“This past summer the number of infant deaths dropped to three hundred.”
“Down from fifteen hundred?” Laura sat back, stunned. “How?”
“What you see me doing here. Talking sense to women who understand logic. Like you, Mrs. Marino.”
By now the baby was in her mother’s lap, sucking at one breast, gazing up in that love-drunk way that Laura had observed with both of her children.
She’d read nothing about this remarkable program in the newspapers. Not a word. She said as much as they walked back out into the street.
“Maternal health, the health of the babies of poor immigrant women, is not a priority in this city at this time,” said Dr. Potter. She pulled a pocket watch out from her shirtwaist. “I must move on.”
She held out a hand to shake Laura’s, and in that gesture Laura realized how she knew her. From Vassar. Amelia Potter had been a student at the college a few years ahead of Laura. At the time, she’d looked quite different, with a softer hairstyle and no spectacles.
“I know you, from college,” Laura said. As she spoke, the image of Amelia sitting in the grass, surrounded by other girls, came to mind. Laura had joined, sitting slightly apart, nervous about her young age compared to the rest. Amelia sat not in the proper way, with her legs folded neatly under her to one side, but like a man might, her legs cross-legged underneath her, not caring that one knee was exposed. She was reading aloud from a book that was all the rage, The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. Home from break, Laura had mentioned it at the dinner table, but her father had cut her off, saying that it was about a woman who puts her own needs ahead of those of her children and husband, ultimately meeting a tragic end. “An abomination,” her father called it. She’d wondered when he’d read it but knew better than to ask.
Amelia, on that sunny fall day, had read loudly, proudly, from the text, while the girls around her tittered and shared knowing glances. At the time, Laura couldn’t help but stare at Amelia, whose confidence was so much greater than her own. One day, I’ll be like that, she’d vowed.
Well, she wasn’t quite that confident, as her interaction with the Marinos had demonstrated. But with each test she would become a little braver, she was certain. That was why she’d enrolled in the journalism school in the first place, to be challenged.
Dr. Potter regarded Laura. “I don’t remember you. When were you there?”
“Nineteen hundred. I was younger than the rest, and finished earlier. To get married. I’m Laura Lyons now.”
By now, they’d reached the el train. “Well, Laura Lyons, I wish you luck in your current studies.”
“Thank you. And you with your program.”
Laura turned to climb the stairs.
“I say, Mrs. Lyons, you might be interested in coming to the Heterodoxy Club next week, if you’re free.”
“The what?” Laura had never heard the term before, and wasn’t sure what it even meant.
“It’s a luncheon club held in Greenwich Village every other Saturday, for women who aren’t afraid to speak their minds. You might enjoy it.” She pulled out a card from her satchel and scribbled an address, date, and time on the back. “Do come.”
Laura began writing her article on the train back to Columbia, so that once she reached the city room all she had to do was type it up, her fingers flying, making small fixes as she went. After everyone’s copy was handed in, Professor Wakeman read through them out loud, offering suggestions as he spoke, placing ones he felt worthy of being on the front page in a separate pile. Finally, he got to Laura’s piece. He stopped after the first paragraph and looked over at her.
“You met this Dr. Potter in person?”
“Yes, I happened to be there during a home visit.”
He carried on reading, making no corrections or suggestions. “Did you make this up?”
Laura stiffened. “Of course not. It’s all true. They’ve saved hundreds of babies’ lives in a year.”
“Then why haven’t I read about this elsewhere?”
Dr. Potter’s words came back to Laura. “Because no one cares about immigrants’ babies.”
He regarded Laura. “This is front page, no doubt.”
She grinned as her story was placed on the top of the pile. Even if it wouldn’t be read by anyone other than her professor and the other students for now, once she’d graduated she’d make this her first pitch to her editor, and get the word out about the remarkable efforts of Dr. Amelia Potter.
She couldn’t wait.
* * *
After his initial disapproval, Professor Wakeman had warmed up to Laura, and allowed her to dig into the “women’s assignments” from whatever quirky angle she came up with. When they were assigned to cover a suffragist parade in Brooklyn, she hung back at the end of the march with the anti-suffragists, dressed in red and black, who grabbed banners and tore them in half. Some of her articles for the student newspaper fell flat, but she continued to find a way to make each one her own. With each passing week, her writing improved, and she ended up on the front page more often than not.
“You’re thinking of your next article, aren’t you?” said Jack with a sly smile as they walked up Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve. The children skipped ahead, eager to arrive at their grandparents’ house and open their gifts right off.
“We’re on break. Until next month, there’s nothing to think on.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Well, all right, yes. How could you tell?”
“I recognize it in myself. When I’m lost in thought, I’m sure I get the same look in my eyes. Far away.”
He’d been staying up later and later working on his manuscript. The dark circles under his eyes worried her, but he seemed happier than ever. Giddy, some evenings, when he crawled next to her in bed, reaching for her under her nightgown and pressing close. That giddiness had made him the center of attention back when they first met, when he was a young, soon-to-be-famous author who liked nothing better than to exchange quips in a room full of other soon-to-be-famous types. Before the hard work of writing a book had chipped away at his confidence.
“I know you’ve enjoyed school immensely so far.” Jack turned serious, looking down at her with pity. The scholarship that Dr. Anderson had arranged wouldn’t cover next term, and she’d approached the provost of the school, hoping for some financial assistance, but apparently, there were no more funds available. Her story ideas meant nothing if she couldn’t attend classes.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it will all work out,” she said.
“I’m sure it will. But if it doesn’t, can you defer a year?”