“What do you want from me, Kate? I’m giving up drink—I’m trying for all I’m worth.”
“I want you to forget that woman,” she said.
“She’s nothing to me. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She was silent—weighing his words, he thought.
“We shouldn’t have brought Benji here,” she said. “He’s a constant reminder. Not that I don’t care for him. He’s a good boy. But it was a mistake—the whole thing was a mistake.”
“What whole thing?” His hands went cold.
She didn’t answer.
“Kate, I’ll do anything …”
“Give me a while,” she said, and touched his arm. It was a beginning.
Kate had a note from Aimee: How sublimely generous of her to be willing to host the dinner for Miss Cross, but she had long since begun preparations, invitations written, delicacies ordered. However, if Kate would like to offer a tea party, in spite of the late notice …
Kate tossed the letter aside. It was just as well. She had begun to suspect she was pregnant.
It had been a month and a half since the incident with Frank. It would be as if that woman was the mother and she merely carrying the seed.
She prayed to miscarry, took scalding baths, rode Daisy hard over stubbled fields, consumed large quantities of castor oil. She thought of forcing a stick inside, but it could break and then there would be the unthinkable humiliation of Dr. McBride’s extracting it.
Several times a day she looked for spots of blood in her underthings: That was how the earlier troubles had announced themselves. Perhaps it wouldn’t hold.
If it did, she wouldn’t meet Charlotte Cross, wouldn’t be going to Chautauqua, art museums, or the opera. For at least two years, she would be chained to this baby.
One morning she vomited into the chamber pot. “Oh, no,” she said, and began to cry.
Frank put his arm around her. “Kate, are you—”
“It isn’t mine,” she said, and jerked away from him.
* * *
Aimee took time out from her preparations to pay a visit, once she learned of Kate’s confinement. “It’s too bad about the timing,” she said. “Miss Cross will be dashed not to meet you. But for such a delightful reason—I’m happy for you.”
Kate stared at Aimee in her fussy bows and poplin. “Thank you so much, dear,” she said in a deliberately saccharine voice. “You are too kind. Now, if you’ll forgive me, it’s time for my nap.”
In preparation for Charlotte Cross’s visit, Miss Ladu taught a lesson on the suffragists. They were brave women, she declared, her cheeks flushed as she talked over mutterings from some of the boys, and they had already won some victories: The states of Wyoming, Idaho, Colorado, and Utah allowed women to vote in their elections. Why shouldn’t all women vote? she asked. Wasn’t everyone equal?
Benji, in the back row—he was in the most advanced class now—glanced at Flora two rows ahead, then raised his hand and stood. “In my opinion,” he said, “everyone is equal, including females and people of all races.” Flora turned her face slightly, letting him see her proud smile. He sat down, his heart hammering.
There were a few boos, but Miss Ladu said he’d made an excellent point; Negro men had long since been enfranchised, as were all male citizens of the United States.
“No wonder she’s an old maid,” Marvin said at recess, and the next day he and several other students were absent. A few who attended said their parents hadn’t approved of the lesson.
“Are you going to the lecture tonight?” Benji asked Flora as they walked in the direction of Morseville. It had become their habit that he walked her partway home every Friday, under the guise of his having an errand to do in town.
“My father probably won’t allow it. You’ll have to give me a full report.” Her face had changed over the summer: It was fuller yet more angular, and there was something new about her eyes; she was prettier than ever. She also had breasts now that would just fit in his hand; he tried not to look at them. “I think you should be a teacher,” she said.
I’d like that, he thought of saying, if we could teach at the same school. But her father would never let her be with a Japanese. “You know I’m going to Japan,” he said. “It’s my destiny.”
She nodded. They’d talked about Japan one day last summer, when they went for a walk on the other side of Plum Creek. It had been so hot that day he could smell the warmth of her hair, and ever since he’d carried the image of her wistful look when she asked if he was ever coming back from Japan. Maybe she would become a suffragist and do anything she wanted to; maybe she would defy her father.
