Читать книгу Unmentionables - Laurie Loewenstein - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

BROWN CANVAS

THE BREEZES OF MACOMB COUNTY usually journeyed from the west, blowing past and moving quickly onward, for the county was just en route, not a final destination. On this particular night, the wind gusted inexplicably from the east, rushing over fields of bluestem grasses, which bent their seed heads like so many royal subjects. A queen on progress, the currents then traveled above farmhouses barely visible behind the tasseled corn, and swept down the deeply shaded streets of Emporia, where they finally reached the great tent, inflating the canvas walls with a transforming breath from the wider world.

The farm wives had staked out choice spots under the brown canvas; an area clear of poles but not far from the open flaps where they might feel the strong breeze that relieved the oppressiveness of the muggy August evening. The ladies occupied themselves with their knitting needles or watched the crew assembling music stands. Some fretted about sons, already drafted for the European trouble and awaiting assignment to cantonments scattered across the country. They pushed back thoughts of the steaming canning vats they faced when the weeklong Chautauqua assembly of 1917 concluded. All they would have to get through another dreary winter were the memories of the soprano’s gown of billowing chiffon; the lecturer’s edifying words; the orchestras and quartets.

The strings of bare bulbs that swagged the pitched roof were suddenly switched on. The scattered greetings of “Howdy-do” and “Evening” grew steadily as the crowd gathered, burdened with seat cushions, palmetto fans, and white handkerchiefs. Leafing through the souvenir program, they scrutinized the head-and-shoulders photograph of the evening’s speaker, a handsome woman wearing a rope of pearls. She was described as a well-known author, advocate for wholesome living, and suffragist. What exactly was this lecture—“Barriers to the Betterment of Women”—about? Some expected a call for more female colleges, others for voting rights.

Then Marian Elliot Adams, a tall and striking woman in her early thirties, swept onto the stage. She wore a rippling striped silk caftan and red Moroccan sandals. With dark eyes and dramatically curved brows, her appearance hinted at the exotic. In ringing tones, she announced, “I am here tonight to discuss the restrictive nature of women’s undergarments.”

Hundreds of heads snapped back. The murmurs of the crowd, the creaking of the wooden chairs, stopped abruptly. Even the bunting festooning the stage hung motionless, as if it had the breath knocked out of it.

Marian’s gaze swept across the pinched faces, assessing the souls spread before her, and she concluded that they were the same people she’d been lecturing to for the past three months. There was the gaunt-cheeked elder with his chin propped on a cane; the matron with the bolster-shaped bosom; the banker type in a sack coat; the slouching clerk with dingy cuffs. Just like last night and the night before that, stretching back eighty-three straight nights—these strangers she knew so well.

She’d begun her odyssey on June 1, as she had for the last seven summers, driving a dusty Packard to villages across Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, opening each town’s weeklong series of talks and entertainments, and then moving on. In her wake followed orchestras, elocutionists, adventurers, sextets, chalk artists—whatever the Prairieland Chautauqua Agency felt would meet the standards of improvement and inspiration demanded by each hamlet’s subscription committee. Marian was relieved she didn’t have to stick around and watch the hodgepodge of entertainers following her. She and her fellow orators, she often said with a hint of irony, were the only ones true to the original Chautauqua ideal. During her brief respites from the road, she’d often settle in at her favorite Greenwich Village tea house and laughingly query fellow patrons, “Would you believe it? Me, an agnostic since the tender age of ten, toiling for Chautauqua?”

A half-century before, a group of Methodists had erected open-air pavilions beside the placid waters of Lake Chautauqua in western New York, as an educational retreat for Sunday school teachers. From “Mother Chautauqua,” as the institution became affectionately known, reading courses for adults quickly sprang up across the country. Later, commercialized ventures known as Tent or Circuit Chautauquas, and connected to the original in name only, took up the cause of bringing edification and culture to the rural heartland. Circuit Chautauquas, organized by Prairieland and other booking agencies, moved from town to town, following an established itinerary. When traced on a map, the various circuits looked like a child’s connect-the-dots drawing, linking isolated hamlets and farming communities in the Midwest, South, and West. An easterner, Marian saw the circuit as an opportunity to bring modern thinking on women’s causes to Middle America’s backwaters. This night, as she launched into her talk, she took comfort in knowing that more than five hundred other Chautauqua lecturers were mounting platforms in five hundred other byways.

She smiled broadly and asked, “Why is dress reform so necessary for the modern woman?”

