Chapter Twenty-one, part two

The morning of June fifth, Violet woke up and had two successive thoughts: the vote is today, and Charlie is gone.

Sadie was still sleeping, so she put on the ensemble she’d decided on a week ago, a fawn-colored dress with black ribbon at the collar, black belt, and black hat. She did her hair with listless fingers, grabbed her notebooks and pens, and slipped out the door.

At the top of the stairs, she refused to look down Charlie’s hall. She kept her eyes on the stair treads so she wouldn’t see the screen he’d hidden behind during the game of Sardines. But in the Breakfast Room, her eyes wandered to his usual seat and a pall fell over the day that not even two cups of coffee could shake.

Violet tried to rouse herself on the walk to the Chinese Tea House. A light fog had rolled in, draping the shore in mystery. As she gazed out at the gray line of ocean, appearing and disappearing through fingers of mist, she felt for the first time that her parents weren’t there, somewhere in the cold, dark of the Atlantic, but here, on land, beside her. If she couldn’t have Charlie’s living presence, perhaps she should be grateful for theirs.

At the steps to the Tea House, she paused. In her two weeks in Newport, she’d met two of her suffrage heroes, learned to use a typewriter machine, and had shaken hands with Irene Moorman Blackston. Today, she was attending a vote that would change the face of American politics, inserting women’s issues as a platform for the first time. She should be dizzy with excitement.

Perhaps the dizziness would come.

Inside, conversations bubbled up to the eaves. Ladies filled cups of tea or coffee from Alva’s gleaming urns as voting members of the CU found places at the long, white-decked table. Violet took up her position at a small table near the front of the room that held the typed agendas and draft wording for bylaws. She skimmed her fingers over the agendas, lost in thought, oblivious to the noise around her until it suddenly stopped.

There was movement at the door. Alice Paul—unmistakable from the photos Violet had seen of her in the papers—entered and shook hands with Alva. She was slight and dark-haired with a cleft chin and serious demeanor, dressed dramatically in white with a wine-colored velvet hat. The room took on a new tone with its chairman present. Ladies found seats, teacups were set aside, and an air of beginning floated through the room.

Violet moved quietly around the table, passing out agendas, wondering what the gathering would think if they knew they’d been the first typing practice of a man just home from the war.

As she took her seat, the doors opened again to admit auburn-haired Lucy Burns, co-founder and vice chairman of the CU. She wore gray with a white lace collar, her hair in a soft pompadour under her dark hat. Taller than Alice Paul, she entered the room with a warm smile and a nod to the group, then found the seat that had been reserved for her.

A woman in spectacles rose to take roll. “Madam Chairman,” she said, “you may now call the meeting to order.”

Alice Paul stood, her hands at her sides. “Ladies. The Congressional Union for Woman Suffrage stands on the brink of a bold new possibility. Today we meet to determine the structure of a National Woman’s Party. Our party, should the membership vote to approve it in Chicago next week, will be the first of its kind in the nation, a political party framed around the question of woman suffrage and equality. I propose a platform of only one plank: the immediate passage of a federal woman’s suffrage amendment.”

This was met with applause from all corners. After a pause, she went on. “If you will consult your agenda, you’ll see that many things must be determined before we can lay our plans before the full membership next week. Our proposal must be thorough and deliberate, and so I ask you to give me your best thoughts and best thinking over the course of today’s work. We will propose the party’s leadership, its structure, its framework. What is galvanized here will be delivered to Miss Anne Martin, chairman of the Convention of Women Voters. If the Western women, those who already have the right to vote, deem our platform to be good and necessary, we will enter July with a new party!”

Chills spread across Violet’s arms as she clapped until her palms stung. Alice Paul took her seat and brought their attention to the agenda. Charlie’s agenda. As the group launched into a review of the proposed articles, Violet felt her mind sliding away. This past year, thinking about things like articles and bylaws had been a luxury. Now Charlie had become the luxury, the champagne that started sweet but left her with an aching head. Moments with him had been so soft. Life without him was sharp as granite.

Violet sighed. If only Sadie hadn’t gambled. If only Reggie hadn’t pressured everyone to play cards.

If only, if only.

She drew a series of “x”s on her paper as she fought to pay attention to the meeting. Someone was asking about how candidates would be vetted, and her mind skittered away to Charlie’s school for the blind. Would he enjoy writing the policies and rules of conduct for his school? Being here, a part of this process, would be a good training ground for him. Suddenly, before she’d realized what she was doing, Violet was on her feet.

“Yes, Miss—” Alice Paul looked to Alva.

“Miss Violet Van Waters,” Alva supplied.

“Miss Van Waters. Do you have a question?”

“I do.” The ladies of the room looked at her, curious. “We are all women, gathered here today. The CU is run, led, and powered by women. Will we allow men to serve in the leadership of the party? Will they be allowed to serve on these vetting committees?”

