Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction by Vanessa Russell Page B
Authors: Vanessa Russell
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didn’t matter.
The Nineteenth Amendment had become law. Mr. Burn’s vote ended seventy-two years of aching struggle and Mrs. Catt told him so some hours later, on the steps outside the building. Mr. Burn seemed a cautious sort, but was obviously impressed by Mrs. Catt. Hepatted her on the shoulder and with a boyish grin said, “Please. Call me Harry.” He brought out a letter from his breast pocket. “I know that a mother’s advice is always the safest for a boy to follow.” He read a portion of this letter to us: “‘Dear Son, vote for suffrage and do not keep them in doubt. I know some of the speeches against and they are very bitter.’”
Bitter indeed and I saw the anti-suffrage movement continue to delay official ratification for several days through their legal tricks and by holding massive anti-suffrage rallies. We stayed away from this and from the Hermitage Hotel where many were posted there on sentinel duty in the front lobby.
Instead, we worked around the anti’s noise, as a farmer might in the midst of a thunderstorm. We knew the rain would desist soon and the sun would come back out. It did when Tennessee reaffirmed its vote, and on August twenty-sixth, 1920, the Nineteenth Amendment was officially added to the U.S. Constitution.
We attended celebratory parties and dinners for several days, with Mr. Phillips as our escort and transportation. He seemed humble and appreciative of my attention to him, which I tried to limit, but he was persistent and at times irresistible with his chatty charm. I was not aware I was heading into his snare until it was too late.
One such night we met in the dining room of Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house where Eunice and I shared a room. A glowing evening, with candles and festive spirits and hearty laughter. The more generous the pouring of Mrs. Murphy’s prohibited port (this was during the Prohibition Days), the more funny things seemed. Mr. Phillips had joined us for dinner and he came suitably dressed in a black deacon’s coat, matching trousers, and a clean white shirt. I would even go so far as to say he was handsome with those piercing blue eyes (even though his age must’ve been around forty at that time). Eunice surprised us all by being quite coquettish. Something about Mr. Phillips’ down-to-earth friendly banter eased her ramrod posture and by dessert she was leaning over her plate with napkin to her mouth, squealing in delight to Mr. Phillips’ stories, strands of hair enjoying this moment of slack in gaily dangling about her ears.
He and his brothers were pranksters in their younger days, Mr. Phillips told his captive audience, and they showed no mercy to one another.
“We loved to play cowboys and Indians. But us being half-Cherokee, we all wanted to be Indians, which of course can’t be because then you don’t have anyone to shoot at. So I made up a contest ...” And so on and on he went, quite open really, a man being most charming when in a self-deprecating way. The evening filled with such stories and I admit I got caught up in it.
Upon retiring to my room, it suddenly struck me - too late I might add - that the ladies had not shared their own stories, stories of marches and picket lines and why we were celebrating in the first place. We had allowed a man to dominate the women’s victory! Did we need the man’s spark to warm and relax us? I pondered this for some time that night.
Mr. Phillips appeared on my doorstep early the next morning with the day’s newspaper. A picture of Alice Paul, president of the National Woman’s Party, appeared on the front page, draping a flag from her balcony in Washington DC. The thirty-sixth star, representing Tennessee, had been added to the thirty-five others that she had sewn on as each state ratified the Nineteenth Amendment. I longed to be there to celebrate with her in the nation’s capital. There was where the heart of the matter was; victory removed government roadblocks placed in front of
The Nineteenth Amendment had become law. Mr. Burn’s vote ended seventy-two years of aching struggle and Mrs. Catt told him so some hours later, on the steps outside the building. Mr. Burn seemed a cautious sort, but was obviously impressed by Mrs. Catt. Hepatted her on the shoulder and with a boyish grin said, “Please. Call me Harry.” He brought out a letter from his breast pocket. “I know that a mother’s advice is always the safest for a boy to follow.” He read a portion of this letter to us: “‘Dear Son, vote for suffrage and do not keep them in doubt. I know some of the speeches against and they are very bitter.’”
Bitter indeed and I saw the anti-suffrage movement continue to delay official ratification for several days through their legal tricks and by holding massive anti-suffrage rallies. We stayed away from this and from the Hermitage Hotel where many were posted there on sentinel duty in the front lobby.
Instead, we worked around the anti’s noise, as a farmer might in the midst of a thunderstorm. We knew the rain would desist soon and the sun would come back out. It did when Tennessee reaffirmed its vote, and on August twenty-sixth, 1920, the Nineteenth Amendment was officially added to the U.S. Constitution.
We attended celebratory parties and dinners for several days, with Mr. Phillips as our escort and transportation. He seemed humble and appreciative of my attention to him, which I tried to limit, but he was persistent and at times irresistible with his chatty charm. I was not aware I was heading into his snare until it was too late.
One such night we met in the dining room of Mrs. Murphy’s boarding house where Eunice and I shared a room. A glowing evening, with candles and festive spirits and hearty laughter. The more generous the pouring of Mrs. Murphy’s prohibited port (this was during the Prohibition Days), the more funny things seemed. Mr. Phillips had joined us for dinner and he came suitably dressed in a black deacon’s coat, matching trousers, and a clean white shirt. I would even go so far as to say he was handsome with those piercing blue eyes (even though his age must’ve been around forty at that time). Eunice surprised us all by being quite coquettish. Something about Mr. Phillips’ down-to-earth friendly banter eased her ramrod posture and by dessert she was leaning over her plate with napkin to her mouth, squealing in delight to Mr. Phillips’ stories, strands of hair enjoying this moment of slack in gaily dangling about her ears.
He and his brothers were pranksters in their younger days, Mr. Phillips told his captive audience, and they showed no mercy to one another.
“We loved to play cowboys and Indians. But us being half-Cherokee, we all wanted to be Indians, which of course can’t be because then you don’t have anyone to shoot at. So I made up a contest ...” And so on and on he went, quite open really, a man being most charming when in a self-deprecating way. The evening filled with such stories and I admit I got caught up in it.
Upon retiring to my room, it suddenly struck me - too late I might add - that the ladies had not shared their own stories, stories of marches and picket lines and why we were celebrating in the first place. We had allowed a man to dominate the women’s victory! Did we need the man’s spark to warm and relax us? I pondered this for some time that night.
Mr. Phillips appeared on my doorstep early the next morning with the day’s newspaper. A picture of Alice Paul, president of the National Woman’s Party, appeared on the front page, draping a flag from her balcony in Washington DC. The thirty-sixth star, representing Tennessee, had been added to the thirty-five others that she had sewn on as each state ratified the Nineteenth Amendment. I longed to be there to celebrate with her in the nation’s capital. There was where the heart of the matter was; victory removed government roadblocks placed in front of
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