by Joan Hess
“We shall overcome!”
I wasn’t sure what they intended to overcome, although it was probable we would all be overcome with heat before too long. Or tension, which was as smothering as the humidity and twice as thick. In that the women were squarely in the middle of the road, we were developing a small problem with traffic flow. We don’t normally have a steady stream through town, but we have a smattering of pickup trucks and your occasional tourists out in search of bucolic bliss and cheap antiques. By this time, we had collected several of each species both coming and going, although obviously nobody was doing much of either at the moment. Some of them were, however, beeping their horns or shouting out the windows of their vehicles.
“Unity for all women!”
One of the deputies was scratching his head, the other his ass. Neither one seemed to have any idea what to do, understandably enough. The television people were still filming away and the reporter was trying to elicit a few words from the outer edge of the row.
“Sisterhood forever!”
Mrs. Jim Bob jabbed Brother Verber, who sucked in a breath and strode out to the yellow line. Everybody swung around to see if Estelle would brake, and from her expression I could tell it was on the iffy side. With no more than two or three inches to spare, she did, causing a collective sigh of relief to stir the air.
Her head popped out the window of the station wagon. “Git yourself out of the way.”
“What you’re doing is sinful, Estelle Oppers, and all the rest of you women,” he intoned, clasping his hands in the classic supplicative pose and half closing his eyes. “I want all of you to go home to your husbands, get down on your knees, and beg, yes, I say beg their forgiveness for the terrible thing you’re doing this very minute.”
“Old fart!” Johnna Mae called. She freed her arm long enough to shake her fist at him, then slipped it back through Ruby Bee’s and added, “Paternalistic pig! Who does he think he is anyway? Moses?”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” he shouted back, earning a moment of puzzled silence from the crowd. “A woman’s place is in the home. The Bible says you’re supposed to glean and reap in your husband’s field, not block traffic and make spectacles of yourselves.”
“Go reap yourself up a tree!” came a comment from within the ranks.
This elicited responses from the crowd, which was swelling like a pregnant sow’s belly. Those in the cars and trucks were scrambling out now, either to escape the sun or to hope for a chance to appear on the nightly news. The spectators along the street had gathered too. The deputies were looking decidedly unhappy, but neither had moved out of the shade.
Brandon Bernswallow came at me, his forehead so deeply creased the lines might have been etched with an ax. “You have to stop this right now, Chief Hanks,” he barked. “This is illegal, and you damn well better do something immediately. This kind of publicity can do permanent damage to the bank’s image in the community. God knows my father’ll have a stroke when he sees this on the news. He’ll have some crazy idea that this whole thing is my fault. Now do something, and do it now!”
I was about to point out that I would have more than a small amount of difficulty doing much of anything when I heard a thud. I looked over Bernswallow’s shoulder. Brother Verber was now spread-eagled across the hood of the station wagon, roaring at Estelle through the windshield and splattering it with spittle. She rolled up her window and turned on the windshield wipers. Mrs. Jim Bob was clinging to Lottie Estes, who was fanning her with a tissue and screeching at the protesters.
The television cameras descended on me. A woman with immaculate hair stuck a microphone under my chin and said, “We’re talking with Arly Hanks, chief of police in Maggody. Chief Hanks, how do you intend to deal with this escalating crisis? Do you feel you and these two deputies will be able to prevent violence as more and more people gather here on the road to seek equality for women?”
I flapped my jaw, but before I could respond, Bernswallow nudged me aside and said, “The Bank of Farberville is deeply concerned about this minor yet distressing incident. We have always dedicated ourselves to—”
Carolyn McCoy-Grunders nudged him aside. “I’m the official spokesperson for Women Aligned Against Chauvinism in the Office, and we’d like to go on record as—”
Brother Verber nudged her aside. “The Bible admonishes women to cleanse the temple and honor and obey, not carry on like common sluts. Furthermore, in my experience as pastor of—”
Johnna Mae nudged him aside. “I was employed at this branch for eleven years. Just because I had a C section and had to stay home for six weeks while the scar healed up is no reason—”
Even the television people were getting tired of the nudging and interrupting. The lights went off and they headed toward the women milling about in the parking lot. The deputies rallied themselves and began ordering the crowd to disperse and get back in their cars or go inside or whatever if they didn’t want citations for blocking the road.
