“You’re not old enough.”
“But I look older. Everyone says so.”
Actually, Marian thought, I meet the qualifications.
But Helen was continuing: “I’ve just got to get out of here and do something with my life. Make a contribution now! You must understand that, you of all people.”
The crowd was sifting out. Marian and Helen remained seated, turned toward each other with knees almost touching.
“Yes, I see. But it certainly doesn’t have to be shipping off to France in the middle of a war. That is something your father and grandfather would never agree to.” Marian paused, gazed off in thought. “If I were you, I’d focus on the suffrage, now more than ever. It’s been shoved to the wayside, but when the war’s over, all momentum will be lost unless some of us hold down the fort.”
Helen harrumphed. “What, manning booths like I did out there,” she jerked her thumb toward the entranceway, “when not a single person picked up a pamphlet?”
“No, I agree you need to get out of Emporia. Have you talked to your father about Chicago?”
“Yes. He said he’d think it over. But he’ll just side with my grandfather in the end.”
Marian tilted her head. “If it would help, I know several reputable boarding houses and suffrage organizers. That might reassure him.”
“That would be the great!”
A shadow passed behind Marian’s eyes. Was this going to be a repeat of the situation with Jeannette? What if something happened to Helen in Chicago? But no, Jeannette was on the mend. Don’t overdramatize, she scolded herself.
“We could go down to the paper and talk to Papa right now,” Helen urged. “You can manage the trolley, can’t you?”
Marian laughed. “Yes. All right, let’s go!”
* * *
They found Deuce up in the composing room, an open space with raw brick walls and sooty skylights. To one side, a workman in grease-smeared overalls was crouching beside a machine that looked like a motor carriage tipped on end, its gears exposed. “Breakdown?” Helen called out as they approached.
Deuce, seated on a stool, was laying lines of type in a wooden frame. His sleeves were rolled up over muscled arms and he wore an ink-stained worker’s apron. He smelled of sweat and oil.
“Yep. Linotype threw a cog two hours ago. George thinks he can get it up and running in time to make deadline, but I got nervous.”
“You’re setting the pages by yourself?” Helen asked. “Jeez. Couldn’t you call in some of the composers?” She laid her hat and pocketbook on a stool and rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll help.”
“That’d be swell. There’s a fairly clean apron in the back.”
Helen trotted off. Marian randomly picked a letter from the type case, rolling it between her fingers.
“So, you are not only the publisher, but you set type as well?”
“Not usually, not anymore. But when the linotype goes down, we all pitch in.”
Marian glanced at the machine; the workman’s upper body was now buried in its guts.
Deuce grinned.
Helen returned in an apron, a green printer’s visor snapped over her forehead. “Papa, we need to talk to you about something.”
“Now? It can’t wait?”
“Marian’s leaving soon and—”
“Oh, right,” Deuce said, studying the floor for a moment.
“But if this isn’t a good time . . .” Marian put in.
“No, it’s a fine time.” Deuce began wiping the grease from his hands on a rag. “Grab a stool, ladies.”
“I have to get out of this town now. I just can’t wait a whole year to get my life started. Boys my age are being shipped overseas to fight, for God’s sake.”
There was the click of a thrown switch and the linotype shuddered to life, emitting a perfume of oily heat. The workman bent over the keys, jabbing randomly and producing a mighty metallic clatter.
“You’re still wanting to leave for Chicago sooner rather than later?” Deuce asked.
Helen’s voice came out in a rush. “Marian knows the best rooming houses in Chicago. You won’t have to worry about me being safe. And she said she’d write me a letter of introduction. To Mrs. VanWert. She’s a leading suffragette, not just in Chicago but across the country. Most of those pamphlets that our group gives out, she wrote them! And Marian knows her.”
Deuce tucked his hands under his armpits and studied the floor. After a time he said, “You’ve certainly got your mother’s will. But your grandfather will never agree.”
Helen bit her upper lip. “I know. So what I’m thinking is that I just go, without waiting for his blessing. Pack up and get the first train out tomorrow.”
