“Exactly right,” she said.
“I know,” said Pearl. “We should eat sitting on the floor. Don’t worry, Harry, I’ll get you a new plate.”
They left the mess and settled on the rug in the living room, like a group of picnickers in Central Park. Pearl spoke of her favorite teacher, going on and on at length, until finally Laura interrupted and asked Harry about his.
“You’re my favorite teacher,” he answered.
Jack reached over and put his large hand over the boy’s bony shoulder. “Good answer, my child. Mine, too.”
That evening, Laura dove into Jack’s manuscript, the only sound the low murmur of Jack reading aloud to the children from the other room.
The next day, he woke her from the easy chair where she’d fallen asleep, the last few pages on her lap.
“How was it?”
She yawned and smiled up at him. Losing a night of sleep had been well worth it. “Wonderful. Brilliant.”
“You’re not saying that because you’re married to me, are you?”
“It’s one of the best books I’ve read in ages.” She wasn’t lying. He’d captured the internal and external journey of a young man coming to New York at the turn of the century with an acuity that took her breath away. “It’s splendid, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
* * *
At the Saturday meeting of the Heterodoxy Club, Laura was greeted like a returning hero—or, more aptly, heroine—for having braved the protest with Amelia, for being part of the revolution. She tried to downplay her role in the demonstration, since she was truly there just as an observer, but that didn’t matter. Jessie approached Amelia, the two of them sharing a friendly chat before the opening remarks, but it didn’t bother Laura at all. What she’d experienced earlier in the month was simply leftover anxiety from being so close to violence, most likely. Needing a comrade to deal with the aftershocks, and that comrade naturally being Amelia, who took charge and offered safety. They were just friends, and that was perfectly fine, perfectly normal. She and Jack had weathered the storms of the past few months and come out the other end, now that he’d completed his book.
A hat was passed around for a collection for Frank Tannenbaum’s defense, and she handed over the money she’d put aside for her lunch. In the near future, she’d have a steady stream of income of her own. That day couldn’t come soon enough.
Her master’s thesis was almost finished, but she’d been worrying about how to wrap it all up. Inspiration, once again, came from the day’s speaker, a woman named Inez Haynes Gillmore, who read from a series of articles she’d published in Harper’s Bazaar, titled “Confessions of an Alien.”
“‘It seems to me,’” began Inez, “‘I hang in a void midway between two spheres—the man’s sphere and the woman’s sphere. The duties and pleasure of the average woman bore and irritate. The duties and pleasures of the average man interest and allure. I soon found that it was a feeling which I shared with the majority of my kind. I have never met a man who at any time wanted to be a woman. I have met few women who have not at some time or other wanted to be men.’”
At this, the members in the audience broke out in applause. For the first time, Laura wondered if she wouldn’t be happier as a journalist who went beyond mere reporting and actually stated an opinion, like Inez. Inez’s words struck a chord in every woman present, more than if she’d simply reported on the increase in the number of women working outside the home, reflecting the facts back to the public in the hopes that they understood the implications.
What if she wrote specifically to further a cause, in order to change minds?
She wasn’t ready for that, not yet. For now, she had to stick to the facts if she wanted to graduate. Professor Wakeman would have a fit otherwise. Luckily, when she’d shown the rough draft of her master’s thesis to him, he’d told her it was impressive. “But it’s a mess,” he’d added. “Tighten it up and get the sections to flow together better. Your transitions need work. However, I could see a book in this.”
A book! She’d almost fainted. Of course, it couldn’t be a book, as the club had its rules. But maybe after Amelia saw the finished thesis, she’d be just as impressed as Professor Wakeman, and convince the others to give their consent. To think that both she and Jack could have books of their own. In fact, once they were situated in their new careers, he could quit his job at the library and maybe they’d find a pretty apartment in the Village. Professor Wakeman had handed the pages back to her. “It’s better than the other women’s work I’ve seen so far, I’ll give you that. Tighten it up and turn it in. I want it perfect.”
She knew his idea of perfection was higher than any other advisor’s. No spelling errors, no dangling prepositions. Not only did the story have to be solid, but the presentation did, too.
Sunday evening, she retreated to Jack’s desk in the study to finish up the conclusion of her thesis. Now that he’d finished his book, she didn’t feel so obtrusive when she placed his many to-do lists in a neat pile in one corner (the best way to approach a challenge is methodically, he’d always say), before spreading out her own notes across the leather blotter. He walked in and gave her a kiss on the head. “How’s it going?”
“I have a new appreciation for what you’ve been through the past several years. How do I distill everything I’ve learned into a final section that’s powerful, but not repetitive?”
“Remember what made you want to write this in the first place, where that first spark of an idea came from. You can do it, I know you can.”
After he left, she remained in place, staring out the window.
She’d wanted to demonstrate what women were thinking, what the New Woman was thinking, specifically. The women she respected most were those who followed their passion and weren’t afraid to speak the truth out loud, like Amelia. Like her mother, although it was a more muted passion, she being of an older generation. If her mother had been born later, Laura had no doubt she’d be out there marching, instead of dependent on her husband for every little thing.
Laura picked up her pen and began scribbling over the typewritten words on the final pages of the latest draft, editing each paragraph one by one. She’d end this on a sharp note, she decided. She’d take a position, make a stand, and show how much this story meant to her, instead of hiding behind dry facts and quotes. It was a risk, she knew, but wasn’t that what Amelia had done when she’d performed health inspections when every other doctor faked the reports? When Frank Tannenbaum led hundreds in protest? By comparison, this act of rebellion was a minor one. Professor Wakeman had believed she might eventually write a book—why not show him how much she could do with words?