“That’s nonsense,” said her mother. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a risk. I highly recommend it, whenever possible. Pearl, your mother is strong and will be fine. Taking risks is what life is all about.”
Pearl looked from her grandmother to her mother. “But Mother seems unhappy.”
“Maybe for now,” said Laura. “But I assure you I’ll be fine. That we’ll all be fine. Grandmother is right.”
The buoyancy of Laura’s mother’s faith in her future sustained her through the evening, but the next morning, Laura found herself standing dejectedly at the kitchen sink. She threw down the dish towel, took off her apron, and headed to the Village, to Patchin Place.
Over the past several months, whenever Laura had discussed the thesis with Amelia, she’d provided a watered-down summary, one that lacked any specific references to the Heterodoxy Club. She didn’t bother to elucidate further today, as it really didn’t matter anymore. Amelia listened quietly as Laura told her what Professor Wakeman had done.
“The professor knew he was wrong,” said Laura, her fists clenched in anger. “He knew it.”
“You should do what you threatened—compare the number of women who’ve failed to the men.”
“It would be a very small sample, and probably wouldn’t prove anything. I suppose the good news is that, going forward, Professor Wakeman will consider women students in a new light, and think before he dismisses and fails them for something that he allows, encourages even, in the men. I had the bad luck of the draw.”
“I’m so sorry.” Amelia reached over and gave her a hug, holding her close, before getting up to put another log on the fire and rejoining her on the sofa. They sat, side by side, staring at the burning log without speaking for a minute, and Laura’s mind spun. How would her life change once Jack’s book came out? Would they move from the library? Would he agree to move downtown? Every possibility nagged at her, and in every one, her wishes were secondary to her husband’s. If she’d graduated, she might have landed a job and held some economic weight. The right to have an opinion. Without a salary or income of her own, Jack’s desires were more important, even if he insisted otherwise. It wasn’t fair.
Her head ached. “I feel like with every year, my brain is a sponge that soaks up painful experiences like water, so by the time I’m fifty, I won’t be able to hold it upright.”
Amelia laughed and turned to her. “What on earth are you talking about? You’re raving mad.”
“You’re probably right.”
“But I know exactly what you mean.”
“I knew you would.”
They looked at each other; Amelia’s brown eyes were soft and kind. Laura was glad she’d come.
“So what now, Mrs. Lyons?” Amelia asked.
“Jack wants me to be his typist.”
“God, no.”
“Don’t worry, I said pretty much the same thing. But I’m not sure what else to do.”
“You don’t need a journalism degree to be a journalist.”
“It’s going to be harder starting from the ground up. I have no experience, no published pieces, nothing to offer an employer.”
“You’ve got all of us. The club. We’ve got a lot of connections in newspapers, magazines.”
“I suppose so.” She hadn’t realized until just now how wide her social circle had become. Maybe Amelia was right.
“Hell, write a book about the women’s movement. I’d buy it.”
Amelia considered the world as if it were full of possibilities, not closed doors. Laura studied her friend’s features in the firelight. The way her mouth moved, the curve of her chin. What Laura wanted, more than anything, was to sit across from Amelia all day, listen to her speak, and stare at her features, just take in her very being. The last time she’d felt this way was when the children were newborns—a rush of love, of devotion, that was unstoppable.
“You are part of our family, now,” Amelia said. “You can count on us.”
“Thank you.”
Amelia closed her eyes and leaned back again, smiling.
The temptation was too much. It was if an invisible wave propelled Laura slowly forward, leaning closer and closer.
Until their lips met.
She pulled back immediately, the shock of the softness too much, but Amelia stayed still, placing a hand on Laura’s arm, the gentle pressure leaving no question about her own desire.
Laura kissed her again, and this time Amelia’s lips parted and then there was tongue and breath. A fire raced through Laura’s body, from her stomach to between her legs. She shifted her hand from where it rested on Amelia’s waist up to her breast, which was full and heavy. She’d dreamed of touching Amelia this way the last time she and Jack had made love. While her hands had stroked his body, her mind had imagined another silhouette, a woman’s.
Amelia’s.
* * *
Laura’s love for Amelia, their friendship, the way their bodies moved, defied any kind of categorization. Over the past few weeks, the minute they found themselves alone, it was as if a magnet pulled them close, and before long their skirts and petticoats were mixed in with the sheets and pillows, two pairs of stockings lumped down at the very foot of the bed.
They spoke quickly and easily around each other, interrupting and correcting, reevaluating their own positions and opinions. Laura had never seen anything of the sort between her mother and her father—her father’s desires always overruled her mother’s—nor really between her and Jack. Jack was a traditional husband, in many ways, and made the lion’s share of the decisions for their family. She hadn’t noticed until now how much she deferred to his wishes, even if they came from a place of benevolence. They weren’t equals, as much as she’d pretended they were.
But that was no excuse for what she was doing. Every time she turned the corner into Patchin Place, Laura’s guilt peaked into a sick panic. But then Amelia would draw Laura into her arms, and their inevitable dance of desire would unfold as naturally as a summer rain.
Amelia stretched out on her stomach on her bed and ran her finger along the inside of Laura’s arm, rattling off possible interview subjects for Laura’s book. “Marie Jenney Howe, of course. I’m sure we can get Emma Goldman, if we approach her the right way.”
“I’m still not sure. I’ve written articles, but an entire book?”
“You have to stop doubting yourself,” Amelia said, taking her hand and kissing each finger lightly on the tip. “It’ll be good for you to write this book,” she said, after. “Get you out in the real world.”