The Storm

by Shelley Thrasher

  Chapter Twenty-three

  By the time they reached the broad marble staircase, Molly could hardly wait to walk up and register to vote in the first election ever open to the women of Texas. Jacqueline had unlocked Pandora’s box for her, and she almost wanted to thank Mother Russell for making her so angry that she finally dared to defy everything she’d ever known.

  She licked two of her fingers and smoothed Patrick’s red hair that looked like a banty rooster’s tail at the crown of his head. “Pull up your pants, son, and straighten your collar. You can’t go in the courthouse looking like you’ve slept in your shirt.”

  He squirmed. “But, Mama, my collar’s scratching my neck. You put too much starch in it.”

  She relented and told him she’d buy him something special later, to take the edge off her scolding. But she was nervous and wanted to make a good impression during her first trip to register to vote. Today was a landmark event.

  A middle-aged woman directed her to the tax collector’s office, and as she climbed the worn wooden stairs Patrick tugged her hand. “Look, Mama. These steps just keep going up and up. I bet this building’s taller than our barn.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Jacqueline said. “Someday maybe you can go to Washington, DC. Some of the buildings there are even taller than this one and made entirely out of marble. They’re more beautiful than you can imagine.”

  He stopped. “Really, Miss Jacqueline? Oh, Mama. Can I go? Can I?”

  “Of course. Maybe you and I can both go. But now we need to find the tax collector. He’s the first stop on our trip.”

  “Okay, Mama.”

  After another inquiry, she found the office and knocked on the tall pine door.

  “Come on in,” someone squeaked, and she entered, still holding Patrick’s hand and glad Jacqueline was by her side. Her stomach twisted up like she was about to play a difficult Chopin nocturne at a recital.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?”

  She’d hoped she would know the person who would register her, but she’d never seen this brash, pimply young man who looked barely older than Patrick.

  “I’m here to register to vote in the upcoming election.”

  “Vote? What do you mean? Only men can vote in Texas.” He stared at her through his thick-lensed glasses as if he thought she’d escaped from the insane asylum.

  She stood there tongue-tied, ready to back out the door, but Jacqueline said imperiously, “You obviously haven’t been keeping up with the latest news. Let me speak to your supervisor.”

  The owlish young man paled behind his pimples. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and pushed through the door behind him.

  This time an older man, who resembled Mr. James, emerged. “I understand you want to register, ma’am.”

  She pushed her voice out of her throat. “Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Why, no trouble at all, ma’am. You see, you’re the first of your fair sex to do so, and that young man doesn’t read anything but news about the War. I apologize. Just fill out this form and show me some type of identification to prove who you are and that you’ve lived in Texas for at least a year.”

  She felt like he’d slapped her. Filling out the form was easy, though she wondered how many people weren’t allowed to register because they couldn’t read or write. But identification? No one had ever asked her for that. When she’d enrolled at college and at the university, her papa had signed a paper that he was a Methodist preacher, and that was that. Mr. James had their marriage license, and Molly owned no property in her own name. Mother Russell could register easier than she could.

  As these thoughts whirled through her mind like a hurricane, the older man gazed patiently at her.

  “My friend here, Mrs. McCade, can tell you who I am and how long I’ve lived in Texas.” She and the older man both turned to Jacqueline.

  “Of course I know who you are. But I’ve only been in Texas since late March. Maybe someone in town—”

  Molly snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I’ll go get Mr. Rosenberg. I’ve traded at his dry-goods store for years. He’ll vouch for me.”

  Downstairs, as they crossed the dusty, rutted main street and carefully avoided piles of manure, she was glad this was a weekday because it wasn’t very crowded and she could relax and enjoy her time alone with Jacqueline. Tomorrow the town would be alive with wagons, buggies, and some automobiles, with men spitting on the sidewalks and throwing sacks of feed for the livestock and flour and other staples for their families into their wagons or trucks. They’d lounge on the streets, catching up on the latest news about the War, and the few women in town would scurry from store to store, buying fabric and other necessities. She seldom went with Mr. James on Saturday. He usually had to buy parts for the plow, or new harnesses for the mules, or other bulky items, and he didn’t like to escort her in anything but the buggy or the Overland, when it was in operation.