They’d come to their parting place, beside a walnut tree at the edge of Morseville. His fingers brushed against hers as he handed over her books.
“I wish you could come to the lecture,” he said. “Miss Cross is going to show pictures of Japan.”
“I’ll try,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. She’d grown taller over the summer too; it would be bad if she grew any more, though Grandmother Pinkerton said she didn’t think he’d attained his full height yet.
He went on toward Morseville, whistling, hoping Flora was watching, though she couldn’t watch too long, because of her father. When he glanced back, she had disappeared.
He had a real excuse to go into town today, to get the photograph of his mother from Keast. Since Miss Cross had traveled in Japan, she might be able to read what was written on the back of the picture.
Keast wasn’t at home, but the door was unlocked as usual. Benji opened the bottom right drawer of the desk, took the picture from its box and gazed at it a moment. He was fifteen now, which meant the photograph had been taken about twenty years ago. Frank no longer had a mustache and his hair was thinner, but that pickle of a nose hadn’t changed. His mother had been beautiful, with a delicate face and soft eyes. One of her feet in its high clog was turned at almost a right angle to the camera; along the hem of her kimono was a pattern of butterflies. He felt a flare of rage at Frank; he’d tear him out of the picture, but that would destroy the writing. Even though the picture was creased, the writing was still clear, written in dark ink. With a rush of excitement, he slipped the picture into his pocket. At last, he might learn something that would lead him to his real family.
* * *
Benji and Frank had been invited to the pre-lecture dinner at the Moores’ house. Father Pinkerton complained about going to hear some ignorant spinster blather about the fair sex—what could she know?—but Mother Pinkerton said he had to attend, for politeness’s sake. He groused throughout the drive to Stockton, but when they entered the Moores’ house, he was all smiles and bows.
At dinner, Mrs. Moore introduced Benji to Miss Cross as the “part-Japanese young man” who had been adopted by Lieutenant and Mrs. Pinkerton.
That damn lie. When Miss Cross said, “How good of you,” to Father Pinkerton and smiled at Benji, he could hardly smile back.
Father Pinkerton said most of the credit was due his virtuous wife. “She much regrets her absence,” he said in a practiced-sounding voice, “but looks forward to your visit tomorrow.”
They were seated directly opposite Miss Cross. Benji decided she resembled her name—eyebrows grown almost together, tight little lips. But he began to like her better when, during the soup course, some of the men talked about how the Japs were getting swelled heads now that they’d beaten the Russians, and she gave him several sympathetic glances. He noticed she had big breasts.
Mrs. Moore shifted the talk to Miss Cross, who talked about the urgency of voting rights for women. When there was no response except from Mrs. Moore—Miss Cross could count on the support of herself and her husband, she said, though Mr. Moore made a sour face—Miss Cross outlined the itinerary of her travels in the past year, over much of the globe. “I traveled most extensively in Asia,” she said. “Japan was my favorite country—so picturesque.”
She leaned toward Benji. “F
rom which part of Japan do you hail, young man?”
When he told her and she said she’d been there—such a gorgeous city, the bay like a Norwegian fjord!—Benji was so elated he could hardly eat.
As Frank yammered on about the Nagasaki kite contests and his import/export business—showing off as usual—Benji debated the best way to approach Miss Cross for a private conversation later. Right after dinner might be the best time to ask, but as soon as dessert had been consumed, Aimee Moore took Miss Cross away so she could prepare for the lecture.
“Damn suffragist,” Frank muttered as they got in the buggy. Benji didn’t say he thought she was nice; it would only cause a spat. He was relieved when Father Pinkerton stopped the buggy at the saloon and said he’d be along in a while, he had to talk to Bud Case about next year’s seed corn. Frank would probably be there all night, so Benji wouldn’t have to worry about showing Miss Cross the picture. He would speak to her after the lecture; maybe he could pass her a note beforehand.
