Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  Flushing at these thoughts—how had they arisen?—Tula shook her head. They passed into the Flats and the Model T pulled up to the Shangs’ house, with its line of callers stretching from the road to the door.

  “I didn’t think there would be so many people,” Deuce said. Despite all his good intentions, he was having a hard time shaking off the nerves.

  Tula adjusted her hat, pulled down her sleeves, drew on a pair of gloves. “Laylia and Oliver are very well respected in the community.”

  They joined the line behind a middle-aged woman with stooped shoulders. It was Elsie Ross, housekeeper for the Broadheads. The woman nodded politely.

  “Sad turn,” Tula said.

  “Yes ma’am, it is. It truly is. But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Elsie drew a hankie out of her bosom and blew her nose.

  At the base of Laylia’s porch, a pussy willow was budding. Rocks twice the size of cantaloupes and thickly painted in bright reds, greens, and yellows were arranged along the beaten dirt walk. When a man in a shiny black derby at the front of the line stepped inside, the mourners shuffled forward two paces. No one spoke. Several women hummed “Balm in Gilead” in low tones. Clouds, which had blanketed the sun all morning, moved away.

  The women’s throaty humming vibrated inside Deuce’s head. When it was his turn to step inside, it took his eyes a moment to adjust from the bright sunshine. The closest he’d come to a colored person’s house was two nights before when he’d knocked on Smitty’s and then the Shangs’ doors. Now he was inside. It smelled tart but not unpleasant, like aging wood. There were a dozen or so mourners seated around the room’s perimeter, some praying, some moaning. The black-suited minister was whispering something in Laylia’s ear. Straight ahead was the open coffin. Deuce quickly looked away and began examining a picture of Noah’s Ark—the same version that hung in the ladies’ parlor of First Presbyterian.

  The coffin was mounted on sheet-draped sawhorses. Emmett’s face was still, the expression neutral; anything—acceptance, sorrow, recrimination—could be read there. The young man was in uniform; the soft, wedge-shaped cap arranged carefully on his head, the brass buttons perfectly aligned. Deuce’s gut lurched. It wasn’t right that Emmett was dead, that all those other boys were going off to war, and Wade and Merle, who had contributed nothing, swaggered around, boasting about how they’d defended themselves.

  He focused on the seams running up the back of Tula’s kid pumps, followed her to the circle of mourners. Oliver sat beside his son’s casket. He wore a dark sack suit, the trousers pulling around thighs muscled from work on track crews for the railroad. When he saw Deuce, the grieving father rose. The men nodded at one another. Laylia was seated slightly apart from her husband and the other mourners, regal in a black dress with jet beading on a wide collar. She cradled a puppy.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Tula,” Laylia said. She was rocking back and forth. “I surely didn’t expect you to.”

  Tula shook her head. “I’m so very sorry. I know how proud you were of Emmett going off to fight. Who would have thought?”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Laylia tucked her lips under her teeth.

  Her broad face was stoic, but when Deuce looked into her eyes he saw oceans of grief. Mothers bear a special burden, he thought. He had seen the same look in his wife’s eyes in those final weeks, when she understood that she was dying and would be forever separated from Helen. In Laylia’s case, she was the one left standing alone on the shore—but it seemed that a mother’s sorrow was just as deep no matter who had died and who was grieving. It was the fact of separation that cut so cruelly.

  Laylia’s eyes fell on him. Tula was offering to take Emmett’s photograph, explaining that she and Deuce would set up the lighting and camera, if the family would want a likeness as a keepsake. Laylia was slowly nodding. Tula passed to the old aunty seated next to Laylia.

  When Deuce moved in front of her, she stared up silently. After standing on the bank for so many years, he waded out into the current and took her hand in his. The flesh was warm.

  “Oliver and I thank you for what you done for Emmett. And then driving out to bring us to him.”

  Deuce shook his head. “We shouldn’t have to thank one another for an act of human decency, but I’m glad I was able to do it.”

  “So am I,” she said.

  He moved along, completing the circle of mourners. His chest opened up as if the load of stones that had been pressing on it for a lifetime had at last lifted.

  * * *

  A week later, the inquest ruled Emmett Shang’s death as accidental. While the coroner disregarded the contradictory testimonies of the cousins and Deuce, he had no doubt about what had happened. The whole thing turned Deuce’s stomach. He published an account of the inquiry, including the testimony of all the witnesses, on the front page of the Garland Weekly. And he wrote an editorial, reminding his readers of the sacrifices soldiers of both colors were making in the Great War.

  The Clarion, on the other hand, devoted not a single word to the soldier’s death, as if it had not happened, as if Emmett had never existed at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  KNOCKING DOWN

  After Marian left, I took over the sleeping porch and made it into a proper sewing room. Thiedick’s had a good price on matching braiding for the shoulders and frog closures. Do you think I am too old for the military look? What are the women wearing in Chicago? When I wash up the supper dishes, I can see how Ralph Mummert is renovating your old house. Just yesterday the wallpaper man showed up and stayed all day. Last Sunday, the church custodian put too much coal in the furnace. It was so warm that Mrs. Sieve napped through the whole service! I wish you had been here; we would have had a good laugh. This is a sketch of a dress I’m working on.

