Crossing Stones Read online

  from all around the country are on their way

  to Washington right now. We’re marching

  to protest this kind of treatment, and to continue

  our demand for freedom. Tomorrow afternoon,

  you will be cheered to know, we’ll be

  at least one thousand strong.

  How Close Can I Go?

  Emma

  Hands on her hips, Mother stands firm, blocking

  the doorway. I don’t want you going over there, Emma.

  Grace is quarantined for up to two weeks. Only her mother

  and Dr. Brower (not her father, not Ollie) are allowed in her room.

  I understand how my mother feels: I’m all she has left. She can’t bear

  the thought of losing another child. But that’s almost the same way I feel

  about Grace. How close can I go? I ask. Mother knits her brows. Don’t cross

  the creek, Emma. Mrs. Jones died last night. They’ve closed the school. This moss-

  covered rock by the water is as close as I can be to Grace; I’m trying to heal

  her from here with these simple songs I sing. I don’t know if she can hear

  them; it may be too cold to open her window. Muriel will be home soon.

  She doesn’t know that now it’s her sister who’s sick, and her brother

  trying his best to hold things together. I’d planned dinner and a

  “Welcome Home” party. Now, instead, I sit alone, rocking.

  One Thousand Women

  Muriel

  One thousand women, representing

  every corner of the country, march together

  to the White House, wearing white, with

  gold-and-purple sashes, carrying our banners:

  THE TIME HAS COME TO CONQUER

  OR SUBMIT. THERE CAN BE BUT ONE CHOICE.

  WE HAVE MADE IT. I stand a little taller

  and walk on. TO ASK FREEDOM

  FOR WOMEN IS NOT A CRIME. SUFFRAGE PRISONERS

  SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS CRIMINALS.

  (A man holds one side of that one.) Aunt Vera

  stands up at a podium, the crowd quiets,

  and she speaks. They’ve tried to silence us

  by every means they know of—our voices

  are still strong. They’ve tried to hold us

  in their prison cells—our spirit

  is stronger than their bars. They’ve tried

  to force food down our throats—we have not

  accepted it, any more than we accept

  the old, worn-out idea that women are

  the weaker sex. The crowd erupts in cheers.

  They don’t have enough prison cells

  to hold us. Their words are not true enough

  to silence us. We are their mothers, sisters,

  daughters—here today, one thousand

  women strong—our voices will be heard.

  President Wilson drives by but doesn’t stop,

  or even pause to look our way! What is he

  afraid of? Will he crack a window open

  in the White House and listen like a little boy

  when he thinks no one is watching?

  Aunt Vera finishes her speech and steps down

  from the podium. She finds me in the crowd.

  She’s still thin, but radiant with joy reflected

  to and from these women—and I’m

  included, right here at the center.

  I’m strong enough, she says, to travel home.

  (It’s time to get back on the train already?)

  But, she adds, I won’t be going. (Why not?)

  While I was in prison, my boss sent word

  that he’s replaced me. (She lost her job!)

  Don’t worry, she assures me. I have savings,

  and it won’t be hard to find work

  when I get back. But I’ve decided to stay here

  in Washington, at least until all the suffrage

  prisoners are released. Victory is so close

  we can almost touch it! But there’s hard work

  ahead of us—I’m needed here now, Muriel.

  I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.

  I look out at the crowd—today I’m one small part

  of something big. No, Aunt Vera, not for nothing,

  I reply. I straighten out my sash, link arms with her

  and Ruby, and the three of us walk forward.

  Strangers Together

  Muriel

  Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry

  me home, a mother in the seat behind me sings

  to her baby. The baby cries, then quiets

  as the train rocks us, strangers together,

  our voices softening as night comes on.

  The city noises fade away, and echoes of the

  past two weeks collide: young boys selling papers,

  Aunt Vera’s speech, Ruby’s gentle Danish accent

  as she speaks to the children in her kindergarten class,

  or to me—her parting words: Come back and teach with me.

  You’re good with children, Muriel. I think of Joey,

  then doze off and dream of Grace, stretching

  out her hand: When will Muriel come back?

  Emma sings, I looked over Jordan, and what

  did I see, comin’ for to carry me home?

  A band of angels, comin’ after me, comin’ for

  to carry me home. But when I wake up, it’s not Emma singing;

  it’s the mother behind me, trying to soothe her baby.

  I turn around and offer: Shall I hold her awhile

  so you can get a little rest? She looks me over:

  If she’ll let you, that would be kind.

  Her name is Viola Irene. I take the baby

  in my arms, awkwardly at first, but her hair

  has the same sweet smell I remember

  from holding Grace when she was a baby,

  and it all comes back. I rock Viola; she smiles

  up at me, making little gurgle sounds—she wants

  to have a conversation. When she falls asleep at last,

  and I return her to her mother, the train

  is quiet, except for someone snoring two seats back.

