Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “Got a problem?” the cashier rasped, his eyes flicking up and down her body.

  She willed herself to keep her voice level. “Are you shorting me?”

  He spread his palms. “Look, sister, you accuse me of that every other day. You want me to count it out?”

  Helen sensed the roil of anger build in the line behind her. “No. Forget it,” she muttered, moving aside. Across the way she could see that Irvine, her motorman, was already seated impatiently at the wheel of No. 5219. Christ, could she stand another day of this?

  Irvine was a man of middle age, whose long face fell into drooping, phlegmatic folds. His eyes had a weary cast, which nothing, not even a midday intersection packed with harried pedestrians, automobiles, and peddler carts, could rouse. When they’d met on her first day of work, his initial words had been, “Won’t hold it against you.”

  She’d been caught off guard. “What?”

  “You being a female conductor. Just saying.”

  Helen had been opening her mouth to respond when a supervisor, who was showing her the ropes, swung into the car with a brisk, “Now this is what ya need to do in regards to collecting the fares.”

  Irvine rarely spoke more than a couple of words each day. This morning was no different. He mumbled a greeting, then cranked the controller, and 5219 bumped out of the barn and onto the Belmont Avenue line. Helen took up her post in the back, ready to collect the nickel fares as the passengers boarded. When the trolley reached the end of the line, which took about forty-five minutes, Irvine and Helen wordlessly switched places as the back of the car became the front and vice versa. Ships passing in the night. Despite the crowds pressing against her throughout the ten-hour shift, Helen felt alone.

  In these predawn hours, most of the passengers were laborers; men in greasy or bloodstained overalls who worked in the stockyards, factories, or meat-packing plants. There were also a fair number of women who assembled paper boxes or ran mangles in commercial laundries. The first couple of months, she’d excitedly studied each passenger, as if she was a traveler in an exotic land.

  Today, as the riders pushed past her, anxious to get out of the bitter wind, their faces were indistinguishable; watery eyes, red noses, pale jowls. As they pressed forward, shoving fares at her, Helen purposefully maintained a deliberate pace; slipping each nickel in the leather satchel around her neck, tugging the leather cord. The cord was connected to a fare register, a thick metal disk the size of a large clock with dials showing the number of fares collected, like a motorcar’s odometer. Every time she pulled the cable, the dials turned to the next number and a bell rang.

  By seven-thirty, every stop was jammed with passengers impatiently stomping their feet. The Packer Avenue throng was particularly rowdy. They shoved against the folding doors the second Irvine put on the brakes, those in the back crying out, “Hurry up, sister!” She ignored them. Coin, cord. Coin, cord. She’d done this hundreds of times since September, so it should have become second nature. But it seemed to require more deliberation each week and the anxiety about yanking the cord too many times had mounted. If, at the end of the day, her canvas bag of fares didn’t exactly match the number on the register, she’d be accused of knocking down—stealing from the company—and would be fired immediately. This was all spelled out in the conductor’s handbook, on page one in bold letters. She had come to hate the register, her guts twisting every time she yanked the cord. It seemed so easy to make a mistake in the crush of riders. To pull the cord too many times.

  Why am I becoming such a nervous Nellie? I was never like this before, she thought. The car jerked away from the stop and the businessman in front of her lost his balance and stepped on her boot.

  The nerves had crept up gradually. At first it happened only when a stop was especially crowded and the hands thrusting nickels at her came from all directions. Then her stomach began to pitch when she glanced at a stop coming up and thought it might be thronged. Now just standing in line for the cashier’s window was liable to make her gut cramp up.

  “Excuse me.” A young woman wearing a thin coat over the office girl’s uniform of shirtwaist and skirt squeezed past Helen’s elbow. Even if the fare accidently comes up short and I’m fired, she thought, it’s not as if I can’t get another job. There’s plenty of jobs out there. And look, she counseled herself, you’re doing swell. Getting around the city from day one with no problem. I brushed right past those YWCA ladies hovering around the train station, handing pamphlets to the innocents from the farm. Didn’t need them! And Papa so worried that last morning, seeing me off. All his little admonishments. His furrowed brows rose in her mind’s eye. She teared up and had to quickly wipe her eyes on her sleeve as the trolley rolled to a stop and the doors flapped open.