  FROM HER POST AT THE REAR of the trolley, Helen dimly noted the store windows, filmed with grime, slide by in the first light of this mid-April day. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. The suffrage meeting had run late last night as members tugged this way and that. Some believed supporting the war effort should be the priority. Others, including Helen, were adamant that this was the ideal time, with so many women taking men’s places in the workforce, to press forward with the suffrage agenda. She’d arrived back in her rooms with a voice hoarse from shouting and the league’s newspaper that she’d wrung into a baton during the heated discussion.

  * * *

  The car rocked gently side to side as it passed sidewalks still lined here and there with traces of snow. She was on the brink of dozing off, like old Mrs. Sieve, she thought, when Irvine abruptly hit the brakes, the metal wheels squealing against the rails. Helen was instantly wide awake. What was going on? The next stop wasn’t for a couple of blocks. She stood on tiptoe to see above the seated rows of fedoras and toques. A large touring car, operated by a woman in a glossy fur coat and matching hat, was whipping past the front of the trolley. Irvine, no doubt cursing the lady driver under his breath, turned the crank and they were underway again.

  The wealthy woman in the touring car looked very much like the women Helen had seen last night at the Chicago Political Equity League. Most of the members were large-bosomed and earnest matrons. No one under forty, Helen had guessed, and among the well-heeled assembly, none were working girls. She yawned loudly and stamped her feet to stay awake. Working girls don’t have the luxury of evening meetings, Helen thought. At least this one doesn’t.

  The front of the trolley clattered over a junction, then came the echo from the back wheels. Helen hung on to the oily grab pole. Irvine drew back the brake lever, more smoothly this time, and Helen called out the next stop. No one stirred in the crowded car. On the corner, at least a half-dozen people were waiting. The first to board was a man in a homburg. As he deposited a nickel in her palm, she yanked the cord, registering his fare. Next was a young woman in a crocheted tam. Then five or six businessmen squeezed in. Toward the end was an office girl in a tailored suit, then Louie step
ped on board, a slow grin passing across his face.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, making it clear from his tone he was not surprised at all. I don’t have the energy for this playing around, she thought. He pressed a nickel into her palm, then took the opportunity to squeeze her hand. “How come you left the Pickle so early that night? Didn’t you move all this way up here to see me?”

  “No,” she said in a strained voice. “Besides, I’m working. You’ll get me in trouble.”

  Louie made no move to find a seat. “Maybe the Pickle was a little too radical for you?” He leaned in as if he was going to whisper something in her ear. Helen jerked away, her elbow striking the seatback behind her. The fares sprung from her hand, scattering across the floorboards. Up front, unaware of the commotion, Irvine turned the crank and the car jolted forward. The nickels rolled under seats, skidded into the stairwell. Frantically, she fell to her knees, making a clumsy attempt to pluck one up, then ripped off her gloves and crawled after another that had rolled against someone’s muddy brogue. Pumps and wingtips shuffled out of her way.

  Louie crouched beside her, patting the floor beneath the seat of a stout matron who quickly drew in her skirts. All this time the streetcar swayed along the rails. Suddenly the brakes emitted a rusty squeal. The next stop! Not yet. Just let me find the rest. She lay on her belly to look under the seats. Nothing. Short at least seventy cents. Seventy cents that she had already rung in on the fare register, seventy cents that the cashier would be expecting to find in her cash bag. Seventy cents she didn’t have. Conductors were fired for shortages of much less.

  “Louie, could you loan—” she was whispering when a blunt finger tapped her shoulder.

  “Get up, miss. You too, mister.”

  The voice came from a chesty middle-aged man with pale eyes and cheeks covered with whiskers.

  “What’s the problem?” Louie asked irritably.

  “Both of you is the problem.”

  The car rolled the last few inches to the stop. Several passengers crowded around the door, impatiently waiting to get out. A handful of others wanted to board. “What’s the hold-up?” someone shouted.

  The man leaned close to Helen, saying in a low tone, “I’m from Chicago Surface Line. Go ahead and handle this stop. We don’t want to make a scene.”

  “A scene about what?” Helen snapped. Her knees shook beneath the woolen skirt.

  “About this little knock-down racket you and your boyfriend here got going. Just handle the stop like I said.”

  Helen blanched. “Knock-down? I just—”

  “Go on.” The beefy man waved.

  “Come on, sister, open the doors!” someone yelled.

  Helen pulled the lever and the bottleneck of passengers emptied onto the sidewalk. The new arrivals climbed up the iron steps. Helen’s fingers shook so much she could hardly pull the register cord. All the while the unshaven man, who smelled of cigar smoke, peered over her shoulder. When at last the streetcar jolted forward and Helen had deposited the fares in the coin barrel, she turned angrily.

  “Look, I dropped the coins. It was an accident. I’ll make good.”

  Under his derby the man’s wiry brows rose. “Miss Garland, your motorman reported awhiles ago that some things were not right with you. You seemed to be awfully friendly with a couple of your male passengers, among other things, and—”

  “What? No!”