  In the dry-goods store, Mr. Rosenberg readily agreed to guarantee her identity. They were walking up the aisle from his office, when Patrick stopped to look at a neat pile of boys’ pants. “Mama, when can I have some long pants like these?”

  “Why, I didn’t know you wanted any. You’re not old enough to wear them yet.”

  “But by the time Miss Jacqueline takes us to Washington, DC, I will be.” He grinned. “They’ll make me look all grown up, like I’m fit to go to war.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t want you to go to war—”

  “These are an excellent buy, Mrs. Russell,” Mr. Rosenberg picked up a pair of black ones and held them up to Patrick. “They’re on sale for fifty cents. I just haven’t gotten around to marking them down. Why don’t you go over there behind that counter and try them on, boy?”

  She put her arm around his shoulders. “Okay. If they fit right and if you promise to save them for a special occasion when you’re a little older.”

  He soon ran back toward them. “Look, Mama. They’re just right.”

  So she said with pride, “Here you go, Mr. Rosenberg. Since I’m exempt from paying a poll tax this year, I have enough money from what I’ve saved from giving piano lessons.” She carefully counted out ten nickels.

  Just then, Jacqueline pulled her Brownie out of her big purse. “Before you change back, Patrick, why don’t you step outside and let me take your picture. If that’s all right, Mr. Rosenberg.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll go with you.”

  After Jacqueline finished with Patrick, Mr. Rosenberg said, “Ladies, this is a big day for Miss Molly and all the ladies of Texas, so let me take a picture of the two of you. If I can work this contraption.”

  She and Jacqueline looked at each other for a minute, then Jacqueline handed him the camera. “That’s a grand idea, Mr. Rosenberg. Don’t you agree, Molly?”

  They moved together and ended up with their arms around each other’s waists, Jacqueline a head taller than she was. “Just look down into that little silver box on the left front until you see us and move that lever at the top of the round thing in the middle. I’ve got it set for instant, so that’s how long it’ll take.”

  Standing beside Jacqueline for just a fraction of a second made her skin prickle. The picture would freeze this idyllic moment forever, and she couldn’t ask for anything better.

  Back inside the store, Mr. Rosenberg rang up her sale, folded the pants neatly, and wrapped them in an old newspaper, which he tied with a bit of string. “Here you go, boy. You’ll make a fine soldier. And congratulations. You too, ladies. I hope Congress doesn’t drag their feet too long before they let all the women in the nation vote.”

  Patrick seemed to float up the courthouse steps at Mr. Rosenberg’s side, and he immediately ran to the second-floor window.

  As she added her name to the long list of men who would be able to vote in the upcoming election, she thought about all the ones in Europe sacrificing their lives for their country. She planned to study the candidates and issues very carefu
lly. Her vote could make a difference to the future of this great nation.

  After she registered, Patrick called her over to the courthouse window. “Look at all these wires. They’re so thick I bet I could walk on them. Why, I can barely see the wagons passing underneath them. What are they all for?”

  “They’re for the telephones and the electricity that most people in town have,” Mr. Rosenberg answered.

  “Why don’t we have electricity, Mama?”

  “It’s too far to string a line way out to where we live. But we have kerosene lamps. They’re almost as good, aren’t they? Come on, son. We have to do a few other things then get back home. Your grandma doesn’t know where we’ve gone.”

  “I think I’ll live in town when I grow up,” Patrick said after they had left the courthouse and thanked Mr. Rosenberg. “Would that be okay?”

  She sighed. “It would be fine with me, but you better wait till you’re older. Then you can discuss it with your pa and your grandma.”