  At the end of her shift Helen endured another bout of nerves as she turned in the cash bag. But miraculously everything tallied, the lethargic cashier signed her receipt, and, for the first time that day, she breathed freely. It was dusk when she stepped outside the car barn and the sidewalk slush had frozen into icy ruts. She picked her way along Halsted. The wind let up slightly. She passed a brick wall plastered with yellow flyers, all reading, Eight Million Women Wage Earners in the United States—They All Need the Vote! A bubble of pride pushed into her throat. A wage earner and, what’s more, in a man’s job, she thought, smiling. But the smile faded.

  Here six months and haven’t gone to a single suffrage meeting. Not a single one. Let alone picket. Marian’s letter of introduction to Chicago’s suffrage league lay untouched in her bureau drawer. Each week she’d vowed to get to a meeting, but after a ten-hour day that began at four in the morning, it was all she could do to drag herself to the Shady Cottage Café for a quick dinner before collapsing into her bed at the rooming house. She hurried past the flyers and toward the steamy windows of the restaurant. The place was nothing special but she’d come across it on her third night in town and for some reason kept coming back. The roast beef was fatty, the mashed potatoes lumpy, but still she returned. And Marian’s list of exotic-sounding restaurants lay with the letters of introduction, behind Helen’s stack of rolled hose.

  There was a small table near the window. Helen sat down, pulled off her mittens, and laid them to one side. A thick-waisted server, one she’d had before, passed by with a tray of dirty dishes and asked if she wanted the roast beef and mashed as usual. Helen nodded. When her little pot of tea was delivered, she warmed her hands over the steam rising from its spout before pouring a cup.

  She would have liked to pull off her boots, her feet ached from standing all day and from the icy drafts swept into the car as passengers boarded and departed. That would have to wait until she got to the boarding house. She kept an enamel basin under her bed to bathe her feet each evening. What an old fuddy-duddy I’ve become! Doctoring aches and pains, eating at the same place every night. Still, when the waitress slid the oval platter of meat and potatoes in front of her, Helen took up her fork with relish.

  As she was enjoying the last spoonful of ice cream, a treat she allowed herself on Saturdays, the end of the workweek, the café door banged open and two fellows in overcoats hustled in. They were laughing and rubbing their hands against the cold.

  Helen barely glanced up and so was surprised to hear, “Hey, it’s the suffragette,” and to see Louie the sign painter approaching with a grin. He called to his friend, “Get us a table, I’ll be over in a few,” before turning back to Helen. “So, you broke free? Good for you.” His face had lost its summer tan, but his eyes still danced.

  Her fingers strayed to her hair, mashed down all day by her uniform cap, aware of the mark it left on her forehead and the dried sweat on her scalp. Nothing to be done about that now.

  “You didn’t think I would, did you?” she said.

  “Oh, I figured you’d get here by hook or by crook. Mind if I put my feet up for a sec?”

  Helen shrugged, surprised to hear herself drawn into the playful sparring. “Suit yourself.”
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  Louie pulled out the chair opposite and waved the waitress over. “Bring me a coffee, honey.” He leaned toward her. “So, how do you like old Chi town?”

  “It’s swell. I’ve got a job at—”

  “No, let me guess. Bookkeeper for the Women’s Suffrage League? Union organizer?”

  Had she really spilled out all her ambitions to him? “Trolley conductor.”

  He folded his arms and nodded appreciatively. “Not bad.”

  The waitress sat the coffee in front of him. “What’ll ya have?” she asked.

  “Nothing just yet.” He sipped his coffee. “You’re earning your keep. Good for you. And I’d bet my bottom dollar you’re knee-deep in the suffrage stuff.”

  Helen studied her hands. “Actually, I haven’t . . .”

  But Louie had already moved on: “You know, I’ve got an exhibit at the Dill. You should stop by.”

  Helen frowned. “What?”

