Beautiful Little Fools(17)

I glanced at her neck again, guiltily. I should’ve been going out to see her, checking on her, invited or not. I’d moved to New York to be near her, after all. But I’d become wrapped up in my own life here, and Myrtle’s life was consumed with George. I hadn’t realized before now that maybe that should’ve worried me.

I reached my hand up to touch her again, and this time she let me. The bruises made an arched line on her neck. “Did George do this?” I asked. I imagined my brother-in-law’s thick hands clinging so tightly to her neck that his fingers left marks, and it made me queasy.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly, pulling away. “It was just… an accident. It was so silly really, I’m tired of explaining it. It’s why I’m wearing a scarf in August, for heaven’s sake.”

“What kind of accident?” I raised my eyebrows and looked her directly in the eyes. She blinked and looked away.

“Oh, you know… What was it Mother always used to call me because I was never watching where I was going?”

“Turtle?” I said.

“Yes, right. Myrtle the turtle.” Myrtle’s voice came out thick with annoyance, but when Mother said it, it had always been in a completely endearing way, her voice brimming with affection. At home on the farm, Myrtle never watched where she was going—and there were so many times she had stepped in cow dung or had tripped and broken an egg. And Mother used to tell her to stop hiding that beautiful head of hers inside her shell. Myrtle the turtle.

What kind of accident could Myrtle possibly have had that made fingerprint-shaped bruises across the side of her neck? “But what did you do exactly?” I pressed her now.

“I don’t want to talk about anything unpleasant,” Myrtle said, ignoring my question, her tone brightening. “I got away for the whole weekend to visit with you. Take me to the nearest saloon and let’s go dance and get smashed.”

I bit my lip. Helen and I and a few other girls had planned to take the train to Washington, D.C., in the morning to picket in Lafayette Park with other suffragette groups. Helen was out now, buying supplies so we could make signs. What a disappointment it had been for all of us when the Nineteenth Amendment lost ratification by only two votes in the Senate last January. And months later, it still hadn’t gotten passed. We’d discussed at our meeting last night that there was power in our numbers. That if only we could be loud enough, make our voices heard, the Senate would have no choice but to listen. And that’s exactly what I’d intended to do this weekend in D.C.

But Myrtle was staring at me, her large brown eyes wide, hopeful, a little glassy. I couldn’t just go ahead with my plans and leave her here now.

I sighed a little, picturing Helen and the others on the train, at the protest, without me. “Let me just leave my roommate a note,” I said.

I hastily scribbled Helen an apology. My sister needs me desperately, I wrote. And, really, what good was it to help women, to fight to give women a voice, if I could not help my own sister?



* * *



“TELL ME,” MYRTLE said, an hour and one and a half gin rickeys later. Her voice was softer, her words slightly slurred. I’d drunk only a few sips of my own drink, wanting to keep control, keep a close watch on her. “Is there a special man in your life, Cath?”

I shook my head. “Who says I even want a man?” I would never tell Myrtle, but I’d been known to kiss a man when I got drunk enough, sometimes even more than kiss. But that wasn’t about having a special man in my life or finding a husband. And she would never understand.

She laughed now. “Don’t be silly. Every woman wants a man. But the trick is to find a good one to marry. A refined one. A wealthy one. What about that one, over there.” She pointed, and my gaze followed her finger to a man with a receding hairline who looked to be at least twice my age.

I grimaced and allowed myself another sip of my drink. “Do you know what I really want?” She shook her head. “I want the Nineteenth Amendment to pass the Senate. I want us to have a voice, a real voice in this country. Imagine that, Myrtle. Imagine not needing any man. Imagine if being a woman were enough.”

Myrtle made a funny sound, a high-pitched drunken sort of laugh. “Sometimes I forget how young and na?ve you are,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was complimenting or berating me now. She finished off her second gin rickey and sighed. “That’s why I love coming into the city to be with you, Cath.” She rested her head on my shoulder and leaned into me, sleepily, and I decided she’d been paying me a compliment. I reached up and smoothed back her hair.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened to your neck now?” I said.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just leaned her head into me. I wrapped my arm around her, pulled her close enough to me that I nearly lost my balance on the barstool. When she finally spoke, her words came out so softly, I could barely hear her. “You don’t have to worry, Cath,” she said. “It’s never going to happen again.”

“It better not,” I said. “You tell George if he does it again, I’ll kill him.”





Jordan 1918

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA




EVERY DAY ON THE GOLF tour, there was a rhythm. Wake up at seven, breakfast, practice, lunch, practice some more, dinner, a little time to socialize, and lights-out. Once a month or so, we’d travel together to compete at a practice tournament, which broke into the rhythm but only just the smallest bit. Sometimes I thought about our days, parceled out and repetitive, and I felt like a factory machine, going again and again and again, every movement the same. By the summer, it was hard to remember why I’d ever loved golf in the first place.