“And this is Mary’s sister-in-law, Rose St. Pierre.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same.”
Noemi pushes me into a chair.
“What did I miss?”
“That Mrs. Bullis made a big speech about how women’s brains are just as heavy as men’s. They done research on that. Then they put us all to work on this banner for the horse race, since Mrs. Payne accepted their bid, and you know who had a hand in that.” She winks. “And, oh, did you catch the Miss Sweetie article yesterday?”
“I did,” I say, holding my breath.
“We’re also supposed to write down the ‘Custom-aries’ that work against women. Mrs. Bullis says she’ll collect the best and send them to the Focus on behalf of the Atlanta Suffragists. Why do you look so surprised? You got a good one?”
“No, but I bet you do.”
“Almost done adding my bit.” Noemi writes on her paper.
“Nice work,” I tell Mary, who has sewn an impressive image of the horse’s hindquarters on her fabric, and not a single grinning stitch. The other tables have barely started on their squares.
“Thank you.”
“Course they got to give us the horse’s backside,” says Rose. “And why do you think that is?”
“Because that’s the half that gets things done, that’s why.” Noemi sets down her pencil. “We been standing in the back for a long time, but we can change that when we get the vote.”
“They don’t care about us. Just using us as always.” Rose tugs the fabric away from Mary. “Let me add some stitches so I can say I did something.”
Noemi hands me the list. “What do you think?”
Lynching.
Selling some folks eggs with cracks in them even though their money’s the same color as everybody else’s!
Not letting us follow the path we wish to tread.
“I think I know who said what,” I say, looking at each face in turn. Rose is watching Mrs. Bullis and Mrs. Bread Loaf draw closer as they pass out marigold sashes from a cardboard box. Without even looking at us, they sweep by.
Noemi quickly gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bullis, ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering if we could get some of those sashes, too?”
“These are for wearing at the race.” Mrs. Bullis sweeps her restless fingers down the length of a sash, petting it as if it were a cat’s tail.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be there.”
The petting stops, and Mrs. Bullis cuts her gaze to Mrs. Bread Loaf, who is squeezing the box to her chest as if it might try to run away.
“Mary works on Saturdays,” says Mrs. Bullis.
Mary, who is wrapping an embroidery thread around her finger, glances around her and then back down at her lap. “I was hoping you’d let me have a few hours off, ma’am.” Mary’s voice is whisper soft. “To support the cause, and all.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. The cause doesn’t need you.”
Rose pauses her work on something resembling a potato and rolls the needle between her fingers. I bet she’s thinking about which end of the top hat she’d like to stick it to.
Noemi seems to sway on her feet, an oak enduring a wind. “But you just said in your speech that the woman’s hour is at hand. Ain’t we, that is, aren’t we women? And we’re about finished with our part. Even wrote some Custom-aries that need releasing, right here.” She holds out her list.
Mrs. Bullis’s eyes rake over the list and then she blows out a breath that reminds me of Frederick. “These are not women’s concerns, they are colored concerns.”
“They’re not colored concerns, they’re human concerns, and women make up half the humans. If we all work together, we can make some real change. Laws that fix the bad smell. Laws that give us rights to keep our property, instead of letting good-for-nothing husbands gamble it away. You want that, don’t you?”
Mrs. Bullis’s teapot face blows steam. “How dare you! Mary?”
Mary jerks, eyes wide.
Noemi knots her shawl tight over her solid arms and keeps her gaze fixed on Mrs. Bullis’s chin. “Mary didn’t tell about your situation, Mrs. Bullis. It’s well-known, is all.”
Mrs. Bullis reels up her nose as high as it will go, eyes searching out a good place to cast her hook. “You’ll have to wait your turn, all of you”—she glares at me—“just like we did. Your men got the vote, but most sold it for drinking money. Now it’s our turn.”
The room has gone silent. You would probably hear the drop of a needle if one were to fall. On the other side of the room, Lizzie’s face is stretched long, though Mrs. English is staring through the ceiling, maybe wondering why she is here and not home soaking her feet.
Noemi rocks from side to side, but when she speaks, her voice is even as steel tracks. “If any did sell their votes, they likely did so only because they thought it made no difference how they cast them. A greased pig isn’t worth much if you can’t hold on to it long enough to make bacon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re verging on impertinence.”
Noemi takes her time filling her lungs, her lowered gaze taking in all the eyes cooling on her. “Ma’am, what I’m saying is, we got plenty of good women waiting to cast our ballots and make things right again for everyone. And we’re going to keep pulling for ballots, whether you let us or not.”
A collective gasp sweeps through the room, and then whispers start up.
Mrs. Bullis’s marigold sash whips through the air, a jag of lightning. “I think it’s time you leave. You, too, Mary. Go back home and work on the curtains like I asked.”
Mary’s head is bowed, exposing the bumps of her neck bones.
“Mary, do you hear me?”
Rose bites off thread with her teeth and mutters, “She hears you.” She squints hard enough to tangle her lashes, and it’s as if she were trying to keep her vexation from seeping out her eyes.
Mary unbends her neck, and I’m reminded of a bird unfolding. She gathers her gray skirts and rises. “I don’t want to do the curtains right now, Mrs. Bullis.”
“Don’t want to do . . . ,” Mrs. Bullis echoes, looking wildly around her as if she could be the butt of a joke. “Well, then you . . .” Her eyes fall upon the embroidered half-horse, and she sucks in her sentence. A good seamstress can be hard to find. Especially with so many vultures waiting to swoop in. “All of you, go. Just go!”