by Helen Frost
from all around the country are on their way
to Washington right now. We’re marching
to protest this kind of treatment, and to continue
our demand for freedom. Tomorrow afternoon,
you will be cheered to know, we’ll be
at least one thousand strong.
How Close Can I Go?
Emma
Hands on her hips, Mother stands firm, blocking
the doorway. I don’t want you going over there, Emma.
Grace is quarantined for up to two weeks. Only her mother
and Dr. Brower (not her father, not Ollie) are allowed in her room.
I understand how my mother feels: I’m all she has left. She can’t bear
the thought of losing another child. But that’s almost the same way I feel
about Grace. How close can I go? I ask. Mother knits her brows. Don’t cross
the creek, Emma. Mrs. Jones died last night. They’ve closed the school. This moss-
covered rock by the water is as close as I can be to Grace; I’m trying to heal
her from here with these simple songs I sing. I don’t know if she can hear
them; it may be too cold to open her window. Muriel will be home soon.
She doesn’t know that now it’s her sister who’s sick, and her brother
trying his best to hold things together. I’d planned dinner and a
“Welcome Home” party. Now, instead, I sit alone, rocking.
One Thousand Women
Muriel
One thousand women, representing
every corner of the country, march together
to the White House, wearing white, with
gold-and-purple sashes, carrying our banners:
THE TIME HAS COME TO CONQUER
OR SUBMIT. THERE CAN BE BUT ONE CHOICE.
WE HAVE MADE IT. I stand a little taller
and walk on. TO ASK FREEDOM
FOR WOMEN IS NOT A CRIME. SUFFRAGE PRISONERS
SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS CRIMINALS.
(A man holds one side of that one.) Aunt Vera
stands up at a podium, the crowd quiets,
and she speaks. They’ve tried to silence us
by every means they know of—our voices
are still strong. They’ve tried to hold us
in their prison cells—our spirit
is stronger than their bars. They’ve tried
to force food down our throats—we have not
accepted it, any more than we accept
the old, worn-out idea that women are
the weaker sex. The crowd erupts in cheers.
They don’t have enough prison cells
to hold us. Their words are not true enough
to silence us. We are their mothers, sisters,
daughters—here today, one thousand
women strong—our voices will be heard.
President Wilson drives by but doesn’t stop,
or even pause to look our way! What is he
afraid of? Will he crack a window open
in the White House and listen like a little boy
when he thinks no one is watching?
Aunt Vera finishes her speech and steps down
from the podium. She finds me in the crowd.
She’s still thin, but radiant with joy reflected
to and from these women—and I’m
included, right here at the center.
I’m strong enough, she says, to travel home.
(It’s time to get back on the train already?)
But, she adds, I won’t be going. (Why not?)
While I was in prison, my boss sent word
that he’s replaced me. (She lost her job!)
Don’t worry, she assures me. I have savings,
and it won’t be hard to find work
when I get back. But I’ve decided to stay here
in Washington, at least until all the suffrage
prisoners are released. Victory is so close
we can almost touch it! But there’s hard work
ahead of us—I’m needed here now, Muriel.
I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.
I look out at the crowd—today I’m one small part
of something big. No, Aunt Vera, not for nothing,
I reply. I straighten out my sash, link arms with her
and Ruby, and the three of us walk forward.
Strangers Together
Muriel
Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry
me home, a mother in the seat behind me sings
to her baby. The baby cries, then quiets
as the train rocks us, strangers together,
our voices softening as night comes on.
The city noises fade away, and echoes of the
past two weeks collide: young boys selling papers,
Aunt Vera’s speech, Ruby’s gentle Danish accent
as she speaks to the children in her kindergarten class,
or to me—her parting words: Come back and teach with me.
You’re good with children, Muriel. I think of Joey,
then doze off and dream of Grace, stretching
out her hand: When will Muriel come back?
Emma sings, I looked over Jordan, and what
did I see, comin’ for to carry me home?
A band of angels, comin’ after me, comin’ for
to carry me home. But when I wake up, it’s not Emma singing;
it’s the mother behind me, trying to soothe her baby.
I turn around and offer: Shall I hold her awhile
so you can get a little rest? She looks me over:
If she’ll let you, that would be kind.
Her name is Viola Irene. I take the baby
in my arms, awkwardly at first, but her hair
has the same sweet smell I remember
from holding Grace when she was a baby,
and it all comes back. I rock Viola; she smiles
up at me, making little gurgle sounds—she wants
to have a conversation. When she falls asleep at last,
and I return her to her mother, the train
is quiet, except for someone snoring two seats back.
