Giant Steps Page 8

  Who will speak for all the Ednas and Emilys and for the thousands of other unnamed women who cannot speak for themselves?

  Bernie wiped away tears as she scratched out the names Edna and Emily. She substituted the fictitious names of Florence and Minnie to disguise their identities. Then she added:

  Better yet, who will make the world a better place by letting any and all women speak, by being able to vote?

  When Bernie went downstairs for supper that evening, not only had she memorized the scripture verses, she now understood what they meant.

  Part 2: 1917

  8

  January 1917

  Serendipity

  There was no way she could get out of it. Bernie had to go. There was no excuse she could come up with that would be acceptable to her mother. It did not matter what the weather was—on the second Saturday afternoon of each month Mother got dressed up, put on her best hat and gloves, and set out to visit Grandmother Epperson and Aunt Rose with Bernie in tow.

  Papa may have been reading his newspaper, but that did not mean he wasn’t listening to what was going on at the breakfast table. So, when Bernie, pleaded, “Why do I have to go?” Papa lowered the paper, peered at her over the edge of it, and said, “You have to go because your mother says so. Your grandmother is expecting you. She looks forward to your visits.”

  She saw Ben and Nick slyly glance at each other and grin.

  “How come the boys don’t have to go?”

  “We have to work at the store,” her brothers said, in gleeful unison.

  She almost would have rather gone to help out at the store than be forced to go to tea with her Grandmother Epperson and Aunt Rose. Those two formidable ladies lived in a large, two-story, brick house on Ninth Street—the house where Papa had grown up.

  As usual, Bernie and her mother were ushered into the front parlor by Aunt Rose. Bernie always felt as though she had entered the presence of Queen Victoria when visiting Grandmother Epperson. Grandmother sat regally in a high-back chair, her spine ramrod straight. The old woman was dressed, as usual, in a long-sleeve black dress with dozens of glossy, black buttons from her waist up to her chin. Her collar was a wisp of black lace. Her long skirt modestly covered her ankles, with only the tips of her black shoes sticking out from beneath the hem. Grandmother’s white hair was pulled tightly back and knotted in a severe bun. Another bit of black lace formed a tiny cap that was perched on top of her head. It might as well have been a crown.

  The room made Bernie think of something she had seen described in a book by Charles Dickens. There were heavy maroon velvet draperies hanging at the tall windows. Today, these curtains had been parted in the center but only enough to give a clue that it was daylight outside. Otherwise, the ornate room was gloomily dark. It was overly furnished with stiff settees upholstered in thick brocade. There were lavishly carved tables on which sat lamps with beaded shades. Unfortunately, the lamps gave off little light. Everywhere Bernie looked she saw frilly, hand-crocheted doilies carefully placed to prevent numerous tiny porcelain statuettes from marring the heavily polished wood surfaces. Other lacy doilies protected the upholstered backs and arms of the chairs. There were several small footstools decorated with ball fringe. Bernie was barely able to make out any pattern on the lavishly flowered wallpaper because almost every square foot was covered with gilt picture frames.

  When Bernie was a little girl, Grandmother had pointed to each of the pictures and explained which Epperson—grandparent, aunt, uncle, or cousin—was portrayed. Sometimes Grandmother would quiz her, asking if she could remember the names of each of these long-dead relatives. This filled Bernie with even more dread than she felt when sticking her hand beneath a brooding hen at Grandma Mifflin’s farm.

  This photograph of a restored Victorian parlor gives an idea of the scene in Grandmother Epperson’s parlor when Bernie and her mother went to visit. (Photo by David Remley, Kansas City, Missouri; Courtesy of Kent T. Dicus and Michael G. Olson Sr.)

  After Mother had dutifully answered the usual questions about Papa’s health, her own health, Ben’s health, and Nick’s health, Grandmother turned her full attention to Bernie. Bernie was about to take a bite of what looked like a delicious cream tart, but quickly put it down on the delicate china plate she was holding.

  “How is your broken arm, Bernice?” Grandmother Epperson asked, apparently forgetting that she had asked that same question during every visit for the last six months.

  “The cast has been off quite a while,” Bernie said. “It was off in time for my birthday last August.”

  “Has the arm healed properly?”

  “Yes, Grandmother, it healed nicely.” The truth of the matter was that it was not fine. The break had been severe, and the doctor had said her elbow might never be able to fully unbend. He had also told her that when cold weather set in, the joint might ache. He had been right, but she wasn’t about to tell that to Grandmother Epperson. Bernie stared at her mother, trying to send a message that she didn’t want to discuss it. Mother was looking down at her teacup and seemed not to notice. Bernie suspected that Mother didn’t want to get involved in this matter anymore than she did.

  “Well, it was a very foolish thing that you did, Bernice. You were fortunate to have received only a broken arm as a result of that little escapade.”

  Bernie tightened her lips. It was all she could do to keep from reminding her grandmother that she was not the only one involved in that “little escapade.” Her brothers had been the ones who thought up the flying-from-the-barn-experiment. Bernie sighed deeply while Grandmother stirred her tea with a dainty silver spoon. She hoped that was the end of the discussion.

