Crossing Stones Read online

  Something smells bad. Mama would call the children

  “little ragamuffins.”) A woman comes out of a brick

  building, surrounded by four small children; they wave

  and smile at us—at Ruby, really, but I’m included, too.

  This, Ruby tells me, is the settlement house

  where I live and teach kindergarten.

  I’ve heard about settlement houses: people,

  mostly women, live in a neighborhood where

  there is work to be done—cleaning up the streets,

  taking care of children, building playgrounds,

  helping new immigrants get settled in America.

  We stop here long enough for you to fresh up,

  then, if you like, I take you over to

  the White House. (For half a second, I could be

  one of ten thousand tourists, and she my

  gracious guide.) I thought you will

  be interested, she goes on, in meeting

  your Aunt Vera’s friends—the women

  on the picket line. A sharp yes-and-no

  shoots through me. Yes, I want to meet

  these women—I want to find out for myself

  if they are dangerous, misguided, unpatriotic.

  And, no, I’m not prepared to stand with Ruby

  and the others in the White House picket line,

  where I could be arrested. I’m here to take

  Aunt Vera home, not to join her and her friends—

  however brave they are—in prison.

  Could I?

  Muriel

  As Ruby and I walk to the White House,

  I ask her how she met Aunt Vera. I meet her

  in Chicago, she tells me, just after I come

  from Denmark. I have never been in so large a city.

  I sleep the first night in Union Station,

  alone and very frighten. A rough-looking man

  come up to me next morning. “You need

  a place to stay?” he ask. “Come with me.”

  I know not enough English to understand

  what he is suggesting. I try to ignore him,

  but he follow me—I am close to cry when Vera

  walk right up, just like she know me:

  “Oh, there you are,” she say, in English—

  but I can hear Danish in her accent!

  “I’m sorry to be late,” she say. “Your father

  was delay and he can’t meet you. Come along

  home now.” That man disappear like a mouse into a

  hole in the wall! I never see Vera before in my life,

  but she introduce herself, speaking Danish,

  and then she bring me to Hull House—

  you know it? A settlement house in Chicago.

  They helping me so much, I want to help

  other people, and when I hear they need teacher

  in Washington, I come, and now I’m here ten month.

  Vera always stay with me when she come to Washington.

  She find my name in English because people

  can’t pronounce my Danish name, Ragnhild.

  I smile at that—it is hard to pronounce.

  I don’t think I could do what Ruby has done.

  I think about waking up at home: the smell of biscuits

  and fried eggs, the rooster’s boisterous “good morning,”

  the whisper of Crabapple Creek against the stones. I’ve lived

  in the same place since I was born, I tell Ruby,

  and soon I’m telling her all about my life,

  as if it is as interesting as her own. She asks me

  questions about Frank and Ollie, Mr. Sander;

  I tell her I despise this war, but I hardly ever

  dare to say so. I wish women could vote,

  I venture, and Ruby answers, Wishing

  won’t happen it. We’ve walked

  two and a half miles. Look—the White House.

  It’s even bigger, more imposing than it appears

  on picture postcards. It makes the women

  standing with their banners at the gate

  look awfully small, but when Ruby

  introduces me to them, each one in turn

  smiles and miraculously becomes a giant.

  Picket Line

  Muriel

  A light snow is falling as I meet

  the women on the picket line—

  Lucinda Schultz wears her hair like Emma’s;

  Mrs. Ellis reminds me of my fourth-grade teacher;

  Mary McGill tilts her head to one side, like

  the Normans’ photograph of Great-aunt Sarah.

  Some of these women are Mama’s age, some are closer

  to mine; some wear expensive fur coats, others threadbare cloth.

  Ruby steps into the line to hold a banner with Lucinda:

  DENMARK ON THE VERGE OF WAR GAVE WOMEN THE VOTE.

  WHY NOT GIVE IT TO AMERICAN WOMEN NOW?

  I don’t join the line; I stand aside to watch.

  When four young men approach the picketers,

  a crowd gathers, watching and cheering—clearly they

  expect something to happen. A little girl stands on tiptoe

  peering through the crowd, and her mother pulls

  her back, glancing at the women in the picket line

  as if they, and not the four young men, are dangerous.

  A short man pushes a tall man toward Ruby,

  taunting, You’re a good-lookin’ gal—

  you need a man? Here’s one for you.

  Ruby holds her banner high, ignoring them,

  even when the tall man stumbles and falls

  in front of her. The short man doesn’t help him up;

  he laughs and says, Elmer here, he falls for every

  pretty girl he sees, then looks around, expecting us to laugh

  at this pathetic joke. When no one, including Elmer,

  does, he grabs a banner and runs off with it.

  Five bucks is five bucks, he hollers back,

  as Elmer scrambles to his feet and follows him.

