Unmentionables. Laurie Loewenstein
in smooth choreography. The auto rolled down the driveway.
“Any place special you’d like to see?”
Marian stared at a passing parade of lawns, porches, and an elderly man pushing a mower. “Hard to believe there would be anything special here.”
Emmett bit his upper lip, considering. “There’s the courthouse, and Spring Lake’s just outside of town.”
She threw up her hands as if they were a white flag of surrender. “Fine, fine. Anywhere.” She eyed her chauffeur’s erect posture. “Tula says you’re registered for the army?”
“Yes’um. Just awaiting orders. The training camps aren’t ready for us. That’s what I was told anyway . . . This here is the business district.”
A handful of shops on either side of the street slid by, mirror images of those in all the other Chautauqua towns Marian had visited.
“The train station’s up ahead.”
Marian shifted in her seat, unsticking the green kimono that was clinging uncomfortably to her thighs. In the open car, the August sun beat down mercilessly.
“Would you mind if I stopped at the station?” Emmett asked. “Mr. Harp asked me to pick up a package—if it’s all right with you, of course.”
“Oh, certainly! That will be the highlight of the excursion so far,” Marian said dryly.
After Emmett disappeared inside, Marian billowed her garment. No relief. Across the street, a small park baked in the heat, its half-dozen young trees bent like buggy whips. For a long time, no vehicles passed. Finally, a horse-drawn wagon hauling a large water tank rolled by, sprinkling water on the dusty paving stones, and then all was quiet. She dozed.
Suddenly a train whistle blasted, waking Marian who self-consciously wiped a thread of saliva off her chin. The engine pulled into the station with a hissing gush of steam. A small greeting party quickly assembled on the platform, including a baggage clerk pushing a wooden dolly and a young couple, arms linked, kissing in the shade of the depot’s overhang. Marian imagined they might be parting. A newsboy hawked papers as the train cars coasted by, then screeched to a stop. Clarion was stenciled in block letters on his canvas bag.
An old man debarked gingerly onto a wooden step provided by the porter, followed by two business types. Then a familiar figure, her mentor, Placidia Shaw, stood framed in the passenger car’s doorway. What luck! Marian thought. At least something positive will come out of this delay. Although they had lectured in tandem during Marian’s first Chautauqua season seven years ago, now that Marian had been promoted to the position of first-nighter, their paths rarely crossed. Chautauqua performers were deployed in relay fashion, and so the two never again appeared in the same place at the same time. Placidia remained a “preluder,” Chautauqua lingo for the lead-in before the main speaker. Still, they continued their friendship through letters and postcards, although, Marian realized, these had become less frequent. This summer, Marian and Placidia traveled down the line two days apart.
The older woman, clutching the same satchel Marian remembered from seven years ago, stepped onto the platform. She disappeared inside the station, emerged through the main doors, and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Marian remained planted in her car like a hobbled goat. A minute later Emmett stepped out—what in heaven’s name had taken him so long? Marian pressed the horn frantically and, when he finally looked her way, waved vigorously. He rushed over.
“You all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, but that woman. I know her. Crank this up.”
Emmett hastily got the Packard running, driving it down the block.
“Yoo hoo!” Marian called. “Can we give you a ride?”
The older woman paused, squinted, hurried on.
“Move up, move up,” Marian said to Emmett, making swishing motions.
The Packard inched forward.
“It’s me, Marian.”
Placidia stopped again. “Oh, yes. So you are.”
“Let me give you a ride.”
“What are you doing here?” Placidia’s head tipped to one side.
“Long story. Come on, get in.”
Lifting several layers of heavy black skirts and petticoats, the traveler climbed into the tonneau seat behind Marian while Emmett tied her valise on the running board.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Marian said, twisting around, ignoring the pain shooting up her leg. “I just can’t believe it!”
A few swift cranks and Emmett was back behind the wheel.
“How was the gate in this town? Standing room only?” Placidia asked, clasping and unclasping her hands.
“There was an overflow. Can I carry you to the hotel to freshen up before—” Marian began, but Placidia interrupted.
“No, no. Straight to the grounds.”
“But you must be exhausted,” Marian said, while at the same time noting that Placidia’s nails were bitten to the quick.
“I have to make sure everything is set up properly. You can’t trust those crew boys to do anything right.” Placidia abruptly snapped open her handbag, shuffling through a number of papers that were covered in tight script.
“You must be wondering why I’m still here,” Marian said. “You see . . .” Her voice petered out. Placidia was muttering to herself, pulling out a newspaper clipping only to examine it with a grimace and shove it back in her bag.
She’s acting awfully odd, Marian thought. “Can I help you look for something?” she asked.
“No, I’ve got this well in hand. Go on.”
Marian described the fall, the ankle, the interruption of her schedule. “The doctor says I must stay off it an entire week, but I’m thinking, if I could get a driver who would take me to Vernon tomorrow . . .” She paused and glanced at Emmett who seemed to be making of point of keeping his eyes glued to the road. “If that happens, I’ll be back on track. Oh, I’m just so happy to see you. And still fighting the good fight for Hull-House.”
“Here it is!” Placidia cried triumphantly, waving a pamphlet she unearthed from the valise. “Hull-House? That’s all in the past. I was misguided. I have a completely new message now.”
“Oh?” Marian drew back.
Placidia inched forward, her face suddenly animated. “Race improvement.”
“I’m not sure what that is,” Marian said slowly.
Eagerly, Placidia explained, “I had always assumed—well, we all did—that the problems in the slums, with the immigrants, were due to environment. You know, slumlords, poor sanitation, the industrial machine.”
Marian nodded.
“But that was all wrong, don’t you see? That view didn’t take advantage of the new thinking, the new science that proves—proves scientifically—that it is heredity, not environment, that is the key to national vitality so that—”
“Just a minute,” Marian said, holding up her hand. “You’re saying that the solution to social problems is . . . is what?”
“Who marries whom and, of course, the number of children they have. That’s it in a nutshell.” Placidia handed Marian the pamphlet. “It’s all in here.”
The Packard bumped over an uneven set of trolley tracks. The sun continued to beat down. In the shade of a store awning, a mother was unfurling the hood of a baby carriage.
Marian read the brochure’s title, The Low Immigrant Gives Us Three Babies while the Daughter of the American Revolution Gives Us One. Her cheeks reddening,