The Cure for Dreaming(38)

“Is—is . . . ?” My eyes refused to budge from the newsprint. “I think I see a headline about one of the Acklens.”

Father closed the paper to get a better view of the front. “Oh, yes. That.”

“What does the article say?”

“It’s nothing to fret about.” He folded the paper in half so I could no longer see the article. “Some silly woman wrote to the editor, suggesting Judge Acklen’s mother would make a far better president than either McKinley or Bryan.”

I pressed my lips together. “Really? They printed a letter like that?”

“Surprisingly so. They usually keep suffragist drivel out of the Oregonian.” With a grunt, he unfolded and readjusted the newspaper so that it lay next to his plate with the second page on top. The only items left viewable from my seat were a political cartoon involving President McKinley and an article about the Socialist Eugene V. Debs.

Father raised his steaming mug of coffee to his lips, but before taking a sip, he added, with a quick glance at me, “Please, Olivia, don’t even think of reading the letter. It was probably written by a man, anyway.”

He sipped his drink.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Why do you think a man wrote it?” I asked.

He lowered the mug to the table with a smack of his lips. “It’s too well written for a woman.”

Before I could respond, Gerda glided through the swinging kitchen door on a bacon-and-egg-scented breeze.

A smile wiggled across my face. It’s too well written for a woman, Father had said. Well written. He believed my work to be well written.

Gerda set my breakfast plate in front of me. “Good morning, Miss Mead.”

“Good morning, Gerda.” My smile stretched to an unmanageable width.

She nudged my elbow below the table. “A lovely party last night?”

“Oh. Yes.” I lowered my eyes. “Lovely.”

“Good. More coffee, Dr. Mead?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll let you two eat.” She wiped her hands on her apron and made her way back through the door.

I reined in my smile but longed to ask Father more about why he thought the letter was so well written, and if he felt swayed by the argument, and if the writer seemed to live up to her name: A Responsible Woman.

Instead, I buttered my toast with a rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape.

“What did you say you were doing today?” he asked between bites of food.

“I’m bicycling over to Frannie’s.”

He swallowed the last bite and cleared his throat. “You’re getting a little too old to be riding around the city, don’t you think? Especially now that a young man is courting you.”

“I don’t care for Percy as much as I thought. Please don’t consider us courting.”

“You don’t care for him?”

“I learned his reputation isn’t as spotless as he made it out to be. I’m a good, chaste girl, so you should be proud of me resisting his charms.”

“He tried to”—Father coughed up crumbs—“charm you?”

“And what do you mean about me getting too old to bicycle?” I stopped buttering. “I see plenty of women cyclists.”

“I don’t know why that is, when there are so many households to run.”

“Are you saying I can’t ride anymore?”

“I’m saying we should perhaps only hire Gerda on the weekdays when you’re in school. You’re more than old enough to be taking care of the cooking and cleaning on Saturdays.”

“Gerda is relying on her employment here.”

“I’m sure she can find a family who needs a girl to clean only once a week.”

“But—”

“It’s time you took on more duties, Olivia. You’re not a child anymore.”

I dropped my knife to my plate with a clank.

“Or are you a child?” he asked. “Am I mistaken?”

I eyed the stack of newspaper pages piled up beside him and thought of my published letter to the editor buried inside. A Responsible Woman was what I had claimed to be.

“No, I’m not a child.” I dragged my teeth against my bottom lip and tried to still the wanderlust in my legs. “But can the change of her schedule wait until next week? I was planning to offer to help Frannie’s mother with preparations for tomorrow’s anniversary party.”

“Well . . .,” Father grumbled. “I suppose Gerda is already hard at work for the day . . .”

“Thank you.”

“But next week, this new schedule must start. And I must say, I’m sorely disappointed by this turn of events with Percy.”

“I am, too.” I picked at my eggs with my fork.

Father returned to the newspaper and grinned at the political cartoon, his dark eyes sparkling, a chuckle shaking his torso, while I ate my breakfast and rid my head of Percy.


I TIGHTENED THE LONG PINS THAT SECURED MY GRAY felt bicycling hat to my hair, hitched up my black skirt, and mounted the padded seat of my vermilion-red bicycle. Before Father could run outside and change his mind about letting me ride, I took off and pedaled down Main Street, amid horse-drawn wagons delivering fresh Saturday produce to the city’s grocers. Nearly a year before, the Oregonian reported that the city now boasted one automobile, owned by a German immigrant named Henry Wemme, but I hadn’t yet seen the contraption. I’d only heard stories about how it caused horses to rear and bolt when it charged through the city with its motor howling.