“We’re also supposed to write down the ‘Custom-aries’ that work against women. Mrs. Bullis says she’ll collect the best and send them to theFocuson behalf of the Atlanta Suffragists. Why do you look so surprised? You got a good one?”
“No, but I bet you do.”
“Almost done adding my bit.” Noemi writes on her paper.
“Nice work,” I tell Mary, who has sewn an impressive image of the horse’s hindquarters on her fabric, and not a single grinning stitch. The other tables have barely started on their squares.
“Thank you.”
“Course they got to give us the horse’s backside,” says Rose. “And why do you think that is?”
“Because that’s the half that gets things done, that’s why.” Noemi sets down her pencil. “We been standing in the back for a long time, but we can change that when we get the vote.”
“They don’t care about us. Just using us as always.” Rose tugs the fabric away from Mary. “Let me add some stitches so I can say I did something.”
Noemi hands me the list. “What do you think?”
Lynching.
Selling some folks eggs with cracks in them even though their money’s the same color as everybody else’s!
Not letting us follow the path we wish to tread.
“I think I know who said what,” I say, looking at each face in turn. Rose is watching Mrs. Bullis and Mrs. Bread Loaf drawcloser as they pass out marigold sashes from a cardboard box. Without even looking at us, they sweep by.
Noemi quickly gets to her feet. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bullis, ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering if we could get some of those sashes, too?”
“These are for wearing at the race.” Mrs. Bullis sweeps her restless fingers down the length of a sash, petting it as if it were a cat’s tail.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be there.”
The petting stops, and Mrs. Bullis cuts her gaze to Mrs. Bread Loaf, who is squeezing the box to her chest as if it might try to run away.
“Mary works on Saturdays,” says Mrs. Bullis.
Mary, who is wrapping an embroidery thread around her finger, glances around her and then back down at her lap. “I was hoping you’d let me have a few hours off, ma’am.” Mary’s voice is whisper soft. “To support the cause, and all.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. The cause doesn’t need you.”
Rose pauses her work on something resembling a potato and rolls the needle between her fingers. I bet she’s thinking about which end of the top hat she’d like to stick it to.
Noemi seems to sway on her feet, an oak enduring a wind. “But you just said in your speech that the woman’s hour is at hand. Ain’t we, that is, aren’t we women? And we’re about finished with our part. Even wrote some Custom-aries that need releasing, right here.” She holds out her list.
