Chapter Fourteen, part one

Violet found Alva seated in a circle of ladies under a broad shade tree. To one side was the shore and the dainty Chinese Tea House, to the other the white neoclassical layers of Marble House. Alva waved as Violet approached and motioned her to a chair. “You’re just in time,” she told her young protégée. “Mrs. Blackston was about to tell us about the work of her coalition.”

Violet opened her notebook as Mrs. Blackston, a stylish, spectacled Negro woman with a voice like warm honey, described her early work with the Metropolitan Business Woman's Club of Brooklyn.

“It was Mrs. Belmont,” she said with a nod to Alva, “who recruited me as a speaker for the cause of suffrage. I’m so pleased that she invited me here today to speak. We all know that the NAWSA declined to join forces with Negro suffragists for fear that our involvement would keep Southern states from joining the cause. I have no control over what the South may choose to do or not do, but I refuse to remain silent. I applaud you ladies of the Congressional Union for opening your arms to our partnership regardless of that others might say or feel on the matter. With my background in business, I see—every day—that capable women of all races are held down by laws that keep us unequal. Like all of you, I imagine a world in which a married woman can own her own property. Have rights over her children. Hold a passport in her own name.

"Until we make these changes and empower women as wage earners and business owners, our economies will never reach their full growth potential. Married women today have more leisure time than at any previous time in history, and yet they are stymied in too many cases from doing work that would advance their families economically. This must end.”

By the time Mrs. Blackston had finished and accepted a cup of tea from Alva, Violet’s hand was cramping, and three pages of her notebook were full. She flexed her fingers, gazing around the circle. Inez Milholland Boissevain was here, and the woman with the purple hat from the day before. Mrs. Blackston had brought a Negro friend with her from New York, and Alva was busy introducing them both to women on the far side of the circle.

There was a rush of skirts as Inez Milholland Boissevain slipped into the vacant seat at Violet’s right.

“That was thrilling! What a dramatic speaking voice she has. I thought she might bring up divorce, since she said earlier that she just won a divorce settlement from her good-for-nothing husband. So many women across the South have no right to divorce their husbands, not even for brutality.” Inez turned her pale face to Violet. “So, have you thought more about your next step? New York, Washington, or—” She waved her hand as if to indicate the broad expanse west of Maryland.

“I confess that I’m having trouble deciding,” Violet replied. “My younger sister is under my care, and she’s refused to go back to school, so I’ll need to think of her.”

“A sister!” Inez cocked her head. “When I was your age, it was handsome men who diverted my focus, not sisters.”

“Oh—” Violet had to smile “—there’s one of those, too.”

“I understand. And I can see from your pink cheeks that you’re still in the salad days. Does he support woman suffrage?”

A bubble of joy swelled in Violet’s throat. “He does. He’s doing work for us as we speak and has promised a donation.”

“Then what’s stopping you from having it all? If you align on your politics—socialism, pacifism, inherent human liberties—the rest will work itself out.”

The bubble sagged. “I don’t think he’s a pacifist. He volunteered in France as an ambulance driver. He lost his sight because of it.”

Inez’s eyebrows rose. “Have you discussed it with him? Many pacifists do humanitarian work during wars, just like ambulance driving. I’m surprised you haven’t talked this over yet.”

Violet frowned. “Honestly, I’m not even sure whether I’m a pacifist. I hate war, of course, but if no one stands up to a bully, the bully gets to dominate. Sometimes the fight seems justified.”

“So often it isn’t.”

“Yes, of course. Mankind has waged many unjust and stupid wars. But wars in the name of freedom, wars against oppressors—I hate to take a blanket position when there might be cases of real danger if no one stands up against a genuine threat. Besides, isn’t that what sets the CU apart from the NAWSA, that we’re willing to take more dramatic measures for the cause of suffrage?”

“Dramatic, yes, but never violent.”

“No, of course, never violent. But marching, protesting—aren’t we the more aggressive arm of the suffrage movement? Aren’t we proud of that distinction?”

Inez snorted. “There’s a wide ocean between protesting and waging war. No one is killed!”

Violet sat back in a froth of nerves. “No, no one is killed, or even blinded. But I still contend that there are some things worth fighting, worth dying for.”

