Chasing Down the Moon

by Carla Baku

  “I have concerns about taking that direction,” said another woman. “It seems to me that temperance is the more pressing issue. What woman has the time to worry about politics if her home has been sundered by drink?” A few women nodded vigorously.

  “I agree,” said a plump woman at the rear of the room. “It is our job, we women, to keep the home fires safe. That is plenty for me. Why should I exert myself into the political realm? Should I also wear britches and smoke cigars?” There was a ripple of laughter at this.

  Prudence Kendall answered again, standing now. Her eyes were large and tender-looking, and always made Rose feel a little protective. “I agree that our primary influence is in our homes,” she said, gesturing at the room in a proprietary way, “but the wider world of politics has a direct impact on our homes. Why shouldn’t we have a voice in the larger arena?”

  “Is this to keep your husband in office?” piped a voice near the door. There was more laughter, and heads turned to see who had spoken. Prudence smiled tightly. “Yes,” she said, “I would most certainly vote for David. I believe he is a fine city councilman.” She crossed her arms, uncrossed them. “I’d like to have that opportunity. Any of you who disagree with my husband would be free to cast your ballot otherwise. If you were able.” She took her seat, and the woman sitting to her left leaned over and patted her shoulder.

  Rose angled herself toward the front of the room with her hand raised. “Women in Wyoming have had the vote for sixteen years.” Several women looked at her encouragingly, but a few put their heads together and whispered. She made a point of catching every eye. May as well give them a good look, she thought. Jezebel speaks!

  That was when Elsie Dampler took the floor. She got to her feet with a great deal of fuss and throat-clearing and self-conscious adjusting of her clothes. A spray of tiny silk violets nestled atop her hat, and one that had come loose from its fellows bobbed back and forth. “I have to wonder where it ends,” Elsie said. She gazed around the room, clearly pleased to be in the center of things, and the stray violet nodded jauntily. “Not all people should vote, should they?” She folded her plump, dimpled hands demurely in front of her. “I mean, what’s next? Giving the vote to the Indians? To the Chinese?”

  Heads immediately swiveled in Rose’s direction. She swallowed a lump in her throat and forced an amused expression. “Elsie, for heaven’s sake. We’re talking about matters concerning women, within the scope of one small chapter of the WCTU.” She shook her head. “This was never intended to be a discussion of universal suffrage.” She looked around the room again. “We’re all citizens of the United States. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to vote for our leaders?”

  Elsie cocked her head, staring back at Rose. “Perhaps you have a somewhat different viewpoint, Miss Allen, being the only maiden woman here.”

  Hazel jumped to her feet. “Oh, what nonsense. My Jimmy died eight years ago, God rest him. I don’t have a husband to tend anymore. Does that nullify my opinion?” Her blue eyes bore down on Elsie Dampler, who shuffled her feet but remained standing. “I’ll tell you one thing,” Hazel continued. “If he was still alive, he would be foursquare in favor of votes for women. He placed stock in my opinion.”

  Elsie put her hands on her hips. “Well my husband is still alive, and he says the whole thing is about—” She paused and lifted her chin. “Free love!”

  Everyone gaped, and the room was silent. A log broke into embers in the fireplace. Then Rose began to laugh. She tried to control herself, to hold it in, but that only forced her to snort loudly. In seconds, most of the women in the room were also laughing, red-faced and teary-eyed. Even Lucy Huntington, normally imperturbable as a stone boat, hid a smile behind her hand. Elsie Dampler glared, first at Rose and then around the room. Just when the laughter started to ebb, Mattie opened the door and looked in, her expression all perplexity. This got the women going all over again, and Elsie had had enough. She blundered out of the press of seats, pushed past Mattie and out the front door, not even bothering to retrieve her coat.

  The women got themselves under control by fits and starts, until finally Mrs. Huntington was able to call the meeting back to order. It was decided, in the interest of group harmony, to table the discussion of women’s suffrage for yet another month. They briefly discussed other minor items of business, decided who would host the next meeting, and broke early for refreshments.

  Rose stood behind the table she and Hazel had laid out at the side of the room. She passed out molasses cookies and shortbread, and Lucy Huntington volunteered to pour the tea. When the group was served and chatting in small groups, she poured a cup for Rose and herself.