  “Dill Pickle Club. The place I told you about. You’ve been, haven’t you? No? That’s the place for the radical of the radical. Big Bill Hayward, Wobblies, socialists, anarchists, hobos, prostitutes, all the soapboxers from Bug House Square. Sometimes Jane Addams shows with a couple of her Hull-House girls. The anarchist Emma Goldman was a regular, until she got arrested. And my paintings, well, they’re the talk of the joint right now.”

  His lips were moving excitedly. What was it about them that were so attractive? Helen thought of the places he’d kissed her last summer and flushed.

  “Come down tomorrow. Sunday’s the big night there. Everyone shows up. It’s the real deal and if you want to be in the know about activists of the fairer sex, you should be there.”

  Something inside told her to keep her guard up. “I can’t.” The words popped out. “I’ve got work.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Well, no, but very early on Monday so it’s hard to, you know, I need to get to bed early . . .”

  Why was she acting like this? Was it Louie she was backing away from, or the idea of not measuring up to the Pickle crowd? Just last summer this would have been the sort of thing she’d dreamed about doing, talked endlessly about to anyone in Emporia who would listen. Now a chance to see Jane Addams in the flesh! And she was acting like a scared bunny.

  “Here, I’ll give you directions,” Louie said, pulling a notepad out of his pocket and sketching a map. She noticed his paint-daubed fingers. Her gaze traveled back to his lips.

  “Okay.” Helen gave a small smile. “Show me where to go.”

  * * *

  The next evening she found her way to Dearborn, a main drag in this part of town, with no problem. After several changes of clothing, she’d settled on what she considered her most highbrow attire: serge skirt and simple shirtwaist. With a thought to Louie, she added her close-fitting sealskin hat with the red rosette that matched the red mittens. Now, passing through the down-at-the-heels neighborhood lined with used book shops, barber training schools, and flop houses with dusty Room for Rent signs on display, she wondered why she’d bothered with her dress. After several trips up and down the block, she located a narrow tunnel between two ramshackle brick buildings that Louie had labeled “hole in the wall.” She found herself in a dim alley smelling of urine and cluttered with dented dustbins. At the far end, an exposed bulb hung over an orange-painted entryway of what looked like a decrepit carriage house. That must be it. As she approached, she saw that the door was painted with a crudely lettered message: Step High, Stoop Low. Leave Your Dignity Outside. Just like Alice down the rabbit hole, Helen thought.

  She hesitated, the butterflies in her gut getting the better of her. But then, all the visions rushed in of herself marching in suffrage parades and rallying women laborers to the cause. She stepped inside.

  The entryway was indeed low, with a wooden beam just overhead. She heard loud voices coming from the top of steep stairs. She climbed. The large, raftered room was crowded. Clusters of two and three people faced off in intense conversations. A number of them were shouting. One man in particular, wearing a grimy sack suit reeking of sweat, was yelling as loudly as if he were using a megaphone. Despite the volume, the room was welcoming. Red, blue, and yellow chairs and benches were scattered about, some lined up in rows in front of a small stage. A refreshment counter ran along one wall where a middle-aged woman in an embroidered peasant shift poured coffee. A sign resting beside a plate stacked with sandwiches proclaimed, Food for Thought.

  Abruptly, a redheaded man in a lumberman’s jacket approached Helen, arm outstretched. “Are you a nut about anything?” he asked, shaking her hand vigorously.

  “I, ah . . .”

  “Then you have to talk to the Picklers.”

  She forced a smile. Behind her, footsteps mounted the stairs and she quickly moved away. The man approached the newcomer with his pat question, “Are you a . . .”

  Plastered on a beam directly in front of her was a crudely drawn cartoon of a man, his mouth wide open, announcing, We gotta change the system.

