the limits society pressed on women, confident in the rightness of her relationship with Frank, almost daring the world to discover their secret. Now she was hiding in her house most of the time.
A year ago, when she chose Kate’s speech on a wife’s obedience to her husband, she had imagined a flamboyant, ironic reading, after which she would talk about the changing role of women. Now, as she read the line “Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,” she wanted to be in China, Budapest, Africa, anywhere but Oak Park, Illinois.
When the day came, she delivered the reading as she had first imagined it—with great irony—and nearly collapsed with relief when the audience laughed its approval. Strung through her like a thin wire, a streak of old courage had kept her upright long enough to get through it. Catherine had stayed away, but Frank’s mother had come. Mamah caught a glimpse of the frowning Anna Wright in the audience and wondered if she knew. Or if anyone knew, for that matter.
The harrowing reading, in the end, seemed to help her turn a corner. She returned to two classes she had begun in the fall at the University of Chicago, both taught by Robert Herrick—a literature class and a course on the writing of novels. She immersed herself in Herrick’s novels, attended classes, and wrote furiously.
The gnawing longing she’d felt for Frank was still there, but an uneasiness now matched it. How could she have been so ready to divorce her husband while Frank was so ready to give his wife one more year? She found herself thankful she hadn’t told Edwin.
On New Year’s Day, she woke to find her husband standing in his striped pajamas at the side of the bed, the thin hair around his ears ruffled like feathers. He bent to kiss her forehead. “Happy 1909, my darling.”
Mamah sat up, rubbed her eyes. “Happy New Year,” she said groggily.
He pressed into her hands a small wrapped gift. “I couldn’t resist.”
She opened it to find a gold brooch in the shape of an owl, with two rubies for its eyes.
Years earlier, he had given her a chain with a silver owl pendant on it.
For my scholar,
the note had read. She’d made the mistake of mustering delight, and subsequent owl gifts had followed—-a hooked rug, a carved owl clock, always with a sentimental note.
He had as much acquaintance with the contents of the books she read as she had with the workings of electric transformers. Yet he clearly felt enlarged by the idea that his wife was an intellectual. At dinner parties, he would sometimes direct the conversation toward her, graciously giving her the floor when he knew she had one of her causes to put forth. If talk turned bookish, he stared at her indulgently as she spoke, his forefinger crooked over his chin. When a guest once teased him about his silence during a discussion of an Ibsen play, Edwin had shrugged it off with characteristic modesty. “Mamah tends to Mr. Ibsen in this household. I take care of the car.”
“He adores you,” the woman seated next to her had said that evening. “You are a very fortunate woman.”
“Thank you, Ed,” Mamah said now, placing the lid back on the little box. She stretched her arms. “Is that sausage I smell?”
“’Tis. And eggs. And broiled grapefruit with brown sugar.”
“Where are the children?”
“Down in the basement with Lizzie.”
“All right. I’m up,” she said.
Mamah climbed out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and walked into the living room.
“Martha! Johnny! Jessica!” Edwin was hollering from the kitchen.
“Here we come,” John called from downstairs.
Mamah corraled Martha, who was toddling happily through the room, and sat her apple-cheeked daughter in the high chair. John came next, then Jessica, who sat patiently waiting for the clamor to end. Even at eight and never having known her own mother, the girl was the picture of composure, so like Jessie it was a bit unnerving.
Louise was off, as was the cook, and
A year ago, when she chose Kate’s speech on a wife’s obedience to her husband, she had imagined a flamboyant, ironic reading, after which she would talk about the changing role of women. Now, as she read the line “Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,” she wanted to be in China, Budapest, Africa, anywhere but Oak Park, Illinois.
When the day came, she delivered the reading as she had first imagined it—with great irony—and nearly collapsed with relief when the audience laughed its approval. Strung through her like a thin wire, a streak of old courage had kept her upright long enough to get through it. Catherine had stayed away, but Frank’s mother had come. Mamah caught a glimpse of the frowning Anna Wright in the audience and wondered if she knew. Or if anyone knew, for that matter.
The harrowing reading, in the end, seemed to help her turn a corner. She returned to two classes she had begun in the fall at the University of Chicago, both taught by Robert Herrick—a literature class and a course on the writing of novels. She immersed herself in Herrick’s novels, attended classes, and wrote furiously.
The gnawing longing she’d felt for Frank was still there, but an uneasiness now matched it. How could she have been so ready to divorce her husband while Frank was so ready to give his wife one more year? She found herself thankful she hadn’t told Edwin.
On New Year’s Day, she woke to find her husband standing in his striped pajamas at the side of the bed, the thin hair around his ears ruffled like feathers. He bent to kiss her forehead. “Happy 1909, my darling.”
Mamah sat up, rubbed her eyes. “Happy New Year,” she said groggily.
He pressed into her hands a small wrapped gift. “I couldn’t resist.”
She opened it to find a gold brooch in the shape of an owl, with two rubies for its eyes.
Years earlier, he had given her a chain with a silver owl pendant on it.
For my scholar,
the note had read. She’d made the mistake of mustering delight, and subsequent owl gifts had followed—-a hooked rug, a carved owl clock, always with a sentimental note.
He had as much acquaintance with the contents of the books she read as she had with the workings of electric transformers. Yet he clearly felt enlarged by the idea that his wife was an intellectual. At dinner parties, he would sometimes direct the conversation toward her, graciously giving her the floor when he knew she had one of her causes to put forth. If talk turned bookish, he stared at her indulgently as she spoke, his forefinger crooked over his chin. When a guest once teased him about his silence during a discussion of an Ibsen play, Edwin had shrugged it off with characteristic modesty. “Mamah tends to Mr. Ibsen in this household. I take care of the car.”
“He adores you,” the woman seated next to her had said that evening. “You are a very fortunate woman.”
“Thank you, Ed,” Mamah said now, placing the lid back on the little box. She stretched her arms. “Is that sausage I smell?”
“’Tis. And eggs. And broiled grapefruit with brown sugar.”
“Where are the children?”
“Down in the basement with Lizzie.”
“All right. I’m up,” she said.
Mamah climbed out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe, and walked into the living room.
“Martha! Johnny! Jessica!” Edwin was hollering from the kitchen.
“Here we come,” John called from downstairs.
Mamah corraled Martha, who was toddling happily through the room, and sat her apple-cheeked daughter in the high chair. John came next, then Jessica, who sat patiently waiting for the clamor to end. Even at eight and never having known her own mother, the girl was the picture of composure, so like Jessie it was a bit unnerving.
Louise was off, as was the cook, and
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