  “I wonder if Elsie will be back,” said Rose. “I feel sort of awful for laughing.”

  Annabella Briggs sidled up and held out her cup for a second helping of tea. “Believe me, Rose,” she said, leaning close, “she’ll be back. Martyrdom suits her. I imagine she went home tonight feeling like Carrie Nation.” She arched one delicate eyebrow and turned back into the midst of the group.

  Rose looked at Lucy Huntington, who simply nodded, never losing her expression of calm propriety. A fist of tension in Rose’s middle relaxed. “I suppose you’ve heard a story about me today,” Rose said.

  Lucy was quiet for a moment, looking at the women in their small knots of conversation. “I have, yes,” she said finally. “I imagine Mrs. Dampler told what she did in the utmost confidence, though.” Another little pause and the harmless smile. “To everyone. As Benjamin Franklin said, three may keep a secret if two are dead.”

  Rose blew air over her bottom lip. “And the story is that I was throwing myself at Bai Lum in the mercantile?”

  “Something like that.” Lucy shrugged, a little what-can-you-do shrug. “Why do you think our WCTU has such an excellent turnout on a damp night in February?”

  Rose leaned close to and whispered. “They wanted a firsthand look at Whore of Babylon.”

  “Perhaps it’s not quite that extreme,” Lucy said. She smoothed her palms over her temples. “Or maybe it is. You’re old enough to know how people are, Rose. They are just like chickens.

  “Chickens?”

  “Mm-hm. Chickens. If a chick is hatched with an unusual mark on its little feathers, all the other chicks and even the hen that hatched it will peck at that difference until the chick is bloodied and broken.”

  Rose looked at the women, standing in their twos and threes. “I’m the chick in this story?”

  “You go your own way, Rose. I admire that.” She laid her hand on Rose’s arm. “I wouldn’t ever suggest you change. But this is a small town and the situation for our Chinese neighbors—” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t have to tell you about that.”

  No, Rose thought she knew it as well as anyone. The anti-Chinese rhetoric that had been raging across the country for years, especially on the West Coast, had been slow to take root in Eureka. Perhaps that lull was due to the town’s relatively small Chinese population. It was hard to think of the single block of 4th Street as anything like a “Chinatown,” although they did call it that. Or perhaps the competition for jobs had not seemed so severe, until economic hard times had brought great numbers of unemployed men to the timber region. Whatever the reason, the hysterical scapegoating had finally taken hold even in small coastal outposts, and in Eureka smoldering resentments had recently broken out into flames of blatant hatred. Rose nodded. “I understand.” She didn’t want to promise she would stay out of the mercantile, couldn’t promise that, but remembering the look on Bai Lum’s face when he realized they were being watched helped. “I know it’s a bad time,” she told Lucy. Then she remembered the favor she said she’d do. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Bai Lum asked me to tell you that your seeds have arrived.”

  Lucy looked down at the table and arranged the remaining cookies into neat little stacks. “Did he?” she said quietly. “Then I’d best go see him. I wasn’t expecting those seeds to arrive so soon.”

 
“He said you’d want to know.” Lucy suddenly wouldn’t meet her eye, and Rose thought she seemed oddly prickled about some flower seeds. Then something else occurred to her and she glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Are you uncomfortable going to the mercantile? Would you like me to get the seeds for you?” she whispered. “I don’t mind, honestly. Even if Elsie Dampler decides to trail me with bloodhounds.” She gathered used teacups and saucers. “If the town wants to hang me for it, or…or peck me for it, I guess, let them. I’m almost twenty-seven years old and, as Elsie made quite clear to all, a poor, benighted maiden woman. What other excitement do I have?”

  Lucy laughed, but underneath her face was watchful. “Not necessary,” she said. “I’m fine taking care of this myself, and you need to let things smooth out a bit. Probably Elsie’s tattling will blow right over. She’s hard to take seriously. But for Bai Lum’s sake, let things smooth out, yes?”

  “Lucy, did you know Bai Lum has a sister?”

  The older woman’s gray eyes widened. Finally there was a shift in her tranquil expression, and she spoke to Rose sotto voce. “A sister.”