  I sleep again, a deep sleep without dreaming,

  and wake to a familiar smell: we must have

  passed a skunk—not the strong smell

  when their spray gets on your clothes,

  just a soft reminder that I’m nearing home.

  Probably … If

  Ollie

  Toss me an onion, Ollie. Pa is trying to cook

  while Ma spends all her time taking care of Grace,

  who hasn’t kept food down for three days. This morning

  Dr. Brower came over to see her. She’ll probably live if she

  makes it through one more night, he told us. Every hour, Ma

  sends me to the creek—at least I can do something—for fresh,

  clear water to bathe Grace in order to bring her fever down. I

  hear music. Emma? Sitting on a rock beside the creek as she

  mends a jacket. Wrapped up in a blanket, singing. Why? It

  takes me a minute to realize Emma’s here because we’ve

  locked her out. I shouldn’t get close, but when she calls

  to me, Ollie! How is she? I do. She manages a small

  smile. Emma, I say, we could lose Grace. The

  loss of my arm is nothing, next to this.

  Tell Me About Your Trip

  Muriel

  Oh, I’m glad you’re home, Muriel. Emma hugs me hard

  and we walk to the buggy. Why has she come

  to meet me, instead of Mama or Papa? I’m surprised

  Grace didn’t beg to come along. Emma, I ask, how

  is Ollie? She gives me a quick glance. Ollie

  is getting better. But … She hesitates, then says,

  Tell me abou
t your trip. Where can I begin?

  Oh, Emma, I feel like a completely different person

  than I was when I left! You should see Washington!

  You can walk down long streets of great mansions!

  But then—just a few blocks away, people live in tiny

  rooms without heat, whole families in one room.

  Some people wearing fur coats and fancy hats

  walk right by children with no coats at all

  as if they don’t even see them. Oh, speaking of hats,

  look at this one that I found for Mama. I can’t wait

  to show it to Grace—she will love these ostrich feathers!

  Emma clears her throat, but doesn’t speak. I go on.

  I got you and Ollie presents, too, Emma—shall I show you

  now, or wait till we get home? Never mind, I’ll wait—

  they’re buried at the bottom of my suitcase.

  And I bought Grace a book, Anne of Green Gables.

  But I don’t want to sound like all I did

  was shop for presents. I saw the headquarters of the

  National Woman’s Party. I stood on a picket line,

  and a tall man hit me with a plank

  because I called him a lazy coward, which he was.

  I still have a small lump on my forehead, but at first

  it was bigger than a goose egg! Ruby—a girl

  I met—said there are some decent men in Washington,

  the same as anywhere, but I didn’t meet many of them.

  I met a lot of smart women, though. Ruby teaches

  kindergarten—she said I should go back

  someday and teach there because I’m good with children.

  If it weren’t for her kindergarten, the children in her class

  would have to go to factories all day with their mothers,

  and a lot of them are put to work, even little ones.

  Some people in Congress are trying to pass child labor laws,

  which I think would be a good idea, don’t you? Wait …

  Emma … you missed the turn to our house.

  I guess I’m talking so much you forgot

  where you’re going! Emma reins in the horses

  and turns to look at me. She looks tired. Sad?

  I didn’t forget, she says. Your parents asked me

  to bring you to our house tonight. I wait for her

  to explain, but she goes on in silence, letting the horses

  trot toward her house, not mine. Emma, what is it?

  Is something wrong? She has tears in her eyes!

  Yes, Muriel, something is very wrong.

  There’s Ollie, filling a pail with water from the creek;

  he seems okay—I look more closely—

  has his wound flared up? Emma

  wipes her nose, brushes away tears.

  It’s not Ollie, Muriel. It’s Grace.

  I See That, Too

  Emma

  Muriel takes a good, hard look at me. The fear

  in my eyes must answer the question she doesn’t dare

  ask. She jumps to the ground, lifts her skirt, and runs. Before

  anyone can stop her, she’s across Crabapple Creek and halfway

  home. Later, when Father takes her suitcase over, they don’t invite

  him in. Ollie came to the buggy to meet me, he says when he gets back.

  Grace is still alive. Mother makes them a pot of soup and a loaf of bread.

  I can take it over, I offer. Mother draws a deep breath. No, I’ll go instead.

  Father looks up at her, says, Yes, that’s good. Then, Ollie doesn’t let the lack

  of an arm stop him from much, does he? I see that, too. Late last night

  when he heard me singing to Grace, he came out to the creek to say,

  I like your singing, Emma, but … Grace can’t hear you anymore.

  I reached out to hold him. No, he said, Please stay where

  you are. Ollie—as always, so thoughtful. So dear.

  Lake of Shining Waters

  Muriel

  “Good night, dear Lake of Shining Waters.

  I always say good night to the things I love

  just as I would to people. I think they like it.

  That water looks as if it was smiling at me.”

