The Cure for Dreaming(63)
Dear Responsible Woman,
You put into words exactly what I wanted to say to Judge Percival Acklen . . .
Dear Responsible Woman,
I wouldn’t be old enough to vote in this year’s election, even if women were enfranchised, but I want to thank you for giving hardworking, unsung females like my mother a voice . . .
Dear Responsible Woman,
Who are you, and are you already part of the Oregon State Equal Suffrage Association? If not, please join us at our next meeting . . .
Dear Responsible Woman,
I’m a pro-suffrage man, and although I’m cautious about discussing my sentiments among my colleagues at work, I applaud you for your bravery . . .
Dear Responsible Woman,
As you may already know, in June of this year 3,473 “gentlemen” of Portland contributed to the failure of the statewide women’s suffrage measure. Please write more editorials to awaken the obtuse males of this city.
PLEASE!
Dozens of people thanked me. Even men praised my eloquence. Other people felt I should be horsewhipped and chained in my kitchen, but for the most part, the handwritten and professionally typed reactions set my hands trembling with gratitude and hope.
I widened my curtains to invite in more light for rereading some of the letters, and even fragile Mrs. Stanton and her wagon filled with pickling jars seemed to shine a little brighter out on the sidewalk.
That afternoon, I fetched my canvas Gladstone bag and packed my clothing—bloomers included—along with the one hundred twenty-three dollars. I then shoved the luggage under the pink ruffles of my bed.
In barely twenty-four hours, I realized, my knees still on the ground, my eyes locked on my hidden belongings, A Responsible Woman and the Mesmerizing Henri Reverie—Young Marvels of the New Century—will be venturing to the Portland Hotel and putting on one hell of a show.
ess than an hour after school would have been dismissed, Frannie showed up at my door with a basket smelling of chicken looped over her arm.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Well . . .” I raised the Fannie Farmer cookbook I was carrying. “I’m mastering the fine art of housewifery.”
She frowned. “Is that even a word?”
“I looked it up once, after Father used it.”
I dropped the book on the hall table and opened the door wider.
Frannie stepped inside. “How are you really doing?”
I shut the door and leaned my back against it. “My bags are packed. I’m ready for tomorrow.”
She nodded and bit her lip.
I nudged her basket with my knuckle. “What’s this?”
“We had leftover food from the anniversary party, and I thought”—she cleared her throat—“if you wanted to come with me, we could deliver it to Genevieve.”
“That’s terribly kind of you.”
“To be honest”—she closed one eye and cringed—“I want to meet her.”
“You mean you want to see if Henry is lying about her.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean.”
“All right”—she lowered her shoulders—“maybe that’s a little bit true. But as I said yesterday, if you’re concerned enough about her to put up with your father, then I’d like to see what I can do to help. And I asked Mama about that sort of cancer, and she said she’d be surprised a girl could have it that young.”
“Henry’s not lying.”
“No, let me finish. She said if a fifteen-year-old girl did indeed get diagnosed with it, that girl would certainly need extra support and encouragement.”
I glanced down the hallway, toward the kitchen. “I’m not sure if I can go. I have to light the stove for supper . . .”
“We’ll be quick. I’ll even pay for the streetcar so we can get there faster.”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t mind seeing how she and Henry are doing.” I grabbed my coat off the hook. “It has to be extremely quick. Nothing can go wrong.”
I KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OF ROOM TWENTY-FIVE AND tried not to breathe too much of the stale cigar smoke filling up the hall.
“I hope I’m not waking her,” I whispered to Frannie. “She’s had a fever, and Hen—”
The door opened a crack. Henry’s blue eyes peeked out. “Olivia. Hello. I thought you might have been the doctor again.”
“No, it’s just me. I’m sorry if we’re disturbing Genevieve’s sleep, but this is my good friend Frannie, and she’s brought some food.”
Henry opened the door a foot wider. “That’s awfully nice. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Frannie handed him the basket, which dipped toward the ground during the transfer, for it was heavy—I’d helped her carry it down the street. “There’s chicken,” she said, “fresh vegetables, bread, and two slices of cake. You can keep the basket until Olivia next sees you.”
“That’s far too kind.”
“Olivia told me what she’s doing to help, so I thought . . .” Frannie pulled her coat tighter around herself. “I wanted to do something, too.”
“How is Genevieve?” I asked.
“Um . . .” Henry scratched at his ear. “She’s, uh . . .” He peeked over his shoulder. “What did you say, Genevieve?”