  Something about Lucy’s changed demeanor brought back Rose’s earlier sense of unease, and she tried to change the subject. “Your new seeds—what kind of flowers are they?”

  “Clematis,” Lucy said. Her eyes fixed on Rose. “A beautiful white variety that blooms in the shape of a star. Rose, how is it that you—”

  Then, to Rose’s great relief, Hazel —who had been scurrying between the kitchen and the parlor ever since the meeting broke for refreshments— interrupted. “I do believe,” she said, “that we’ve just survived hosting the WCTU.” Sure enough, women were gathering their things to leave. Rose hurried over to help Mattie return the ladies’ coats as they left, sliding out from under Lucy Huntington’s suddenly steely attention. A fine, drizzling rain had started, and several women lamented their lack of umbrellas as they filed out into the wet weather. Many gave Rose a little dry kiss on the cheek as they passed. Just like chickens, she thought, smiling. A few busied themselves with their hats and wraps, saying goodnight to Mattie while pointedly ignoring Rose.

  Annabella Briggs trailed the group and gave both of the young women hearty hugs before she left. “A lovely evening, Rosie. Stimulating.” She pinched Rose lightly on one cheek with her gloved hand. “Fiddlesticks to Elsie Dampler. She’s in a pucker, but she’ll get over it.” Then she leaned close to Rose’s ear. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “Forget the tongue-waggers. Soldier on.”

  Rose wasn’t certain just what it was that Annabella was proud of, but nonetheless she felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, and she could only nod, for fear she might cry in earnest if she tried to answer. Annabella raised her umbrella and hurried down the porch steps and across the lawn to her own home.

  Last to leave was Lucy. She was bundled into her coat and hat, and wore a pair of buttery-looking kid gloves. She was back to her pleasant, neutral expression, but Rose’s heart thumped hard anyway.

  “Rose, thank you so much for offering to go to the mercantile for me. I’m going in the morning, and on second thought I’d love to have your company. I reckon it would be a judicious move for both of us, don’t you think so?”

  It actually sounded like the very best way Rose could imagine being able to see Bai Lum again so soon, without risking her own reputation —which didn’t concern her overly much— or risking his—which concerned her a great deal. “I suppose it would be better,” she told Lucy, “but I’ll need to check with Aunt Hazel about what time. We’re going to do all the inside windows tomorrow.”

  Lucy waved dismissively. “Never mind the windows. I spoke to your aunt about it while you were seeing your guests out. She said she’ll give you a list of things to pick up when we go. “Ten o’clock.”

  Rose blinked. “I’ll meet you there at ten.”

  “No,” Lucy said, “I’ll fetch you in the buggy, right here.”

  “It’s so close. I don’t mind—”

  Lucy drew her out onto the covered porch. “I’m going to carry you there in the buggy. That way we can have a little visit before we get to the store.” This was clearly an order. “And listen to me,” she said, making certain she had her full attention. “It’s really better that you not mention Bai Lum’s sister to anyone else.” Her eyes roamed Rose’s pink face, and she smiled wanly. “Who have you told?”

  “I told Hazel, when I got back this afternoon. Only her.”

  “Did anyone else hear? Mrs. Kendall or Mattie, perhaps?”

  Rose was mystified by Lucy’s intensity, remembering the angry words she’d heard between Bai Lum and the girl. “No one heard. But why does it matter?”

  “For now, just keep it mum and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Rose watched the little woman climb into her small carriage. It was a delicate-looking cart that fitted Lucy’s stature, but looked almost like a child’s wagon hitched behind Buster, the Huntington’s astoundingly large draft horse. Lucy touched Buster with the shaft end of a whip, so softly it couldn’t have seemed like much more that the flick of a moth’s wing on his enormous haunch, and off they went. Rose went inside and leaned her back to the closed door.

  “Thank God,” she said. “Matilda, I never want to do that again.”

  “But it sounded like you were all having a grand time.” Mattie used a hand broom to whisk dropped bits of cookie from the parlor floor.

  “Hm. I suppose some of us had a grand time. I imagine there were several, in fact, who were absolutely thrilled to watch the old maid and sometimes schoolmarm make a jesting-stock of the town gossip.”

  Mattie removed the pins from the bodice of her apron. “Gracious, I believe I might have enjoyed that myself.” She sighed. “But then, I don’t get out much.”

