Unmentionables Page 4

  Tula’s mouth was moving.

  “What?” Marian asked.

  “Would you like a nice plate of eggs?”

  Marian brightened. “Yes, please. Bring on the eggs!”

  * * *

  Tula was melting lard in the frying pan when a short woman trudged up the drive pulling a wagon piled with bundles of soiled linens. Laylia did the wash for a half dozen of Emporia’s lesser white households. The town’s leading families used Mamie.

  “I completely forgot this was wash day,” Tula cried out. “We’ve had unexpected company. Come on in and sit while I get the things together.”

  Laylia sat heavily in the chair Tula offered. “Thank you, ma’am. Another hot one.”

  “There’s cold water in the ice box. Help yourself,” Tula called as she hurried upstairs to strip Clay’s bed.

  Laylia removed her black straw hat and fanned her face.

  “So, any word on Emmett?” Tula asked when she returned several minutes later. She dumped her load on the kitchen floor.

  Emmett, Laylia and Oliver’s twenty-one-year-old son, was registered for the army and waiting to be notified when he’d be shipped out.

  “Not yet. He still working at the garage. All fired up. Can’t wait to get out. Just hope it’s not Texas.”

  “Surely they won’t send him that far.”

  “They got a colored regiment down there. But I read in the Broad Ax they had a riot. Colored soldiers and townspeople.”

  Tula frowned. “No, you don’t want him in the middle of that.”

  Laylia shook her head, then pressed her palms to her knees and pushed herself up. Tula handed her the bundle of dirty linen. “Be back Thursday,” Laylia called over her shoulder as Tula slid the frying pan back over the flame.

  * * *

  “Here we go,” Tula said, resting a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast on the ironing board. She spread a large table napkin across Marian’s chest. “I’m sorry Clay isn’t here to say hello but he had an early sitting. He has a photography studio and it takes a good couple of hours for him to set up.”

  Marian put a generous forkful of eggs in her mouth, chewed and nodded. “These are excellent. I understand. Business comes first. That’s what puts food on the table.” She spread apple butter on a piece of toast. “Apropos of that, I hope someone thought to bring my things from the hotel.”

  Tula’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ll ring up the Lamoine right away.”

  “And please, I need my lecture notes too,” Marian called to Tula’s retreating back.

  Marian revised her talk daily, fiddling with the wording or adding a more current example. This late in the season, her typed pages were thick with penciled cross-outs and arrows pointing to scribbled sentences crammed into the margins.

  Dress reform was no longer high on the list of issues pushed by suffragists. More and more, the cry focused on the vote. Younger women were already favoring a looser, more athletic clothing style. Some corset manufacturers had caught on and were replacing steel stays with elastic. Marian feared becoming irrelevant. Her reputation as a lecturer was built on an issue that was seemingly less and less germane. This fall, for the first time since she’d started, there was a five-week gap in the schedule before her first Lyceum booking.

  A wave of anxiety washed over her. Can I afford to stay here all week, even if I want to? She pushed the plate with the half-finished eggs onto the bedside stand. The fork and knife clattered to the floor.

  On her way to telephone the Lamoine, Tula heard the noise and hoped Marian wouldn’t try to retrieve whatever had fallen. That’s all I need—for her to topple out of bed, Tula thought.

  There was a knock at the front door. Deuce strode in with a broad grin, the screen door slamming behind him.

  “Sounds like your patient is up and at ’em,” he said.

  “Just barely,” Tula said, flustered. For a moment, her bustling efficiency dropped away, but she quickly composed herself. “Take your coat off. It’s awfully warm.”

  She put down the receiver. He turned to drop his boater on the coat rack and she reached on tiptoe over his shoulders, hooking her fingers around his lapels. He shucked off his jacket and it slid smoothly into her hands. The fabric was warm with the heat of his body. She hung it up with a private smile.

