Noemi’s nostrils flare, and I would not be surprised to see smoke curling out of them. She snatches her list back from Mrs. Bullis. With her head held not too high, nor too low, she crosses to the exit.
We file behind her, each passing over a creaky floorboard. The shame that warms my cheeks feels more diffuse than it did at age thirteen, and I gather it in my hands and set it in a corner. Maybe self-worth is something we grow into day by day, the way a spine elongates and calcifies. Hammer Foot once said that people don’t lack strength, they lack the will. As I follow Noemi and her friends out the door of the Grace Baptist Church, I muse he wasn’t talking about these ladies, whose iron wills may not shine, but do ring when hammered.
* * *
—
THE STREETLAMPS FLICKER as we pass by, and a three-quarter moon keeps its eye on us. Rose slips an arm around Mary, who sways a little on her feet. “Well, that was a bust. I didn’t even get to finish my stitches.”
“Just what were you stitching anyway?” asks Noemi. “A squirrel?”
“Nope.” Rose throws a grin back at us.
“A pinecone?” I offer, but she shakes her head.
“Oh no, Rose, you didn’t,” says Mary.
“I did. They deserve a few patty cakes. Maybe next time, they’ll think twice about giving us the back end of the horse.”
The night is cool but not cold. Water droplets hang in the air, blowing wet kisses at our cheeks as we walk.
“We should form our own society,” Noemi says quietly from beside me.
Rose snorts. “Please, Noemi. Not until I’ve had a hot bath.”
A voice calls after us. “Jo! Wait, Jo?”
We all look around. Lizzie waves.
“You go on,” I tell the others. By the time slow-footed Lizzie catches up, they could be home in bed. “I’m just around the corner.”
“See you in the kitchen tomorrow.” With a wink, Noemi leads the others off.
By the time Lizzie catches up, the women are no more than ripples against the screen of night. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she drawls.
“Nor I you.”
She throws back a tuft of hair, but it returns, like a terrier wanting to play fetch. “What happened back there was just so”—she wiggles her gloved fingers—“unseemly. I didn’t want to be a suffragist, but Mrs. English said it’s the right thing to do, and plus it’s good for business.”
“She’s right on both counts.”
“Yes, well, Mother wasn’t happy. She says politics are too difficult for women to understand and that we should trust the men. She’s not a fan of Miss Sweetie.”
I feign interest in a passing carriage.
“Not like me.” Her blue eyes watch me with an unexpected intensity, and my skin tingles. “I know, Jo.” She brings her face close enough for me to notice a thin white scar above her eyebrow.
I hardly breathe. “You know what?”
“You are Miss Sweetie.”
Thirty
Something smug sits back on Lizzie’s face.
Did Nathan tell her? I lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry. “Why would you think I’m Miss Sweetie?”
“You lost your job and then suddenly you’re working at the Focus the same time as her columns start showing up. Remember that letter from Hatless in Atlanta, asking how to stretch a tight hat? I wrote that letter. I didn’t expect you to write back. Steam the inner ribbon, you said. I forgot that you had taught me that trick at English’s.” She hoists a wide grin like a trophy.
“Oh.” My kneecaps bobble. She could unmask me. The Focus would lose its credibility, and all the work Miss Sweetie has done will slip loose, like poorly tied knots. “You won’t tell, will you? I could get into real trouble if anyone finds out.”
“Shoo, why would you say that? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Er, friends, yes. Thank you, Lizzie. I appreciate it. You should get back to the meeting. Mrs. English will be wondering where you’re off to.”
“No, she won’t. She sent me after you to ask you about those knots.”
“Please tell her she can order them exclusively through Buxbaum’s.”
Before reaching the abandoned barn, I conceal myself between a pair of trees, tempted to detour toward the Bells’. However, as far as I can tell, “The Custom-ary” has done its job raising interest and not pitchforks. Surely subscriptions will follow. If I visited Nathan, it would be for personal reasons, and there should be nothing more personal between us.
A rustle in the grass freezes me in place. I strain to see into the field of weeds and brush that stretches out to the street fifty yards behind me. But anything more than a few paces away has been tarred in night. I should’ve paid more attention, instead of walking so deep in my thoughts.
Crickets chirp, and the breeze hisses, but the sound doesn’t come again.
Get ahold of yourself. It’s probably just a snake or a rabbit.
With my heart beating a drum in my head, I scamper to the barn.
Even when I’m back safe in my burrows, it is hard to rub the chill from my skin.
* * *
—
WHEN I ENTER the kitchen the next morning, Noemi is hunched over the counter, reading a newspaper to Etta Rae.
“Good morning,” I say.
Etta Rae claps me on the shoulder with one of her rug-beater arms. “Morning, Jo.”
Noemi straightens. “Good, you’re here. There’s trouble afoot, and it ain’t wearing shoes.”
“Is it walking toward us?” Perhaps Caroline has confronted Mrs. Payne with the rumor of her illegitimacy. If so, Mrs. Payne will need to stamp out that fire before the good Payne name goes up in smoke.
“Let’s hope not. It all started with Miss Sweetie’s article ‘The Singular Question.’ You seen it?”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
Etta Rae folds the newspaper and sets it in the letter basket she usually delivers to Mrs. Payne every morning. “I never saw the good in catching a husband, myself. Why would I want another job waiting for me back at home?” She ties on a bonnet. “The chickens are waiting for me. Mind you walk soft today and don’t bother Mrs. Payne. She’s in one of her melancholies.” Out the door she goes.
Noemi takes up a narrow knife and, with smooth strokes of her wrist, slices the meat from a freshly severed lamb shank. “They in a fit over Merritt’s broken engagement. Mr. Payne didn’t go to the mills today, and seems no one here can talk without slamming a door. According to Solomon, Mr. Payne paid the Focus a visit yesterday and demanded they expose Miss Sweetie.”