  However, Grandmother continued, “Speaking of escapades, you have started off this new year in an interesting manner. I read your essay that was published in the Daily Courier a few days ago. I am sure by now the entire town has read it.”

  The minute she heard the word escapade, Bernie knew she was not going to receive any congratulations from Grandmother about winning the essay contest. Grandmother was not pleased by Bernie’s first excursion into the world of journalism. It was the same deflating response that Bernie had received from Papa.

  Bernie had been so full of great dreams when she had submitted her essay to the Lafayette Franchise League judges in November. She could hardly wait through the long month of December for the announcement. She had been certain that if she won, her family would be proud of her. However, she had been completely crushed when Papa looked up from his newspaper that morning after reading her article. He had rustled the paper and cleared his throat vociferously. He had not smiled at all. She had waited until he spoke. It was not at all the reception she had fantasized. Instead of pride in her accomplishment, he was angry. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He wadded the newspaper into a tight ball and tossed it into the wastepaper box beside the kitchen stove.

  She was so disappointed that she could hardly force herself to go to school that morning. She had to put it out of her mind to keep from breaking down in tears during class. When she got home from school that afternoon, she made certain that no one was around before she tiptoed into the kitchen to retrieve the newspaper. She thought perhaps she might take some small comfort from the Daily Courier’s editor, who wrote the glowing praise, “Such talent in one so young,” as well as predicting “a bright future for the writer.”

  She was glad to find that the wadded up paper was still in the box, but when she smoothed out the page where her essay was printed, she discovered that the article was missing. Her essay had been carefully clipped out.

  While many women fought for the right to vote, a large number of women opposed women’s suffrage. Like many anti-suffragists, these women believed their place was in the home. (Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, LC-USZC2-1197)

  Now, here she sat in Grandmother Epperson’s front parlor and re
ceived yet another scolding. Grandmother Epperson could have been parroting Papa’s very words when she said, “I don’t know what in the world you were thinking to prompt you to write something like this. You have exposed our entire family to ridicule. Do you have any idea how hard your Grandfather Epperson worked to establish his business in this town? He had to struggle to establish his good name, especially during the difficult economic times of the 1890s. Some other businessmen in town were forced to close their doors. They could not find the money to keep operating. Indeed, your grandfather almost went bankrupt, but he managed to pay back everything he owed to all of his creditors. Our name stands for something honorable in this town. Now your clever little article has.…” Grandmother was so overwrought, she struggled for words. “You have embarrassed your father—your parents, as well as those poor women you wrote about.”

  This was a new accusation. Papa had not said anything about that. What did Grandmother mean by saying that she had embarrassed those poor women?

  “But I changed their names. How could they have been embarrassed?” Bernie said defensively.

  Grandmother peered at Bernie over the top of the little gold-framed glasses perched on her narrow nose. “Don’t you think that everyone in this town knows exactly who you were describing? It does not matter whether you called them Florence and Minnie or Edna and Emily. People know who they are, and people talk.”

  Grandmother paused momentarily, but Bernie had the feeling she was only getting started.

  Aunt Rose stood up abruptly and said, “Bernice, I need some help clearing these tea things away. Would you please carry that tray into the kitchen for me?”

  Bernie jumped up so quickly in her eagerness to escape this ordeal, she almost knocked over a crystal vase. She grabbed the tray and hurried out into the hallway leading to the kitchen. Her heart was pounding with relief that she had not broken one of her grandmother’s treasures.

  Once they reached the kitchen, Aunt Rose said, “Bernie, it’s time you learned a few things.”

  At first, Bernie thought she had escaped from one scolding in the parlor only to face another reprimand from Aunt Rose in the kitchen.

  “Come with me,” Aunt Rose ordered, and led the way up a flight of narrow backstairs to the second floor.

  Bernie obediently followed her aunt into a small room at the top of the stairway. She saw Aunt Rose standing in front of a chest of drawers with her back toward Bernie. She did not turn immediately. Bernie waited, bracing herself for what was to come.

  She waited for what seemed an eternity, looking around. Bernie had never been in her aunt’s room before. She thought, in wonder, at how different it was from all the other rooms in the house. It was so plain, like a stern reproach to the rest of the house.

  There was a small iron bedstead in the corner covered with a simple white bedspread. Plain white cotton curtains hung at the window. There was a bedside table with a small lamp and a bookcase crammed with books. Only one picture hung on the wall, placed over the chest of drawers. Aunt Rose stood staring at it.

  At last, Aunt Rose finally turned to face her. To Bernie’s surprise she saw that her aunt had been crying. Aunt Rose approached her. She reached out and took Bernie by the shoulders, and looking straight into her eyes, said, “Bernie, I just want you to know how proud I was of you when I read your essay in the newspaper. I must have read it a dozen times over.”

  Aunt Rose wrapped her arms around her niece and hugged her. Bernie had no idea what to say or do. Aunt Rose had always seemed to be a withdrawn, distant person. She appeared to be very prim and proper, like Grandmother Epperson. Bernie felt as though she was meeting a person she had never known.

