“Well, yes. Let her in.” Mrs. English pulls me into the church by the elbow. In the reception hall, a few women, all white, mill about tables set with a bowl of punch and spice cake. Conversation pauses while everyone gets a good look at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Votes for women,” I announce to everyone, but no one smiles.
“Yes, but—” Noticing all the attention on us, she throws around a mind-your-own-business glare. Conversation resumes, but at a more subdued tone. Her attention resettles on me. “I hear you’re back with the Paynes. I am glad you have landed on your feet.”
I manage a thin smile, despite the fact it was her hands that tossed me out. “Nice hat,” I say.
She has the grace to flush. “I’d been hoping to talk to you. I can’t seem to get the knot to lie flat in the back, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“It is missing a loop.”
“Well, perhaps you can stop by the shop and do a few for me.”
“I am rather busy.” A doorway of carved wood leads to what I assume is the sanctuary. The ceiling rumbles with the sound of footsteps, and a circle of overhead candles sways.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, let bygones be bygones. I will pay you for them, let’s say, a nickel apiece. Of course, I’d supply the ribbon. I’m desperate. I got eight orders tonight alone.”
“Ladies, to your tables, please,” says Mrs. Bread Loaf, clucking about like a hen gathering chicks. “We must get our banner done tonight.”
Mrs. English still watches me with her hawkish eyes.
“I will think about whether it makes economic sense,” I tell her, and an exasperated breath wings out of her.
Women file upstairs to a community hall, where more ladies—about a hundred in all—are sewing. Some embroider squares of marigold fabric at worktables. Others simply whipstitch strips of the same marigold fabric, creating what look to be sashes. A woman in a mutton-sleeve dress jabs a finger at a sketch pinned on a wall, her face animated as she gives orders. She must be the top hat in this shop. The words VOTES FOR WOMEN—RACING FOR EQUALITY! span the length of the sketch with a racehorse underneath. So, Mrs. Payne accepted their bid after all.
The top hat notices me and her eyes sharpen. She brushes off a woman trying to get her attention and marches over, hands fisted.
Mrs. English does not notice the storm cloud on the horizon. “There’s Lizzie.” My former coworker sits at the largest table, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she attempts to thread a needle. “Our table is full, but I’m sure you’ll find a place.”
“Who is this, Mrs. English?” The top hat has a teapot face, with cheeks that are starting to droop above a doily of a collar, and a nose that tips up at the end. A nervous energy surrounds her, like the teapot is kept at a high simmer.
Mrs. English’s vast bosom grows twitchy. “Oh, Mrs. Bullis, may I present Jo Kuan. Jo, Mrs. Bullis is the president of the Atlanta Suffragists.”
“How unusual. I didn’t know Chinese could even be citizens. Why are you here?”
“Same reason as everyone else, I expect, ma’am.”
She sniffs. “There are many who try to pin their causes onto ours, but we are here for one reason only, and that is to advance the cause of American women. I find it hard to believe someone who is not an American woman can help in that effort.”
My teeth clamp around the retort that springs to my lips. I fold my hands in front of me and plant my feet. “You must be thrilled that your bid to sponsor a horse was accepted for the race.”
Her black pupils look like pinpricks. “Yes, of course we are.”
“Being matched with a fighting pair, like the Paynes’ new Arabian and their New York jockey, would certainly advance your cause, maybe lead to national recognition, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is a random draw, but yes, we are hoping for the best pair. Your point is?”
“Neither the jockey nor the racehorse is an American woman.”
Her face seems to crack a little at the jawline. Mrs. English dabs a handkerchief to her brow, maybe congratulating herself on ridding herself of me.
Before the teapot begins spouting, I incline my head. “I am only here to help where I may, ma’am.”
She huffs and spins around, chasing away the looks that have gathered at her back. “There’s a place for you over there.” She points to a spot in the corner, where I’m heartened to see Noemi, writing at a table, alongside two other ladies, the only other colored people in the room.
Mrs. Bullis sweeps away, and Mrs. English escapes to Lizzie’s group.
As I make my way to Noemi’s table, I catch snippets of conversation.
“—the custom of wearing black for mourning. It washes out the complexion.”
My ears perk, and my feet slow as I try to unravel the conversations.
“—baseball. I can throw better than some of our local Firecrackers.”
“—saving one’s best gloves for parties.”
A young woman with sausage curls pokes the lady beside her. “I would give up my best gloves to find out who this Miss Sweetie is. I think it’s Emma Payne.”
Her table erupts in gasps and squeals, and a smile blooms on my face. Seems as though “The Custom-ary” has worked its magic for the Focus.
Noemi grabs me by the elbows. “You made it.” She’s pinned the falcon knot I made to her hat.
“Looks good there.”
She bends her iron eyes to me. “I named it Farney.”
“Why Farney?”
“Because August was already taken. Mr. Buxbaum liked your knots. He says he’ll take a hundred at ten cents apiece if it’s exclusive. Imagine, Jo, that’s some good egg money.”
Twice as much as what Mrs. English is offering. Visions of hanging up my own little shingle on Madison Avenue dance across my vision. Would the fine ladies of New York like my knots? Perhaps I can tie and advise at the same time. My sign could read JO KUAN, THOUGHTS AND KNOTS.
“Come, I’ll introduce you.” She pulls me toward her table. “You have trouble getting through the door?”
“A little. You?”
She snorts. “I would’ve, if I hadn’t come with Atlanta’s best seamstress. Meet Mary Harper. She works for Mrs. Bullis.” She throws a glance to the top hat, who is back to barking orders.
“Hello, I’m Jo Kuan.”
Mary doesn’t smile at me, but nods, her large eyes bright and curious. Her needle whips in and out of a wide swath of marigold cloth, already stitched with trees and flowers. Beside her, a pointy-chinned young woman with a bright handkerchief wrapping her hair gives me a look full of barbed wire. Her skin is more golden than brown, and the only soft thing about her are her full lips.