Something Worth Doing Page 23

  “Do you think he wants to do that?”

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thirty Years and Counting

  JUNE 1883

  _______

  They returned home from the Annual Pioneer Association gathering on a beautiful June day. Ben had come with her, and she’d planned to simply mingle with old friends and mention face-to-face the constitutional amendment that was the referral for the 1884 vote. She wore a green ribbon with words “Votes for Women” written in black over a white backing. She would speak one-on-one and listen to any new arguments in opposition so she could address them. But the main speaker—a man—had gotten ill and she’d been asked to read his presentation. Which she did, joking that here was an example of a “woman representing a man” and soon women would have the vote and a woman might represent a man in the legislature. People had chuckled. Abigail never lost a chance to mention the vote. There was nothing controversial in her saying so.

  When she finished reading the missing speaker’s manuscript, she spoke for thirty minutes more, quoting words of a revered pioneer named Jesse Applegate, who had said how he wished his wife—now deceased—had shared liberty with him in her lifetime. Everyone in the Pioneer Association loved Cynthia Applegate, and Abigail built on that shared regard to remind the men that Cynthia Applegate was the example of the kind of wise women Oregon cherished and it was only right that such women be permitted to share liberty with men. “Next year, you men have a chance to make that happen for your wives and daughters.” Polite applause followed.

  “I think that went well, don’t you, Ben?” Abigail removed her hat, lifted her thick curls from her neck, and fanned herself, then went into the kitchen to slice the loaf of bread she’d brought back from the picnic. Both Ralph and Clyde had joined them. She wasn’t sure where the older boys had spent the afternoon.

  Ben followed her into the kitchen, chewing on his pipe stem. “I didn’t know you were going to lecture today.”

  “I wasn’t scheduled to. It was because their speaker became ill. I told you, remember?”

  “Oh. Yes. I do now. I always like it when you mention this Oregon country, all its beauty and that line about there being ‘lessons of liberty in the rock-rimmed mountains that pierce our blue horizons with their snow-crowned heads’ and on like that.”

  “Do you? I’m impressed you remember that line, word for word.”

  “You’ve said it before, and I always have an image of the view from our Sunny Hillside farm.” Ben pulled a chair out from the table and sat. The family still congregated in the kitchen area, despite their having turned the old millinery into a large-gathering living room where suffrage meetings were often held.

  “Oregon pioneers relate to the expansiveness of this country, at least most men do. I try to equate our land with the effort of the men and women drawn to it and help make them take that leap that, in such a country with its wide expanse, men must open their arms to women’s spirit too, to our capabilities to make right decisions. I mean, the law allows drunkards and wife-beaters to vote, why not wonderful women like Cynthia Applegate or widows like Kate who have no man to represent them?”

  “You don’t need to convince me, Jenny.”

  She smiled. “I do go on, don’t I?” She patted his shoulder as she moved behind him to open the larder. Is he getting thinner? “I know I ruffle feathers. Often.” I’d like to be revered like Cynthia Applegate is.

  “It’s your way. But you also give us good pictures in our heads of how liberty and rimrock ridges join hands.”

  Back at the table, she sliced ham and cut chunks of cheese. The younger boys waited patiently. “And that’s my calling. Our calling, to make waves for liberty.” She held the knife up as though it was a torch.

  “Momma.” Fourteen-year-old Ralph stepped back out of her way.

  “Ma’s pontificating,” Clyde said. He sat at the table, having gotten the mayonnaise from the icebox. He had whipped it up himself with eggs and oil and spread it on the sliced bread.

  “She does that a lot,” Ben said. “But seldom with a knife.” The men in her life laughed.

  “My words are my weapons.” She smiled and finished cutting the bread for their light supper. Chen, the Chinese cook, had taken the day off.

  They ate and chattered, and the boys told of overhearing suffrage conversations that spoke well of passage in the vote the following year. But Ben’s forgetting that her presentation hadn’t been planned concerned her. She was sure she’d told him that. Lately, he had been surprised at things she’d told him of—where she was going, when she’d be back. She made sure Willis and Wilke knew, so that if she needed to be reached, she could be. They were so close to achieving this goal, together. She didn’t want to think about Ben’s not being able to remember how important it all was and his part in it.