The hall was crowded and noisy, filled with the smells of tobacco, muddy boots, and perfume. Benji looked around for Flora, bracing himself for her absence. Of course she wasn’t there. In front were two rows of reserved seats, where the party guests had been instructed to sit, but Benji found a place beside Keast and Miss Ladu midway back. Keast was beaming, Miss Ladu glowingly serene; it was rumored that they had an understanding.
“What do you think of these suffragists?” Keast asked Benji, with a wink at Miss Ladu.
“They’re all right,” he said. “I think they’re fine.”
“You’re in the minority,” Miss Ladu said. “I’m glad to be seated beside two allies.”
During the wait, Benji touched the tin in his pocket several times. Miss Cross had said Japan was her favorite country; that was more than he’d hoped for. She could surely read at least some of the writing.
At last the Moores and Miss Cross appeared. Mr. Moore and Miss Cross sat in the front row, while Mrs. Moore and a younger woman fussed over a vase of flowers on the podium, moving it here and there and finally setting it on the floor.
Mrs. Moore introduced Miss Cross at length, going on and on about their college days and treasured friendship and Miss Cross’s stalwart efforts for the public weal. Benji glanced around at the crowd: mostly angry faces, except for a few of the women. Frank hadn’t appeared.
When Miss Cross took her place at the lectern, she cleared her throat, peered around the hall, and announced that she was going to educate her listeners about the conditions for women in several red-light districts of the world.
There was a collective gasp. “Prostitutes, she means,” Keast whispered to Benji.
“I know.” Sometimes Keast treated him like a baby.
Miss Cross had a collection of lantern slides, which she projected against a curtain after the lights were dimmed: landscapes and temples in Bali, Siam, Korea, and Japan, along with women engaged in what she called the water trade.
She spent the longest time on Japan, since she’d lived there nearly a year. In Japan, she told them, it was often the custom to display prostitutes on a row of separate small stages, and when the women were chosen they went behind a screen with their customers. When she showed a row of prostitutes in kimono kneeling on their stages, Benji felt his ears redden; people might say his mother had been a prostitute. He was glad now that Flora hadn’t come.
“You may wonder why I have done this survey,” Miss Cross said, “and why I am presenting it to you.”
“Yes,” one man yelled. “We wonder. There are ladies present.”
“We must not shy away from the circumstances of women worldwide. There are prostitutes in every city—not only in Shanghai but in Chicago.” George Case had said there were prostitutes in Elizabeth and Galena; George and some of the other boys were always talking about “taking a little trip to Elizabeth,” but Benji knew they hadn’t, not yet. They’d all gone to spy on Belinda Apple, who lived in a shack outside Morseville and didn’t pull the curtains when she undressed at night; he was partly sorry he’d done that. When the room came back into focus, Miss Cross was talking about how women should have the vote. His thoughts rose and dipped throughout that part of the speech; Miss Ladu had been much more interesting about it.
At the end of the talk there were some boos along with scattered applause. Most of the crowd fled as if the building were on fire, but a small knot of people gathered around Miss Cross.
Benji moved closer to the front and sat waiting during the long conversations. He felt conspicuous sitting alone, but he had no choice. He had brought a message from Mother Pinkerton, he would tell anyone who asked.
Finally most of the group dispersed. Miss Cross and Mrs. Moore began to gather their things, and Mr. Moore went outside to get their buggy. As Mrs. Moore was carrying away the flowers, Benji darted up to Miss Cross and asked if he could speak to her privately about a confidential matter.
She looked amused but said yes, and when Mrs. Moore returned, Miss Cross told her she would join them outside directly. Mrs. Moore gave Benji a bright, curious look, her head cocked in a way that made him think of Mother Pinkerton’s bird.
“I believe in women’s suffrage,” he blurted out.
Both women laughed and Mrs. Moore said, “Excellent, we’ll press you into our cause.”
Mrs. Moore went out to join her husband, glancing back at them several times.