  Several riders turned, listening to the exchange with eager faces. Helen stared them down until, reluctantly, they made a show of picking up their newspapers, staring out the windows. Meanwhile Louie examined his paint-splattered shoes.

  “I was called in to investigate,” the man said.

  “You’re a spotter!” Helen cried.

  The spotter pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket.

  Louie said, “I’m not her boyfriend.”

  The man glanced dismissively at him and then turned back to Helen. “Is he? He knows you. Knows your name.”

  Under the wrap collar of her uniform, the tendons in Helen’s neck pulsed. “Yes, but he’s not my boyfriend and I’m not stealing from the company.”

  “Not your boyfriend, huh?”

  “No! Just someone I used to know. And he has absolutely nothing to do with my job or this . . . misunderstanding.”

  The man eyed Louie. After a moment he said, “Okay. The company’s beef is with this lady, not you. Get off at the next stop.” He turned to Helen. “You finish the run and then you and I will have a talk in the supervisor’s office. I’ll be sitting right over here, so don’t try nothing.”

  By increments, the audience of businessmen and matrons again turned their attention her way and, when Helen glared, several stared back coldly. Already convicted, she thought.

  At the intersection of Maxwell and Halsted, Louie hopped off the car without a backward glance. There were about twenty minutes until the end of the line. At each stop, Helen jerked open the doors, yanked the fare register cord with a vengeance. Yet all the time her legs were like water, her brain boiling. One thought that kept circling was Irvine’s betrayal. She couldn’t believe it. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had passed between them that could be interpreted as malicious, yet he must have been harboring resentment toward her all this time.

  Ten, fifteen minutes crept by. It seemed as if the motorman was purposefully slowing to the point where the car was simply rolling from stop to stop. At last they passed into the depths of the car barn. Helen followed the spotter up the aisle. Irvine remained in his seat waiting, Helen guessed, for a replacement conductor to finish the shift. When she reached the front of the car he stared stonily ahead.

  She stopped at the control box. “I don’t know why you’ve done this. Reported me for things that you know I didn’t do.”

  He didn’t flinch.

  “You can’t even look me in the eye,” Helen said with disgust.

  “All right,” Irvine turned, his flaccid face a mottled crimson, “I’ll tell you what it is. A streetcar is not a fit place for a woman to work. Out at all hours, fraternizing with all sorts. Besides the jobs you’re taking away from men. Dragging down the wages for fellows who have families to support. It’s a disgrace. You women make me want to puke.”

  The blood drained from Helen’s face. “What? All the men are going overseas. Or haven’t you—”

  “When this war is over, everything will be set to rights.”

  Adrenaline flooded her veins. “Nothing’s going to be the same after the war. Women in this state already have the vote and soon all of us will.”

  “That’ll be fixed too!” Irvine shouted.

  “Come on,” the spotter said. “Save your wind for the super.” He roughly grabbed her arm and escorted her out. She looked back at Irvine, smugly observing her departure as if this was something he’d been looking forward to for a long time. I should have figured something like this would happen, she thought.

  The superintendent’s office was at the back, a one-story room built into a corner of the cavernous car barn. The inside was bleak—a battered desk tattooed with scratches, two wooden chairs, and a spittoon. The superintendent was operating an adding machine when the spotter and Helen entered. He held up a finger, indicating for them to wait, punched a final series of keys, pulled the lever, and jotted down the total after the dials stopped spinning. He raised his fleshy head and the spotter nodded. No discussion.

  “All right, sister. You’re out,” the superintendent said, turning back to his machine.

  “What! Now, wait a minute. This isn’t—”

  “You’re lucky we’re not pressing charges,” the super interrupted, not taking his eyes off the dials. “Get her out of here.”

  Five minutes later Helen was striding angrily up the alley, yanking her tam over her ears. She could barely see straight. The nerve of those men. Purposefully lying in wait for some small slip-up. Her boot heels clicked sharply as she passed onto the crowded sidewalks of Halsted. The warmish spring sun had bro
ught out a glut of office workers looking for a breath of fresh air on their lunch break. A number of couples strolled arm-in-arm. Helen dodged them. Louie the Louse. Just standing there like a lump while that weasel accused me of stealing.

  Back in her room, she rapidly stripped off her uniform, bundled it into a ball, and hurled it into the corner. I’ll be damned if I return it to them clean and pressed. The bureau’s warped drawers required several tugs. Helen yanked the top compartment with such force that it clattered to the floor, spilling out shirtwaists, shifts, and collars. Swearing, she kicked the fallen clothing aside and abruptly dropped into the desk chair. Her eyes grew moist but she refused to give in to tears. Sniffling, she pulled out several sheets of stationery, deciding to write Marian about the unfairness of it all. As the pen’s nib touched the paper, however, she changed her mind and began composing an article for the league’s newspaper.

  Women workers, did you know that the common belief among your employers is that women are barely adequate fill-ins, to be used during the labor shortage on a temporary basis? That we are only barely tolerated as placeholders? That we are resented by our male colleagues? That has been my experience . . .