“Leaving me holding the bag?” Deuce chuckled grimly. “Guess things can’t get much worse between your grandfather and me.”
A raw grinding of metal against metal sounded. “Got her going!” the workman shouted. The noise was cold, even in the furnace-like heat of the third floor.
Deuce took Helen’s hands. Her fingers were long, elegant, the nails translucent ovals of pearl. Not like Winnie’s stubby digits. Funny how some traits got passed from generation to generation and just couldn’t be shaken off, while others melted away after a sui generis flowering, the petals extraordinarily lush, exotic, and never to be seen again.
“You have my blessing,” he said hoarsely. “I will worry, of course, but I have every confidence in you. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
As Helen threw her arms around his neck, Deuce caught a glimpse of Marian’s face. It had softened in some small way. And it was then he sensed how deeply sad he would be to see her go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ESCAPE
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, while Helen dug in her handbag for an extra hankie, Deuce was pacing impatiently back and forth across the station platform. Twenty steps north. Turn. Twenty steps south. Still no train. He irritably yanked out his pocket watch. The 5:40 to Chicago was four minutes late. The sky lightened so that the water tower, just moments ago a soft wash of grays, was now hardening into its true self. Come on, damn it, Deuce thought, his ears equally alert to an approaching train and to Father Knapp’s electric runabout that passed this way every morning. Not usually until six thirty or so, but it would be Deuce’s luck that he’d be early and the train would be late. Today of all days. Tula, who was helping Helen locate the hankie, giggled loudly and Deuce quickly shushed her.
Marian approached. “She’ll be fine.”
“I know, I know. It’s not her, it’s her grandfather. I just don’t want him driving by and spotting us. I want her safely on that train.”
“If he shows up, I’ll just crack him across the knees with my cane,” Marian said, her mouth turned down wryly. She held up her empty hands. “Oh, look at that. I left it in the auto! Didn’t even notice.”
Deuce’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Must be a relief.”
“I gave Helen the names of three good rooming houses. Two right off Halsted and another farther north. She also has a letter of introduction to Mrs. VanWert. So, no worries.” She patted his arm.
“No worries,” he said unevenly.
The putter of a motorcar sounded from the street. Deuce blanched. It passed the depot but there was not enough light to see who was inside. It kept on going, and Deuce exhaled.
Finally, a full ten minutes late, a whistle sounded far down the tracks as a belch of smoke appeared on the horizon. Two commercial travelers, sample cases in hand, hurried out from the station. The stationmaster dollied Helen’s trunk to the edge of the platform. The train pulled in, brakes screeching. Deuce scooped Helen to his chest. Her shirtwaist smelled of starch.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said.
He bent, carefully kissing the pale line where her hair parted. She pulled back and, sniffling, brushed at the damp blotches she’d left on his lapel.
Then it was a blur of leave-taking; the conductor hopping off with a step stool, Tula
pressing an extra hankie into Helen’s hand, the taller of the commercial travelers passing the cases through the car’s window, and Marian standing erect to one side, a confident smile on her face.
“Use my name!” she called out.
Deuce, at last, found his voice. “Be careful, dearie!”
* * *
Late that afternoon, well past Helen’s arrival time in Chicago, Deuce walked over to the Western Illinois Savings & Loan. Crossing the ornate lobby, he briskly approached the wooden fence that enclosed the desk of his father-in-law’s secretary. Isabel Bechtold, now in late middle age, retained the cool manner and the blue glass paperweight that she’d brought to the position, straight out of Emporia Business School.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Garland,” she said, turning from her typewriter and folding her hands expectantly on the blotter.
“Hello, Isabel. I need five minutes of Father Knapp’s time.”
She frowned. “He is in. But he said that he had a lot of paperwork and didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I have to insist.”
Isabel sniffed, but stood and disappeared through the pair of wooden doors leading to George Knapp’s office. In a moment she emerged and swung open the little gate that separated her kingdom of notary seals, paper punches, and fountain pens from the public arena, and ushered Deuce in. “He’ll see you now.”