“Just who do you think you are?” Bernswallow snapped at the woman from WAACO. “Around these parts we don’t think real highly of tight-assed women who’re too damn big for their britches and come into town to stir up trouble.”
That set off a conversation I preferred to pass up, at least for the moment. I left them snarling at each other and went to Sherman Oliver’s side. “Johnna Mae must have changed her mind,” I said with a shrug.
“So she did, so she did. I’m sorely disappointed, and I suppose I should have heeded Brandon’s advice and filed the complaint against her.” His already red face turned a deeper hue. “Now what in tarnation are those damn fool women doing?”
What in tarnation they were doing was unloading the station wagon in the middle of the parking lot. We’re talking aluminum patio chairs, coolers, grocery bags, casserole dishes covered with plastic wrap, and gallon jugs. Some of them, anyway. Other busy little bees were propping up posterboard signs, none of which was complimentary to the branch bank or its manager. The television crews were delighted with this display of industriousness and centered on someone’s mother as she taped a particularly offensive sign to the crab apple tree.
Brother Verber, Mrs. Jim Bob, and a whole passel of husbands were observing from the lawn of the Assembly Hall. The deputies had the traffic moving, but those on the far side of the road were motionless. Grim. I’d never seen so many clenched jaws, rigid lips, and narrowed eyes in my life—and I used to take the subway in Manhattan when it rained.
“Arrest those women,” Sherman Oliver said, his jaw pretty damn clenched itself. “They are trespassing on private property.”
Brandon snorted a final insult at Carolyn and stalked over to us. “That’s right, Chief Hanks. The parking lot is private property. I don’t know what the hell they think they’re doing, acting like they’re settling in for a little picnic over there, but we won’t stand for it.”
Carolyn joined our jolly group. “Oh, yes, please arrest all those gray-haired, middle-aged housewives and throw them in jail. Won’t the bank look just dandy when the story hits the news? What a wonderful way to express all that dedication to serving the community, by locking up half the population in some filthy jail cell. Do you have enough handcuffs to go around? You’ll most likely have to drag them into the police wagon, since we’ve all agreed to react with passive resistance.”
“Arrest those women,” Bernswallow said, sounding a shade petulant.
Sherman Oliver held up his hand. “Let’s put that on hold for a minute. We don’t want to get all carried away before we’ve thought about this.” He chewed on a hangnail and stared at the parking lot, which was beginning to resemble a terrace party, now that card tables had been draped with tablecloths and set with paper plates and plastic tableware. Someone had thought to bring mason jars as vases, and each now held a small bouquet of flowers. Estelle and Elsie Buchanon were uncovering dishes on the tailgate of the station wagon. Dahlia O’Neill hovered nearby, licking her lips at each unveilin
g.
“Good grief,” I said, mostly to myself. I raised my voice and added, “Let’s find out what the game plan is before we do anything rash.”
Carolyn smiled. “It’s really quite simple. We intend to stay here until Johnna Mae Nookim is restored to her rightful position as head teller of the branch, with full back pay for her maternity leave and for the days she was wrongly unemployed. She also deserves compensation for the pain and suffering brought on by the discriminatory actions of this man.” She pointed a red-tipped finger at Bernswallow. “And, of course, he’ll have to be fired.”
“What?” Bernswallow sputtered. “You’ve got knots in your panty hose, honey, if you think you can make those wild demands and expect to get away with them. My grandfather founded the bank, and my father’s chairman of the board. Nobody’s firing this boy.”