The audience members, recovered from their initial shock, took up their palmetto fans, repositioned their legs, and settled in.

“Because clothing constitutes both a real and symbolic hindrance to women taking their rightful place in our country’s civic, occupational, and educational realms. Did you know that a woman, preparing to go out in public, routinely dons twenty-five pounds of clothing? Twenty-five pounds. Imagine! And of that, almost all of it is hidden from view. And almost all of it serves no practical purpose. Beneath every dainty shirtwaist and skirt lie layer upon layer of restrictive undergarments.”

She counted them off on her fingers. “Combination suit, petticoat, corset, corset cover, hose supporter, hose. These are the unmentionables that every woman struggles against. These are the invisibilities that drag down her limbs, sap her energy, prevent her from full participation in community life. Yes, we have made some strides in the last forty years. The hourglass figure, the tight lacings are, mercifully, things of the past. But more must be done.”

As she spoke, Marian paced briskly across the stage, her caftan gracefully shifting in the current. Some of the men wondered just what sort of unmentionables Mrs. Elliot Adams had on under the silk that swirled around her well-proportioned limbs. Deuce Garland, a widower of two years and publisher of the Clarion, was among them. He balanced a notebook on his calf, pencil resting on a blank page. In times past, he’d have written half of his article before the lecturer even stepped on stage. Chautauqua opened in Emporia with a bang last evening when three thousand citizens of all ages gave a rousing welcome to . . . That was what came of sixteen years publishing a small-town daily with modest ambitions and a mission of boosterism.

But two months ago, seven of the town’s infants had succumbed to typhoid within three weeks. These deaths, very likely due to that age-old culprit, adulterated milk, shook Deuce to the core. As a boy, he’d lost two sisters to the same illness, and had never gotten over it. That same week he’d come upon an editorial in the Springfield Times calling for regular inspections of dairy operations. His first thought had been, I’ve got to reprint this! But then, he’d hesitated. He’d thought of his advertisers—the local shop owners, some with family ties to dairy farms. The subscribers, many who worshipped alongside those same hard-working men and women, the backbone of America. He couldn’t afford to anger them. Once he’d paid off the new linotype, he’d be in a better position to weather a dip in revenue. Then he could turn the Clarion into what he’d imagined it might become when he’d first bought it—a daily that would change Emporia for the better. Even if he wasn’t quite ready to make the big leap, he’d decided to at least take seriously every story he did print. No more boilerplate. Still, the typhoid, the unprinted editorial, hung at the back of his mind.

Deuce leaned forward to better hear each word of the speech. Marian’s sonorous voice was being partially obscured by phlegmy hacking from outside the tent, from one of the houses that bordered the grassy Chautauqua grounds. Deuce’s stepdaughter, Helen, seated beside him, heard it too and turned with an annoyed glance. Just nineteen, she was in the full flush of young womanhood, with solemn eyes, milky skin, and sleek wings of brown hair tucked behind her ears. He admired her in silence, self-consciously running a hand across his own hair that, despite the heavy application of pomade, had returned to its tight waves. He removed the handkerchief from a breast pocket and wiped his sticky palms. The carefully balanced notebook fell to the grass. Grunting, he bent to pick it up, then rearranged his legs, the wooden chair creaking beneath him.

Helen shot him a reproving look. Angrily flicking the program in front of her face, she turned her attention back to the stage. She’d been waiting for months for Mrs. Elliot Adams and wasn’t about to let him spoil it with all this fidgeting. Who knew when she’d have another chance to hear a famous advocate for women’s rights? Not in the foreseeable future, not in this pokey town. The acetate footlights bathed Marian from below, illuminating the folds of the caftan, the firm chin, the strong nose and brows, the clear eyes. Why, Mrs. Elliot Adams is the Statue of Liberty come to life, Helen thought with a grin. Come to life right here in Emporia.

Marian was saying, “How can a young woman weighed down with all these undergarments, not to mention long skirts, perform a day’s work in an office, mill, or shop? How can she participate in the healthful activities of bicycling, tennis, dance, swimming? How can she fully join in the civic life of the community? She can’t. Women’s dress restricts their arms, their legs, and their opportunities.”

There was some murmuring among the knitters near the open tent flaps on the far left. Without even looking, Marian knew these were farm wives.