Father Knapp glanced up from a stack of papers. “Have a seat. Just got a few more pages to initial.”
Deuce remained standing. He eyed the green leather chairs where nervous businessmen and farmers came begging for loans. I should have sent Clay over here when he first asked me for money, Deuce thought. Father Knapp would have clipped his wings right away.
“All right then.” Father Knapp tilted back, frowning when he saw Deuce still standing. “Have a seat.”
“This will only take a minute.”
Father Knapp shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The springs of his swivel chair squeaked as he shifted position. “I guess you’ve come to apologize about the editorial. You did a lot of damage, but I think I can help unravel some of it. Of course, things between you and me—”
“Actually, I’m not here to discuss that,” Deuce interrupted. “I came to let you know that Helen left for Chicago this morning.”
“What?” Father Knapp jumped to his feet. The chair rolled back and hit the glass-doored bookshelves behind him.
Deuce continued in a mild tone: “She has done a fine job at the newspaper and I think she will do just as well up there, so I gave her permission.”
“You gave her permission? How dare you. That was not your permission to give!” Father Knapp’s face was bright red. “You do not have custody of that child. I do.”
Anger swept through Deuce, his muscles drawing tightly as piano wires. “She’s not a child. She’s of age.”
Father Knapp sat down with a thump. “Never mind. I’ll take care of it. Just give me the name of the hotel where she’s staying. I’ll get the sheriff to send a man up there.” He picked up the receiver.
Deuce’s voice was rigid. “I’m not giving you the name. Helen is a responsible young woman. She has a right to make her own way.”
The receiver slammed into the cradle. Father Knapp opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He sat back in the chair. After a moment he said, in a calm voice, “All right. When Helen is found—and I will find her—she’ll be back here living with me. And as of tomorrow, I’ll be taking over the Clarion. You’ve been overreaching. You can stay on as editor, overseeing the day-to-day . . . with my approval, of course. I’ll want to see a list of the articles before anything is printed. And I’ll be hiring someone else to write the editorials. You can’t humiliate me like this and get away with it. ”
Despite the rage churning inside, Deuce managed to keep his voice level. “There is no way I’ll work under those conditions. You don’t need to force me out—I quit. And Helen is an adult. You can’t control her. Women are changing. This town is changing. Wake up, man—everything is changing! And nothing will be as it was.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE GLIDE
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU COULD USE A DRINK,” Clay said from the front door as Deuce stepped onto the Lakes’ porch. “Who put you through the wringer?”
Deuce exhaled heavily. “A drink would be mighty appreciated.”
After leaving Father Knapp’s office, Deuce had slowly walked back to the Clarion. He sat behind his desk, with the idea of emptying out the drawers, but couldn’t stir himself to do it. I should write a final column. A farewell to the readers, he thought, but decided he wasn’t ready to reveal his change of status to anyone just yet. At least for a day or so.
Deuce stepped inside, holding two rather limp bouquets of sweet peas. “I’m grateful that Tula decided to throw this get-together. Takes my mind off that empty house. It will be a tough go without Helen there.”
“Glad to do it, old man,” Clay said, clapping him on the back. “Hang up your hat and make yourself at home. Hey, Tula, Deuce is here.”
After the exchange between Deuce and Clay at the Elks, Clay had sold off the posing chair to a gullible amateur photographer in the next county, at half of what he paid for it. He’d sealed the proceeds in an envelope and stuffed it into Deuce’s mailbox. Since then, Clay believed they were back on good footing.
Tula, who had been quite aware of Deuce’s arrival, had already removed her apron and patted down her hair. She emerged smiling from the kitchen.
“Just finishing up the shortcakes. Did you hear from Helen?”
Deuce extended the flowers.
“Aren’t these lovely!”
“She telegrammed. Didn’t say much except she’d arrived, gotten a room at one of Marian’s places, and would send me more news tomorrow.”