Sherman Oliver looked at Carolyn. “He’s right about how his family owns the bank, young woman, but I think we can find a solution. This picnic in the parking lot won’t harm our reputation in the long run. As long as you girls promise to clean up after yourselves before you go home tonight, I think we can just forget this whole mess ever happened.”
“We’re not going anywhere tonight, buddy boy, unless our demands are agreed to in writing. I’ve done a rough draft already. Perhaps you might care to look it over?”
“You bra-burning bitch,” Bernswallow snapped. “What’s with you, anyway? I’ll bet you’re one of those lesbians who hate men because men don’t find them attractive. Couldn’t you get a date to the prom, princess? Did you have to stay home and lick cunt?”
“Stop this!” I said, jabbing him in the chest. When he retreated, I turned around to Sherman Oliver and said icily, “You tell him to keep his mouth shut. This is difficult enough without a bunch of wise-ass remarks being thrown about. There’s got to be some way to resolve this.”
Oliver looked at the parking lot. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “We cannot tolerate a lot of bad publicity. A bank survives on goodwill and community support. I guess I’d better go call Mr. Bernswallow and see what he wants us to do.”
Brandon flinched. “Maybe I ought to call him.”
“That might be better,” Carolyn said sweetly. “Let him hear the news from his little boy who bullies women when he’s not pulling wings off butterflies or using his masculine wiles to rape sorority girls.”
“That’s it, bitch!” Brandon said, moving toward her with a malevolent expression.
“Oh, Carolyn,” trilled a voice from the parking lot. “It’s time for supper. We want you to sit at the head table.”
I wished I’d brought a bullet, if only to send it into my own head.
6
I pleaded with the sheriff’s deputies until they agreed to stay for a while to maintain a semblance of order, and then I went to find Ruby Bee. She was sitting at a card table with Estelle, Johnna Mae, and Dahlia. As I approached, she made a great show of shoveling in the chicken salad, but I wasn’t buying.
“We need to talk,” I growled.
“Howdy, Arly,” Dahlia said through a mouthful of green bean casserole, a Maggody favorite, done with cream of mushroom soup and canned onion rings. Ruby Bee always fancies it up with pimentos, claiming the addition of color gives it a festive air. Ruby Bee has the soul of an artist.
“Hi, Dahlia. I talked to Kevin earlier today, and he seemed pretty upset.” I paused for a moment, both for dramatic effect and to allow her time to jump-start her brain, and then coldheartedly added, “In fact, he was so broken up he could hardly speak. He was in tears.”
Her fork stopped midway to her mouth, possibly for the first time in her life. “He was? Gee, mebbe I’d better talk to him.”
Estelle shook her head so hard a red curl popped loose to dangle in the middle of her forehead. “Now, Dahlia O’Neill, we already agreed that ain’t none of us going to quit just because the menfolk try to pull this crap. We are doing this not only to help out Johnna Mae, but also to improve the lives of women across the country. They are our sisters, and we aim to see they are treated equally like men, not like some oppressive minority. You are not going to throw in the towel just because Kevin got all misty in front of Arly. He probably had a gnat in his eye.”
“He has a terrible time with bugs when he rides his bicycle,” Dahlia said, brightening enough to propel the fork into her mouth. “He like to choke himself silly on a June bug one time. I had to pound him on the back until I was afeared he would go flying on his face right in the dirt. Who made the green bean casserole? Was it Elsie McMay? I surely would like her recipe.”
Ruby Bee poked a pile of the stuff with her fork. “Why, I declare, this has water chestnuts in it. Who’d have thought of such a thing? I’ll speak to Elsie myself about it, then copy it on one of my personalized recipe cards for you, Dahlia.”
“I was right on the verge of saying they were slices of celery,” Estelle said pensively.
“No, they’re water chestnuts,” Johnna Mae said, not looking at me. “I sort of like the crunch myself.”
I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and said, “I find it difficult to understand how you expect to improve the lot of American women by exchanging recipes in a bank parking lot. And according to the WAACO woman, you’re all determined to stay here until wrongs are righted and justice prevails. Don’t you think such lofty ideals will pale long about midnight, or did you bring kerosene lanterns so you can play canasta all night?”