“Now let me quickly add that what I am talking about is public dress. I am well aware that many of you women in the farmland perform demanding physical labor and that the reliable Mother Hubbard is quite serviceable, if not as aesthetically pleasing or designed for ease of movement as it might be. As is, for example, this garment I am wearing. This free-flowing gown is functional, healthy, and, so I have been told, flattering.”

Three matrons sucked in their breath as they and the town realized that Marian’s gown was not a costume but her daily wear. Many of Chautauqua’s lecturers and performers dressed in a manner that amplified their message. The Dickens Man appeared in a Victorian frock coat as he enacted Oliver Twist, adding a shawl for poor Nancy, a cloth cap for Oliver, and a cape for wicked Bill Sykes. Each August, a Polynesian family appeared in grass skirts and feathered cloaks, mesmerizing listeners with their strange songs and tales of conversion from savagery to Christianity. Now Marian seemed to transform before their eyes, from the lofty and somewhat daring embodiment of social reformer, to the murky role of the outlandish.

The air in the tent was oppressive and thunder rumbled in the distance. Marian could feel sweat trickling between her breasts, dampening the bust supporter and her nainsook drawers. The extreme heat that gathered under the Chautauqua tents was as famous as their trademark brown canvas walls. “Going down the line,” as the Chautauqua performers called it, was not for the faint of heart or physically frail. Marian had witnessed dozens of first-timers, delicate sopranos, even robust orators, collapse after twenty consecutive nights of appearances under the sweltering canvas, in tandem with twenty days of jolting travel on gritty trains or in dusty open motorcars. As she patted her brow with a folded hankie, she again gave thanks for her strong constitution. One summer, she’d followed William Jennings Bryan, the living embodiment of Circuit Chautauqua, down the line. The celebrated orator, former congressman, and secretary of state, was known as “The Great Commoner” for his populist stands on the goodness of the ordinary man. Besides his “Cross of Gold” speech, Bryan was famous for his endurance, sometimes giving three lectures a day in three different towns as his shapeless alpaca coat became increasingly sodden, hanging like wet burlap from his large frame. And she had triumphantly matched him step for step. For Marian, like Bryan, it wasn’t just a matter of physical stamina but dedication to a cause. If she didn’t bring the message of dress reform to Emporia, to all the other flyspecks on the circuit, how would these women ever enter the modern age? From the back row a baby launched into full-throated bawling, as piercing as a factory whistle. And that’s another reason I’m meant for this, Marian thought, no husband, no children to tie me down or pull me off the road. She had divorced years ago and never looked back.

Harsh coughing sounded faintly from beyond the tent, competing with the howling infant. For most in the audience, accustomed to such disturbances, the sounds barely registered, but Tula Lake, who was sitting on the other side of Deuce, immediately recognized the consumptive cough of sixteen-year-old Jeannette Bellman. The Bellman family lived on the far side of the grounds. Tula turned in her seat. The tent was packed, the crowd overflowing beyond the flaps.

“Have you seen Dr. Jack? I’m worried about Jeannette,” she whispered to Deuce.

Deuce glanced up from his notebook. The moons of Tula’s blue irises were clouded with worry. “I heard her too.”

Tula’s features were still pretty but now blurred with age. Deuce, Tula, and her brother Clay had lived next door to one another for sixteen years. As Deuce turned back to the stage, Tula kept her ears focused outside the tent flaps. After a couple of minutes, the coughing fit passed. Thank goodness, Tula thought. Sitting back, she picked up the lecturer’s train of thought. Still, she was only half-listening. Her eyes were on Deuce, whose dark brows contrasted so handsomely with the wavy sterling-silver hair. Just above his collar a dusting of talcum glowed white against his coppery skin. At last she turned back to the stage, giving Mrs. Elliot Adams, who seemed to be explaining how she became such a staunch advocate for dress reform, her full attention.

“. . . of women’s dress, undergarments in particular, is a matter not only of limitation, but also of life itself. With corsets and other bindings restricting the rib cage, it is impossible to draw in sufficient breath. My own dreadful experience with consumption taught me that. I cured myself by casting aside my corset and bringing fresh, cleansing air into my lungs day and night. For more than a year I slept outside under the stars as my lungs opened and healed.”

Another growl of thunder sounded from out on the flat prairie. The audience rustled like a roost of startled sparrows but settled quickly. Marian didn’t pause. She’d lectured through storms that hurled hailstones so large they ripped holes in the tent while the spectators sat without flinching. These sons and daughters of pioneers waited all year for Chautauqua week and almost nothing could dislodge them. A good heavy rain would at least cool things off. This time of the evening, halfway into the program, her toes were roasting in the footlights. She’d thought of The Great Commoner’s system—chilling one hand on a block of ice before stroking his brow while beating the air with a palm fan in his other. He kept this double-handed routine up for his entire hour-long speech. Maybe I should try that, she thought.