  Two months ago, Deuce had asked if he could escort her to the Elks strawberry festival. The entire evening he’d sat under the elms, attentively at her side. Since then, he’d often joined her on the porch for a short chat after the workday; and once, he brought over a cutting from his peony bushes that she’d admired, and twice, took her to the moving pictures. Tula, who’d had a crush on Deuce since girlhood, could hardly believe that he might be “turning to her,” as they said, after all this time.

  It had been thirty-four years since he kissed her, but the sensation of his lips, his cool nose brushing her cheek, was still fresh. Saturday evenings their crowd of bank tellers, shop clerks, and others not long out of high school, would blow into the Merry-Roll-Round, booted skates slung over their shoulders. Moving onto the wooden oval, Deuce and the other fellows would challenge each other to races while the young women linked arms in clusters of two and three. And all the while, Tula’s eyes followed Deuce, at that time working as a printer’s devil at Brown’s: the concentration on his face as he zipped past, his head thrown back in loud laughter at one of Clay’s off-color stories.

  Then, one evening, as she’d skated arm-in-arm with Vera Driver, he’d darted up behind them, uncoupled their arms with a grin, and skated off with Tula. Round and round they circled. When her knees wobbled, he guided her to a bench beside the cubbyholes of street shoes and, without asking permission, kissed her. All that spring he’d skated by her side, walked her home, kissed her goodnight. Then Winnie Richards moved into town with little Helen, and Deuce had been swept away as neatly as he’d disengaged Tula’s arm from Vera’s.

  Deuce pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “Might I get an update on her condition from your illustrious guest?”

  “Let me poke my head in first.”

  From the other room, a firm voice asked, “Are they bringing my things? Is that the doctor? Send him in.”

  “No, it’s the publisher of the Clarion, Deuce Garland.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “What does he want?”

  Deuce called out, “We’ve met already. I helped you up when you fell. I only need a few minutes.”

  Another pause. “Could you come back after my bags arrive?”

  He put his face to the crack. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the office. Deadline’s coming up.”

  There was a clink of china accompanied by a heavy sigh. The scent of coffee and perfumed talc drifted past the doorjamb.

  “All right, come on in.”

  Deuce entered and Tula slipped into the kitchen.

  Marian took in the publisher, his wrinkled linen suit of a style fashionable five years ago, his too-eager expression, and, my God, a load of lodge buttons on his lapel! Her fantasies about relaxing in Emporia for a couple of days flew out the window. This is nothing but a hick town. Why on earth would I ever want to spend a holiday in this flyspeck? she thought miserably.

  Deuce settled himself into a chair, glancing around the room. “More homey than the Lamoine. I’m sure Tula’s taking good care of you.”

  “Yes, certainly. Now why are you here?” she asked, her voice impatient, her eyes narrowed. At every lecture, most men in the audience listened with frowns on their faces, shaking their heads. As if at her words, each woman in the audience would jump up and rip off her shirtwaist, corset cover, and corset. The remaining ten percent openly leered at her bosom, clearly assessing her as a loose woman. Which sort was Deuce?

  “My readers will want to know the state of your recovery, Mrs. Elliot Adams, and whether you’ll be staying in Emporia for an extra day or so.”

  “You can see my foot for yourself.” She drew the sheet away from her lower limbs
.

  Deuce’s face darkened in embarrassment. “That’s pretty swollen. What does the doctor say?”

  “He hasn’t been here yet. So, there’s nothing to report.”

  He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “My Helen will be disappointed. She sent me down here especially to check on your condition. She admires you greatly.”

  “That’s kind. Please extend my gratitude.” Marian picked up a book from the bedside table and flipped it open.

  Deuce nodded. “I will. She’s the one who was speaking with you just before your accident.”

  “Really? That girl?”

  “Yep.”

  Marian closed the book, a finger marking her place. “Your daughter? Very progressive.”

  “Stepdaughter. And yes, she’s full of ideas on the modern woman. I’m very proud.”

  “I’m surprised.” Marian slid the book back on the nightstand.

  “About?”

  “In my experience, Midwestern newsmen are anything but progressive.”

