Unmentionables

by Laurie Loewenstein

  “What’s happening?” Deuce asked.

  The old man took the time to direct a stream of tobacco juice onto the sidewalk. “Making sure everyone does their part buying Liberty Bonds. We just got word from the Defense Committee that this here slacker’s not doing his part.”

  “Jasper?”

  “You’re not one too, are you? A Jerry sympathizer?” He leaned in close, the damp chaw exuding the cloying smell of cherries, saying, “We already know how you love them niggers.”

  Deuce ignored the barb. Shouts of “Open up!” from someone in the crowd broke the tension. Deuce quickly stepped closer, in between two men wearing the blue pin-striped overalls of Mummert Power Shovel. From this position he had a clear view of the shop and the two men provoking the mob: Harp’s mechanics, Wade and Merle.

  “He’s in there!” Wade shouted.

  Merle pounded on the door with a closed fist. Deuce broke into a sweat. He had seen what those hands did to Emmett. This could get ugly fast, he thought. The crowd grew as the courthouse emptied out for the day.

  “He’s got a sick child!” Deuce yelled.

  Heads turned. Merle froze in his boxing stance, then pivoted smoothly in Deuce’s direction. “This don’t concern you. This is between us and this slacker. So get out.”

  From the back someone shouted, “Garland, you’re not wanted!”

  Merle resumed pounding.

  “Put some weight behind those knuckles!” Wade yelled. His cousin banged with both fists.

  Wilson’s reedy voice called, “He’s up there. I seen a curtain move.”

  Deuce glimpsed Jasper’s pinched face before the lace drape fell back into place. Across the street, the courthouse doors opened and the last of the legal secretaries stepped out, laughing loudly at some joke.

  “What’s this all about?” Jasper asked, emerging from the doorway with Tula hovering at his shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you come down right off? You must have heard us,” Merle said, turning to the cluster of men for confirmation.

  “I did. But I have a sick child. Couldn’t imagine anything so urgent.”

  “Well, it is,” Wilson said. “Everyone’s gotta pull their weight, and you’re not pulling yours.”

  Jasper’s shoulder blades stiffened. “That’s not true.”

  Alvin Harp pushed his way to the front. A Buy Liberty Bonds armband was tied above the garage owner’s rolled shirtsleeves. “You missed the last installment. It was due last week. And on top of that, the next bond campaign you’ll need to come up with a lot more than you did in April. There’s talk that some aren’t doing their part because they’re German sympathizers. You wouldn’t want people to think that about you, would you?”

  “If I’m late on that last payment, it’s only because of my children. I will make good on it.”

  “Jasper’s done his part,” Tula blurted out. “No one here is a sympathizer.”

  The men shouldered into the doorway, ignoring her. Someone she didn’t recognize leaned toward Jasper. “What kind of name is Watts, anyway? Sounds Hun to me.” The vitriol in the man’s voice was scalding.

  Tula jerked back, her fingers pulling on Jasper’s sleeve, when Deuce called out, “Hold on, fellows.” He had mounted the granite carriage block out by the curb, standing a head above the throng. Great half-moons of sweat waxed under his arms. In the past few minutes the crowd had grown. It now stretched into the street, creating a bottleneck of horse-drawn wagons, delivery trucks, and automobiles. A Packard nosed past the outermost fringe. Deuce surveyed the faces. Most he knew by name. First in the Clarion and now in the Garland Weekly he’d broadcast their weddings, the births of their children, the deaths of their grandparents; he’d boosted their fraternal clubs and church suppers; he’d promoted their businesses and charities; and in recent days, he’d composed eloquent send-offs for their sons leaving for war, grand enough to be clipped and saved in the family Bible. But at this moment they looked like strangers—the men at the front with mouths twisted in anger, most others wearing the avid expressions of gawkers at a train wreck. He thought of how they might have looked differently to him a year ago. He thought of what he might have said. Then he thought of how far he’d traveled since. I’m not that person anymore.