While her mind considered this, her voice continued, “Like the young Theodore Roosevelt, I was determined to seize control of my destiny.”

At this, the venerable Henry Wilson, several chairs down from Deuce, leaned across the laps of three matrons to catch the publisher’s eye. “The gall; putting herself alongside TR!” he hissed. A spout of tobacco juice arced onto the ground for emphasis and the seventy-four-year-old member of three secret societies and honorary president of the Young Ragtags, a loose outfit organized around drinking and the swinging of Indian clubs, stood up and stomped out.

Deuce’s eyes darted to his father-in-law, seated on the other side of Helen. Had he heard what Wilson said? Father Knapp’s attention was directed at his nails, which he was cleaning with a matchstick. The president of Western Illinois Savings and Loan didn’t go in for oratory, light opera, or other cultural affectations, he’d told Deuce privately, but backed Chautauqua every year because “every up-and-coming town has to have one.” Flicking the match to the ground, Father Knapp patted Helen’s knee absently as if she were—and Deuce’s gut clinched at this thought—one of his top-dollar springer spaniels.

Over the heads of the audience, Marian’s voice rushed on. It traveled out into the night, across the Chautauqua grounds, to the ears of Jeannette Bellman, bundled in a wicker settee on the family’s front porch. Hugging her knees to her chest, the girl smiled. The great oval tent glowing softly in the distance, the voice of the speaker, even the flashes of lightning illuminating the horizon, all seemed to be speaking directly to her.

Applause, signaling the end of the program, rippled out of the tent flaps, followed quickly by the cranking of one or two motor cars, as several patrons ducked out early to beat the rain.

On stage, Marian bowed deeply from the waist so that her clasped hands brushed her knees. Deuce, who had tucked his notebook under his arm to free his hands for clapping, pulled it out to make a few more notes. Beside him, Helen vigorously beat her hands together. The platform manager, a nervous fellow in brightly bleached white duck trousers, took the stairs to the stage two at a time, all the while shouting, “Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that tomorrow’s schedule includes an afternoon concert by the Chicago Lady Entertainers and, in the evening, a stupendous performance by the Mystic Entertainer! Many of you were wise enough to purchase subscription tickets but for those who were not, there are a few, but only a few, single tickets available!”

The crowd rose. A young man stood up and whooped, swinging himself around a tent pole. Women shook out their skirts and gathered their fans, knitting bags, and seat cushions. The men reset boaters and adjusted suspenders. Helen, who had continued clapping long after everyone else, brushed past Deuce and pushed her way to the stage. Marian was starting to descend the stairs off to one side when Helen called out excitedly, “You were marvelous!”

Marian paused. “Why, thank you.”

“There are so many women that need to hear your message.”

Marian smiled, stepped back onto the stage. “Yes! Exactly.”

“Especially in Emporia; it’s so backward!” Helen threw up her hands.

“I’m finding that in many Midwestern towns,” Marian said as she strode toward Helen, her sandals clacking against her heels.

Marian was lowering into a crouch so that she could speak directly to the girl when her tunic caught on a loose nail. She yanked the hem, throwing herself off balance, and stumbled forward—headlong off the platform. Flailing wildly, her legs flew up and over. Her left ankle smacked sharply against a folding chair and her tailbone thudded against the trampled grass. She crashed in a heap at Helen’s feet.

“Oh my goodness! Are you all right?” Helen cried, dropping beside Marian, who was unnaturally still. “Mrs. Elliot Adams? Criminy!” Helen jumped up. “Papa, help!” she yelled at the familiar boater moving down the aisle among the dwindling crowd.

Several heads turned. Alvin Harp, owner of Emporia’s garage, and Mrs. Flynn, the druggist’s wife, rushed over, followed by Deuce and Tula. A boy in knickers materialized beside Helen.

“She fell!” Helen said.

“Someone get water!” Mrs. Flynn shouted.

“Helen, are you all . . .” Deuce began as he joined the cluster, then spotted Marian’s face contorted in pain. He knelt and picked up her limp hand. She moaned, her eyelids fluttered. “Someone find Dr. Jack. You, go,” he said, pointing to the knickered youth. “If he’s not around, check the Bellmans’.”