The stir that followed her question left her oddly satisfied. She remained standing, silently reserving the right to follow up her question.

“Let us have discussion on this point,” Alice Paul said. She recognized a woman in spectacles and crêpe de chine, who rose.

“I say it would be dangerous to allow men into the party’s leadership. Men already control every governing body from the courts to the legislature. This is our party of our own creation. We are making it, and it should remain with us.”

This was met with some applause. A second woman in a teal blue dress was recognized. “I don’t think men can be trusted to join our proceedings with civility. They might think they can, but five minutes into any meeting, they’ll be drowning out the chairman,” she nodded to Alice Paul, “and trying to dominate the room. You all know how men are. What man can bear to be subservient to a woman in a position of authority? Besides, it will make us look weak. If we have men amongst our leadership, people will say we couldn’t manage the party on our own. That we needed a man to step in.”

The applause following this statement was fervent. Violet lifted her fingers to signal Alice Paul.

“The chairman recognizes Miss Van Waters.”

Violet leaned forward, steepling her fingers on the table in front of her the way she’d seen Crystal Eastman do the other day. She caught her breath as she took in the faces around the room.

“I entreat each of you,” she began, “to think of how much it rankles when men paint us with a broad brush. When they say, ‘my wife doesn’t even care who’s president—women don’t pay attention to politics. Having the vote would be wasted on them.’ Or ‘my wife doesn’t even want to vote. I don’t think any woman really does.’ We know that it’s a grave mistake to assume all women feel the same. Is it fair, then, for us to decide, carte blanche, that no man could be trusted to respect our chairman or our rules? When they are laid out clearly and enforced by the entire group? What’s more, isn’t this very question at the heart of our movement?

“We are asking for equal rights to men. That means the right to sit down at the same table and be treated with equal dignity. Not at separate tables. At the same table. If men can’t tolerate that, then we must help them learn to tolerate it. That, as I see it, is our whole purpose. Change may not happen overnight, but it won’t happen at all if we keep our doors closed to them in the same way that they’ve kept their doors closed to us.”

She sat down, slightly out of breath, as the room erupted into applause. Only at this point did Violet notice that her cheeks were hot, that her breathing was shallow. Across the table Alice Paul tipped her head, as if noting Violet’s point. Inez Milholland Boissevain leaned to her right to whisper in Crystal Eastman’s ear. At the head of the table, Alva’s face wrinkled with smiles as she clapped hard enough to make her hat quiver.

“Is there further discussion on this point?” Alice Paul asked. “No? Then I propose a vote, by a show of hands, on the question, ‘Should men be permitted in the leadership of the National Woman’s Party?’ All those in favor? All against? Very well, the ayes have it.”

As the secretary scribbled furiously, Violet permitted herself a long, slow exhale. She had done that. Never before would she have thought herself capable of speaking in front of a group, pressing her point, letting her thoughts unwind as they occurred to her. The knowledge that she could speak like that—and survive—made her feel newly powerful.

And disappointed. All that effort, arguing for a Charlie who would never be part of her life again.

When they took a coffee break mid-morning, Inez sought her out.

“I don’t know if you could hear my husband cheering for you, all the way from our home in Washington.” Her eyes sparkled under the white moiré bow on her hat. “And I thought you’d said you were a behind-the-scenes woman. I hardly think so, not with speaking chops like that!”

Violet smiled down at her coffee. “I honestly didn’t know I had the courage.”

“Courage, nothing—you’re a natural. It’s easy for us to get caught up in the details of what we’re doing and forget what we’re all about. You got right to the heart of the matter. Am I right in guessing you had your Charlie in mind when you raised the question?”

“I did, but not for any good reason. He and I appear to be over.”

“Oh?” Inez’s eyebrows lifted. “Was I wrong in esteeming him so highly?”

“No! No, it’s no fault of his. A change in my own circumstances. My family’s under a bit of a cloud.” She looked at Inez’s curious face and felt an overwhelming urge to blurt the truth. “Charlie and I are no long equal financially. We’ve had a great loss. I can’t bear the thought of him bringing home a penniless girl and having to explain that to his parents.”

“I can see how that might give you pause. Keep in mind, though, that this is a new age we’re living through. Women can earn money of their own. You can write your own script. Would you turn your back on him if he suddenly lost everything?”

“No, of course not, but it’s different—”

“How, exactly?”

“Well, I can hardly make as much money as a man, can I? Even at the top of my field, I would never earn what a man earns.”

“Yes. Certainly. But it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t marry the fellow.”

“He hasn’t asked me. Perhaps he won’t.”

“Then why not ask him? I proposed to my husband. There’s no sense sitting around, twiddling your thumbs. Ask the man!”

As Alice Paul called them back to their seats, Violet shook her head at the thought of proposing to Charlie. It wasn’t just the debt, not just the lack of money—there was also the burden of Sadie. Still, it was a whimsical idea, to propose to a man. Imagine! It would make her grandmother faint.