her own hands, still pale and gaunt, folded in her lap like two dead swans. This is just the way my hands looked in New York, she tells herself. I could be sitting in a subway car or in a taxicab. On my way to a luncheon or an afternoon in the park. She concentrates only on keeping her hands utterly still, as though their inaction can disguise her distress.
Her mind floods with this small task and, still, a tear escapes and falls onto her skirt. This drop, this nothing, this small bit of herself becomes a dark circle on the fabric. An imprint of her present self in this place she can’t comprehend.
Certainly Harold has given her no reason to expect that this pacifist demonstration of their father’s is reasonable. But she also knows he is not objective. With two years of law school completed, he serves as a lawyer in an office at the Naval Yard in Brooklyn, helping to write the legal justifications for the war their father deems unjust. This has left relations chilly between the elder and younger Mr. Dench.
The day before they left, Harold came to the apartment in his uniform while she was packing flatware into boxes. Hensley clung to him, immediately ashamed of her tears, surprised by her own emotion. Her father had sprung the news on her just the night before, giving her only two days to prepare for their departure.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, wiping at her face.
“He’s crazy,” her brother said, offering her his handkerchief.
Hensley stepped away, shaking her head. “They fired him.”
“He knew they would.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Don’t be a simpleton. We’re at war, Hen. He’s reckless.”
Hensley couldn’t help smiling. “Daddy?”
“Doesn’t New Mexico sound a little reckless to you, Hen? What the hell does he expect you to do? Marry a miner, pan for gold in the dirt?”
“Good God, Harold, it’s just for the summer. We’ll be back and I’ll go to Wellesley in the fall.” She wished she could confide in him, confess her confusion, her own anguish about Mr. Teagan, but she didn’t.
“Is that what he’s told you?”
“Why not?” She turned her back on him, resuming her chore.
“You think the Times will rehire a German American pacifist in three months’ time? The war will only get hotter, Hennie. If you go, you should be prepared to stay.” Harold put his hand on hers. She pulled it away.
She couldn’t bear his self-righteousness anymore. “Fine. Then stay I will. There. Happy? You are always right about everything from the very beginning, Harry. The rest of us must do a bit of floundering.”
• • •
N ow, over four weeks later, she lifts her eyes from her lap as she hears Berto call back to her.
“Shall we go on?” he says from ahead. They are both sitting astride their horses, Hensley having declined a sidesaddle out of some attempt to garner a confession. “I won’t use one if you don’t,” she said to Berto as he stood in front of the pen, a sidesaddle over his arm.
He raised his eyebrows, without a trace of guilt or recognition. “Huh. So you are a suffragette?”
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“I am a Mexican.”
“Yes, but don’t you think women should have the right to vote? All women, everywhere?”
“I’m tired of fighting for anything.”
So they both saddled up and luckily Hensley was wearing a skirt she’d made upon their arrival: loose, pale gray linen with a longer hem than usual, because she’d abandoned her heels in favor of daytime boots, and a matching jacket that she draped across the back of her saddle an hour ago. Straddling this saddle would have been impossible in a hobble skirt and heels. Really, fashion in Hillsboro is somewhat of an oxymoron.
Their horses clop forward and Berto lifts his hat ever so slightly to cool his forehead. Hensley sees the thicket of black hair that’s been dragged up from the nape of his neck and hidden away. This secret, like her own, sends a jolt of danger up the back of
Her mind floods with this small task and, still, a tear escapes and falls onto her skirt. This drop, this nothing, this small bit of herself becomes a dark circle on the fabric. An imprint of her present self in this place she can’t comprehend.
Certainly Harold has given her no reason to expect that this pacifist demonstration of their father’s is reasonable. But she also knows he is not objective. With two years of law school completed, he serves as a lawyer in an office at the Naval Yard in Brooklyn, helping to write the legal justifications for the war their father deems unjust. This has left relations chilly between the elder and younger Mr. Dench.
The day before they left, Harold came to the apartment in his uniform while she was packing flatware into boxes. Hensley clung to him, immediately ashamed of her tears, surprised by her own emotion. Her father had sprung the news on her just the night before, giving her only two days to prepare for their departure.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, wiping at her face.
“He’s crazy,” her brother said, offering her his handkerchief.
Hensley stepped away, shaking her head. “They fired him.”
“He knew they would.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Don’t be a simpleton. We’re at war, Hen. He’s reckless.”
Hensley couldn’t help smiling. “Daddy?”
“Doesn’t New Mexico sound a little reckless to you, Hen? What the hell does he expect you to do? Marry a miner, pan for gold in the dirt?”
“Good God, Harold, it’s just for the summer. We’ll be back and I’ll go to Wellesley in the fall.” She wished she could confide in him, confess her confusion, her own anguish about Mr. Teagan, but she didn’t.
“Is that what he’s told you?”
“Why not?” She turned her back on him, resuming her chore.
“You think the Times will rehire a German American pacifist in three months’ time? The war will only get hotter, Hennie. If you go, you should be prepared to stay.” Harold put his hand on hers. She pulled it away.
She couldn’t bear his self-righteousness anymore. “Fine. Then stay I will. There. Happy? You are always right about everything from the very beginning, Harry. The rest of us must do a bit of floundering.”
• • •
N ow, over four weeks later, she lifts her eyes from her lap as she hears Berto call back to her.
“Shall we go on?” he says from ahead. They are both sitting astride their horses, Hensley having declined a sidesaddle out of some attempt to garner a confession. “I won’t use one if you don’t,” she said to Berto as he stood in front of the pen, a sidesaddle over his arm.
He raised his eyebrows, without a trace of guilt or recognition. “Huh. So you are a suffragette?”
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“I am a Mexican.”
“Yes, but don’t you think women should have the right to vote? All women, everywhere?”
“I’m tired of fighting for anything.”
So they both saddled up and luckily Hensley was wearing a skirt she’d made upon their arrival: loose, pale gray linen with a longer hem than usual, because she’d abandoned her heels in favor of daytime boots, and a matching jacket that she draped across the back of her saddle an hour ago. Straddling this saddle would have been impossible in a hobble skirt and heels. Really, fashion in Hillsboro is somewhat of an oxymoron.
Their horses clop forward and Berto lifts his hat ever so slightly to cool his forehead. Hensley sees the thicket of black hair that’s been dragged up from the nape of his neck and hidden away. This secret, like her own, sends a jolt of danger up the back of
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