  She couldn’t think of anything she’d like better, unless it was that Jacqueline and she could live in town too and keep on having their picture made together.

  But she shoved such ridiculous dreams to the back of her mind with a sigh.

  *

  “I need to go to the drugstore, and then I’ll be through, Jacqueline.”

  “Patrick and I’ll sit at the soda fountain and wait for you.”

  As Molly talked to the clerk near the stationery, Jaq asked Patrick, “Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Shopping and doing courthouse business is hard work.”

  “It certainly is. How about a cherry Coca-Cola in a nice big glass of ice?”

  His grin almost split his face. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like one.”

  After she ordered his drink, she told him not to move from his stool, that she’d be right back. In the pharmacy area she bought two vials of calendula cream then walked a few steps to the soap section and picked up the largest bar of Ivory she could find. The clerk wrapped everything, and she’d paid for it and slid the parcel into her purse before Molly got back to the soda fountain.

  “Let’s sit at this little table close to Patrick,” she suggested, and Molly sank into a small metal-backed chair. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

  She held up a small package. “I found the sheet music for that song about rainbows you played for me, and I bought a bottle of ink and some new points for my pen staff. But they still don’t carry lined paper to write music on. I’ll have to keep drawing my own lines, and it’s so easy to smudge them.”

  “Why do you need all this?” Molly still surprised her.

  “I compose my own songs.” She blushed, as if ashamed of her guilty secret.

  “That’s bloody wonderful. Why haven’t you told me sooner?”

  “I’m so used to hiding my passion, I forgot that you’d understand. Women don’t compose music. We sing and play it, but only men create music.”

  Molly sounded more cynical than she’d ever heard her.

  “And who told you that?”

  “Everyone. Even my university professors. And especially Mr. James and Mrs. Russell.” She looked almost frightened to even talk about wanting to do something only men did.

  “Women don’t vote either. Isn’t that what people have always told us?” She sat up straight. “Well, that changed today, and it’s just the first of a lot of changes. How about an ice-cream soda to celebrate?”

  Molly’s green eyes sparkled like the sun shining on the ocean. Jaq could sit there and look at them for hours, like she had with the waves on her trips back and forth to Europe.

  But they needed to get back to the farm, so she ordered a strawberry soda for herself and a vanilla soda for Molly, and Patrick rushed over with his nearly empty Coke glass. She asked for a refill and a double-dip chocolate cone for him, and they all three drank Coke from the same glass. When he dropped some chocolate on his white starched shirt, Molly didn’t even frown, though it took time and patience to make it look so smooth using a flatiron heated on a wood stove. She didn’t see a speck of soot or scorch marks. As slick as a button, it shone like Molly’s face did when she gazed at him with so much love in her eyes.

  When they finally drove home, Patrick immediately pulled off his shoes, saying they were pinching his feet, which were hot, and fell asleep in the backseat.

  Molly had calmed down, and the trip flew by. Why did it always take longer to go somewhere than to return? During a lull in the conversation, Jaq asked Molly about her mother. She’d said that her father was a preacher who’d saved a woman during the Galveston Storm, but Jaq wondered what kind of woman would rear a daughter who wanted to compose music and register to vote.

  “When I was growing up,” Molly said, “we were always poor, but some times were worse than others. One day Papa came home after church and told Mama he’d invited ten people to dinner. Papa never paid much attention to what Mama did in the kitchen, but I was right there beside her as she mixed up a bowl full of biscuit dough. We didn’t have anything else to eat. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she kept stirring.

  “I looked toward the kitchen window, and a bowl of purple-hull peas appeared as if by magic. Mama took it with a surprised expression then accepted platters of fried chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, and pies that our neighbors passed to her. ‘Loaves and fishes,’ she murmured, and thanked her benefactors. To her, their generosity was as much a miracle as that of Jesus. But it showed me how good people can be, and that if you treat others with as much kindness as she did, they’ll gladly return it.” Molly settled back with a soft smile, which tempered Jaq’s attitude toward the human race just a fraction.