The other woman set her gloved hand on top of Violet’s. “If the choice to fight and die is made by the individual, in his or her own case, I agree with you. But when young men are sent to war by politicians who sit in comfort and ease, far from the battlefield, then I can never agree.”

--

The moment Violet left the room, the smell of sunshine faded. Charlie finished the agenda he was working on, pulled the paper from the machine, and loaded a fresh one. Then he sat. He was still pleased with his project—grateful to have it—but a new thought had entered his mind. Flora had issued her challenge to do something frightening. He was typing words he couldn’t see—that was frightening, but not terribly so. If he really wanted to try something bold, he should do it now while everyone was out of the house.

Before he could give himself time to deliberate, he pushed back his chair and made his way to the door, hands outstretched.

The doors to the lower loggia were stiff. He pushed his way through and worked around the wall to the front of the covered portico, the place where Reggie had found him the other day. Beyond lay the fountain (he could hear it), the hundred yards of lawn, the cliff path, and the rocky tumble to the beach. From the minute Flora mentioned her challenge, he’d known what he had to do. The thing that made his sweat run cold, and his hands go clammy.

He needed to walk outside.

He put his back against the wall and slid around the corner. I’m facing the ocean, he thought. The sensation of the sun on his face was so sweet, it almost made him cry. Memories bubbled to the surface: sitting with Johnny outside the field hospital in August, the air full of gasoline fumes and the smell of hot canvas. Later, on board the Campania, Paul had once returned to their cabin with that same smell of sun-warmed canvas, and this time the smell had left Charlie sick to his stomach the rest of the day.

He pressed his palms against the stone behind him. Push off, he told himself. Push off, damn you. Chicken. Coward. What would Violet think if she saw you like this?

He pushed one foot forward. Slowly. With every muscle tensed, he shifted his weight to his front foot. There! He was off the wall. Now, twenty steps out and twenty steps back, and he would be done.

Awkward as a crab, he stretched out another foot, tapping the paving stones to test their firmness. He edged forward, edged forward. Four steps down. Five. His foot met a transition to grass. The lawn. Now he should be able to walk like a normal human, head high, shoulders straight. It was grass, a manicured lawn. One hundred yards of it.

Ten paces. Think of Violet. He’d heard her promise Flora that she’d go to the beach picnic this afternoon, and he did not want to be left behind. He wanted to sit outside without panicking. Somewhere near her.

Fifteen paces. He was doing it! He was outside, untethered. But just as his mind formed the word untethered, his equilibrium slanted. He was leaning, he was nauseous; he was tipping to the side. Crouch down! He crouched. Felt the grass with his palms. Panted like a dog.

Enough! He could retreat now, call it a victory after fifteen steps. He stood, his knees reluctant, his head willing, and tested the world for right-side-upness. It held. But. Now. Which way was the house?

He wiped his brow. His wet shirt stuck to his chest.

There was the ocean, of course, perfectly audible on the one side. But he was pretty sure that the waves hadn’t sounded perfectly perpendicular when he stood against the house. If he put the sound of the waves at his back and plunged ahead, would he hit the house? Or just miss it and end up on the road? In the bushes? The cottage next door?

Take a chance, you jellyfish. This isn’t life and death. It’s not even walking, just creeping along. Get your panic under control and go. You can always sit on the ground and holler till someone comes to rescue you.

At last, he got his feet moving. With his hands out in front, he took small but purposeful steps in what he hoped was the right direction. A change in footing—he wavered but didn’t tip. The grass turned into pavers. Pavers! He tottered forward, the sound of the fountain replacing the sound of the waves.

“Charlie!”

Violet’s voice, fairly far away. If he hurried, he could still make it, free and clear, on his own. He could still earn his place at the beach. Two more steps—hands in front. One more. One more—there. He reached the house and spun around, pressing his back against the stone wall. Safe. Steady. Her feet tapped onto the pavers, and he struggled to stop gasping.

“How was your meeting?” he managed.

“Wonderful! Mrs. Blackston was so moving. The work she’s doing is truly incredible. Do you know, there’s talk of starting a settlement house in Harlem?” She paused. “Look at you, walking the lawn all alone. And here I thought this frightened you. Is that the sound of the cars returning? Shall we go in?”

He walked beside her, one hand trailing along the wall.

“What—” She hesitated. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

He lifted his chin. “We’re all headed to the beach, aren’t we?”