  I bought Anne of Green Gables for Grace,

  and I intend to read every word of it to her.

  When she gets better, she can read it all again.

  I say when, not if. I refuse to consider if.

  Reading the story keeps me from shouting at her:

  Listen here, Grace, you open your eyes right now.

  Mrs. Norman went to the trouble to make this soup.

  She even brought it over here herself! You’d better

  wake up and eat it. Quit acting like this, do you

  understand me? Mama and Papa and Dr. Brower told me

  to stay out of Grace’s room, but—like Frank and Ollie

  going to war—I’m old enough to decide for myself

  what I’ll risk, and who I’ll risk it for, and why.

  If I can stand up to that stupid man

  who hit me with a board, if I can hold a banner

  for the president to read, and—I’m not exactly sure

  what this has to do with anything—if I can

  give away an apple and a shoelace when someone

  needs them, and sing a lullaby to Viola Irene,

  I’m not going to let this flu prevent me

  from loving my own sister! When Mama saw

  that I would not be stopped, she said, Well, then,

  maybe I’ll sleep a bit—just an hour or so.

  Wake me if there is any change.

  There is no change—Grace is burning up;

  her breath goes in and out. She has been sleeping

  for two days, and all our love can’t wake her.

  Tipperary

  Ollie

  Dread is thick as mud in our house, as Emma’s

  song washes over us, a stream of cool water. Muriel is

  staying up all night, reading that book to Grace. (Does she

  think Grace is listening?) For the first time all week, Pa and Ma

  are both asleep. Open the window a little wider, Muriel, I suggest.

  I’m going to the creek for water. She probably guesses that, though I

  will get water for her to cool Grace, I’m going to see Emma. Are you

  still sitting on this rock in the dark? I ask. Have you been out here all this

  time, huddled in your blanket? She nods. I shake my head. I bet even the

  war wouldn’t scare you like it scares the fellows over there. I give her a

  drink from the creek. She accepts it, takes a small sip, and says, I’m

  praying as I sing, Ollie. That’s good. But, I ask, is there anything

  wrong with praying a cheerful song? She smiles: Tipperary?

  Red streaks the sky as we sing: It’s a long way …

  Then What Happened?

  Muriel

  Then what happened?

  I’ve walked to the window to listen

  to Ollie and Emma singing together

  and at first I don’t believe my ears—

  I turn to look—I’m not imagining things—

  that question came out of Grace!

  I stopped reading for a minute,

  turned away, and she opened her eyes to ask

  what happened next! I don’t know, Grace,

  I’m reading it for the first time myself.

  Mama said to wake her if there was any change,

  but Grace insists, Keep reading, Muriel.

  I think Anne really does like Gilbert, don’t you?

  She keeps her eyes open, and I go on, as if

  reading is breathing, and by reading I can

  keep my sister breathing. “Then, just as she thought

  she really could not endure the ache in her arms a
nd wrists

  another moment, Gilbert Blythe came rowing under the bridge…”

  Grace actually grins! See, I told you, Muriel!

  Ollie’s clear baritone and Emma’s alto

  come to me across the early morning air:

  We didn’t know (Ollie’s voice)

  the way to tickle Mary (soft laughter),

  but we learned how, over there.

  Let’s Climb Cobb Hill

  Emma

  Ollie suggests, Let’s climb Cobb Hill

  to watch the sunrise. We don’t talk while we climb

  the narrow path through the trees. When we reach the top,

  we sit down on a fallen log and Ollie says, Emma, I’ve been trying

  to find a way to tell you something important, and there’s no fancy way

  of saying it. Ollie has never been fancy with words; that’s fine—I wait

  for him to find the solid, plain words he is looking for. He stares down

  at his feet, looks up at me, takes a deep breath. Tears flood his brown

  eyes. He blinks them back. I’m sorry about Frank, he says. A great

  heaviness rises up, drapes itself around us. Ollie goes on: All day

  when I was thinking about Grace, I would picture you crying

  for your brother when I was over there … I can’t stop

  feeling guilty. I wasn’t much of a soldier—I’m

  sorry. (For what?) I couldn’t learn to kill.

  In the Doorway

  Muriel

  “‘Dear old world,’ she murmured, ‘you are very lovely,

  and I am glad to be alive in you.’” I can barely keep

  my eyes open, but Grace won’t let me stop reading

  until we get to the end. Mama opens the door

  and sees Grace sitting up, eyes bright,

  attentive to the story. She catches her breath,

  comes in, and rests her hand on Grace’s forehead,

  staring at her like she did eight years ago,

  that August afternoon when Grace was born.

  A warm breeze blew through the house that day—

  as a fresh, cool wind blows now. Grace is smiling!

  Mama stands behind her, brushing her hair,

  and I read the last page of the book:

  “‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’

  whispered Anne softly.” I close the book and then

  I close my eyes. It’s been two days since I’ve slept,