Miss Cross and Benji sat down in the front row, Miss Cross’s dress rustling. “So you were persuaded?” she said. “I’m so pleased. A number of males do support us, quite openly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Benji looked around the hall—only a man in the back, sweeping. He turned away from Miss Cross, took the tin from his pocket, and removed the picture, careful to arrange it writing side up.
“Can you read this?” he asked.
She peered down at it.
“It’s important,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I know only a few scraps of Japanese, and that in conversation. Is it a photograph?”
Before he could think, she took the picture and turned it over.
She stared at it, then at him.
“She’s my mother,” he said. “She was a geisha, not a prostitute.”
“That’s evident. She’s quite lovely.” Miss Cross frowned. “And this is …”
She touched the picture of Frank, then looked up at him.
“You mustn’t tell anyone.” His throat felt thick. “The only reason I showed you was … the writing … I’m going to Nagasaki.”
“To find your mother,” she said.
“No. She killed herself.”
Miss Cross drew in a noisy breath. “You poor lad.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “This is the kind of tragic circumstance I’ve been investigating.”
Mr. Moore reappeared and began walking toward them, adjusting his hat. Take back the picture, Benji told himself, but his hand wouldn’t move.
Mr. Moore’s feet thundered on the floor. “What do we have here?” he said, glancing over Miss Cross’s shoulder at the photograph. Benji snatched it from her and put it in his pocket.
“Oh.” Miss Cross turned to Mr. Moore. “We’ve been discussing the rights of women and so on. Such a fine young man.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Moore cleared his throat. “I know the family well.” He would not look at Benji. “My wife has sent me to escort you,” he said, with a slight bow to Miss Cross.
Miss Cross rummaged in her valise, took out a folded fan, and gave it to Benji. “It’s Japanese,” she said. “For good luck. I hope you will travel to Nagasaki. And this may interest you …” She pulled out a small paper book; on the front, printed in black letters, was Women’s Suffrage: A Brief History. “I wrote it myself.”
She shook his hand and said goodbye. As she and Mr. Moore walked out together, talking in low voices, Benji felt a spike of glee.
Outside, the crowd had dispersed. Benji looked down the stree
t at the saloon. Frank’s buggy was still there.
He started running down the street toward home. But that would look suspicious, he thought. He slowed to a walk. The moon illuminated the fronts of houses, cast deep shadows between them. He shivered and, at the edge of town, began to run again.
It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t meant any harm. He’d only wanted her to translate the writing. Anyone would understand that. Miss Cross understood. She wouldn’t tell, and Mr. Moore probably hadn’t been able to really see the photograph. He’d take the picture back to Keast’s tomorrow, and no one would know.
In the morning, Kate prepared finger sandwiches and apple tarts, then took a rest so she would be fresh when Aimee Moore and Miss Cross arrived for tea. She had just dressed in her loosest frock, not yet tight about the waist, and gone down to find the children when the Moores’ colored manservant arrived with a note.
There had been some confusion about the train timetable, Aimee wrote, and Miss Cross deeply regretted that she would be unable to call. Aimee would be taking her to the station, so—alas!—she would have to suspend her own visit until a later day.
Kate stared at Aimee’s pretentious handwriting, the way the end letters looped back across the words. Now Aimee would be able to claim full proprietorship of Miss Cross, dropping allusions to their intimacy at every meeting of the women’s circle from now until eternity.
It was just as well; she was tired. She ate two of the tarts and took herself back to bed.
On Monday morning, Kate and her mother-in-law were struggling with the week’s wash, Kate perspiring and her hair undone. As she was wringing out one of Frank’s union suits, she was dismayed to see, through the front window of the kitchen, Aimee Moore descend from her buggy.
She ran upstairs to repair her coiffure. Such uncivilized timing. Aimee knew she didn’t have a servant girl for wash day.
By the time Kate returned, Mrs. Pinkerton had shown Aimee into the parlor, where she sat perched on the davenport in a voile dress and feathered hat, looking around at the furnishings. At least the room had been tidied in anticipation of Miss Cross’s visit.
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