“Here, let’s make her more comfortable,” Tula said, snatching a floral cushion from a nearby seat and tucking it under Marian’s head.

“Get this chair out from under her,” Alvin said. “Raise that leg up some.”

Deuce gently wedged his hands under Marian’s thigh. Her eyelids jerked open like tightly sprung window shades and she yelped in pain. Alvin pulled aside the shattered wood.

“Hold on there,” Deuce said. “The doctor’s on his way.”

Mrs. Flynn wrung her hands, all the while shouting, “Where’s that water? We need water here!”

Grabbing a fan from an onlooker, Helen flapped it erratically above the lecturer’s shiny brow. A panting youth from the crew appeared at the edge of the stage holding aloft a pitcher of water.

“What’s happened?” Dr. Jack asked, stepping into the circle and fluidly dropping his black satchel.

Helen spoke: “Her hem caught on something. Then, boom, right off the edge.”

“Hit her head?” He crouched beside Marian, whose eyes were again tightly shut.

“I don’t think so,” Helen said, her voice quivering.

Tula took up the young woman’s hand, whispering, “It’s all right.”

“It’s my right foot,” Marian said in a loud voice, opening her eyes. “It hurts like hell.”

“All right,” Dr. Jack replied mildly. “Let’s start there.” Folding the gown back, he gently pressed his fingers down the length of her tibia. “Does this hurt?”

Deuce modestly looked away during the examination. Dr. Jack reached Marian’s ankle and when he pressed down she howled in pain.

“Hmm,” he said, nodding slightly.

Marian, who had raised her head to follow the course of the examination, asked, “What exactly does that mean?”

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“Of course it hurt—I wouldn’t be bellowing if it didn’t,” she said.

“How about this?” Dr. Jack cupped her heel and slowly rotated the foot.

Marian clenched her teeth, her eyes moistening. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Jack pushed back a sickle-shaped hank of hair.

Marian’s tone was panicked. “Is it broken? Do you think it’s broken? It can’t be. It can’t.”

“Well, I’m not certain it is broken, it might—”

“I’m booked for Galesburg tomorrow. I have to be there. You’ll just have to wrap it up or splint it or something. I’ll manage.”

Dr. Jack smoothed her gown and stood.

“I think it’s broken but it could be just a bad sprain. You’ll have to give it a day or two to see if the swelling goes down. Where are you staying?”

Darius Calhoun, the platform manager, wormed into the circle. “She can’t stay a day or two. Didn’t you hear the woman? She’s due in Galesburg,” he said, his small body quivering so that, with white pants and tufted eyebrows, he gave the impression of a fox terrier. “Then the day after that it’s Blanchester and then . . .” he pulled a creased schedule from his pocket. “And then Vernon.”

“At the very least this woman has a bad sprain and possibly a break,” Dr. Jack said. “Can’t one of the other lecturers with your group step in for her?”

“No. That’s not how it works. Mrs. Elliot Adams is a First Day. She’s always a First Day. The supervisor who is setting up the tent in Galesburg will be mighty upset if his opening act is stuck here.”

Dr. Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry but I’m prescribing rest tonight. I’ll check it in the morning. If the swelling has—”

From the ground, Marian shouted up, “I’m booked! This isn’t possible. I’m booked!”

“She’s staying at the Lamoine,” Tula said. “All the performers stay there.”

“Yes, yes, but . . .” the platform manager was saying.

Dr. Jack shook his head. “She’s got to have someone looking after her, keeping her off that foot.”

“I don’t need anyone—” Marian started, but Tula interrupted.

“She can stay with me. We have a sleeping porch off the kitchen with a day bed.”

“Fine,” Dr. Jack said, dusting off his knees. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Flynn grabbed Tula’s arm. “But what about the welcome reception at the refreshment tent? The ladies are all set up.”

“You’ll have to tell them there’s been an accident.”

And so Marian, still protesting, was lifted onto a stretcher by four of the strongest stage hands, shoveled into the back of Mueller Florist’s delivery truck which, fortuitously, was parked nearby, and transported down several bumpy streets, with the little platform manager trotting nervously behind.

After receiving the bad news from Mrs. Flynn, the members of the Ladies Welcome Committee despondently dumped the galvanized tub of ice and reclaimed their cakes that, in the heat, had slumped to one side like elderly choir members during a long sermon. As the ladies left the grounds, the first coin-sized drops began to fall. The thunderstorm, so long threatening, had arrived.