I sleep again, a deep sleep without dreaming,
and wake to a familiar smell: we must have
passed a skunk—not the strong smell
when their spray gets on your clothes,
just a soft reminder that I’m nearing home.
Probably … If
Ollie
Toss me an onion, Ollie. Pa is trying to cook
while Ma spends all her time taking care of Grace,
who hasn’t kept food down for three days. This morning
Dr. Brower came over to see her. She’ll probably live if she
makes it through one more night, he told us. Every hour, Ma
sends me to the creek—at least I can do something—for fresh,
clear water to bathe Grace in order to bring her fever down. I
hear music. Emma? Sitting on a rock beside the creek as she
mends a jacket. Wrapped up in a blanket, singing. Why? It
takes me a minute to realize Emma’s here because we’ve
locked her out. I shouldn’t get close, but when she calls
to me, Ollie! How is she? I do. She manages a small
smile. Emma, I say, we could lose Grace. The
loss of my arm is nothing, next to this.
Tell Me About Your Trip
Muriel
Oh, I’m glad you’re home, Muriel. Emma hugs me hard
and we walk to the buggy. Why has she come
to meet me, instead of Mama or Papa? I’m surprised
Grace didn’t beg to come along. Emma, I ask, how
is Ollie? She gives me a quick glance. Ollie
is getting better. But … She hesitates, then says,
Tell me abou
t your trip. Where can I begin?
Oh, Emma, I feel like a completely different person
than I was when I left! You should see Washington!
You can walk down long streets of great mansions!
But then—just a few blocks away, people live in tiny
rooms without heat, whole families in one room.
Some people wearing fur coats and fancy hats
walk right by children with no coats at all
as if they don’t even see them. Oh, speaking of hats,
look at this one that I found for Mama. I can’t wait
to show it to Grace—she will love these ostrich feathers!
Emma clears her throat, but doesn’t speak. I go on.
I got you and Ollie presents, too, Emma—shall I show you
now, or wait till we get home? Never mind, I’ll wait—
they’re buried at the bottom of my suitcase.
And I bought Grace a book, Anne of Green Gables.
But I don’t want to sound like all I did
was shop for presents. I saw the headquarters of the
National Woman’s Party. I stood on a picket line,
and a tall man hit me with a plank
because I called him a lazy coward, which he was.
I still have a small lump on my forehead, but at first
it was bigger than a goose egg! Ruby—a girl
I met—said there are some decent men in Washington,
the same as anywhere, but I didn’t meet many of them.
I met a lot of smart women, though. Ruby teaches
kindergarten—she said I should go back
someday and teach there because I’m good with children.
If it weren’t for her kindergarten, the children in her class
would have to go to factories all day with their mothers,
and a lot of them are put to work, even little ones.
Some people in Congress are trying to pass child labor laws,
which I think would be a good idea, don’t you? Wait …
Emma … you missed the turn to our house.
I guess I’m talking so much you forgot
where you’re going! Emma reins in the horses
and turns to look at me. She looks tired. Sad?
I didn’t forget, she says. Your parents asked me
to bring you to our house tonight. I wait for her
to explain, but she goes on in silence, letting the horses
trot toward her house, not mine. Emma, what is it?
Is something wrong? She has tears in her eyes!
Yes, Muriel, something is very wrong.
There’s Ollie, filling a pail with water from the creek;
he seems okay—I look more closely—
has his wound flared up? Emma
wipes her nose, brushes away tears.
It’s not Ollie, Muriel. It’s Grace.
I See That, Too
Emma
Muriel takes a good, hard look at me. The fear
in my eyes must answer the question she doesn’t dare
ask. She jumps to the ground, lifts her skirt, and runs. Before
anyone can stop her, she’s across Crabapple Creek and halfway
home. Later, when Father takes her suitcase over, they don’t invite
him in. Ollie came to the buggy to meet me, he says when he gets back.
Grace is still alive. Mother makes them a pot of soup and a loaf of bread.
I can take it over, I offer. Mother draws a deep breath. No, I’ll go instead.
Father looks up at her, says, Yes, that’s good. Then, Ollie doesn’t let the lack
of an arm stop him from much, does he? I see that, too. Late last night
when he heard me singing to Grace, he came out to the creek to say,
I like your singing, Emma, but … Grace can’t hear you anymore.
I reached out to hold him. No, he said, Please stay where
you are. Ollie—as always, so thoughtful. So dear.
Lake of Shining Waters
Muriel
“Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters.
I always say good night to the things I love
just as I would to people. I think they like it.
That water looks as if it was smiling at me.”