Standing on tiptoe, Tula kissed him on the cheek. “She’ll be fine.” How quickly things change, she thought. Only yesterday morning, Helen was gloomily entering debits and credits in the newspaper’s ledgers and now—well—spending her first night in the city. And I was there to see her off. Like launching a ship!
After Helen’s train pulled out, Tula had returned home to the unwelcome chore of canning pears. As she stirred the bubbling sugar syrup in a kitchen already overheated well before midday, Deuce’s long face at the station swam into her mind’s eye. Poor man. Nothing easy about seeing a daughter leave home. He needed a diversion. There was Chautauqua, of course. But tonight’s program was the Jubilee Gospel Singers. The Negro octet with its spirituals, camp meeting shouts, and popular plantation melodies always made him uncomfortable. Why not a party? Just Deuce, Clay, and Marian. She’d pull out the Parcheesi board and serve nuts in those little paper cups left over from the garden club’s tea.
“So, what about those streamers Tula put up? And the table decorated and all? She’s a real homemaker,” Clay was saying.
Her cheeks flushed as she watched Deuce taking in the green crepe paper and the card table covered with her mother’s daisy-embroidered tablecloth. The Parcheesi game was laid out; the green, yellow, blue, and red wooden markers arranged in their starting positions.
“Mighty snazzy,” Deuce said. He picked up one of the game’s turban-shaped markers. “Haven’t played this in years. Since Helen was a kid.”
An exotic scent—sandalwood?—brushed his nose. He turned toward the kitchen where Marian stood in the doorway, a coppery turquoise gown rippling like a river down her tall frame.
“Evening, all,” she said lightly.
As Deuce handed her the second bouquet, a dozen silver bangles jangled down her arm.
“Thank you, sir. What’s the word from Helen?” He described the telegram and she nodded approvingly. “Mrs. Richards will take good care of her.”
Tula offered to put Marian’s bouquet in water. “Lemonade all right with everyone?”
“I’m getting Deuce some whiskey,” Clay said, heading toward the dining room.
“I’ll
have some of that,” Marian said. She surveyed the game board, rubbing her hands together. “I can’t wait to get started.”
Deuce pulled out a chair for Marian.
He took the seat opposite but then jumped up again when Tula brought out a tray with cut-glass tumblers and a pitcher of lemonade. “Let me help,” he said, passing the glasses.
Clay poured out the whiskey for Marian, Deuce, and himself, adding a dollop to Tula’s lemonade.
“You’re going to have to refresh my memory,” Marian said. “I haven’t played Parcheesi since I was a girl.”
The path of play was in the shape of a Greek cross. At the four corners were colored lithographs depicting Victorian ladies in satin gowns prettily arranged among seasonal elements. These were the starting points.
Clay, who had been rattling one of the four dice cups, said, “There’s really nothing to it. You move any one of your four pieces counter-clockwise around the board. The first one to get all their pieces in the house at the center wins.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Tula said. “You see, you have to roll a six to get a piece out of your start space and then—”
“It’s not six, it’s a five,” Clay interrupted.
Tula frowned. “I think it’s six.”
“My, isn’t this a charming board,” Marian said.
“I got it for my tenth birthday,” Tula said as Clay examined the rule sheet. “I always loved these ladies on the corners. I thought they were so beautiful.”
“It’s five—see here, Tula? If you get a six you take another turn,” Clay said, flapping the pamphlet under her nose.
“All right, all right, it’s five. I believe you.”
“I think it will come back to me as we go. Why don’t we just start and see what happens?” Marian suggested.
The game began slowly; all had discharged their dice cups twice before Tula finally rolled a five and slid her yellow marker into play. Soon each player had at least one or two pieces on the board. For a while, the colored markers remained separate but soon some were moving ahead faster than others, and the reds, blues, yellows, and greens became jumbled. It was around this time that Clay, counting aloud, landed on the same space as Marian’s foremost piece and returned it to her start spot.
Unmentionables Page 11