  “Forgive me,” Aunt Rose said, and then stood back. “I didn’t mean to come at you that way. It is just that I couldn’t bear to hear my mother scolding you for what you wrote. Your words needed to be written. In your essay you asked who spoke for the Florences and Minnies of this world. That question needed to be asked. There are so many poor women who need someone who dares to speak out for them.”

  After another tearful pause, Aunt Rose continued, “There are also some other women who are not poor, in terms of this world’s wealth, but who need someone to speak for them, too. These are the women who don’t have the courage to speak up for themselves.”

  Aunt Rose turned back to the chest and knelt on the braided rug in front of it. She opened the bottom drawer, withdrew something, and handed it to Bernie. It was a photograph of a young man—a very handsome young man. Bernie had no idea where this conversation was leading, so she waited until Aunt Rose spoke. When she did, it was as though a dam had burst and a waterfall of words spilled from her lips.

  “I was seventeen when I met him,” Aunt Rose said. “He was a talented artist, but his talents were unrecognized at that time. He traveled about from town to town. An itinerant artist they called him. He painted miniature portraits. When he came to our town I asked him to paint one of me. I planned to give it to my parents as a gift.”

  Aunt Rose pulled something else from the bottom drawer and handed it to Rose. It was a delicate little painting in a gold frame.

  “Is this you?” Bernie asked in wonder.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Aunt Rose stated. “It is probably hard for you to see much left of me in the woman I have become.”

  Bernie continued to stare at the tiny painting. Her aunt was right. She had no idea her aunt had once been so beautiful. Bernie wondered what had happened to that young man Aunt Rose had obviously cared so much about.

  American artist John Henry Brown painted this miniature portrait, titled The Lady, ca. 1890 with watercolor on ivory. This type of portrait was truly tiny. With its frame, this one measures a mere 3½ inches high and 2¾ inches wide. Many miniature portraits were worn as jewelry in lockets, bracelets, and broaches. Aunt Rose’s miniature portrait may have looked similar to this one. (Gift of the A. Jay Fink Foundation, Inc., in memory of Abraham Jay Fink, 1963, The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland)

  It was as though Aunt Rose had heard her unspoken question.

  “His name was Ralph. He asked me to marry him. My parents were absolutely horrified. They overwhelmed me with all the reasons I could not possibly marry him. They said that I was too young. They said that he had no money to support a wife. Even worse, he wanted to go out West and paint the scenic wonders. Oh, they agreed that he did have talent, but he would not be able to provide a proper life for their daughter. I was not strong enough to stand up to them. I had no one to speak for me, except for Ralph, and of course they would not listen to him.”

  After wiping away a few more tears, Aunt Rose continued, “He pleaded with me to run away with him, but I was the dutiful stay-at-home daughter. I was not like your father. He had the courage to speak up when he wanted to marry your mother, no matter how unsuitable they thought she might be. It was only when your father promised to stay right here and take over the family business that they relented.”

  “But, what happened to Ralph?” Bernie asked, so anxious to hear more about Aunt Rose’s story that she barely heard the words about her own father. “Did he go west?”

  “Yes, he did,” Aunt Rose said, her words so soft Bernie could barely hear them.

  “Did you ever hear from him again?”

  “He said he would send for me as soon as he made his fortune, but he never wrote. At least, that was what I thought because I never received a letter from him. I was heartbroken.”

  “Do you suppose he ever made a fortune?” Bernie wondered.

  Aunt Rose nodded. “Perhaps not a great fortune, but he did make quite a name for himself with his paintings of the West. One time your grandmother and I went to Chicago on the train to do some shopping. There I saw a poster in a window. It advertised an art exhibition of his works. When my mother went back to the hotel to rest, I managed to slip away and go to the gallery wher
e his paintings were displayed. As chance would have it, he was there. We had lunch together and talked. I learned that he had written many letters, which I never received. He did not know why I never responded and thought I had changed my mind about him. I realized then that my parents must have intercepted his letters to me. But of course, it was too late. By this time he was married and had two children.”

  Aunt Rose had a faraway look in her eyes. Bernie could only imagine what she was thinking. “He gave me one of his paintings.”

  Bernie glanced at the only thing adorning the wall of Aunt Rose’s room. “Is this the one?”

  Aunt Rose nodded. Bernie walked over and looked more closely at it. It was a beautiful painting, depicting a brilliant sun setting behind the tall jagged peaks of western mountains. This was a picture of the life Aunt Rose could have shared with the man she loved—if she had only had the courage to speak for herself and go with him.

  When she turned back to her aunt, Bernie felt tears in her eyes. Aunt Rose was weeping. As Bernie looked at her, she realized that Aunt Rose’s eyes were the exact same hazel color as her own.

  The two of them stood quietly until Aunt Rose said, “The Aunt Roses of the world need someone to speak for them, too. You can do that. Whenever anyone tries to discourage you, just think of me.”

  Bernie nodded. She wanted to tell Aunt Rose how wretched she felt, but for once she had no words.

  Aunt Rose took Bernie’s hand, squeezed it and said, “Enough of this. We’d better get back downstairs. They will wonder what we have been doing all this time.”

  Bernie hoped Mother was not having to endure any more of Grandmother’s angry tirade. “What do you suppose they are talking about now?”