  Deuce shifted, the granite scraping beneath his soles. “Before this goes any further, it’s time for cooler heads to prevail.” He pointed at Wade and Merle. “These men are murderers. They killed a man and I’m not going to let them get away with it again.”

  Wade, his face purple with rage, his fists raised, began pushing through the crowd but was restrained by Alvin.

  Deuce continued: “Jasper will do his part. I know the man.”

  Wilson broke in with a shout. “But that’s how they work! Worm themselves in. He’s Hun through and through. Can’t shake off your origins just like that.” He snapped his fingers. A chorus of muttering backed him up.

  Deuce flushed. For a moment he was again the young boy stung by slurs. The crowd grew silent. From down the tracks, the Illinois Central announced its arrival with a deep wail. He studied the faces before him. At the farthest edge of the crowd was a woman in blue whose posture, whose set of the head reminded him of Marian. But no, he realized, he must be mistaken. Although tall, the woman didn’t have Marian’s generous figure. She was almost certainly over at the hotel, resting before the night’s performance. But you are close, Deuce thought. You may not hear my words, but you are close.

  When he answered, his voice was strong. “Yes, some say blood will tell. It’s an old expression. But I don’t believe that. It’s the easy way out. You may accuse Jasper Watts of not giving enough to the bonds, yet he’s done more than his fair share. Accuse him of tending more to his children than his business, fair enough, but you can’t convict him based on the legacy of his birth. These are flimsy rumors and you can’t risk a man’s reputation, his livelihood, on that.”

  Here and there, the listeners twitched like river weeds in a current as they shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Deuce is right!” Dr. Jack shouted. Heads turned in recognition. “Sitting in a sickroom through the night, you get to know people. I’ve sat with Jasper these last few nights at his children’s bedsides. He’s upright.”

  Standing nearby, Floyd and Mr. Meyers, the butcher, called out in agreement. Deuce caught sight of the Reverend Baumgartner of the Lutheran Church and a couple of Irish factory workers nodding too. Floyd raised his hand as if in school. “I’m with the doc and Deuce on this.” It was clear from the glances of the crowd that they expected him to elaborate. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “Thanks, fellows.” Deuce pushed back a hank of hair that had flopped damply across his forehead. “All my life, I’ve boosted Emporia. It’s the best place in the world. But these last couple of years I’ve come to believe that we can do even better. Belonging, fitting in—those qualities have been the cement that binds us together. I think of the old pioneers, our grandparents and great-grandparents, who settled here and needed to work together. Any dissent might cost them their lives. Frontier life was unforgiving. Survival was the name of the game. But things are different now. We’ve each got to be willing to think for ourselves. I’m not speaking from a high-and-mighty place. You all know that for most of my life, I’ve done nothing but boost the town. I was afraid to print anything negative in the newspaper. But now I no longer think that makes us stronger or better. It weakens us. We need to face our town’s faults, our individual faults—I’ve got them in spades, we all do—and try our best to fix them. Or maybe just live with some of them.”

  For a moment, silence fell across the throng. No one called out. No trains announced their arrival. The courthouse clock did not sound. The iceman’s horse stood patiently in its traces.

  After a time, the county clerks standing at the fringes began drifting away. Others followed. It became clear that the majority of the crowd did not, at least on this evening, share in the fury of the men knotted
around Jasper’s door. Wade, Merle, and the others watched in silence until Alvin, who didn’t want to lose paying garage customers over a dust-up, muttered, “Let’s go get a drink, boys.”

  As Deuce stepped down from the carriage block, Tula shoved through the throng and swung her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She pulled back, her face wet with tears. Jasper pumped his hand. Floyd was there too, along with half a dozen others.

  Dr. Jack approached, hand outstretched. “Beers on me,” he said.

  No one noticed the tall woman in blue starting to approach, hesitate as Dr. Jack and the others surrounded Deuce with grins and backslaps, and then quickly head in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  A half hour earlier, after she’d wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks and chin, Marian had driven back into town with the image of Ted Bellman’s hands on hers. There was a jam-up on Center Street. A crowd clustered around a shop, spilled out into the street, and completely blocked traffic. A nervous flutter rose in her breast. What if I can’t get to the hotel? I can’t go on stage tear-stained and dusty. And Deuce will be in the audience. He can’t see me like this.