  Deuce cocked his head, studying her upraised chin, the firm set of her mouth. “Have you seen my paper?”

  He pulled yesterday’s Clarion from under his notebook and handed it to her. She slowly leafed through the pages, pausing to read one or two items. From the kitchen came the sound of a broom whisking across the floor.

  Marian returned to the front page, and flicked a column with her thumb and finger. It made a loud popping sound. “This is what I’m talking about.”

  Deuce leaned forward. “The locals?”

  “This string of idle chit-chat.” She read aloud: “Bill Jones brought in a load of hay today. Thomas Hughes is recovering from a sprained hip. John Smith is putting a new porch on his Sylvan Street property.” The newsprint crumpled into her lap. “This doesn’t belong in a newspaper, and certainly not on the front page.”

  Deuce ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe not in a big city. I grant you that. But Emporia is a small town, and it hasn’t been all that long since the pioneer days.”

  “All the more reason to raise the bar. Educate, not pander,” Marian said righteously.

  “Whoa, Nelly,” Deuce replied, holding up his hand. “I wouldn’t call that pandering. Those little items bring the community together. Not to get philosophical, but I sort of think of them as a mirror that shows us who we are.”

  Marian snorted lightly. “I already know who I am. I don’t need a newspaper to do that. I need a paper to bring me the hard facts.” She ruffled the pages again. “I don’t see much in the way of that here.”

  Deuce winced. “I’m hoping to change that, but it doesn’t come easy.”

  “You can’t let that stop you.”

  “True. But, again, this isn’t New York. Not so far back, Macomb County was just a handful of homesteads and Emporia nothing but a crossroads. The only way to grow was to help one another. Neighbors pitching in to put up hay, women spelling one another at sickbeds, those sorts of things. When it grew to the point where the town and county became incorporated, reciprocity was still the name of the game. Our banker befriends the railroad men, and Emporia gets a station. The Clarion boosts the town, and the great state of Illinois plants a college here.”

  Marian made a face. “One hand washing the other.”

  Deuce shrugged. “There are a lot of throwbacks here that stir up a fuss whenever something changes and—”

  He was cut off by Tula, who stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Jack is here.”

  The doctor strode in and greeted them both. He set down his bag and began rolling up his sleeves.

  “Here you go, doc.” Deuce jumped up. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right, and then get the update, Marian?”

  She motioned him to stay. “Can’t keep anything from the press anyway.”

  “Let’s get down to business,” Dr. Jack said dryly, pulling back the sheet covering Marian’s legs.

  The doctor cradled the foot in his hands and prodded gently with his thumbs. She grimaced.

  He ran his finger up the calf. “I’d hoped the swelling would have gone down by now, but since it hasn’t I think there’s a good chance the ankle is broken. Keep it elevated and on ice the rest of the day.”

  “That’s—” Marian began, but Dr. Jack ignored her.

  “I’ll come back after supper for another look. If it’s broken, it’ll need a cast.”

  “After supper? Then you’ll have to travel to Galesburg. I’m due there for a lecture tonight and I’m leaving by car today.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “You can’t prevent me.”

  “No, I can’t,” Dr. Jack said, gently repositioning her ankle on the pile of pillows. “But if you don’t stay off of it and let it heal, it will only get worse.”

  “I can tolerate pain. We Chautauqua performers can endure anything.”

  Dr. Jack sat down. “Look. If the ankle is broken and you continue to travel, bumping on rutted roads, tramping in and out of hotels and up and down lecture platforms, you could erode the bone. It may heal crookedly. Then you will be using a cane for the rest of your life. Or you might even get gangrene. And then they’ll have to lop it right off. But I’m not going to argue with you. It’s your decision.”

  Marian fell back onto the pillow, her lips hardened in a tight line.

  “There is something else you need to know,” the doctor continued, packing up his bag as he spoke. “One of my patients is gravely ill. Jeannette Bellman.”

  “Aw, jeez. I heard her coughing last night during the lecture, from all the way across the field.” Deuce shook his head.