I bought Anne of Green Gables for Grace,
and I intend to read every word of it to her.
When she gets better, she can read it all again.
I say when, not if. I refuse to consider if.
Reading the story keeps me from shouting at her:
Listen here, Grace, you open your eyes right now.
Mrs. Norman went to the trouble to make this soup.
She even brought it over here herself! You’d better
wake up and eat it. Quit acting like this, do you
understand me? Mama and Papa and Dr. Brower told me
to stay out of Grace’s room, but—like Frank and Ollie
going to war—I’m old enough to decide for myself
what I’ll risk, and who I’ll risk it for, and why.
If I can stand up to that stupid man
who hit me with a board, if I can hold a banner
for the president to read, and—I’m not exactly sure
what this has to do with anything—if I can
give away an apple and a shoelace when someone
needs them, and sing a lullaby to Viola Irene,
I’m not going to let this flu prevent me
from loving my own sister! When Mama saw
that I would not be stopped, she said, Well, then,
maybe I’ll sleep a bit—just an hour or so.
Wake me if there is any change.
There is no change—Grace is burning up;
her breath goes in and out. She has been sleeping
for two days, and all our love can’t wake her.
Tipperary
Ollie
Dread is thick as mud in our house, as Emma’s
song washes over us, a stream of cool water. Muriel is
staying up all night, reading that book to Grace. (Does she
think Grace is listening?) For the first time all week, Pa and Ma
are both asleep. Open the window a little wider, Muriel, I suggest.
I’m going to the creek for water. She probably guesses that, though I
will get water for her to cool Grace, I’m going to see Emma. Are you
still sitting on this rock in the dark? I ask. Have you been out here all this
time, huddled in your blanket? She nods. I shake my head. I bet even the
war wouldn’t scare you like it scares the fellows over there. I give her a
drink from the creek. She accepts it, takes a small sip, and says, I’m
praying as I sing, Ollie. That’s good. But, I ask, is there anything
wrong with praying a cheerful song? She smiles: Tipperary?
Red streaks the sky as we sing: It’s a long way …
Then What Happened?
Muriel
Then what happened?
I’ve walked to the window to listen
to Ollie and Emma singing together
and at first I don’t believe my ears—
I turn to look—I’m not imagining things—
that question came out of Grace!
I stopped reading for a minute,
turned away, and she opened her eyes to ask
what happened next! I don’t know, Grace,
I’m reading it for the first time myself.
Mama said to wake her if there was any change,
but Grace insists, Keep reading, Muriel.
I think Anne really does like Gilbert, don’t you?
She keeps her eyes open, and I go on, as if
reading is breathing, and by reading I can
keep my sister breathing. “Then, just as she thought
she really could not endure the ache in her arms a
nd wrists
another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge…”
Grace actually grins! See, I told you, Muriel!
Ollie’s clear baritone and Emma’s alto
come to me across the early morning air:
We didn’t know (Ollie’s voice)
the way to tickle Mary (soft laughter),
but we learned how, over there.
Let’s Climb Cobb Hill
Emma
Ollie suggests, Let’s climb Cobb Hill
to watch the sunrise. We don’t talk while we climb
the narrow path through the trees. When we reach the top,
we sit down on a fallen log and Ollie says, Emma, I’ve been trying
to find a way to tell you something important, and there’s no fancy way
of saying it. Ollie has never been fancy with words; that’s fine—I wait
for him to find the solid, plain words he is looking for. He stares down
at his feet, looks up at me, takes a deep breath. Tears flood his brown
eyes. He blinks them back. I’m sorry about Frank, he says. A great
heaviness rises up, drapes itself around us. Ollie goes on: All day
when I was thinking about Grace, I would picture you crying
for your brother when I was over there … I can’t stop
feeling guilty. I wasn’t much of a soldier—I’m
sorry. (For what?) I couldn’t learn to kill.
In the Doorway
Muriel
“‘Dear old world,’ she murmured, ‘you are very lovely,
and I am glad to be alive in you.’” I can barely keep
my eyes open, but Grace won’t let me stop reading
until we get to the end. Mama opens the door
and sees Grace sitting up, eyes bright,
attentive to the story. She catches her breath,
comes in, and rests her hand on Grace’s forehead,
staring at her like she did eight years ago,
that August afternoon when Grace was born.
A warm breeze blew through the house that day—
as a fresh, cool wind blows now. Grace is smiling!
Mama stands behind her, brushing her hair,
and I read the last page of the book:
“‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’
whispered Anne softly.” I close the book and then
I close my eyes. It’s been two days since I’ve slept,