Ruby Bee turned up her nose at me, which took quite an effort since she was sitting down and I was looming over her. “We brought everything we need, including lanterns, and we intend to occupy this lot until our demands are met.”
“This is not Columbia University, and you are not sixties college students,” I pointed out as calmly as possible, considering. “Nobody may give a rat’s ass where you sleep, but what about you, Johnna Mae? Are you planning to desert your husband and children for the duration?”
“I already explained to Putter, and he was real sweet about it. He understands this is the only way I can get my job back.”
“What if Mr. Oliver decides to reinstate the battery complaint?”
“Carolyn says that we’ll get national media coverage that will show how oppressed we pink-collar employees are. She says that once he hears the extent of her media resources, he won’t have the balls to do it. She says if we stick it out, we will rid ourselves of the shackles of sexism.”
“What has she been doing all week, lecturing on the proper rhetoric for confrontation?” I said, noticeably less calmly than before. “Did you all have vocabulary quizzes every evening after supper? Did she take off for spelling?”
Carolyn touched my elbow. “Arly, I hope you aren’t feeling pressure from the paternalistic powers that control the town. We’re doing this for the betterment of all the women in Maggody, and we’d like to think you’ll support us. We’re not the enemy. I’d hate to see you aligned with them, and therefore, against us.”
“And your own mother,” someone said under her breath.
“I am not against you. I agree that Johnna Mae deserves to get her old job back and receive some compensation for maternity leave. The problem is that you’ve breezed into town and stirred up a veritable hornet’s nest, and these women are likely to be the ones who ultimately get stung. You’ve created a lot of animosity between husbands and wives, employers and employees, and mothers and daughters. Once this mess is resolved, you’re going to breeze away, leaving these women to deal with the residual problems.”
It was a stirring speech, I thought, but Carolyn merely gave me a supercilious smile and went to the adjoining table to congratulate Elsie McMay on the success of the damn green bean casserole.
I glowered at Ruby Bee, who was still prodding the goop with her fork. “Did we bring our sleeping bags?”
“And our cots,” she replied serenely.
I was about to inquire about pajamas and toothbrushes when Earl Buchanon burst out of
the group across the street and stalked to the line in the middle of the highway. “What about my supper?” he yelled.
Eilene Buchanon put down her napkin and stood up. “You can cook it yourself, or you can starve. It makes no matter to me.”
“Listen up, woman, and listen up good. You’re making a fool of yourself, you and your friends. You all are acting like those yellow-bellied Communist hippies did during the Vietnam war. I want you to git over here right this minute, unless you want me to come over there and git you!”
Conversation concerning water chestnuts and double-fudgecake brownies stopped abruptly. All of the women looked at Eilene and then at Earl, as did the deputies, Oliver and Bernswallow, who were still by the door of the bank, and the chief of police, who was praying for a semi to come barreling around the curve at eighty miles an hour.
Millicent McIlhaney’s husband joined Earl on the broken yellow line. “You, too, Millicent,” he called. “You and Darla Jean stop this foolishness and git over here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll have my supper on the table damn quick.”
Brother Verber strutted forward. Rocking on the balls of his feet, he folded his hands over his belly and said, “We all can see this is the work of the devil, particularly if you’re intending to get naked and slaughter farm animals and rub their blood on your bodies and dance. Your very souls are in peril of eternal fire. Yes, I said in peril of eternal fire that’ll lick at your feet and singe your skin until you cry for mercy. I am sorry to have to tell you that the Bible says there won’t be any mercy. If at this very moment one of you rips off your clothes, I can pray for you but I can’t be responsible for your soul.”
“Old fart,” Johnna Mae muttered.
Ruby Bee wrinkled her nose at Estelle. “Why on earth would we want to get naked and rub blood on ourselves? I don’t recollect hearing anyone suggest that.”