The Cure for Dreaming(39)
Ruts and stones in the uneven road jostled my shoulders, but the ground was dry and firm, aside from the occasional pile of horse dung. Gunmetal-gray clouds loomed over the city, threatening rain, yet they were merciful and withheld their showers.
I turned left on Third Street, before getting anywhere near the sewage stink and unsavory characters of the waterfront district. Feeling the need to go faster, I leaned forward and powered the pedals with all my strength. My calf muscles burned, the bicycle chain whirred below my flapping skirts, and I caught enough speed to lift my feet and cruise past the towering brick buildings and streetcar tracks. Air rushed across my tongue; the wind fought to whip the hat off my head. The company names written on the buildings—INDEPENDENT STEAMSHIP CO., E. HOUSES CAFé, EMBERS PHOTO STUDIO, THE J. K. GILL CO., FUNG LAM RESTAURANT, and even METROPOLITAN—streaked into a blur.
To avoid the saloons and gambling dens (and Father) in the North End, I steered left and zoomed up Washington, my heart racing, heat fanning through my face, my arms, my legs. I veered down Sixth and rode three more blocks before turning right onto Yamhill. McCorkan’s Bicycle Shop’s forest-green awnings came into view, and a Christmas morning sense of elation stirred inside me. My feet slowed on the pedals. The chain click-click-clicked to a stop, and I planted my shoes on the road in front of McCorkan’s display window.
There they were, prominently displayed on two dress forms.
Bicycle bloomers.
Rational garments.
Turkish trousers.
Whatever one wanted to call them, the garments—so vibrant compared to our black physical-education pants, which were meant for female classmates’ eyes alone—resembled beautiful, billowing hot-air balloons that could lift a girl off the ground. One pair matched the blue of the American flag swaying in the wind outside the shop. The other was as shocking red as the bicycle I straddled. The pants swelled wide enough that they would make the future owners appear to be wearing skirts—if the young ladies kept their legs pinned together.
But as everyone knows, bicycling ladies don’t keep their legs pinned together.
The shop door opened with the soft tinkle of a bell, and out stepped Kate and her sister Agnes. Both of the Frye ladies had flushed faces and wore the American-flag-blue version of the bloomers. They headed toward two parked bicycles alongside the curb. Kate carried a little satchel tool bag meant for cyclists embarking upon longer rides.
“Oh.” Agnes squinted at me through the glare of the sun behind the clouds. “Look, Kate, it’s Olivia. Was that you I saw at the restaurant with two boys last night?”
“Um . . . well . . .”
“Are you looking for bloomers?” asked Kate.
“Just admiring them for now.”
“You should ask your father to buy you a pair,” said Agnes, putting her hands on her bloomers-clad hips. “Turkish trousers don’t get caught in bicycle spokes like that dangerous skirt of yours. Besides”—she winked at me—“today’s a day to celebrate if you’re a Portland woman.”
“It is?” I scratched my chin and tried to recall if we celebrated any famous Oregon women’s birthdays . . . or if there were any famous Oregon women, for that matter. “Why?”
Agnes lifted her chin. “Because that damned editor”— she didn’t even flinch when she swore like a sailor—“Mr. Harvey Scott, finally found the courage to print a suffrage letter in the Oregonian.”
“Language, Agnes,” said Kate with a twinkle in her eye.
I gripped my handlebars and tried not to topple over with my bike. “I read that letter, but I—I—I . . . I don’t . . .”
“I know, this historic occasion is enough to make a person speechless.” Agnes mounted one of the awaiting bicycles—a canary-yellow beaut with a silver horn attached to the handlebars. “I don’t know if you realize it, but Mr. Scott’s sister is our local suffragist leader, Abigail Scott Duniway. Up until this morning, that stubborn old mule has refused to print anything pro-suffrage in his paper. We blame him for the failure of the referendum.”
I shook my head. “But . . . I don’t understand. Why do you think he printed this particular letter?”
Agnes shrugged. “Perhaps he thought it was a joke. The headline tried to poke fun at the letter writer, but it failed miserably. Mother, Kate, and I all received telephone calls from friends who read the letter and want to personally toast this mysterious ‘Responsible Woman.’”
“Oh.” Prickles of both fear and pride crawled across my skin like hundreds of sharp-clawed insects. What have I done? I thought. What the blazes have I done?
Kate straddled the other bicycle with a swing of her right leg and pumped her pedals into motion. “Well, I’ll see you at school, Olivia.”
“Ask your father to buy you bloomers,” added Agnes, following her sister into the street. “Tell him you’re asking for trouble if you don’t adapt to modern safety advances.”
The young Frye ladies rode away, their bloomers flapping and billowing in the breeze like the sails of a schooner.
I know it was my eyes deceiving me again—a strange side effect of my awe over my letter’s publication, perhaps—but halfway down the next block, the wheels of both the Frye girls’ bikes lifted an inch off the ground, and the ladies careered down the street on the wind.