“If they pass that legislation, you can be sure the streetcar companies will jump on it,” Nathan replies. “They’ve wanted to segregate for years.”
“We must pray.”
It seems to me that praying is a hit-or-miss thing, and when it’s answered, it’s never quite the way one expects. For a long time, I prayed my parents would come back for me, but they never did. Then I outgrew my need for them, which I suppose was God’s way of giving me an answer, albeit a sideways, not to mention protracted, one. I hope God will provide a swift and satisfactory reply to the proposed legislation, which seems as ridiculous as putting robins and blue jays in different trees and expecting them not to share the same sky.
While Nathan works on the Sunday edition, I do my part ten feet below. I pull out my dictionary, which opens to the Y section, where I’d stuck a clipping of “Yea or Neigh?”
Shiny bicycles with red leather seats wheel back and forth across Miss Sweetie’s mind. Dare I write about them so soon after the incident with Caroline? If she read it, she might smell a rotting fish, but surely she wouldn’t suspect her “slow” maid of penning the column.
My knees bounce, and my eyes find the word giddy on the wall, next to goobers.
BICYCLES: PEDALING US TOWARD THE FUTURE
To those who are still on the fence over ladies riding bicycles, I say bring on the odorless horse! They don’t need feeding on the front end or shoveling on the back end. They don’t need exercise, a stall, or blankets, and they won’t wander off if you forget to tie them up. Ladies, why should men have all the fun? There is no greater thrill than that which comes from captaining one’s own ship through the waters of one’s choosing. You can run your errands twice as fast and exercise your limbs while doing it.
And to those who call women who ride bicycles vulgar, may your iron corsets and chastity belts not weigh you down while the rest of us sail the freedom machines into the twentieth century.
Respectfully submitted,
Miss Sweetie
Remembering the wolf-whistling men from when I left the last letter, I fetch the mystery uncle’s navy suit and linen shirt from the crates. A lone woman should not travel by herself at night, but a man can go wherever, whenever. It’s a wonder more women don’t disguise themselves. With a few rolls, tucks, and cinches, I persuade the clothes to keep their grip on me. The Balmorals are missing. Perhaps Old Gin has managed to sell them already. I padlock my face with an old scarf, then top everything off with my misfit hat, which is so confusing in shape, it could be worn by a man or a woman.
The coat of undyed wool crackles when I slip it on. In the inner pocket, I discover a folded paper of good quality that resists my efforts to open it.
尚,
Forgive me.
The Chinese characters are written in penmanship even worse than mine. 尚 means “esteemed” and is also a man’s name, pronounced Shang. The signature is not a Chinese character I recognize. So Shang must be the mystery uncle. It occurs to me that Old Gin never mentioned his name when I asked. Was that intentional?
Moreover, could Shang be Billy Riggs’s debtor? Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. Old Gin had carefully screened those who lived with us, refusing all but the most hygienic and trustworthy. Someone who consorted with lowlifes like the Riggses would not have made the cut to be an uncle. If you choose good bricks, Old Gin liked to say, you will not have to worry about your house crumbling.
Well, Shang, whoever you are, we are partners in crime tonight.
Fourteen
Dear Miss Sweetie,
Hold your horses. What’s next? Shall women and men be forced to exchange wardrobes—pants on her and petticoats on him? I think you need to rein in your brazen ideas.
Sincerely yours,
Mary Steeple
Dear Miss Sweetie,
Women ask men? A resounding and heartfelt YES from this bachelor! About time women do some of the heavy lifting.
Respectfully submitted,
RMS
* * *
—
Wearing Shang’s clothes transforms me. Miss Sweetie rather likes the loose and swingy fit, and the offense of wearing men’s clothes feels strangely right. I swagger down the sidewalk, wishing I had a cane to swing before me. Maybe an eye patch, too.
I giggle, wondering whether my skull has cracked. Miss Sweetie is not a pirate, though she may make waves.
The streets are empty, and I almost feel disappointed no one is around to test out my disguise. Definitely, my skull is cracked.
Both the print shop and the house have gone dark, but the streetlamp coats the path to the door with a wan yellow light. Despite my effort to step as lightly as possible, the stairway groans in triplet as I ascend, then cross to the door in five steps. I give a nod of appreciation to the sloped roof covering the porch, which hides me in shadow. A mail slot is placed at hand level. I lift the brass flap, and the slot practically shrieks at the intrusion. It didn’t do that the last time I deposited my letter. I quickly stuff the paper inside.
But the brass flap has trapped the sleeve of my undyed coat! Goose feathers. I tug my sleeve this way and that, but the thing has caught me in its jaw. Soon, another jaw begins to bark—Bear. Trying not to panic, I begin to work the fabric loose, but suddenly the door swings open, pulling my arm with it. I give my sleeve a solid yank, and hear it rip.
Bear lunges toward me but doesn’t pounce, only circles as if trying to herd me forward.
“Bear!” Nathan slaps his thigh twice. She hastens back to his side and quiets, though her tail thumps like a landed fish. “Pardon me. But it’s rather late to be leaving letters.” Nathan’s gruff voice sounds weighted by weariness. He’s still wearing his day clothes, but his shirt is untucked and his sleeves are unbuttoned, as if he were about to undress. Before I can flee, he adjusts the knob of an oil lamp to burn brighter.
I retreat to a spot halfway between the door and the stairs, and turn my back. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I call over my shoulder. My voice comes out too girlishly high, and I clear my throat loudly, trying to find a lower range.
“Miss Sweetie, is it?” Nathan’s voice perks up. He is holding my letter and reading the envelope where I’d written, To: Mr. Nathan Bell, From: Miss Sweetie.
I shrink farther into the shadows and summon a self-important madam’s voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Mrs. English. “Yes. Miss Sweetie, that’s me.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you face to, er, back.”