  (Someone is paying these men to torment

  the picketers? Five dollars for a stolen

  banner? Where are the police?)

  The crowd grows larger, noisier. I’m relieved

  when the police arrive, assuming they’ll arrest

  the most belligerent of these men—those two,

  who have obviously been drinking, or that one,

  shaking his fist in Lucinda Schultz’s face.

  Yes, two officers approach Lucinda, take her

  by both arms, and escort her away from the drunken man.

  (She does not appear to appreciate their protection.)

  You’re under arrest, they say (what? to her?)

  as the man who has been threatening her

  laughs and walks away. Ruby is left alone,

  trying to hold the banner by herself—

  I pause only for a second before

  stepping in and picking up the other side

  as Lucinda grips the police wagon’s iron bars

  and Ruby asks the officer, What is she charge with?

  He replies, The same as usual: obstructing traffic.

  But we’re not obstructing anything—

  we’re standing well back on the sidewalk,

  and the traffic is obstructed only by the

  crowd. Why don’t the police control

  the crowd? A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOME.

  A man holds up a wide, flat board with that slogan

  scrawled across it in large letters, and something

  I can’t quite read in small writing below it. A plank

  for your platform, he taunts. He waves the board

  at Ruby and me—we pretend not to notice.

  The crowd surges forward, meaner now.

  I squint to read the small words on the plank:

  BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT IN THE KICHE
N

  (he can’t spell “kitchen”). I think: Papa

  and Mr. Norman—with Frank and Ollie’s help—

  built the barn in twenty days, nailing down

  each plank so carefully. (How will Ollie

  use a hammer now?) These men are neither

  building anything nor fighting overseas.

  Much as I despise the war, I despise

  them even more. I face the man and

  speak. My voice is clear and strong:

  You are a lazy coward.

  Ruby stares at me, the look

  on her face my only warning—

  the man raises the plank

  above his head

  (he’s tall, I’m short);

  the board cracks

  on my head …

  my knees buckle …

  loud buzzing …

  black … spinning stars …

  distant voices …

  Sash Abandoned in the Snow

  Muriel

  I open my eyes and look around.

  The man who hit me has disappeared—

  into the paddy wagon, I assume

  (the police are locking it).

  Ruby and Mrs. Ellis help me to my feet.

  Are you needing an ambulance? asks Ruby.

  No, I answer, I’ll be okay in a minute.

  The crowd is dispersing, but …

  all these banners on the ground, and …

  Where are the picketers? I ask.

  Ruby points to the paddy wagon

  driving off. Not the brutal man inside,

  but eleven peaceful women. Why? I ask.

  “Obstructing traffic,” Ruby mimics.

  Mrs. Ellis gathers up the banners.

  She’ll need help carrying them back to

  headquarters. A lump is rising on my forehead

  as I kneel to pick up a gold-and-purple sash—

  torn, abandoned in the snow. I fold it

  carefully and put it in my pocket.

  Grace Brings a Message

  Emma

  Grace brings a message on the day

  we thought Muriel would be coming home.

  Muriel got hurt. She was in a suffering picket line.

  Aunt Vera isn’t out yet. They won’t be home until next week.

  She must mean “suffrage.” My first thought, unfortunately, is not:

  What happened to Muriel? Oh, I’m so sorry! How badly is she hurt?

  But rather: Another long week of doing half of her work, plus my own.

  Grace looks tired. She’s doing as much as she can; I don’t want to moan

  to her about this—she’s a child. I go back to the ironing. Father’s shirt

  is missing its top button—where is it? Then Grace says, I’m hot,

  Emma. Will you walk partway with me—as far as the creek?

  It’s been too long since I, or any of us, have made time

  for Grace. Wait a minute—her face … How come

  it’s so red? Yes, I’ll walk you home, I say.

  We’re Winning

  Muriel

  The goose egg on my head has gone down.

  Ruby and I wait with Mrs. Ellis at the prison gate—

  I’m telling them about Aunt Vera: When she

  comes to visit, she always brings a book for me, a toy

  for Grace. She brings Ollie chocolates,

  and something practical for Papa—a handsaw

  or a box of nails. For Mama, she finds a new hat

  or dress—the latest fashion from Chicago.

  Mama always says, “Oh, I could never

  wear something so flamboyant, Vera—you

  keep it; it looks better on you.” But in the end,

  Mama usually keeps her gift;

  occasionally she even wears it.

  I’m smiling at these memories, picturing

  Aunt Vera getting off the train last Christmas

  in her blue wool coat and matching hat,

  sweeping me into a big hug …

  Here she is. What does Mrs. Ellis mean?

  I see the prison gate swing open—

  but here who is? The woman

  who walks toward us on the arm

  of a prison matron is so thin her coat

  is hanging off her shoulders.

