band. You will not want to miss this. And, of course, your own Chautauqua Committee is already hard at work planning next year’s event. They’d really appreciate it if you all made sure to purchase a subscription for next summer. Do it now, while the inspiring words, the enriching songs are still ringing in your mind. Do it for the betterment of yourselves and your community. Just stop by the ticket booth after the show.

  “And now, let’s get right to our program. Miss Ruth Valentine is fresh from the front lines in France, and I know you will want to hear about her good efforts. She is one of a small group of American ladies who has undertaken the heroic task of relief work in villages formerly occupied by the Krauts.”

  A short young woman with freckled features and a turned-up nose stepped behind the podium. Marian relaxed in her chair, ready to hear a good tale. Her ears filled with the light whipping sound created by hundreds of handheld fans.

  There was no coughing. Thank God no coughing. Jeannette was better.

  “I have only been back in the States three weeks and I am not a professional orator. So please overlook any inadequacies,” Miss Valentine began, her brows meeting earnestly. “However, the American people must understand what is happening to the French civilians during this terrible ordeal. Many households there have been reduced to the very old and the very young. All the able-bodied husbands and sons are off fighting. In those villages occupied by the Germans, all the strong young women
were shipped to labor camps well behind the lines.”

  Gripping the podium, Miss Valentine described the conditions the American volunteers found when they were at last allowed to enter the French hamlets that the Germans had abandoned as they pulled back to the Hindenburg Line. In their retreat from the villages, the German soldiers had poisoned wells, chopped down fruit trees, and destroyed Picardy’s sturdy stone houses. There was a young mother and her children sleeping on beds of rough planks amidst collapsed walls and open roofs, like huddled livestock. Another family of five had set up housekeeping in a hen house. One of the most pitiful cases was an old farmer whose entire family had been wiped out—two sons shipped off to the trenches, one daughter impregnated by a German soldier during the occupation and run out of the village, the other two daughters transported to German factories, and his wife dead of a broken heart. The relief worker had come upon him one day, wandering numbly among the sap-weeping stumps of what had once been his apple orchard. An old man with stooped shoulders, crying over his trees.

  The images of pitiful French villagers, orphaned children, weeping stumps swelled in Marian’s mind. Beside her, Helen listened open-mouthed.

  Ending with a plea for donations, Miss Valentine removed her short-brimmed black straw hat with the high crown, the sort favored by suffragists, and tossed it out into the crowd to be passed from hand to hand.

  “I am also sending out a call to the single women among you between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five who can drive and speak French. There are hundreds of villagers in northern France who will welcome you with open arms.”

  Helen grabbed Marian’s hand. “I’m going. I’m going to join those women, if they’ll have me,” she said breathlessly.

  “You speak French?” Marian replied.

  “No.”

  “Can you drive?”

  “No, but I can learn.”