  The associations, national and local, had been doing their educating, writing, speaking, forming new local suffrage groups, attempting to force the liquor industry from going against the franchise. Abigail traveled too, but she also stayed a little closer to home, paying attention to Ben. She didn’t want to ask how his work was going. Maybe it was routine enough that his memory lapses wouldn’t be obvious. Tuition for the youngest boys meant they could use every dime that came in.

  On one of those days at home, Clara Belle visited, bringing four-year-old Earl with her. He seemed listless, but Clara was in high spirits, exclaiming about their log home. “I’ve found work in Washington Territory sewing for a new hotel in Washougal. The Columbia River is so majestic, Momma. And you can see Mount Hood from our cabin. It’s beautiful country. And growing. I made all the window curtains for the hotel, crocheting each edge. Come visit us and we’ll take supper there.”

  “You’re having to sew? What’s that Don doing that you’re compelled to work?”

  “Momma, you still stitch in the evenings. You even talk about it in your speeches, how you have to sew and pay your own expenses half the time.”

  “I do it because I like to.”

  “You do not like to sew.” Clara Belle laughed. She had the most engaging giggle, Abigail thought. “You grumble all the time you’re threading the needle. We children just learned to overlook it.”

  Abigail harrumphed. “How are things with the battle for the ballot in the Washington Territory?”

  “You know as well as any of us, Momma. There are good rumblings that this year we’ll see passage. A year before Oregon.”

  “That’s all right. It’ll push Oregon legislators to see their neighboring men make a sound decision.”

  “They almost passed women’s suffrage in 1854, but it lost by one vote. I hope we don’t miss that close this time,” Clara Belle said.

  “Surely those legislators have learned their lesson. Oh, this law-promoting is worse than sausage-making.”

  Clara Belle laughed again. “Remember that time we had to catch up the hog to butcher? Papa was away and Uncle John helped out.”

  “You were so young. I’m surprised you remember that.”

  “You hooted after you got cleaned up from the muck. I don’t see you laugh much, so I guess it stayed in my memory as special.”

  Abigail hadn’t thought she didn’t snigger and chortle all that often, but perhaps Clara Belle was right. “Are you laughing much yourself these days?”

  Clara Belle looked away. “Don’s working a lot.” Her daughter nodded at the scraps of cloth Abigail had cut out and were spread across the table. “Are you making something for the fair?”

  “I had to. I wrote about how dreadful I thought it was that women were relegated to spending precious time on stitchery at the end of their hardworking days, only to earn a few coins as fair premiums. They could be taking needed rests or promoting the vote. I suggested we women were meant for bigger things, bigger inventions like those I saw at the exhibition in ’76. Well, I got some letters about that.”

  Clara Belle picked up the cloth pieces, rubbed
them between her fingers. “It’s very soothing, quilt-making and stitching. And I end up with something beautiful and warm for my family. Some items I sell but that feels good too. I’ve met other women that way, made friends and been inspired. Maybe you ought not to disparage the domestic arts, Momma. Artists need a community.”

  “I don’t think my quilting will ever be considered art. A couple of letter-writers challenged me to make a quilt. I wrote—foolishly perhaps—that any fool can make a quilt. After making so many through the years, only a fool would spend so much time cutting and stitching back together those little pieces. I started this one after Ralph was born. Anyway, I’ve been charged with making a patchwork quilt out of silk and satin. Terrible material to work with. Not unlike suffrage having to take scraps of ideas, shape them to fit the men who will vote, and somehow come up with a glorious result we want. After the fair, we’ll sell it to raise money for suffrage.”

  “You see, stitching does have a higher purpose.”

  “I suppose. Where’s Don traveling to? Has he gotten you help?” Abigail gave Earl a book she’d gotten, filled with sketches of horses and simple words he might recognize if Clara Belle had been teaching him.