  Her hair is limp and oily, tied back

  with a filthy scarf. Only when she leaves

  the matron and comes to take my arm

  do I recognize Aunt Vera, flashing

  her familiar smile with the words:

  We’re winning.

  An Angel from Heaven

  Muriel

  Aunt Vera needs a few days to regain

  her strength. Horrible, just horrible.

  I’ll tell you more about it when I can.

  While I’m here, I’m helping out in Ruby’s

  kindergarten class. I love the children!

  At six-thirty Wednesday morning, a mother

  brings her child to the door. Could you look after

  Joey until school starts this morning? she asks.

  No, I’m sorry, Ruby answers. I need time for making

  my classroom ready to all the children.

  The mother walks away, pulling Joey along.

  She looks so tired and discouraged, I can’t

  imagine how anyone could refuse her.

  If I let him come in, Ruby explains, they are all

  arriving an hour early every day. But surely

  it can’t do any harm if I help, just this once.

  I run to catch up with them: I’ll watch him for you.

  The mother looks like she might cry. Oh, thank you, miss—

  you’re an angel from heaven. Joey tentatively

  takes my hand. We walk back to the playground.

  Ma has to go to work, he says. If she’s late,

  they’ll give her job to someone else.

  I don’t like to go with her—it’s cold

  where she works! His shoelace is broken; the pieces

  are in knots; the shoe is falling off his foot.

  I have an extra shoelace in my suitcase—

  I get it for him and help him loosen the knots

  so we can take the old one out and put the new one in.

  He watches me tie it, then tries it himself,

  and keeps on trying until he can do it.

  Such a simple thing—a shoelace—but by the time

  he’s tied his shoe, he’s grinning, and all day

  in Ruby’s class, he won’t leave my side.

  When Ruby tells a story, he sits close beside me;

  when the children go outdoors, he takes my hand

  to keep me with him. And when his mother

  comes to pick him up, he unties his shoe,

  ties it, beams up at her. Miss Muriel

  teached me how, he says.

  Put Grace on My Back

  Ollie

  Stone by stone, Emma crosses carefully,

  so she won’t stumble and fall in the water—carrying

  Grace in her arms! Why? I run to them. Ollie, Grace fainted. I

  need your help, she says. I am so happy to see you! I wade right in, up

  to my knees in the cold water, lean down so Emma can put Grace on

  my back, and then I reach back with my arm to hold her there. Emma,

  walking close beside me (right through the water, not on the stones),

  talks softly, stretches her arm across Grace’s back, holding her (and

  by chance, holding me). What’s wrong with her? Maybe it’s that

  flu that’s going around, I whisper. Emma shudders. Did you

  read the article about it in this morning’s paper? I can’t

  face the thought, she says. (Pa’s not home. Could I

  go for the doctor?) Ma sees us and rushes out,

  Oh, no, she cries. No! Not our Grace!

  Nothing to Do with Nourishment

  Muriel
/>   Aunt Vera is feeling strong enough to speak

  to a group of women at the NWP headquarters.

  They seat her in the most comfortable chair,

  bring her tea and sweet biscuits. When she has

  eaten what she can, everyone gathers around

  to listen to her stories. I’m puzzled—I know she

  refused the food the guards gave her—but was

  there more to it than that? (Papa: It could get worse.)

  I’ve thought hard, and I have not been able to invent

  the details. First, they put me in the psychiatric ward,

  Aunt Vera says. A psychologist interviewed me

  and pronounced me sane—which was, remarkably,

  the truth, even after I had spent a week in a

  rat-infested prison cell, on a urine-soaked mattress,

  in total isolation. Once they saw that I would not

  give up my hunger strike, they started the force-feeding.

  It has nothing to do with nourishment,

  everything to do with power and control.

  Four of us agreed we would not eat. No one

  cared if we died of starvation; their only

  concern was stopping all women from picketing.

  To do that, they would have to break our will,

  and in that, I am happy to report, they did not

  succeed. (Am I the only one who doesn’t

  know what “force-feeding” means? How is it possible

  to force someone to open her mouth, and then to swallow,

  if she refuses to do so?) Four people—two women and two

  men—held my arms and legs, Aunt Vera continues,

  so I could not move. A fifth tried to open my mouth;

  when I clamped it shut, he pushed something

  like a shoehorn between my teeth to pry it open.

  He forced a tube down my throat into my stomach

  and poured food through a funnel into the tube.

  They called it “food” though it could have been

  anything—raw eggs, I believe, probably mixed

  with milk. I couldn’t taste it, and I couldn’t

  keep it down. They did this to the four of us

  three times a day. We could hear one another

  vomiting, but were not allowed any conversation.

  They released me, I’m convinced, not

  out of compassion, or morality, but only

  because they knew that if I died in prison,

  they’d have a thousand picketers

  from all around the country on their hands.

  A quiet fury gathers in the room. Vera,

  Mrs. Ellis says, women—and some men—