The crowd was whipped up into a frenzy that matched the violent gusts of wind, some men leaping into the air. Laura looked around for other reporters covering the story but saw nothing, no men with notebooks nor photographers lugging their cameras. It was day ten of the protests, after all, and frigid. They probably figured there was nothing new to report. She could already hear in her head the professor’s disappointment at her lack of imagination, covering a story that had come and gone in the press.
Frank asked for the men to quiet down, and they obeyed. “Tonight, we’ll approach the Catholic church and ask for help. For beds, for food. If they refuse, we will expose their hypocrisy, as we have the other churches who refused us. For putting their own riches before the riches of their flock. This nation’s working class deserves more!”
In a graceful leap, Frank jumped to the ground and led the men to a church a few blocks away, reaching it just as the priest slammed the door to the church shut, locking it against them. A couple of men tried the side door, but no luck there, either. By then, Laura and Amelia had become swallowed up by the crowd and were being pulled toward the front steps of the church, where men pounded on the doors, cursing and screaming.
“The police!”
The two words sliced through the air. The mob heaved into itself as panic began to spread.
Sirens blared as a group of policemen came from behind, slamming their truncheons down hard on whoever stood in their way. Just to Laura’s left, the sickening sound of wood on bone, followed by a howl of pain, made her clutch Amelia closer. There was no way out, not against the bulk of so many.
“I’m so sorry, we have to get out of here, I’m so sorry.” Amelia wrapped her arm around Laura, and together they blindly shoved their way north, or maybe west. Laura had lost all sense of direction.
Laura lost grip of Amelia’s hand twice, and twice she flailed about like a drowning swimmer before reconnecting with her friend. Finally, they reached an alley where they could catch their breath in the safety of darkness.
On any other night, Laura wouldn’t have been caught dead in an alley in this part of town, where rats and drunks scrambled and thieves lurked, hoping for an easy mark. But tonight, she didn’t care that she couldn’t tell what muck she was stepping on, nor the source of the foul smell that emanated from the ground. The dark alley provided safety, for now.
“We can stay here until it quiets down,” said Amelia. “Then we’ll get a taxicab and get out of here.” Amelia held both of Laura’s arms just above the elbow, and stared hard at her. In the darkness, Laura could tell that her mouth was partly open, her gaze fierce. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Thank God.”
As the mob began breaking up, the two women ran north until they came upon a taxicab. Inside, they sat close together. Laura felt Amelia shaking beneath her skirts, just as she was. She moved closer, drawing a renewed sense of strength and safety from being nestled together in the back seat.
“Well, that was exciting,” Laura said quietly.
Amelia let out an unladylike snort. “Your capacity for understatement never ceases to amaze.”
“I suppose I’m the one who got us into this mess by daring you. From now on, we will stick to cocktail party chatter.”
“I’m glad you dared me. I feel alive. Don’t you?”
Laura did. Her lips were raw from the wind and the cold, and her skin tingled with electricity.
When they reached Patchin Place, Amelia gave Laura a long hug. Laura clutched her friend close, unwilling to let her go. Finally, they parted and Laura headed uptown, where the library loomed like a tomb in the darkness.
Even though it was late, she sat down at Jack’s desk, eager to get started before the events of the evening faded away. Being a reporter was much like being a bloodhound: just as the dogs picked up a scent and tracked it from one spot to the next, reporters gathered up clues, moving from source to source, following the narrative to completion. She worried that if she waited until morning, the trail of inspiration might go cold.
She wrote of what had happened, moment by moment, but also of how the clash spoke to the hopes of the future and the failures of the past. She wanted to get down the whole picture, just as she wanted to provide a well-rounded thesis on the women of the Heterodoxy Club, and how their words and actions would affect their daughters and the daughters who came after that. She’d picked up the scent of change, of revolution, and wanted to see where it took them all.
The next day in class, she staggered to Professor Wakeman’s desk, bleary with exhaustion, and watched as he read it through.
“My, my, Mrs. Lyons. A protest, with police, even. When did all this happen?”
“Last night.”
“You didn’t make any of this up, did you?”
She wished he’d stop asking her that. “No, of course not.”
“Quite the intrepid reporter, aren’t you? What did your husband make of this?”
Jack had been sullen that morning, but that was nothing new. “My husband is fine with my studies, Professor.”
“Quite the modern man, then.” Professor Wakeman gave her top marks. She knew she deserved no less.
She also knew exactly who she wanted to share the good news with.
Downtown, she turned onto Patchin Place and stopped cold. Amelia’s door was wide-open. She stood on the stone step, her head tipped forward in a kiss, Jessie’s arms wrapped around her waist. The two women remained locked together, unconcerned by the bold display of affection.
Laura hung back, out of view. Here she was, bringing high-minded uptown morals downtown again. It was fine for two women to love each other. So why did she feel sick?
No, not sick. Angry. She had felt so connected with Amelia last night during their terrible adventure, racing through the rabble, maneuvering this way and that without signals or words, as if they were a pair of birds in the sky. Seeing her share a close moment with someone else this morning felt like a betrayal. It was their story, not Amelia and Jessie’s.
But that wasn’t it, either.
She was jealous.
Because she wanted to be the one kissing Amelia’s lips.
Jack was her husband, and made her so happy, or had made her happy. She loved being in his arms, his very maleness. But with Amelia, she could talk of her fears and worries without censoring herself or worrying that she’d take it personally and grow cold. They’d laughed more in these past couple of months than she and Jack had this past year. Part of that was the stress of his work and his book, of course, and her going to back to school. There simply wasn’t enough time.
In fact, it wasn’t fair to compare the two desires. Family life was far more complicated than this idea of free love could possibly encompass. She and Jack had children together, a household. A shared life.