  A farm wagon had come to a halt behind the Packard, and the streetcar was just beyond her front bumper. She was completely hemmed in. Unable to move forward or backward, she yanked on the brake, grabbed her valise, and left the car in the middle of the street. Which way was the hotel? She’d find out from someone in the crowd. As soon as she saw the sign, Watts’s Studio, she recognized the name of Tula’s suitor. She asked a matron jiggling a baby carriage what was going on. “Someone not doing their part with the Liberty Bond,” was the answer. Then Marian heard Deuce’s voice, saw his thick wave of silver hair, his face and shoulders rise above the sea of hats.

  As his words rolled across the crowd, tenderness bubbled up in her throat, filming her eyes, quickening her breath. When he had finished talking, stepping down into welcoming arms, she sprang forward. There was Tula’s beaming face and the short man beside her must be Jasper. She wriggled around the baby carriage, was now close enough to see the pattern on Deuce’s tie. But then came the earnest face of that doctor, the one who had banned her from Jeannette’s house. The man was patting Deuce on the back, shepherding him up the sidewalk. Marian shrank back. Her frothy mood evaporated. The last thing she wanted was some kind of confrontation in front of all these people at what was Deuce’s moment of triumph. Better to see him after the program. She reluctantly asked an onlooker for directions to the hotel.

  * * *

  Just as it was one year before, the air under the tent was very hot. The same superintendent in white duck trousers trotted terrier-like across the stage, promoting next year’s program, while in the audience, palm fans fluttered like so many moths. Stationed behind a canvas flap, waiting to go on, Marian toed the ground, plucked the neckline of her dress. Minutes before leaving the hotel for the Chautauqua grounds, she’d impulsively changed from her uniform into a gown she’d reconstructed from an old caftan, its yards of intense peacock-blue silk too magnificent for the rag bag.

  Now, hearing the audience moving restlessly, she regretted her change of clothes. She felt naked, exposed under the sheer fabric. Oh for the security of the uniform with its brass buttons!

  Out front, the superintendent switched gears. “And now it is time to welcome an old friend from last season who is here tonight with a new message, illustrated with moving pictures, that I’m sure you will find both fascinating and edifying. Just recently returned from eastern France, this brave soul will share her firsthand observations of the war in all its devastation. Please join me in a warm Chautauqua welcome for Mrs. Elliot Adams!”

  Marian’s stomach tensed, but the response was polite. She mounted the steps on trembling legs, giving the exiting superintendent a rigid smile. Before her spread the entire populace, redolent with the scent of starch and talc. A constellation of garnet-tipped cigars glittered aromatically. Many of the faces she recognized and even those strange to her seemed familiar. A rush of affection for this place and these people overtook her. Hoarsely, she managed to say, “I’m so very glad to be back here among you.”

  A burst of clapping erupted from the front row; it was Helen. On her left sat Deuce. A great smile stretched across his generous mouth, his dark eyes shone. She broke into a grin. Abruptly, the stage lights dimmed and the houses and church of Canizy flickered across the screen.

  Marian cleared her throat, found her voice. “Here we see the small village of Canizy . . . before the war not so different from Emporia. This is the devastation the Germans left after their withdrawal to the Hindenberg Line . . .”

  As if on cue, as soon as her talk ended, the tongue of film flapping noisily against the sprockets, cool air blew through the tent. The applause continued for several minutes, and when the superintendent hustled out to remind everyone to come back next year, a smattering of clapping could still be heard. The usual gang of little boys crowded around the projector, peppering the stagehand with questions about lenses and wattage. Marian scanned the milling swarm. Where was Deuce?

  As she had a year ago, Helen hurried to the foot of the stage.

  “Oh, no, I’ll come down to you,” Marian said, smiling. She took the side stairs, gripping the railing.

  Helen hugged her. “You were grand!”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “And what a gorgeous gown.”