  Rose laughed and put her arm around Mattie’s shoulders. “Let’s go help with the dishes. Do you think there’s any pie left from dinner?”

  Clean teacups were stacked on the drainboard and the windows were steamy from the hot dishwater. Prudence Kendall and Hazel moved around the room together, putting things to rights for the night. Prudence went to the table and pulled out chairs. “You two were so much help tonight,” she said. Sit down here now before you go, and have a last cup of tea.”

  “I’d love some, Mrs. Prudence,” said Mattie. She glanced around the tidy kitchen. “Did you ladies do everything in here? You should have let us help.” She hung her apron on the hook behind the door and dropped into a chair.

  “Never mind,” Prudence said. “You all worked so hard to make it a lovely evening, especially you, Mattie, after working all day at the hotel. Sit. Rose, tea for you?”

  “I suppose I could do with one more cup, but you’d better make it chamomile.”

  “We’ll all have chamomile and turn in early,” Hazel said. She poured from the old pot that stayed in the kitchen, serviceable despite some nicks and cracks. “Prudence,” she said, “you’re to be congratulated. I thought it went quite well this evening.”

  Rose coughed over her cup, and Mattie patted her companionably between the shoulder blades. “I’m sorry about the upset with Elsie Dampler.” She put her head in her hand. “I offended a woman who already has me halfway to hung for something that is all in her imagination.” That wasn’t entirely true, of course, and she stared into her teacup least they see the fib on her face.

  “You weren’t the only one who laughed at Elsie,” Prudence said. “That remark she made to you. ‘Maiden woman’ for heaven’s sake.”

  Mattie frowned. Waves of dark hair framed her delicate features. “She called you a maiden woman? You’re twenty-six years old.” She looked at Hazel. “I’m twenty-four, by the Jesus. What does that make me?”

  “Eligible,” said Hazel. She poured herself some tea and sat down. “Or a free spirit, perhaps.”

  “Not that,” said Rose with mock horror. “Doesn’t a free spirit lead to free love?”

  “I can’t be
that free,” Mattie said. “I believe it’s a mortal sin.”

  Rose raised her teacup. “To maidenhood.”

  They touched their cups to Rose’s. “Maidenhood,” said Prudence Kendall, laughing. “In whatever guise it takes,” added Hazel, and they all drank.

  Even though Hazel Cleary’s house was only a short walk, David Kendall —who had sequestered himself in his upstairs library during the WCTU meeting— insisted on carrying Hazel, Mattie, and Rose home in his carriage. The night had gone from drizzle to outright rain, and they were all tired and grateful for a quick, dry trip, and for Captain Kendall’s gentle humor. Having heard about the “maiden woman” remark, he claimed that it put him in mind of a headstone he had seen in his youth.

  “Mr. Kendall, you’re having us on,” said Mattie.

  “Not at all, dear,” he said, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “This was an old churchyard I passed through in Maryland.” He lifted a finger, as if running it under a text. “It stated quite clearly: ‘Here lies Ann Mann, who lived an old maid but died an old Mann.’ I remember like it was yesterday.” He winked at Hazel, who flapped a hand at him and smirked for the rest of the ride home.

  Once inside, they all trooped off to bed, Hazel to her big room downstairs. Rose and Mattie went upstairs together and paused at the doors to their own rooms, which were directly across the hall from each other.

  “Good night,” Mattie said, and blew a little kiss.

  “Excuse me, Matilda,” Rose said before closing her door, “but please call me Ann Mann.” Even after she had gotten into her nightgown and climbed between the sheets, Rose could hear Mattie laughing.

  The boy was the first one tonight, a boy close to Ya Zhen’s own age. Instead of closing his face afterward, he made eyes, trying to kiss her and have conversation. He wanted her name, had insisted she speak his, but it had no place in her mouth. While he stood there, staring with a stupid sheep’s face, she longed to squat over her bucket and rinse herself and was relieved when Old Mol burst in early to make the boy leave. Salyer tipped the old woman for keeping the customers coming through, and nervous young boys rarely got a full twenty minutes. Never did she offer a knock or shouted warning to the newly initiated. Old Mol’s thinking was this: if they thought she would walk in, they’d keep it short.