Unmentionables - Laurie Loewenstein

Скачать книгу

brown canvas walls. “Going down the line,” as the Chautauqua performers called it, was not for the faint of heart or physically frail. Marian had witnessed dozens of first-timers, delicate sopranos, even robust orators, collapse after twenty consecutive nights of appearances under the sweltering canvas, in tandem with twenty days of jolting travel on gritty trains or in dusty open motorcars. As she patted her brow with a folded hankie, she again gave thanks for her strong constitution. One summer, she’d followed William Jennings Bryan, the living embodiment of Circuit Chautauqua, down the line. The celebrated orator, former congressman, and secretary of state, was known as “The Great Commoner” for his populist stands on the goodness of the ordinary man. Besides his “Cross of Gold” speech, Bryan was famous for his endurance, sometimes giving three lectures a day in three different towns as his shapeless alpaca coat became increasingly sodden, hanging like wet burlap from his large frame. And she had triumphantly matched him step for step. For Marian, like Bryan, it wasn’t just a matter of physical stamina but dedication to a cause. If she didn’t bring the message of dress reform to Emporia, to all the other flyspecks on the circuit, how would these women ever enter the modern age? From the back row a baby launched into full-throated bawling, as piercing as a factory whistle. And that’s another reason I’m meant for this, Marian thought, no husband, no children to tie me down or pull me off the road. She had divorced years ago and never looked back.

      Harsh coughing sounded faintly from beyond the tent, competing with the howling infant. For most in the audience, accustomed to such disturbances, the sounds barely registered, but Tula Lake, who was sitting on the other side of Deuce, immediately recognized the consumptive cough of sixteen-year-old Jeannette Bellman. The Bellman family lived on the far side of the grounds. Tula turned in her seat. The tent was packed, the crowd overflowing beyond the flaps.

      “Have you seen Dr. Jack? I’m worried about Jeannette,” she whispered to Deuce.

      Deuce glanced up from his notebook. The moons of Tula’s blue irises were clouded with worry. “I heard her too.”

      Tula’s features were still pretty but now blurred with age. Deuce, Tula, and her brother Clay had lived next door to one another for sixteen years. As Deuce turned back to the stage, Tula kept her ears focused outside the tent flaps. After a couple of minutes, the coughing fit passed. Thank goodness, Tula thought. Sitting back, she picked up the lecturer’s train of thought. Still, she was only half-listening. Her eyes were on Deuce, whose dark brows contrasted so handsomely with the wavy sterling-silver hair. Just above his collar a dusting of talcum glowed white against his coppery skin. At last she turned back to the stage, giving Mrs. Elliot Adams, who seemed to be explaining how she became such a staunch advocate for dress reform, her full attention.

      “. . . of women’s dress, undergarments in particular, is a matter not only of limitation, but also of life itself. With corsets and other bindings restricting the rib cage, it is impossible to draw in sufficient breath. My own dreadful experience with consumption taught me that. I cured myself by casting aside my corset and bringing fresh, cleansing air into my lungs day and night. For more than a year I slept outside under the stars as my lungs opened and healed.”

      Another growl of thunder sounded from out on the flat prairie. The audience rustled like a roost of startled sparrows but settled quickly. Marian didn’t pause. She’d lectured through storms that hurled hailstones so large they ripped holes in the tent while the spectators sat without flinching. These sons and daughters of pioneers waited all year for Chautauqua week and almost nothing could dislodge them. A good heavy rain would at least cool things off. This time of the evening, halfway into the program, her toes were roasting in the footlights. She’d thought of The Great Commoner’s system—chilling one hand on a block of ice before stroking his brow while beating the air with a palm fan in his other. He kept this double-handed routine up for his entire hour-long speech. Maybe I should try that, she thought.

      While her mind considered this, her voice continued, “Like the young Theodore Roosevelt, I was determined to seize control of my destiny.”

      At this, the venerable Henry Wilson, several chairs down from Deuce, leaned across the laps of three matrons to catch the publisher’s eye. “The gall; putting herself alongside TR!” he hissed. A spout of tobacco juice arced onto the ground for emphasis and the seventy-four-year-old member of three secret societies and honorary president of the Young Ragtags, a loose outfit organized around drinking and the swinging of Indian clubs, stood up and stomped out.

      Deuce’s eyes darted to his father-in-law, seated on the other side of Helen. Had he heard what Wilson said? Father Knapp’s attention was directed at his nails, which he was cleaning with a matchstick. The president of Western Illinois Savings and Loan didn’t go in for oratory, light opera, or other cultural affectations, he’d told Deuce privately, but backed Chautauqua every year because “every up-and-coming town has to have one.” Flicking the match to the ground, Father Knapp patted Helen’s knee absently as if she were—and Deuce’s gut clinched at this thought—one of his top-dollar springer spaniels.

      Over the heads of the audience, Marian’s voice rushed on. It traveled out into the night, across the Chautauqua grounds, to the ears of Jeannette Bellman, bundled in a wicker settee on the family’s front porch. Hugging her knees to her chest, the girl smiled. The great oval tent glowing softly in the distance, the voice of the speaker, even the flashes of lightning illuminating the horizon, all seemed to be speaking directly to her.

      Applause, signaling the end of the program, rippled out of the tent flaps, followed quickly by the cranking of one or two motor cars, as several patrons ducked out early to beat the rain.

      On stage, Marian bowed deeply from the waist so that her clasped hands brushed her knees. Deuce, who had tucked his notebook under his arm to free his hands for clapping, pulled it out to make a few more notes. Beside him, Helen vigorously beat her hands together. The platform manager, a nervous fellow in brightly bleached white duck trousers, took the stairs to the stage two at a time, all the while shouting, “Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that tomorrow’s schedule includes an afternoon concert by the Chicago Lady Entertainers and, in the evening, a stupendous performance by the Mystic Entertainer! Many of you were wise enough to purchase subscription tickets but for those who were not, there are a few, but only a few, single tickets available!”

      The crowd rose. A young man stood up and whooped, swinging himself around a tent pole. Women shook out their skirts and gathered their fans, knitting bags, and seat cushions. The men reset boaters and adjusted suspenders. Helen, who had continued clapping long after everyone else, brushed past Deuce and pushed her way to the stage. Marian was starting to descend the stairs off to one side when Helen called out excitedly, “You were marvelous!”

      Marian paused. “Why, thank you.”

      “There are so many women that need to hear your message.”

      Marian smiled, stepped back onto the stage. “Yes! Exactly.”

      “Especially in Emporia; it’s so backward!” Helen threw up her hands.

      “I’m finding that in many Midwestern towns,” Marian said as she strode toward Helen, her sandals clacking against her heels.

      Marian was lowering into a crouch so that she could speak directly to the girl when her tunic caught on a loose nail. She yanked the hem, throwing herself off balance, and stumbled forward—headlong off the platform. Flailing wildly, her legs flew up and over. Her left ankle smacked sharply against a folding chair and her tailbone thudded against the trampled grass. She crashed in a heap at Helen’s feet.

      “Oh my goodness! Are you all right?” Helen cried, dropping beside Marian, who was unnaturally still. “Mrs. Elliot Adams? Criminy!” Helen jumped up. “Papa, help!” she yelled at the familiar boater moving down the aisle among the dwindling crowd.

      Several heads turned. Alvin Harp, owner of Emporia’s garage, and Mrs. Flynn, the druggist’s wife, rushed over, followed by Deuce and Tula. A boy in knickers materialized beside Helen.

      “She fell!” Helen said.

      “Someone get water!” Mrs. Flynn shouted.

      “Helen,

Скачать книгу