  Marian blushed. “I usually wear my uniform but tonight was going to be special. It is special.”

  “Come sit,” Helen said, dragging her toward a chair. “I’ve so much to tell you. About Chicago and my suffrage work.”

  “Of course, I want to hear every bit.” Marian cleared her throat but her voice was strained. “Where’s your father?”

  Helen smiled. “He had to leave early to finish printing the Weekly. But he wants you to come by the office as soon as you’re able to break away.”

  “Of course.” Marian felt her cheeks redden. “Helen, can we talk on the way to town?”

  The two women joined the crowd moving across the pasture. A long snake of automobiles bumped slowly out of the grounds.

  “It’ll be ages getting the Packard out of here,” Marian said.

  “Leave it. We can take the streetcar.”

  It was jammed too, but one of the riders pulled Marian into the top spot in the stairwell and Helen claimed the outside step, gripping the handrail.

  The car lurched into motion. Someone toward the back embarked on, “Mademoiselle from Armentières,” with several voices joining in on the chorus, “Hinky-dinky parlez-vous.” An elbow was lodged in Marian’s rib cage and Helen’s straw hat almost blew off. When the singers got to, “She got the palm and the croix de guerre, for washin’ soldiers’ underwear,” both women burst out laughing.

  After the choir was shushed by an outraged matriarch, Helen commented, “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have been stuck in this town forever, probably married to that singer in the back.”

  Marian smiled. “I don’t think so. But maybe I sped things up for you a little. I hope so.”

  The two women talked as the streetcar gradually emptied, gliding from pool to pool cast by the streetlamps, the old elms rustling overhead. They passed from the residential streets into the business district and got off. Helen walked Marian to the Garland Weekly.

  “Here it is,” she said. “I’ve got to catch the milk train back to Chicago in the morning, so I guess I’ll see you the next time we’re both in town.” She leaned over and gave Marian a peck on the cheek. “He’s in there. The door should be open.”

  Marian entered. A young woman was stooped over a press at the back. To the left was a closed office door with light shining under the crack. The knob was warm to the touch and turned easily. Shyness suddenly overtook her. She hesitated, then slowly walked in. Deuce was bent over a page proof.

  “Hello, Deuce.”

  He jumped up, rounding the desk in one swift motion. Silver stubble s
craped across her cheek. She inhaled shaving talc and printer’s ink. Her knees buckled in relief, feeling all the miles she’d traveled.

  “Here, sit, you must be exhausted.”

  Reluctant to step away, she allowed him to pull over a chair.

  “I’m just finishing proofing this editorial, if you’ll give me a minute. I’ve already held the press up for an hour.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “Do what you need to do.”

  He took up the proofs but put them right back down. “I can’t believe you’re here. After all these months.”

  “Your editorial. Is it about what happened at Jasper’s?”

  He nodded. Footsteps sounded from the newsroom and a young woman poked her head through the doorway. “Are you almost—” She stopped, then continued, “Oh, excuse me, ma’am, didn’t see you.”

  Deuce sighed impatiently. “I’ll be right back.”

  Left alone in the office, Marian got up. She examined the framed portrait of Lincoln hung alongside Deuce’s high school diploma. She fingered his jacket on the coat rack, tried on his boater. Outside the window an elderly gentleman on a bicycle pedaled erectly past. Emporia’s version of Canizy’s ancient postman.

  Deuce burst back in. “Sorry.”

  “Everything under control?”

  “Yep.” He joined her at the window, planting his hands on the sill and leaning out. “Everybody seems to have gotten home safe and sound.”

  “Deuce.” Marian touched his shoulder. He turned. “I’m so glad to be here.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She stepped into his arms. He stroked her hair, smoothing the dark strands. His breath was warm against her ear.

  “There’s nothing I want more than for you to be here with me.” He kissed her neck and she turned to meet his mouth.

  After several minutes, she pulled back from his embrace, her brows drawn together. “But I have to go back to France after the war. To finish our work. I want to.”

  “I know. But you’ll come back here and I’ll be waiting.”