  “I miss my husband, the way you missed Papa when he was in the mines.”

  “I hope you’re not having to work that hard, so hard as I did then.”

  “I can do it. Earl takes long naps.” She leaned over as he pointed to a word. “Dressage. It’s a special kind of riding people do back east.” Then to her mother she continued. “I thought I had enough wood chopped for the whole year, but it’s cool near the river and it looks like I’ll have to store up a few more cords.” She flexed her muscles. “Now my arms are as strong as my piano-playing fingers.”

  “At least you have the piano.” Later Abigail would remember that Clara had not confirmed this statement. Abigail went on to express a warning instead. “Chopping wood by yourself is not a good idea. What if you drop the ax or cut yourself, all alone out there? I’ll send your brothers up to ready you for the winter. Your father will want to go too.”

  “Women have been chopping wood and building fires for generations, Momma. It’s work that makes us stronger, helps define who we are. You did it yourself. And when we left the farm, you brought that old broom along, as a symbol, remember?”

  “Humph.” Can it be that the years on the Illinois farm, the years on Hardscrabble have shaped me more than I realize?

  “We can make a party of it,” Clara continued. “I’d like to show you my home, Momma. You’ll come, won’t you, if you send the men out to rescue me?” She grinned.

  “I’ll see what my schedule allows.”

  She saw the frown across her daughter’s face. There it is again, this avoidance of a happy potential. “A family gathering would be a good get-together. We’ll see what we can arrange.” Maybe Kate was right about her aversion to things that could touch the tenderness of her own heart, that gaining the vote had robbed her of the very things that might bring her joy in a battle that had already taken thirty years of her time. She could not let it matter. This suffrage work was worth doing, no matter how long it took or whom it took from.

  “You take that businessman.” Abigail pointed to the list of men they’d need to nurture through this final phase. “I’ll take these. You know the routine. Curry and comb, pamper and praise. I will personally be on my best behavior.”

  The members of the association chuckled. Abigail on her “best behavior” could still bring a stinging rebuke if she thought it necessary.

  When she was invited to speak to the Washington Territorial Legislature and celebrated with them the passage of women’s suffrage, she traveled to Olympia at nearly her own expense. The organizations had been unable to secure stable financing, and Abigail had reported in her role as president of the Oregon association that she’d neglected this year to prepare or tabulate a statement of receipts and expenditures. “I tried it for two months, and the balance on the wrong side of the ledger became so large that I feared to keep it up, lest the unpleasant reflection over statistics would so discourage me that I would not have the heart to carry the work to completion.” That confession, or perhaps chastisement, had resulted in a small reimbursement for her expenses, but her vice-chair had also told her that the treasurer would want an accounting. She’d have to ask Ben to help—if he could.

  On her way back from her speech-making, she had taken the steamship to Washougal. With directions at the landing—people had heard of the Stearns place—Abigail tromped along the path into the thickness of trees and brambles, blackberries, and bushes that someone had cut back from the roadway for the main path. But the side path she’d been told to take to Clara Belle’s house wasn’t so neatly cleared.

  Ben, Willis, and Wilkie had chopped wood for the Stearnses. Ben had supervised, he assured Abigail, had not strained his spine. He’d reported back on the conditions. “Pretty primitive,” he’d said. She had not joined them. Too many duties. “But our Clara Belle has turned that hut into a home. The way you did at Hardscrabble. You two have more in common than you might want to admit.”

  “Is she eating all right? Is Earl well? He looked so thin when they were here last.”

  Ben shrugged. “I didn’t go through their cupboard. Earl is growing, though he is a skinny boy, but then Don is tall and lanky. And Clara Belle is willowy too. He sings like an angel. I wouldn’t worry over their food supply.”

  “I’m glad you took some hams with you, anyway.”

  “She seemed grateful.” He paused. “She asked after you, said she knew from her suffrage group that you’d be visiting the Territorial Legislature and hoped you might stop by. She read your association report saying you’d given 296 speeches last year and figured one of them should have brought you near Washougal and that your invitation to Olympia would.”

