Old Gin lifts his gaze to meet Sully’s. I’m reminded of the time Sully’s mule started walking crooked, and Old Gin found an abscess in the animal’s hoof. The men are not friends, but surely seeing the same person every day for twenty years fixes them in your life in some way.
“This streetcar is not for us,” announces Old Gin.
Sully’s usually hard face loses its fight. He turns his shoulder, and it is like the closing of a heavy book.
With aclangand agiddap!the streetcar bumps along and out of our lives.
Anger sparks around inside me, but pride, too. By optingnot to take the streetcar, Old Gin has chosen not to play in a rigged game. The river’s path will be harder this way. We will need to wake earlier and arrive home later. Then again, perhaps the path is easiest when the heart is light.
Old Gin walks smoothly beside me, the only sign of agitation the twitching of his pupils, reflecting the thoughts inside. I’m reminded of that day that we tried to get Coca-Colas. While I struggled to hold in my tears, Old Gin led us out of Jacob’s Pharmacy with the same quiet dignity of kings of old. His head was not bent low, or held too high, but he moved with a bearing that knew its course, no matter what the world hurled at us.
There’s a lit quality to the dusky sky that makes all the angry bits inside me line up. Something powerful surges through me, a feeling that has nothing to do with ambition, and everything to do with principle. “I would like to join Noemi at a suffrage meeting tonight at Grace Baptist,” I hear myself say. I watch Old Gin out of the corner of my eye, bracing for disapproval.
“It does not surprise me that Miss Sweetie is a suffragist.”
I stop walking. A protest bubbles up, but then fizzes away. Many lies have rolled off my tongue lately, and I can’t help wondering how many I can hatch before they start pecking my eyes out. “How long have you known?”
He shrugs. “Jed Crycks is a devoted reader.”
I picture the tough, tobacco-chewing cowboy reading my column and nearly choke.
A smile alights on Old Gin’s face. “Parent always recognizes child’s voice.”
Twenty-Nine
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My sisters and I wonder, why must women suffer a few days each month?
Sincerely,
Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty
Dear Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty,
Because the alternative is worse, although they do get to vote.
Sincerely,
Miss Sweetie
—
The three-story white brick of Grace Baptist Church does not feature a cross or a bell or any of the standard-issue church symbols. However, a bronze plate on the door tells you that if you are seeking God, you can find Him here. As long as you can read.
A white woman with a knit cap stretched over her bread-loaf bun puts a hand over her heart when she sees me.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“May I help you?” She speaks painfully slow, as if she is not sure I can understand.
“Yes, I’m here for the suffrage meeting.”
“You? I’m sorry, but they’ve already started. We don’t admit latecomers.” A fingernail of a smile digs at her face. “Too distracting.”
The buzz of voices behind her indicates a crowd, but she moves her stout frame from side to side as if to block my view. I can’t help thinking that the least distracting part of me is the late part. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here.”
“Who?”