  “Who?” Marian asked.

  “A girl, just a couple years younger than my Helen,” Deuce said. “Consumption—isn’t it?”

  Dr. Jack nodded.

  “Oh, the poor thing. Don’t I know what she’s going through.”

  The violet shadows under Dr. Jack’s eyes deepened. “She heard your talk and took your advice. Spent hours on an open porch in the pouring rain. Her mother found the girl in the middle of the night, half out of her mind with fever.”

  There was silence. Finally Marian, her voice soft, said, “But this will pass. I’m sure she will be stronger for it.”

  Dr. Jack raised his brows. “It’s possible, but she’s very weak and I’m praying that she doesn’t develop pneumonia on top of the tuberculosis. She’s a very sick girl right now.”

  “But I am living proof . . . this method works,” Marian said haltingly.

  The doctor picked up his bag. “It has been my experience, Mrs. Elliot Adams, that there are cures that may work for some and not for others. We’re not all the same, you know.”

  Marian looked as if she was going to respond, then hesitated, her fingers hovering over her mouth.

  Before Deuce followed the doctor out, he paused. “Don’t think the worst as yet. She’s got youth on her side.”

  Marian nodded.

  The publisher lingered in the kitchen. “How’s Clay taking this?” he asked Tula, inclining his head toward the sleeping porch.

  Tula made a rocking motion with her hand. “He wanted to know if the circuit was going to pay us for her room and board. Said he was going to call the Lamoine to find out what their rates were. But I stopped him.”

  “At least he’s thinking practically for once,” Deuce said. “Not that he should be charging for her stay, but—”

  “You don’t have to say it. I told him just the other night that if he doesn’t manage his finances better with this business than he did with the sheet music sales and the carpet sweepers before that, we’ll be out on the street.”

  “Now, Tula, you know I wouldn’t let that happen.” Deuce patted her hand. She flushed, hoping for a gentle squeeze as well, but he pulled away, readjusted his tie.

  She cleared her throat. “You’ve done enough for us. I just hope he’s keeping a careful eye on his accounts.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TOY LAMB

  EARLIER THAT MORNING, shortly after Deuce strolled into t
he newspaper office, Clay had taken the same route into Emporia’s business district. But unlike Deuce, when Clay turned the corner on State Street, he immediately knew who the fellow in the gray pin-striped suit lounging in the studio’s entrance was.

  Clay slowed his gait, making a pretense of fumbling for his pocket watch, while sizing up the stranger. A too-tight suit was stretched tautly across muscled arms, inflating the ruddy flesh of the hands and neck. Fresh off a farm, Clay thought. Maybe this won’t be all that hard. He walked briskly the last few yards to the entrance, pushed past the stranger, had his key in the lock and the door halfway open before awareness registered in the man’s sun-bleached eyes. But Clay wasn’t fast enough. The bill collector’s thick fingers fastened around Clay’s wrist.

  “You Clay Lake?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Lake has some debts he needs to take care of.” A toothpick, lodged in the corner of the man’s mouth, jerked up and down with his words. “Do you want to take care of this here on the street?”

  The Reverend and Mrs. Sieve stepped out of a shop two doors down. “No. No. Let’s go upstairs.”

  The two rooms that comprised Lake’s photography gallery were stifling. The bill collector removed his suit jacket and tossed it on a chair while Clay opened a window. Despite the heat, his hands shook and the skinned look of his bony face became even more pronounced.

  “Got some pretty fancy equipment here,” the collector said, circling several cameras mounted on tripods. He lifted a black cloth hanging from the back of one and peered into the lens.

  “Watch it. Those are expensive.” Clay’s jaw jutted out.

  The man drew back and laughed. “Don’t I know it.”

  Clay dropped heavily onto a chair. “So, you’re here about the cameras?”

  “Yep.” The man flicked the toothpick onto the floor and inserted a fresh one in his mouth. “Those three you ordered from the Chicago Camera Company and never paid for.”

  Clay ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t have it. But I will. I just need a little time.”