  A number of paintings hung on the whitewashed wall to the right. These must be Louie’s. She strolled over, hands clasped behind her back as she imagined museum regulars did. The first appeared to be a landscape. The oils had been dabbed on so thickly that the hills and rooftops were furrowed with brushstrokes, all rendered in vermilion and cobalt and ochre. It was how she imagined Italy might look. Had Louie been there? She looked around for him. The space was filling up. Off to her right, several professorial types, with tidy four-in-hands and round spectacles, conversed with an odoriferous man missing most of his teeth. Two primly dressed women, hair pulled back in buns that reminded Helen of photographs she’d seen of Jane Addams, passed by holding hands and took seats among the growing number in front of the stage. At least half of the throng were women. Many clearly paid no attention to their appearance. Frizzy, barely combed hair, clean but unironed shirtwaists. But their eyes! They had the eyes of zealots, of women in hot pursuit of a cause. This is what I want, where I belong, she thought. This is who I said I was back in Emporia.

  Wouldn’t the matrons and Grandfather Knapp be shocked if they saw her here, in this hotbed of radicalism. They’d be outraged. She imagined Mrs. Mummert saying to her club women, “Did you hear about Helen Garland? She’s become a radical suffragist. Next thing you know, she’ll be picketing the White House and jailed like Alice Paul.”

  She turned to the next canvas with a small smile. It was a portrait of a man in a soft hat, a disconcerting juxtaposition of sharply angled shapes forming the face. The cheeks were shards of yellow and orange. A splinter of blue formed half of the nose, the other half being a drab brown. The mouth, although a jarring green, turned up at one corner in a sly way. Louie certainly captured himself, she thought, despite the odd colors and shapes. Still, the whole effect made her suddenly uncomfortable. From across the room, someone was shouting, “Don’t lecture me about the Old Testicle, you religious dogmatist!” Despite the fact that no one was paying her a bit of attention, Helen felt increasingly awkward. Where was Louie, for God’s sake?

  Just then he emerged from the stairwell. She waved, his eyes caught hers, and he squeezed through the crowd.

  “What d’ya think?” he asked eagerly. “Sorry I’m late. Got into a debate with Flanagan and lost track of the time.”

  His breath came in short bursts, as if he’d run up the stairs. The scarf around his neck, in shades of walnut, matched his eyes.

  “That’s all right. And I like your paintings very much.”

  “Good. That’s great.” He slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “Oh, I just got here. But of these two, this one,” she said, gesturing to the landscape.

  Louie pulled back, a surprised look on his face. “Really? That was sort of an early attempt.”

  Helen flushed, feeling as if she’d given the wrong answer. “The portrait is good too. I knew it was you right away. It is you?”

>   “Yeah, yeah. Sort of beside the point, but that’s okay. I want to know what it is about the landscape that appeals.”

  Helen chewed her lip, trying to summon the words from the art lessons Grandfather Knapp had paid for when she was fifteen or so. She couldn’t remember a one. “What I like is that they’re not like the pictures in my grandmother’s parlor.”

  Louie laughed. “Thank God.” He kissed her on the neck. She flushed again. “Maybe we can skip the lecture. There’s a church with plenty of stairwells just around the corner.”

  Helen pulled back abruptly. “No. I’m here to learn something, not monkey around.”

  “Ah, just for a while. We can get—”

  He was interrupted by a voice from the podium: “Ladies, gents, and the rest of you, take a seat. It’s time to get started and I know you’ll find tonight’s program well worthwhile.”

  Helen pulled away. “I’m staying.”

  A quiet groan sounded off to one side. In a darkened corner, Helen glimpsed the figure of a man leaning against the wall. A woman knelt at his feet, head bobbing rhythmically. Helen’s hand flew to her mouth and she quickly joined the throng moving toward the stage. She dropped into a seat near the back. Her hands were shaking. Louie, seemingly oblivious to the display in the corner, followed her over, taking the chair beside her and sliding down on his tailbone.

  The man at the podium was the redheaded greeter. After the audience settled, he continued. “If you don’t know me, you should. I’m Jack Jones, former Wobbly, former anarchist, and current proponent of free speech of any sort.”

  Helen caught her breath. A Wobbly! Someone had shoved one of the Wobbly’s radical pamphlets, advocating destruction of the wage system, into her hands as she walked to the car barn one morning. The Wobblies’ ideas about overthrowing the system struck Helen as beyond the pale.