  “That swamp is a far pace from Olympia.”

  Why do I still hold an affront to their long-ago elopement? It was the reason she had not joined the men for the work party. She felt a failure that, after all this effort on behalf of women, she had not protected her daughter from the very hardships she’d had to endure as a young wife. Ben told her that letting go of past pains wasn’t hard. He’d had lots of practice and could show her how it was done. Abigail wondered if he was being sarcastic, but that wasn’t like him.

  Now, here she was, at her daughter’s home. She saw the stack of cordwood first, nearly as tall as the roofline. Her brothers had done well by Clara Belle. Their grandfather would have been proud to see his sons stand up for their only sister. She missed her father.

  A dog barked, noticing her arrival, and she took in a deep breath as she put her hand out to its nose, let it sniff, then scurry back beneath the porch where Abigail heard the sound of squealing puppies. A dog would be a good companion if she ever stayed home long enough to make a friend of it.

  Abigail stepped up onto the porch. A single rocking chair with a colorful patched pillow was tucked into the side. Only one chair. She lifted her gloved knuckles, prepared to knock on the door, when she saw a knothole not filled in. She could look right into the house. Clara Belle lay on a cot, Earl beside her on the floor stacking blocks. Clara Belle lay so still. Is she dead? Did that man kill her? Abigail didn’t knock but lifted the latch and stepped right in. Earl looked up at her, startled.

  “Hi, Earl. I’m your grandmomma. Do you remember me?” He shook his head no. “I’m going to wake your momma.”

  “She sleeps quiet,” he said. A splatter of freckles crossed his nose.

  Abigail squatted down, patted his shoulder, then touched Clara Belle’s, expecting her body to be cold, swallowing back the tears, then brushing them away with anger directed toward the child’s father. “Clara Belle?”

  The girl opened her eyes.

  Abigail leaned back. “Wake up, baby. It’s your momma.”

  “Oh, Momma.” She sat up, looked frantic. “You’ve caught me napping. I didn’t know you were
coming.” She brushed at her hair, smoothed her sleep-wrinkled dress.

  “I was afraid it was worse than napping in the day. Are you well?”

  “Just tired. I’m fine. I really am.”

  “You scared me half to death, lying like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I . . . I was . . . weary. We dried apples.”

  Abigail scanned the room and saw the strings of apples hanging from the rafters. She also saw a sparsely furnished house. Except for Clara Belle’s stitchery on the windows, a crocheted doily on the back of a narrow couch, the room didn’t have much to say for itself. It looked stripped of any grandeur.

  “Where’s the piano?”

  Clara Belle kept her voice light, forced, in Abigail’s mind. “It wouldn’t stay tuned in all this moisture. Don . . . we sold it. Another child will have the chance to play it with parents who can afford to bring the tuner in from Vancouver.”

  “He sold your piano. Your pride and joy.”

  “Earl is my pride and joy. I can still sing.”

  “Now will you admit your marriage was a mistake?”

  “Momma. I have a son. I eat regularly. I have a fine roof over my head and friends not far away. There’s even a church here now where I can sing. What more could I need?”

  “A husband who looks after you in the style you deserve.”

  “He’s doing the best he can.”

  “Where is he, by the way? I saw no evidence of prune orchards or whatever it is he said he’d cleared land for.”

  “It’s further away from here.” She stood up. “He’s sold it anyway. Let’s get you a little bite to eat. Earl, I bet you’re hungry too.”

  “I’m always hungry,” he said.

  “Me too.” Abigail brushed the boy’s curls with her gloved hand. But it’s for more than. I’m hungry for a better life for my daughter and her son.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Victory or Defeat?

  NOVEMBER 1883

  _______

  Autumn foilage had splattered the roadways, colored the grass beneath like a patchwork quilt. November arrived, with a few maple and elm leaves holding tight to their branches. Abigail sometimes thought of herself as like those tenacious fronds, clinging, refusing to let go. The campaign was seven months away from the momentous vote. With her sisters, she’d proposed a plan to bring Harvey to their side.