  Deciding to help Eric and come to East Texas might have helped her finally find her bluebird, who seemed to want to escape from her cage. So Molly could compose music? What else was she capable of? Did Jaq really want to find out? If she did, it would only be harder for her to leave Molly alone here.

  It was only five o’clock when they pulled up the long driveway, but it seemed like they’d been on a long vacation. While Molly was shaking Patrick awake, Jaq slipped a small package from her purse and handed it to her. “A small remembrance of a special afternoon,” she said, and Molly smiled like a daisy. “And please give this one to Mrs. Russell.”

  “Thank you, for everything,” Molly whispered then headed back inside the picket fence with Patrick, who had tied his shoelaces together and slung his stiff leather shoes over his shoulder. He carefully carried his new pants.

  How could she bear to desert them? She put her Model T into gear and drove away as fast as she dared.

  *

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat. Where in the world have you and Patrick been all afternoon?”

  Molly just stood in the kitchen without answering and unwrapped a package from the drugstore. Mrs. Russell could tell from the fancy paper.

  “Ivory soap. Why, I never. That stuff’s so full of air it’ll melt faster than ice cream in August. Sure a waste of hard-earned cash.”

  Molly held the fancy bar up to one cheek, then sniffed it like a rose. “Jacqueline bought me the soap, and this is for you.” That’s all Molly said before she handed her a little parcel and headed for her bedroom, clutching her soap like it was more precious than the diamond she’d lost.

  “Look, Grandma, what Mama bought me. Some long pants. Miss Jacqueline took a picture of me wearing them. And we went way up on the second floor of the courthouse with Mr. Rosenberg so Mama could vote or something. And I saw all the electric wires. Then Miss Jacqueline bought me a Coca-Cola and a double-dip chocolate ice-cream cone.”

  Patrick finally ran out of steam and went to take off his Sunday clothes and put his overalls back on. He had chores to do, and Molly needed to get to work too.

  Molly was spoiling him rotten. He wouldn’t be worth killing if she and Jacqueline kept giving him such extravagant treats. She’s horning in on my territory a little too much, she thought. />
  Earlier, she’d felt better than she had in months, but they’d ruined her good mood. Too bad Molly didn’t have another rolling pin for her to burn, and she’d probably hide her high-toned Ivory soap so she wouldn’t have a chance at it.

  But then she opened the little package Jacqueline had sent her and felt ashamed of herself. The first store-bought calendula lotion she’d ever had. Jacqueline had remembered her doctoring. Maybe she wasn’t such a bad influence on Molly and Patrick after all.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Molly still smarted from Mother Russell’s personal attack a week earlier, though her trip to town had helped soothe her. She needed something else to occupy her mind, so she telephoned Jacqueline.

  “Are you looking forward to the picnic next week?”

  “I haven’t even thought about it. Who’ll be there?”

  “Everyone in the community, plus everyone who’s ever lived in New Hope. It’s a reunion, though I don’t know how many people will come from out of town, because of the War and the gas shortage.” She smoothed her shapeless calico dress with one hand.

  “With all the heat, not much else is going on, I imagine.”

  “That’s right. Late July and August are usually slow around here.” A trickle of perspiration ran down her side. She couldn’t find any breeze today in the hall, where she stood holding the telephone. “Cotton’s the only crop still growing. And once the farm families lay it by, they’ll have some free time. The picnic gives them an excuse to socialize and catch up on the latest news. And the local politicians wouldn’t miss it. Everybody will probably be talking about the governor’s race and about Mrs. Blanton running for office.”

  “You’re probably right,” Jacqueline said. “Some of Farmer Jim Ferguson’s cronies will most likely be trying to drum up votes for him, but the women will surprise everyone and vote Hobby into office. Mrs. Blanton has accused her opponent of being connected with the breweries, so she has a good chance of winning too. Can you imagine a woman beating a man for state office?”